Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time

by Richard Johnson

  A deeply religious man despite occasional sins of the flesh, Thaddeous Willard Sanders believed God had put him in charge at this crucial time for a purpose. Accompanying him was a small group of advisors, family, surviving members of Congress and several reporters. Their destination was an underground base outside Honolulu, the new capital of the withering United States Government and possibly the last safe spot on earth.

  Air Force One and its C-5 Galaxy escort had tried to land several times, only to cancel at the last minute. It was simply too risky to jeopardize the mission, even for the sake of family members. Those left on the tarmacs would meet the same fate as their countrymen one bite at a time.

  As a testament to the effectiveness of the man-made virus, the top brass had been stunned at how quickly the crisis spiraled out of control. It had jumped from the cities to the suburbs and countryside in a matter of days. The entire continental U.S. showed signs of the novel pathogen within a week, the only stopgap being the newly constructed and now heavily fortified border wall with Mexico. Ironically, it was the wall built to keep Mexicans out that now effectively kept Americans in.

  The military was suddenly the last arm of the government still functioning. After charging mobs overran several flat-footed bases, free-fire zones had been set up and some semblance of order returned. The downside was that civilians fleeing the carnage soon had no place to go. It was a necessary evil, one of many to come.

  The POTUS slammed a can of Red Bull bearing the presidential seal, then barked orders around his situation table. He hadn’t slept in two days, and the strain of presiding over the greatest disaster in history was starting to take its toll. Still, the man furiously scribbled down different scenarios and options as fast as his pen would move. But every plan became irrelevant due to rapidly developing events on the ground. President Sanders wasn’t sure who was responsible, but he knew someone would pay dearly.

  Stromm Aikens, former Navy Admiral and current secretary of defense, addressed his boss. “Incurable diseases don't simply show up out of the blue in five major cities on the same day. It's time to counter-punch.”

  The president nodded in agreement. “Of course. Now who the hell did it?”

  “Our last report came from a lab in Idaho that studies wasting diseases and prions. They believe we’re dealing with a man-made bug, and an impressive one at that. It seems the pathogen kills off most of the brain but leaves the area responsible for instincts intact. The result is a feral human of sorts, immune to pain but lacking rational thinking skills. Dumb, but deadly.”

  The president took a deep breath. “Al-Qaeda doesn't have that type of technical knowhow, so we can rule them out right now.”

  “That’s correct, sir, a complex operation like this is definitely nation-state sponsored. The little guys wouldn’t be able to pull it off, considering Al-Qaeda couldn’t even get their hands on anthrax. That narrows the capable nations down to Russia, Japan, China, India, Israel and Great Britain. Obviously, from that group, the only countries that stand to gain are Russia and China and—”

  “It’s China. The bastards have wanted to take us down since their famine started, and I'm not sure why we didn't see it coming.” The president’s last biting comment was meant for Sam Childers, current secretary of state. The silver-tongued former congressman had been engaging China in diplomatic back channels for months, claiming all the while to be making progress.

  Mr. Childers rose from his seat. “With all due respect, I don’t believe it’s the Chinese. They know we couldn’t send food aid due to sanctions over the currency spat, and they appreciate us staying out of the Taiwan situation. With rising ethanol output, rampant market speculation and a global decrease in grain production due to an extremely powerful El Niño effect—”

  “El Niño? Are you serious? The bottom line is they've been eating grass for two years and—”

  “There’s no casus belli, and we have absolutely no record of China possessing advanced bio-weapons. Even if they did, it would be ludicrous to utilize them because we didn’t send wheat shipments during a seasonal famine.”

  The president fixed the secretary of state with a cold and deep stare. “You know what's ludicrous to me? I’ve seen people walking around after they’ve been shot four or five times. I saw my secretary claw her child’s face off and eat it. If you ask me, this whole damn world has gone ludicrous. Oh, and one more thing, Childers — interrupt me one more time and I will knock your teeth out.”

