Zombie Apocalypse: The Chad Halverson Series

by Bryan Cassiday

  Why did the screws kick him in here if it was for his own good? he wondered.

  He took stock of the room. Like the other room he had been in, this one had windowless white-painted walls. This room measured about half the size of the previous room and had a claustrophobic feel to it. He noticed that the ceiling was lower than the other room’s, which no doubt added to the room’s pokiness.

  He picked up on a door in one of the cement walls. It must lead to the bathroom that the guard had mentioned.

  Probst wasn’t about to shed his clothes until he knew more about what lay ahead of him. He approached the door, turned its brass knob, and opened it. As he opened it, he noticed the door had neither latch nor latch strike. He found that curious.

  He hated being in this place. This whole bunker setup gave him the willies. It reminded him of the joint. The rooms seemed more like jail cells than rooms. Actually, this place was worse because there was no view beyond the walls. At least in a prison you could see beyond the steel bars. Not that you wanted to see the depressing sight that lay beyond them, but at least you had the option.

  Here you were hemmed in by monotonous white cement. You had no choice of scenery. Just the eternal whiteness that locked you in like a tomb.

  He had hated being in the slammer. He didn’t belong there with those sadistic lowlifes. He was an algebra teacher for Christ’s sake. He wasn’t a thug. As a child in high school he was the one that got bullied by other students. He was the victim of thugs, not a thug. The last place on earth where he belonged was the slam. He wasn’t some tattooed homicidal maniac that would shiv you as soon as look at you. He had no business being in the slammer.

  So he forged a check. So what? It was a victimless crime. Why did he have to serve time for such a petty crime? Forgery wasn’t like murder or rape. He didn’t belong with those animals. He knew it, and they knew it. He could feel their eyes glaring at him in the yard, taking measure of him, as they waited for their chance to pounce.

  He sighed. At least here in this tomb he had no predatory convicts to worry about. He supposed that was something to be thankful for.

  Then again, what did he have to look forward to, anyway? Waking up in a world that was nothing but a nuclear wasteland where plague-infected flesh eaters roamed around foraging for human flesh. Not much of an improvement over the joint.

  He was bumming himself out thinking too much.

  He guessed he better get on with the decontamination procedure. But he wasn’t going to take off his clothes yet. He wanted to see what awaited him beyond the door.

  CHAPTER 44

  Gingerly, he opened the door and saw a hallway, painted white, of course. Where was the bathroom? No sign of a shower anywhere. He could not understand it. Halverson had said the first thing Probst would have to do during the decontamination process was to take a shower.

  It must be at the end of the hall, decided Probst.

  Fluorescent strip lights in the ceiling bathed the hall in a garish gleam.

  Silence all around him. It was so quiet he could hear his heart beating. It was accelerating as he entered the corridor. No rooms on the sides. That must be a room at the other end of the hall. There wasn’t any other place a room could be. It was a process of elimination. He thought he could make out a door there. What if it didn’t lead to a room? What if it led to a closet? Then what? It was baffling—and consternating at the same time.

  It was difficult to discern the outline of the door at the end of the corridor in the ocean of whiteness that surrounded him. Even the door, if it was a door, was white, as was the doorknob, if it was a doorknob.

  He ambled toward the door, not in any hurry, but he did want to get this over with as soon as possible. Still he could not convince himself to move any faster. There was something nerve-racking about walking down this long corridor to . . . to what? To some unknown destination that might be a decontamination room.

  As he neared the door (it definitely was a door, he could now see), he could hear something moving beyond it. It sounded like shuffling. Decontaminators shuffling behind the door, waiting for him to enter?

  He brought up in front of the door, wondering what to do. Should he knock or walk right in without warning? It was like going to the dentist. You knew it was going to be bad, but, at the same time, you were in a hurry to get it over with because you knew you would feel better later.

  Heart racing, he placed his hand on the doorknob and felt the door push inward even though he had not turned the knob. As the door inched open he could see it was missing a latch like the door at the other end of the hall.

  He winced at the odor that crept out of the room into his nostrils. Maybe it was the reek of the antiseptics the medics used in the decontamination procedure. Whatever it was, it was a stench he could do without, thank you. He put the kibosh on an urge to shut the door to keep the noisome stench bottled up inside the room.

  He wasn’t eager to find out what was waiting for him on the other side of the door. Still, he pressed on. Waiting was the hardest part. He could not stand prolonging his misery by waiting any longer. He wanted to get this over with. Get decontaminated and get out of here, he told himself.

  He pushed the door open the rest of the way with his hand.

  Christ! he thought.

  It wasn’t what he had suspected. Not by a long shot.

  The room was full of shambling flesh eaters.

  Reeking of death they stared at him with their glazed, blank eyes as he swung the door completely open.

  The one nearest him was a male pushing thirty and wore a red bandana spangled with white stars tied around its head. The flesh eater had no arms. Two stumps protruded from its shoulders where arms used to be.

  Its mouth gaping with saliva dribbling from its corners, the creature slogged toward Probst.

