Zombie Apocalypse: The Chad Halverson Series

by Bryan Cassiday

  At last, Cole said, “I’ll prepare an address advising them that they’ll be able to leave their bunkers soon. We must inspire the public and keep them optimistic.”

  Or else, thought Mellors.

  “Everybody’s getting cabin fever at this point, I’m sure,” said Byrd. “For that matter, so am I.” He brushed sweat off his brow with a swipe of his hand.

  “I hope I don’t need to remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that nothing we say here in this room ever goes beyond these four walls,” said Cole.

  He swung his gaze around the room, searching everybody’s face, observing several nods of agreement.

  Mellors held his hand up to draw Cole’s attention. He felt like a kid in a schoolroom.

  Cole nodded at Mellors. “What is it?”

  “Could I ask you one question, Mr. President?”

  “If it’s not wasting my time.”

  Mellors couched his words with considerable care. “It has to do with the creation and spread of the plague.”

  “Proceed.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Orchid Organization or the apocalypse equation?”

  “No to both. Meeting adjourned.”

  Taken aback by the curtness of Cole’s response, Mellors all but started in his seat. Before standing up with the others, he caught Slocum eying him with a puzzled expression mixed with a tinge of censure.

  What was that all about? wondered Mellors. He probably would have been better served if he had managed to ask Cole in private, but he didn’t see how he could score a tête-à-tête with Cole. Mellors figured if he didn’t ask Cole here and now, he might never get the chance to ask him.

  CHAPTER 54

  Nevada

  From his seat behind his desk, Guzman watched Klecko shuffle and sidle into his office. Guzman could see that Klecko wasn’t dressed for success, but attire counted for nothing in this place, Guzman knew. What counted was whether the schlump had found anything out.

  “Well?” said Guzman, as Klecko brought up in front of Guzman’s desk and, head canted, wheezing, peeked at him.

  “You were right,” said Klecko. “Halverson and Swiggum are planning to break out.”

  “How?”

  “With chairs. They’re gonna waylay the guards with chairs when the guards enter the room.”

  “Idiots,” said Guzman. “Do they really think that’ll work? We’ll see them with the CCTV.”

  “They’re gonna stage a diversion. And they’re not gonna grab the chairs till after the guards enter the room so the CCTV won’t give an advance warning.”

  Guzman harrumphed. “It’s still a half-baked plan.” He paused a beat. “Is there anything else you have to tell me?”

  “No. That’s it.”

  “Personally, I despise snitches like you.”

  “I did what you told me to do,” said Klecko, acting offended.

  “Don’t worry about it. For your reward I’ll let you live.”

  Klecko’s sheepish brown eyes looked blank.

  “Go,” said Guzman, waving his hand at Klecko.

  Expressionlessly, Klecko shambled out of the office.

  Putz, decided Guzman with scorn, watching Klecko waddle out of the room. Still, he had his purposes. Now Guzman knew Halverson and Swiggum would be problems.

  Not that Guzman had any illusions about the twosome in the first place. Any guy whom he could not ID with his facial recognition software had to be bad news. That guy was Halverson. Guzman pegged him for a possible intelligence officer, but for which country? Who else but a spy would leave no trace of himself in cyberspace? It just could not happen by accident.

  All Halverson had to do was use a credit card just once in his entire life to leave a footprint in cyberspace. And yet the guy had left no footprints. It had to be a deliberate shielding of his existence. Unless he was a homeless bum without any credit. But Halverson didn’t strike Guzman as a bum who could not take care of himself. Halverson was just too . . . what was the word? Too aware. Yeah, that was it. Halverson was no panhandler. To a man, out-of-it panhandlers had spaced-out eyes. Halverson’s eyes were on the ball.

  If Halverson wasn’t a spy, he would have to be some kind of master criminal who had never been caught. Guzman doubted such a criminal could exist without his knowledge. Guzman was too well versed with the underworld, his own backyard, for a major player to exist in it without his knowledge.

  Whatever and whoever this guy Halverson was, he spelled trouble, decided Guzman.

  Somebody knocked on Guzman’s door.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Wolfman and a guard ushered Halverson into the office. Three additional armed guards strutted in behind them.

  Wolfman shoved Halverson toward Guzman’s desk and removed his helmet.

  Halverson stumbled forward, came to a halt, then looked back and shot a glare at Wolfman.

  Wolfman grinned.

  Guzman pulled out the top drawer in his desk and withdrew an FN 5.7 semiautomatic. He jerked back the slide, chambering a cartridge.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” he said, displaying the pistol to Halverson and laying it on the desktop with a thud within easy reach.

  CHAPTER 55

  Watching Guzman’s hand release the FN 5.7, Halverson picked up on a steel letter opener shaped like a poniard near the edge of Guzman’s desktop.

  “It’s time for you to come clean,” said Guzman.

  Just as Halverson had figured, Guzman had not neglected to search for Halverson’s ID in his database when he had searched for those of the other members of Halverson’s group. Guzman had deliberately kept quiet about what he had discovered about Halverson, because, as Halverson well knew, Guzman had found nothing.

  Guzman stood up. “What are you doing here?”