  “Sir, we have General Saxby calling in from NORADD,” an assistant said and handed over the phone.

  “What's the situation in Russia?” the president said.

  “Not good,” a gravelly voice answered. “They're suffering much the same as us. I've had a direct line to my counterpart for the past forty-five minutes and he's begging for assistance. They’ve declared martial law and are trying to stop the spread any way they can. They're even bombing their own cities. Novgorod and St. Petersburg have been completely wiped off of the map.”

  The president took a deep breath. “And NATO?”

  “They've grounded all commercial flights and have a quarantine line in the Crimean Mountains. It’s holding for now. Great Britain's navy has set up a ten-mile kill zone around their territorial waters. It’s every man for himself.”

  The president's face grew redder by the second. “What about our satellite imagery on China? Is there anything peculiar going on?”

  “We haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary. No blackouts, no fires, no explosions.”

  “Everything’s golden there?”

  “It appears that way,” the general said.

  “It’s common sense that if Russia is infected and China isn’t...” Secretary Aikens let his words trail off.

  “One moment, Mr. President.” The general put the phone down while a message was relayed and returned a minute later. “I have some bad news. The Green Zone in Baghdad has fallen. Kabul seems to have been overrun as well.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Iranians are making a play for the Mideast. They've stirred up trouble with the Mahdi army in Iraq and have sent in several hundred suicide bombers. They've also sent waves of single engine kamikazes and Silkworm missiles at our carrier strike group near the Straits of Hormuz. We've lost a carrier and another is heavily damaged.”

  “My God. A capital ship is a red line.”

  “There’s more. Hezbollah is raining rockets into Israel by the hundreds, and a massive dirty bomb has exploded in Tel Aviv.”

  The president’s eyes turned to steel as he snapped out orders. “I want a full evacuation of our troops from the Middle East, Dunkirk style. I don't care if it's ugly, just get them out. Steal cruise ships, fishing boats, do whatever. Any of our people not out to sea in twelve hours are dead. I also want a strike group headed to the Pacific. Get Major Thomas in here with the pigskin.”

  The serious-looking aide in charge of carrying the president's emergency satchel entered the room with what was commonly referred to as the nuclear football. The aide opened up the black bag and revealed a thick briefcase with a numbered lock. After dialing up the code, the case was opened to reveal a laptop computer, a black notepad and several folders.

  “Get me the info on China,” the president said.

  “Sir, that’s the folder labeled Red Dragon.”

  The President opened the folder and read the code aloud as the aide typed. “Access code seven-two-Romeo-India-Papa-four-Sierra-Oscar-Bravo-six-niner.”

  “What setting, Mr. President?”

  “Setting?”

  “It’s how many nukes we send. Think of it like cooking a steak, sir.”

  “Set it to well done. I don’t want a blade of grass over there for a century.” The only thing left to do was hit “enter” on the small keyboard.

  “I think you should be the one to finish this.” The major turned around, unable to witness the final keystroke.

  “Of course.” President Sanders reached
forward.

  The secretary of state trembled at such a blatant power grab. “You need the approval of Congress before using nuclear weapons, and we haven’t even declared war. What if China isn’t behind this?”

  “If you hadn’t noticed, half of Congress ate the other half.”

  “We’re dealing with complex constitutional issues here. You weren’t even elected and the legal authority to—”

  President Sanders tapped the computer. “I have all the authority I need right here.”

  “But they’ll retaliate and hit our major cities. We still have hope of curing the infection and retaking the nation. We can rebuild. We can start over.”

  “Hit our cities? Don’t you mean graveyards? This is the only option we have left. It’s our duty to punish the aggressors, even if it’s the last act of our nation.” A pale, fanatical gleam had taken shape in the president’s eyes. He was now sure of his path to salvation.

  “You’ll be seen as the biggest war criminal in history, right up there with Hitler and Stalin.”

  “You don’t get it, Childers. After today, there is no history.”