  The creature beside Armless wore a grime-smeared navy blue suit and looked thirtysomething. This flesh eater had arms and reached out with them to grab Probst.

  Probst turned tail and ran. Adrenaline coursing through his system, he kited down the hallway to the other room and slammed the door behind him, gasping for breath. He pelted to the front door of the room, grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, and tried to open it.

  The door didn’t budge. He should have figured as much. Wolfman had locked him in. The bastard! Decontamination chamber, my ass! thought Probst.

  Hector and Wolfman knew these zombies were in here. This was a setup. Hector was feeding Probst to the creatures. Hector had to have known the infected flesh eaters were gathered in that room. Probst cursed Hector. But why? wondered Probst. Why would Hector deliberately send him into a room full of flesh eaters?

  Probst didn’t have time to think about it. He had to save his life. He dashed to the door that had no latch. Frantically, face beading with sweat, he pressed his shoulder against the door, leaning all of his weight into it to keep the door shut, to keep the flesh eaters out.

  He could hear the creatures grunting and staggering down the hallway toward him. They would reach the door any minute. There had to be at least a couple dozen of them. There was no way he could keep them out if they ganged up against him and exerted their combined weight against the door.

  Probst screamed for help at the top of his lungs.

  He felt his feet sliding across the floor, losing purchase, as the creatures pressed their weight against the door, forcing their way inside the room.

  The creatures burst into the room, pouring inside.

  Probst ran.

  But he had nowhere to flee.

  Like a caged rat he darted back and forth between the walls, as the creatures swarmed into the room, cutting off his retreat, catching him in their arms, tearing at his clothes, biting him.

  Arterial spray from his carotid arced toward the ceiling, splattered the white paint, then splashed onto flesh eaters that waited greedily for it with gaping mouths and drank it down, as their neighbors tore Probst apart in a wanton feeding frenzy.

  P
robst’s last scream for help died in his throat.

  CHAPTER 45

  Nordstrom was standing near the table in the guest room, absorbed in surfing through the pictures he had snapped with his digital camera.

  “Those really must be interesting pictures,” said Swiggum, watching him.

  “I’m telling you, there’s more truth in photos than in reality,” said Nordstrom.

  “Do you have any nude women in there?” said Swiggum, peering over Nordstrom’s shoulder with a leer, trying to catch a glimpse of the photos he was rapt in. “That’s the kind of truth I want to know.”

  “No,” said Nordstrom. “Not in this camera. You’d like my other camera, though. I took pictures of models with it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “They confiscated it when they threw me in the joint.”

  “The screws got all the juicy snaps? Figures.” Swiggum paused. “What are you looking for?”

  “I snapped a picture of Hector. I wanted to take a look at it.”

  “Our friend Hector. Why do you want to look at him?”

  Victoria glanced at her wristwatch. “Where’s Travis? That’s what I want to know. He’s been gone over three hours.”

  “Good question.” Swiggum gazed at Halverson. “How long does it take to get decontaminated?”

  “It shouldn’t take that long,” said Halverson, looking concerned.

  “One helluva long shower, if you ask me.”

  “Something’s screwy.”

  “This whole setup is screwy.”

  The door to the room opened.

  Halverson and the others turned toward it, expecting to see Probst enter the room.

  No Probst. Only soldiers in hazmat uniforms, guns at the ready, entered. Carrying cots they placed them on the floor.

  “I guess we’re staying overnight,” said Swiggum.

  “Where’s Probst?” Halverson asked the soldiers.

  They said nothing. They deposited the cots, left the room, and locked the door behind them.

  “What was that all about?” said Swiggum, watching the door close in befuddlement.

  “Only six cots,” said Halverson, inspecting the khaki canvas and wood cots.

  Swiggum did a headcount, singling out individuals with his forefinger. “That’s because there’s six of us.”

  “So where’s Probst’s?”

  Silence fell in the room.

  “He must not be coming back,” said Simone, who had become interested in the conversation and, cradling her wounded arm, was standing up in the corner where she had been slouched.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living,” said Victoria, watching Simone get to her feet.

  “Is that what you call this?”

  “It’s better than being dead.”

  Simone shrugged noncommittally. “So what happened to Probst?”

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  “Yeah,” said Klecko. “That’s what we all want to know.”

  “Did he flunk the decontamination process?” said Swiggum.

  “You can’t flunk it,” said Halverson.

  “Why not? What if you have too much radiation in your system?”

  Halverson shook his head, no. “That wouldn’t have any effect on the decontamination process.”

  “Can you die from it?”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I don’t like the looks of this,” said Victoria.

  “Look at this,” said Nordstrom, taking his camera and showing it to Halverson.

  Halverson gazed at the picture displayed on the back of the digital camera. It was a picture of Hector.

  “When did you take this?” asked Halverson.

  “I took it when he was standing in the next room behind the Plexiglas,” answered Nordstrom.

  “I didn’t see you taking pictures.”

  Smiling, Nordstrom winked. “I did it on the sly.”

  “What’s the big deal?” said Swiggum, watching Halverson examine the camera.

  “There’s like a halo over Hector’s head,” said Nordstrom.

