Zombie Apocalypse: The Chad Halverson Series

by Bryan Cassiday

  “How so?”

  “They were involved with the funding and even more than that, I suspect.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, I don’t know yet. I’m trying to find out more about them.”

  Byrd scowled, staring at the dartboard and aiming another dart at it. “Why would a flower company invest in H5N1 experiments?”

  “Before she died, Hilda Molson told me that Orchid was an organization of transhumanists.”

  Again, it seemed to Mellors that Byrd froze for a nanosecond before answering.

  “Transhumanists?” said Byrd. “That’s a new one on me.”

  “They believe they can speed up human evolution with the use of modern science.”

  “Politically correct poppycock,” said Byrd. “I don’t put any stock in that rigmarole.” He tossed another dart, which penetrated the dartboard’s tin rim with a clink. “Those are the same clowns that believe in global warming and nuclear winter and all that butkus.”

  “You never heard of them?”

  “I don’t see where your line of questioning is going,” said Byrd. “We’re trying to build a brave new world after the plague. Why are you harping on something that’s over and done with?”

  “These transhumanists may have been involved in the spread of the plague.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions. Who’s feeding you this dreck?”

  “Coogan. He was a black ops agent in the NCS.”

  “What makes this Coogan such an expert?” said Byrd and flung another dart, which barely missed striking the wall.

  “He found evidence—”

  Mellors cut himself short. He didn’t want to go into it with Byrd. Mellors figured he could not trust anybody in the bunker. Not after what had happened to Hilda Molson with her so-called suicide. If somebody had, in fact, killed her to shut her up about Orchid, then what was to prevent the murderer from doing the same thing to him?

  “What evidence?” said Byrd, coughing, eyes tearing. “This place is lousy with dust.”

  “Evidence that implicates the Orchid Organization in the creation of the zombie virus.”

  Still coughing, Byrd strode to the dartboard to retrieve the darts stuck in it. “So what? What are you getting at? You’re spinning your wheels for nothing with this line of questioning.”

  “This Orchid Organization may be some kind of éminence grise.”

  “Here we go. It’s a conspiracy!” Byrd chuckled. “Is that what you’re driving at? Everybody loves a good conspiracy theory.”

  “This isn’t a joke, General.”

  “It’s cloud-cuckoo-land. None of these conspiracies amount to a hill of beans. The Illuminati, Opus Dei, the Freemasons, the Knights Templar . . . secret organizations that have secret powers.” Byrd bugged out his eyes and rolled them comically. “I could go on. All bologna.”

  “Not in this case.”

  “Then what’s their mission? Why would they get involved with the creation of the plague virus? What’s the point?”

  Byrd tugged the darts out of the dartboard.

  Mellors heaved a deep sigh, his shoulders slouching in frustration. “I told you, I don’t know yet.”

  “You don’t know because there is no conspiracy. This is a chimera you’ve dreamed up.”

  Darts in hand, Byrd returned to his desk.

  “I believe Coogan was onto something,” said Mellors.

  “Let me see your evidence.”

  Mellors demurred. He wasn’t about to hand over Coogan’s laptop to anybody. Not until he could find somebody he could trust implicitly. Byrd wasn’t that somebody.

  “It has something to do with the apocalypse equation,” said Mellors at last.

  Again there was that almost imperceptible freeze frame that registered on Byrd’s face. But again Byrd gave Mellors nothing.

  “I was never very good in algebra,” muttered Byrd, averting his face from Mellors’s gaze.

  “I don’t believe it’s a mathematical equation. It’s the title to a document that I believe is the key to what Orchid is up to.”

  “Is?”

  “Was. I’m not sure.”

  “They were probably wiped out in the plague along with everybody else.”

  “I don’t have enough intel to know.”

  Byrd fired off another dart that embedded itself in the perforated dartboard with a thump that reminded Mellors of a racket striking a tennis ball.

  “Do you have this document?” Byrd asked negligently, switching a dart from his left hand to his right.

  “No,” Mellors lied quickly.

  Perhaps too quickly, he decided. It wasn’t really a lie anyway. He did have the document on Coogan’s laptop, but he was unable to open the document. If he was unable to open it, what good was it as evidence? That got him to wondering. Maybe somebody else could figure out how to open it—like somebody at the NSA. But did he trust the NSA any more than he trusted Byrd? He thought not. Holmes didn’t inspire him with anything remotely resembling trust.

  Byrd flung another dart with a back-arm motion from his chest. “When you have the document, show it to me. Right now, you’re wasting both of our times because, frankly, I think this document is a figment of your imagination.”

  “It’s not.”

  “And what could it possibly prove anyway?”

  “It might tell us why Orchid was involved in the creation of the plague virus.”

  “Speculation. All you’ve got is speculation.” Byrd paused for effect. “You. Have. Nothing. Squat.”

  Byrd hurled a final dart, which missed the dartboard completely, clattered against the cement wall, and dropped to the floor. He returned to his chair and wrested it out from the desk’s kneehole, grating the legs against the floor.

  Mellors cringed as the sound frazzled his nerves.