  The discussion was over. One congressman was unable to deal with the enormity of the situation and ran to the bathroom to vomit. More people were about to be killed in the next few hours than in all the wars of history.

  President Sanders reached for the keyboard and paused as his officials gathered around him. What he was about to say would either echo through the ages or disappear with the human race.

  “The godless heathen, Friedrich Nietzsche, stated that hope is the worst of evils, for it prolongs the torments of man.” The witnesses put their heads down and several sobbed loudly. “We are now devoid of hope, yet we continue to suffer. We take solitude in God’s plan and understand we are mere instruments of his will. Let us break the seventh seal, punish those that have transgressed upon our Nation and the Lord, and bask in his righteous vengeance.”

  He struck the key and hundreds of intercontinental ballistic missiles launched from silos and submarines around the world. Traveling at fifteen thousand miles per hour, they’d quickly reach their destinations in the Far East.

  The plane was silent for the next five minutes. Finally, President Sanders picked up the phone. “Saxby, have they retaliated yet?”

  “No, and they must have detected our birds by now. It's quite strange.” There was a loud commotion in the control room and the pandemonium was clear over the phone. “This isn't good. They’re knocking out our satellites. We'll be blind without them.”

  The president rubbed his temples and looked around the room. “How come we didn’t know they had this capability?”

  Secretary of Defense Aikens put his hands on the president’s shoulders. “Sir, the C.I.A. doesn’t know their assholes from their elbows. We didn’t know the Soviet Union was collapsing until it was on CNN.”

  “There’s no use in finger pointing now since everyone who screwed up is dead,” the president said. “But we have to act. What do you recommend, Strom?”

  Secretary Aikens took a deep breath. “I believe this calls for Operation Omega. It puts the scorched into scorched earth. We’ll launch everything while we can. Iraq, Iran… Saudi Arabia, everything over there. The Chinese can use the oil in five thousand years when it stops glowing.”

  The president shuffled through the folders and stopped at the biggest and most dangerous-looking one. “You’re sure about this?”

  “In a few minutes our capabilities are going to be taken back to the 1960’s. It’s now or never.”

  The president rubbed sweat from his brow and opened the ominous black folder labeled with an omega symbol. He read the code aloud while typing. “Access code four-three-Alpha-Tango-Oscar-two-seven-Yankee-Zulu-Tango. Set it to well done.”

  The secretary of state realized this was his only chance to stop the unfolding madness. Smashing the laptop could save millions of lives, maybe the world itself. He inched forward and balled his hand into a fist, hoping to break the screen with a solid punch.

  One of the marines assigned to watch the secretary’s every move, however, had noticed the man’s ashen appearance. Before Childers could act, he found himself in a powerful headlock. Two other marines struggled to drag him out of the room, brutally dislocating his shoulder in the process.

  The president got in his face. “What the hell are you doing? You know that—”

  Secretary Childers screamed through the pain, “For god sakes, our men are down there! This is genocide, you crazy son of a—”

  The stiff jab from the president shut Childers up. “I told you not to interrupt me.” It was a well-placed sucker punch that knocked the secretary of state's dentures right out of his mouth. They skittered across the floor and disappeared under a chair.

  Secretary Aikens ignored the melee. “We need to find out why they haven't launched their nukes. If they wait much longer, we'll knock out their capability of striking back completely. It doesn’t make sense. There’s no rope-a-dope when it comes to nuclear exchanges.”

  As Childers kicked and screamed, the president steadied himself and launched the next round of missiles, this time with no speech and a swollen right hand.

  Another aide rushed into the room. “Mr. President.” All eyes turned to the young airman. “We have word from the Pacific Fleet. Their radar has picked up a large naval force leaving China.”

  “How large?” Secretary Aikens said.

  “It’s the biggest ever.”

  The secretary of defense nodded grimly. “There’s our answer it seems. China doesn’t want to destroy us, it wants to own us.”