  “It wasn’t my idea. Your guys brought me here.”

  “I mean, why did you come to this bunker?”

  “Same answer.”

  “What is your mission?”

  “Mission?” Halverson shrugged. “I’m trying to stay alive.”

  “If you keep giving me wisecracks like that, you’re gonna fail.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Halverson, looking puzzled.

  “Who are you?”

  “Chad Halverson.”

  “What’s your job?”

  “Journalist. When we had jobs, that is.”

  “Why isn’t there any record of you on the Internet?”

  “The Internet’s not working.”

  “I can access their database via my satellite.”

  “Good for you.”

  Guzman got to his feet and walked around his desk toward Halverson. “Who are you?”

  “I already told you.”

  “I don’t like repeating myself,” said Guzman with an air of menace.

  “Neither do I.”

  Halverson figured he knew where this conversation was headed, but there was nothing he could do about it. He decided to change the subject.

  “Is this Area 51?”

  Guzman seemed taken aback by the question. “There is no Area 51.”

  “Only the government says that. Everybody else knows otherwise.”

  “Then everybody is a fool. Area 51 doesn’t exist.” Guzman studied Halverson’s face, chewing over Halverson’s words. “Is that your mission?”

  “What?”

  “Infiltrating Area 51?”

  “How many times do I have to keep telling you? I’m not on a mission.”

  “Then why do you keep asking me if this is Area 51?”

  “I want to know where I am.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know why there’s this huge installation in the middle of nowhere.”

  “It’s none of your business. You don’t seem to understand your position here.”

  “You mean, here in Area 51?”

  “I mean, you’re not calling the shots here,” said Guzman, losing his patience with Halverson. “Now tell me, what is yo
ur mission here?”

  “I don’t have a mission.”

  Heaving a sigh Guzman tried a different tack. “What do you know about waterboarding?”

  “Is it like surfing?”

  Guzman paced away from Halverson.

  In the interim, Halverson backed toward the desktop, snagged the letter opener behind his back, and secreted it in his waistband. To conceal it from Guzman and his guards, he thrust it in so deeply it all but fell out through his pant leg.

  Guzman returned toward Halverson. “Let’s stop fooling around. What do you know about waterboarding?”

  “Not much.”

  Guzman’s face registered disgust. “Would you like to learn firsthand?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  “Are you making a veiled threat?”

  “If you don’t tell me who you are, I’ll teach you about waterboarding.”

  “I’m Chad Halverson.”

  Fit to be tied, Guzman shook his head.

  “I have a question,” said Halverson.

  Guzman glanced askance at him. “What?”

  “Why aren’t you wearing a hazmat uniform when you’re with me, like the others are?” Halverson nodded toward Guzman’s guards.

  Of the lot, only Wolfman had doffed his helmet.

  “Maybe the level of radiation in your body isn’t hazardous to others,” said Guzman.

  “Then why are you keeping me locked up in that room?”

  Guzman pulled a face and snorted, making him look almost comical, except Halverson wasn’t laughing. “I’m not letting you out of there till you tell me who you are.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  Guzman scratched his ear, fed up with Halverson’s refusal to cooperate. “This is getting us nowhere.” He turned to Wolfman. “Take him to the next room and secure him to the board.”

  Wolfman smiled at the idea of torturing Halverson then gathered his men and hustled him into the communicating room.

  CHAPTER 56

  Wolfman and Shorty strapped Halverson faceup on a wooden table in the room adjacent to Guzman’s office as Guzman watched.

  “Do you think I’m gonna talk if you waterboard me?” said Halverson, struggling to free his arms from the leather straps that secured his entire body, including his head, to the tabletop.

  He could feel the letter opener digging into the small of his back.

  “I hope not,” said Guzman with half a smile. “I want to torture you for as long as possible.”

  “Why are you so scared of me?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “You wouldn’t go to all this trouble unless I worried you.”

  “I don’t understand why there’s no record of your existence anywhere. You must be covering your trail, but why? What have you got to hide?”

  “Nothing.”

  Halverson knew something like this would happen sooner or later after Guzman had been unable to find any record of him on the Internet. Guzman had not gotten to the top of the drug world’s food chain without being paranoid. Apprehensively, Halverson waited for Guzman to commence waterboarding him.

  Guzman picked up a gallon of bottled water off the floor near the table and signaled to Wolfman.

  Wolfman retrieved a damp towel from the sink that lined the wall.

  Guzman nodded to him.

  Gloating over Halverson, Wolfman laid the damp brown towel over Halverson’s face.

  Halverson knew what to expect. Even though he himself had not taken part in any waterboarding sessions, he was well informed about the procedure, which the Agency had employed against al-Qaeda terrorists at home and abroad in extraordinary renditions after 9/11.

  The fact that he knew what was going to happen and the psychology behind it may have helped him in battling the torment induced in waterboarding. The object of waterboarding, he had been trained at Camp Peary, was to induce a feeling of drowning on the victim. Drowning was one of the worst ways to die. If a victim thought he was drowning, it would terrify him into talking—at least, that was what Halverson’s CIA trainers had taught him.