  “I have no more time for this,” said Byrd, staring down at his desktop. “I suggest you apply yourself to a more worthy cause. Close the door on your way out.”

  As Mellors left the room, closing the door, he glimpsed Byrd picking up the handset on his desk.

  CHAPTER 34

  Mellors wasn’t about to give up on his investigation of the Orchid group. He believed he was onto something. He wasn’t sure what at this point.

  He walked down the long corridor to the FBI director’s office, his footfalls reverberating off the cement walls. The cement was driving him stir crazy. Miles and miles of monotonous, soul-deadening cement surrounded him. A bunker with all the comforts of a tomb.

  How had they gotten into this mess? he wondered. A bombed-out plague-decimated world, the sole survivors living like gophers in warrens of concrete poky bunkers. What the hell had happened? All this desolation and carnage because of a leak at the Erasmus Medical Center? Did some teenage assistant there flip the wrong switch and leak the plague virus into the atmosphere because he was thinking about his girlfriend’s rack? Could it be that simple and that idiotic?

  Or was there more to it? Could Orchid have been involved in the debacle in some way that Mellors could not even begin to imagine? Was Orchid a hidden hand that had precipitated the cataclysm?

  Mellors didn’t like where his mind was taking him. Had this infecting of the world with plague somehow been planned? It boggled the mind. Why would a bunch of egghead transhumanists deliberately unleash an incurable plague on the world? What could they possibly gain by wreaking such monumental havoc?

  Mellors shook his head at the notion. It was unthinkable. The leak had to have been attributed to human error at Erasmus. Somebody had goofed. People were human, after all. Everybody made mistakes. This one just happened to be a doozy that ended the world. So be it. Except—

  Except what was the apocalypse equation all about? According to the documents in Coogan’s laptop, the apocalypse equation might go a long way in explaining how Orchid was connected to the leaking of the zombie virus.

  He knocked on Director Paris’s door, his mind swimming with questions.

&nbs
p; “Who is it?” asked Paris.

  “Deputy Director Mellors of NCS.”

  “Come in.”

  A tall middle-aged gaunt-faced man with a blond comb-over was sitting at his desk typing on his laptop. He glanced up at Mellors, who was closing the door behind him.

  “You don’t have to close the door,” said Paris. “I don’t have much time for chin-wagging.”

  “I think I should close it,” said Mellors, nudging the door shut with his back.

  Paris paused at his keyboard. “What’s this about?”

  “I believe Hilda Molson was murdered.”

  “We’ve got it listed as a suicide, unless you have evidence we don’t know about.”

  “As I understand it, you and her were friends. Did she seem depressed?”

  Paris thought about Hilda, his eyes doleful. “No.”

  “Then why would she kill herself? Especially, why would she shoot herself with her right hand when she was left-handed?”

  “That’s not proof of anything. Who knows what people do when they’re upset? If you’re upset enough to take your own life, you’re capable of doing anything, no matter how bizarre and out of character.”

  “So the word came down?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The word came down that you shouldn’t investigate her death.”

  “There’s no evidence to suggest Hilda was murdered. And I take umbrage at your insinuations.”

  Mellors backed off and hung fire to let Paris cool off. Mellors had not come here to enrage Paris. Mellors could sense the anger bubbling up in Paris. The man would not talk to Mellors if Mellors alienated him. Mellors had more questions he wanted to pose.

  “Have you ever heard of the Orchid Organization?” asked Mellors at length, sensing that Paris had regained his equanimity.

  “What’s this got to do with anything?”

  “They may’ve had something to do with the creation of the plague virus.”

  Surprise registered on Paris’s face. “Not that I know of.”

  “Then you have heard of them?”

  “They’re an organization of wealthy philanthropists, if we’re talking about the same group.”

  “Are they on the Bureau’s radar?”

  “No. I’ve heard of them in the media. But they don’t get reported about too often because they’re a secretive group. They don’t court publicity like most groups.”

  “Don’t you find that suspicious?”

  “It’s one of these hugger-mugger clubs fat cats like to join to make themselves appear superior to the rest of us working stiffs. The club has to invite you to join, by the way. You can’t join just because you want to, no matter how much money you have.”

  “If it’s a secret club, that means by definition that nobody knows about it, so how can the members impress us that they’re better than the rest of us?”

  Paris heaved a sigh. “Some of these rich guys like to remain anonymous, especially if they’re donors. They don’t want people lining up at their doors begging them for donations.”

  “Makes sense,” Mellors had to concede. “But if we don’t know about this Orchid Organization, how are we supposed to envy them?”

  “They’re not trying to incite envy. In their minds they’re trying to make the world a better place.”

  “Or are they just control freaks like the Nazis with their experiments with eugenics?”

  “I wouldn’t equate them with Nazi thugs.”

  “Why not? The Nazis thought they were bettering mankind with their experiments in eugenics. What’s the difference between the Nazis and Orchid?”

  “I can’t speak for Orchid. I don’t know what their goal is or what’s their agenda. I don’t belong to the group.”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about them for someone who’s not tracking them.”

  “When the Bureau vetted our leaders, we discovered that some of them belong to the Orchid Organization.”