  The plot had been as elegant as it was insidious. China had been crippled by a currency war and then ravaged by a massive drought, and the world had shrugged while millions died. So, rather than fight Mother Nature, they used her to their advantage. The man-made virus would depopulate North America and the Chinese would use the open land to start over, much like the pilgrims had done hundreds of years earlier. Only small-pox had nothing on the Chinese virus.

  The new revelation strengthened the president’s resolve. “Turn this plane south, our plans have changed.” He looked to Secretary Aikens. “Tell President Goya we're annexing Northern Mexico, and it’s not up for discussion.”

  Chapter 18

  Operation Ben-Gay

  Russ lit a cowboy killer and cracked a hesitant smile. “Blake’s not turning into a zombie?”

  “Not according to his symptoms and the information on his medical bracelet. This is a diabetic attack,” Mike said.

  Rob smiled and dabbed a wet cloth to Blake’s clammy forehead. “Diabetes, that’s not so bad. Right?”

  “It’s a death sentence unless we can find some insulin,” Mike said and swiveled his head around the room. “Did anyone know about this?”

  Jim shook his head. “He never mentioned it to me.”

  “Blake’s been taking a lot of personal days, but he said it was for wedding stuff,” Bruce added, clearly shaken up.

  “Why would he hide it?” Smokey said.

  Trent holstered his gun. “Probably the same reason Mike hid the fact that he chugs cock. It’s embarrassing.”

  Mike’s eyes burned. “First off, it’s not embarrassing to have a disease or to be gay. Second off, I never actually acted on my urges.”

  “You’re a virgin?” the cop said in his typical schoolyard bully fashion.

  “No, I’ve slept with lots of chicks.”

  “That doesn’t count and you know it.” Trent sensed blood in the water. “We’ve got ourselves a thirty-year old virgin here.”

  “Yeah, what a loser,” Left-Nut said, always one to bring himself up by putting others down.

  “I’m not dignifying that with a response, but I do have one question, Trent. Why are you so eager to shoot people? I know Cliff was an asshole, but Blake’s been your friend for years and you didn’t even hesitate.”

  “I’m not taking any chances. I’ll shoot you in the
face if you get bit, and I don’t care if you’re the Pope, my mom or a bum off the street.”

  “What do we do?” Bruce asked. “We can’t exactly march down to the drugstore and fill out a prescription.”

  “We can check Mrs. Stone’s apartment downstairs,” Charlie said. “I know she gets medicine delivered because the dumbshit mailman keeps putting it in my mailbox.”

  “Do you know what it was?” Mike said.

  “Fuck if I know, but it’s worth finding out. Plus, she might have food.”

  “That’s not a half bad idea, Chuck, but who’s got the balls to go?” Russ said. “I mean, I will because he’s family, but who’s coming with me?”

  Fat, drunk and bloody, Russ wasn’t the type of man you wanted to follow in line at the gas station, much less into a situation where you might get eaten alive. Every fiber of Charlie’s body screamed to sit this one out, to let someone else volunteer, but he’d already seen one friend die and wasn’t prepared to see another.

  “I’m in,” he said numbly, feeling like the words left someone else’s mouth.

  “Count me out,” Trent said predictably.

  “Ditto,” Left-Nut added.

  None of the others volunteered, and Russ flew into a mini-rage. “Look, this isn’t D-Day. We’re just going right downstairs, so stop being a bunch of faggots.” He glanced at Mike. “Sorry, homosexuals.”

  Mike blinked rapidly a few times in exasperation before composing himself. “He’s right. We need to start acting like a team if we want to survive. And since I’m in charge of the food, if you don’t help, you don’t eat.”

  They bickered over the details for a while until coming up with what they considered a somewhat decent plan. An hour later, the men gathered on the roof, partially sobered up and ready to rock.

  Cliff had continued to glare at everyone, until it got creepy to the point where Smokey had to blindfold him with an old sock. This seemed to make the stockbroker even more desperate, and now he sniffed the air like a bloodhound.