  Swiggum frowned in confusion. “Like for an angel?”

  “More like a cloud,” said Halverson.

  “I didn’t see any cloud over his head when we were talking to him.”

  “Neither did I,” said Victoria.

  “That’s what I’m talking about when I say photos never lie. There’s more truth in them than in reality,” said Nordstrom.

  “It’s probably a reflection off the Plexiglas,” said Halverson, scoping out the nimbus above Guzman’s head in the photo.

  “I doubt it. I’ve seen millions of photos, and I’ve never seen any reflection that looked like that before.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Maybe he’s an angel with a halo,” joked Swiggum, pulling a face and fluttering his hand above his head.

  “Stop,” said Victoria, sickened by Swiggum’s antic display.

  “Well, what do you think it is, smarty-pants?”

  Victoria shook her head in disgust, but said nothing.

  “I think he’s giving off emanations,” said Nordstrom.

  “Emanations?” said Victoria.

  “Emanations that are invisible to the naked eye, that can be picked up only by a camera. The camera never lies. It always sees the truth.”

  “Oh no,” said Swiggum. “Are we back to aliens from outer space again?”

  “What kind of camera is this?” Halverson asked Nordstrom. “Does it have thermal imagery?”

  “No,” answered Nordstrom.

  “Infrared?”

  “No.”

  “It’s gotta be a reflection off the glass.”

  “I’m telling you, he’s giving off emanations.”

  “What kind of emanations?”

  “Beats me.”

  “This sounds like an old Twilight Zone,” said Victoria. “We’ve got Hector giving off emanations and Travis has disappeared.”

  Swiggum laughed.

  “I don’t think it’s funny,” said Klecko.

  “I don’t either,” said Victoria. “He wouldn’t be laughing if he was the one who was missing.”

  “You’re the one cracking the jokes,” said Swiggum.

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “What’s it mean?” said Klecko.

  “It means we’ve got problems,” said Halverson. “But it’s not aliens from outer space. There’s a reflection on this photo, and Hector’s done something with Probst.”

  He handed the camera back to Nordstrom.

  “Yeah, but what?” said Victoria.

  “What could they possibly want with Probst?” said Nordstrom.

  Filled with misgivings about Probst, Halverson said, “Not anything good.” He felt sure Guzman was up to something, but at this point Halverson had no idea what.

  “I hope I’m not the next one that gets decontaminated.”

  Nordstrom’s words left a chill in the room.

  “Are you saying we’ll only need five cots when somebody else gets decontaminated?” said Victoria.

  “Looks that way.”

  “Maybe they won’t decontaminate the rest of us,” said Simone.

  “That wouldn’t make any sense,” said Nordstrom.

  “Why not? If the decontamination process killed him, it would make sense to discontinue it.”

  “I doubt that’s what happened to Probst,” said Halverson. “There’s no way decontaminating somebody is gonna kill them.”

  “Then where is he?” said Victoria.

  “You’re not a scientist,” Simone told Halverson. “How would you know?”

  “I know we need to get out of here,” said Halverson.

  What the hell did Guzman do to Probst? And why? he thought.

  “You’re all overreacting,” said Nordstrom.

  Halverson gave him a look.

  “What makes you think they killed Probst?” Nordstrom went on. “Mayb
e they put you in a different room after they decontaminate you. We’ll all probably end up in the same room that he’s in right now, happy as clams.”

  “Not gonna happen.” Not with Guzman running the show, decided Halverson.

  “Think about it. After they decontaminated him, they wouldn’t bring him back here to get contaminated all over again by us. That wouldn’t make any sense.”

  “You have a point,” said Victoria.

  “Of course, I do. You know I’m right.”

  “He’s gone,” said Swiggum. “Permanently. And we’ll all be next.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

  FBI Director Harold Paris was the only one Mellors could trust—up to a point, anyway. Which was saying more than Mellors could say for anyone else in Area B.

  Mellors was sitting now across from Paris in Paris’s office as the FBI director sat behind his desk.

  “I’m reporting a crime,” said Mellors.

  “What kind of crime?” said Paris.

  “Theft. Somebody ripped off Coogan’s laptop from my office.”

  Paris’s hatchet face registered annoyance. “Who is this Coogan you keep harping on?”

  Mellors was eying Paris’s blond comb-over and wondering if it was real or a toupee thanks to the odd way it sat on Paris’s head.

  “He’s a black ops agent in my remit,” said Mellors. “He found out that the government was involved in the funding of the creation of the plague and then he was killed.”

  In fact, I killed him, thought Mellors, after he told the intel to Halverson over the phone.

  “It sounds like petty theft,” said Paris. “What’s all the excitement about?”

  “Somebody rifled my office and cribbed the laptop. How would you like it if they did that to you?”

  “Did the crook take anything else?”

  “Not that I can tell. But the only thing I had of any importance was Coogan’s laptop.”

  “What’s so important about it?”

  Mellors wasn’t sure how much he could tell Paris. Mellors didn’t trust Paris implicitly. Mellors had to tell him something though, or this conversation would accomplish nothing.