  Mellors started. He could not believe his ears. Certain members of the ruling administration belonged to the Orchid Organization? Orchid was so powerful that its tentacles had infiltrated the upper reaches of government? Mellors was champing at the bit to ask his next question.

  “Like who?” he said.

  “They’re harmless. They’re philanthropists. Not some insidious organization out to rule the world.”

  “Who are our leaders that belong to Orchid?” pressed Mellors.

  Setting his jaw Paris pushed his chair back from his desk with a thrust of his legs. “That’s eyes-only intel.”

  “I’m a deputy director in the CIA for Christ’s sake.”

  “That doesn’t give you clearance.”

  “Why not? Why’s it so hush-hush?”

  “Only two persons are cleared to access that intel. Me and the president.”

  “I don’t get it. That intel could be vital to the safety of the world.”

  Paris looked amused. “Surely you exaggerate.”

  Paris’s amusement hacked off Mellors, who said, “It could explain how this damn plague got started in the first place.”

  “How so?” said Paris, not buying it.

  “I have documents proving that Orchid was involved in the funding of the creation of the zombie virus.”

  “So? The CIA was involved in the funding of it, too.”

  “But somebody at Orchid was giving orders to someone at the Erasmus laboratories regarding the virus.”

  “What kind of orders?”

  “I have a copy of an e-mail from Orchid telling someone at Erasmus to go ahead as planned. Soon after that e-mail was sent, the plague was unleashed on the world.”

  “Where is this e-mail?”

  Mellors didn’t want to go into that. At this point, he didn’t trust Paris any more than he trusted anybody else.

  “I have it,” he said.

  Paris threw up his hands with a shrug. “Even if you do, what does it prove?”

  “That’s why we need to talk to members of Orchid. To find out what their connection to the virus is.”

  Paris massaged the back of his neck and stared up at the cement ceiling. Then, still massaging his neck, he looked at Mellors. “I can’t authorize you to read the reports of our vetting members of this administration on the basis of your flimsy accusations and innuendoes.”

  “All I want to know is, which members belong to Orchid?” said Mellors, annoyed at Paris’s stonewalling.

  Paris dropped his arms to his armrests and interlaced his fingers in front of his stomach. “In the long run, what difference does it make? The world is already infected. We dropped nukes on it to purge the infection. Even if Orchid had a hand in the spreading of the plague, and I don’t believe they did, what’s done is done.”

  “If Orchid has some ulterior motive, we need to know about it.”

  Mellors could not understand why Paris as the director of the FBI did not want to get to the bottom of this.

  “You need to stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” said Paris. “Investigating Orchid isn’t your remit. You’re the head of the NCS, the black ops arm of the CIA. NCS has nothing to do with Orchid.”

  Mellors felt his face flushing with emotion. “We should all be involved in this investigation. If Orchid precipitated the end of the world, we need to know about it.”

  Paris said nothing. He simply looked at Mellors for the better part of a minute, not blinking.

  Mellors felt like a bug being scrutinized under a microscope. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

  “Is that all?” said Paris at last.

  Mellors figured he wasn’t going to get any further by pursuing this line of inquiry. He upped and left.

  Members of the president’s administration belonged to Orchid, decided Mellors out in the hallway. Did they have a hidden agenda? Were they still working behind the scenes to that end?

  CHAPTER 35

  Nevada

  Simone was leaning over the sink
and staring at her face’s image in the bathroom mirror. She looked like hell, she realized, with her drawn face and ratty hair, like she was on the rag for Christ’s sake. She brushed her hair with her fingers for a while then gave up. What was the use?

  She kept looking in the mirror and now she was seeing something different. It was something she didn’t want to look at, but she had to look at it. No matter how dreadful it was, she had to see it and confront it. It was a monstrous concoction emanating from her mind and transplanting itself in the reflection on the mirror’s surface.

  She wasn’t seeing her face anymore. She was seeing her sister Jacqueline, who was standing in the street outside her apartment while Simone was peering through the window in terror at her. Simone had recently reunited with her sister after escaping from county jail during the plague. The plague had infected Simone’s warden and Simone had contrived to wrest the keys from her and flee the prison. Simone had nowhere to go but to her sister’s apartment.

  After their bittersweet reunion, Jacqueline had left the apartment to buy groceries. It was on her way back that the infected flesh eaters had attacked her car in the street. First they blocked the car then rocked it and yanked her out of it as she struggled to fend them off, screaming. The flesh eaters would not be denied. There were just too many of them for Jacqueline to fight off.

  Simone wanted to go help her, but her legs felt like jelly. She could not move them. Gawping, she stood in front of Jacqueline’s apartment window mesmerized by the horrific spectacle that was unfolding before her.

  Terrified patients in their johnnies were pouring out of the hospital, screaming, waving their hands over their heads frantically. The beleaguered patients belted into the street as flesh eaters converged on them pell-mell and fell to ripping them apart. With blood-splattered faces the flesh eaters were running amok, snagging anyone they could get their hands on and clawing and biting their victims, gorging themselves on bloody human flesh.

  Simone could not stand watching the blood-drenched madness, but she could neither pull herself away from the window nor dash out the door to help her sister no matter how much she desired to help.