  Everything went dark after Wolfman applied the moist towel to Halverson’s face. Knowing what was to follow, Halverson closed his eyes and held his breath in anticipation. He didn’t want the water to get into either his eyes or his lungs.

  “Who are you?” he heard Guzman say above him.

  Halverson said nothing.

  He continued to hold his breath, waiting for Guzman to pour water over his face. Not only would Halverson think he was drowning when the treatment began, the waterboarding would also disorient him, making him feel like he was floating helpless through space.

  “Suit yourself,” said Guzman and fell to pouring the water out of his gallon plastic jug onto the towel that covered Halverson’s face.

  Halverson contrived to hold his breath for a couple minutes, but the rapid beating of his heart militated against it. With his heart beating madly, he needed more air. He could not hold his breath any longer. He felt like he was sinking.

  Inhaling the water, he coughed as water burned through his nostrils and down his throat. He could not believe a gallon of water could take so long to empty. He fancied he could discern silhouettes of people through the wet towel on his face. He didn’t know whether he could really see these silhouette or they were, in fact, chimeras of his imagination. The presence of the silhouettes would indicate other persons besides Guzman were pouring water over Halverson’s face. In that case, Halverson knew, he could experience indefinitely the sensation of drowning as each figure could reload with more water bottles as another figure poured. Either that, or he would actually drown.

  Suddenly, he felt the water cease pouring onto the saturated towel.

  Eyes popping out of his head, Halverson gagged for air. He felt like he was choking to death. Was that possible? he wondered. To choke to death? He believed it was. He recalled reading somewhere that one of the popes who had Parkinson’s disease had choked to death. He could not remember the pope’s name. John Paul, was it? What difference did it make what his name was? The fact was, it proved you could choke to death.

  Halverson was still choking and coughing on the water that filled his throat, nostrils, and lungs, cutting through them like burning razors.

  Guzman whipped the dripping towel off of Halverson’s face. “Who are you?”

  Halverson opened his burning bloodshot eyes, blinking rapidly, trying to orientate himself, trying to shake the feeling that he was sinking helplessly to a watery death.

  “Chad Halverson,” he croaked.

  “What is your job?”

  “Journalist.”

  “What is your mission here?”

  Halverson could not talk anymore. His throat and water-soaked lungs felt like they were on fire.

  “There’s no such person as Chad Halverson, journalist,” said Guzman. “And your photograph is not available in any facial recognition database. How do you explain that?”

  “An oversight,” said Halverson, coughing and choking, his dripping face flushing.

  “You’re the man who wasn’t there.”

  To live as though he never lived, to exist as though he never existed, thought Halverson. The life of a spy.

  “Stop lying to me!” barked Guzman. “What is your job?”

  Halverson blew out his cheeks in an effort to control his breathing and calm down. “Journalist.”

  “Do you like being tortured? Is that why you keep lying?”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Who’s employing you?”

  “Nobody, now.”

  “Who was employing you?” said Guzman, irritated that he had to repeat himself.

  “My publisher.”

  “Lies!” spat Guzman.

  Worked up, he paced around the room, weighing his next move.

  “Why don’t we just kill him and get rid of him, boss?” said Wolfman
.

  “I need to know who he’s working for.”

  “What difference does it make? If we kill him, he can’t tell anyone anything.”

  “If his employers know we’re here, they’ll send somebody else to infiltrate us if Halverson doesn’t report back to them.”

  “Maybe he’s just a nobody. That’s why there’s no record of him. If we kill him, nobody’ll miss him.”

  Guzman shook his head, no. “You can’t leave no trace of your existence, unless you’re doing it deliberately. If he’s doing it deliberately, he’s some kind of spy and we have to find out who he’s working for.”

  Wolfman twisted his blubbery lips, thinking it over. “Let’s waterboard him again.”

  With bated breath, Halverson waited for the treatment to resume.

  “You know what we used to do with our enemies in Mexico?” said Guzman, coming to a halt.

  “What?” said Wolfman.

  “We stuffed them in fifty-five-gallon drums, poured oil into the drums, and set them on fire.”

  “Christ,” said Wolfman, grimacing at the image.

  Halverson was liking the direction of this conversation less and less.

  “But they died from that,” said Guzman.

  “I guess,” said Wolfman. “But it works for me. Why not just incinerate this guy in a drum and to hell with him?”

  “Because I want him to talk before he dies.”

  “Then let’s keep waterboarding him.”

  “I have a better idea. We’ll let his companions find out for us.”

  “What?” said Wolfman, flustered, not believing his ears.

  “They’ll get out of him who’s pulling his strings. They’ll shake it out of him if they have to.”

  “I don’t get it. Why would they want to?”

  “You’ll see,” said Guzman with a smile flickering on his lips.

  CHAPTER 57

  Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

  Mellors was walking down a hall in the Area B bunker complex, wondering if he should take the chance of sneaking onto the floor that housed the NSA and trying to decrypt the apocalypse equation document, when a shot rang out behind him. A bullet ricocheted off the cement wall beside him and whistled down the corridor, eliciting a whiff of dust from the wall where it had struck near his head and pitted the cement.