*
In a thousand cities, towns and villages, the last few hours of existence became a living hell; a hedonistic nightmare of murder and rape and desperate debauchery. Unrestrained by decency or the law, society crumbled and France plunged into primal savagery.
A few – a very few – spent their last hours in church, praying for salvation from the approaching Armageddon. They lit candles and fell to their knees. They lifted their voices to God and prayed fervently for His intervention.
When they arrived, the infected were ruthless. They killed the religious, the drunks, the rapists and the pious. They plundered the towns like a horde of medieval barbarians until the gutters ran red with blood and the sky glowed red with flames.
Chapter 20:
BLACK SITE ECHO-59
GUAM
The site was located at the southern corner of the Naval Base in six derelict concrete bunkers that had once been used for the storage of ship machinery parts. The grass was overgrown, the pathways cracked and in disrepair. But the surrounding high-wire fencing was in good order, and the solitude absolute.
The cells were each stand-alone windowless cement boxes, nine feet square and eight feet high that had been fitted out with iron rings, chairs and steel buckets in preparation for the North Korean scientists.
The three prisoners were placed in separate cells, shackled by their wrists to chains hung from the walls and made to stand, naked, with their arms outstretched.
The North Koreans were middle-aged scientists who wore white coats in laboratories and carried clipboards, not hardened combat veterans accustomed to the rigors and hardships of survival. Within an hour, they began weeping and trembling.
Captain Leonard Kurz was a trained 35 Alpha Intelligence Officer who had been shoehorned into the initial interrogator’s role because of his fluency with languages. He swung open the door to the first cell and stood in the threshold. The prisoner lifted his head groggily. The chains suspending his arms rattled.
“Your name is Ju Young-sik?”
The scientist seemed surprised to be asked the question in his native tongue. He blinked like an owl.
“Yes.”
“And you are one of the scientists who worked on your country’s biological weapons projects?”
The prisoner’s eyes filled with sudden resolve. He closed his mouth like a trap and turned his gaze away. Kurz stepped into the small room and closed the door quietly behind him.
The subject’s defiance was an unexpected set-back, the Intelligence Officer realized. He had hoped for disorientation and confusion. Prisoners were at their most vulnerable in the hours immediately after capture when their minds were addled, and their fear was at its most intense. It was a window of opportunity that could often be exploited by an experienced interrogator; it was a chance to dominate the subject and gain the ascendancy. Kurz wondered how the prisoners had been transported to the site. Had they been isolated on the plane, or handcuffed together? Had they been close enough to whisper to each other and assuage their fears? Had they been threatened by the men guarding them, or intimidated? Or had they simply been left alone for so long that the initial shock had worn off?
Kurz tried changing tack, looking to mentally unbalance the prisoner.
“There’s no need to make this difficult,” he put kindness into his voice and hung a smile from the corner of his mouth. “You’re not here to be punished. We simply want to know about your research project; how you created the weapon…”
“And yet you treat me like this?” the North Korean’s voice shook with humiliation. He was emaciated; so skeletally thin that his rib cage showed starkly through the tight pale flesh of his torso. His arms and legs were spindly, and there were several deep purple bruises on his left shoulder.
“I’m not responsible for your treatment,” Kurz’s demeanor changed. He dripped acid over his words and raised his voice for the first time. “You are. You resist the opportunity to cooperate with us. You refuse to answer civil questions. You maintain allegiance to an insane brutal dictator who has set fire to the world and caused the death of billions of innocent people. When you show a willingness to work with us, we will, in turn, treat you in a manner befitting your attitude. But…” Kurz stepped close to the man and leaned his weight lightly on the chain fastened to his wrist. It put tension on the scientist’s aching arm. He grimaced and tears prickled his eyes. “But… until you stop defying us, you will be treated as an enemy – and we can be very, very fierce opponents.”
The North Korean reeked of sweat. His mouth was dry. His legs ached with the strain of standing.
“What will happen to me?” he asked.
“I just told you,” Kurz said. “It all depends on your attitude.”
“Where are my colleagues?”
“They’re safe,” Kurz said, then hesitated dramatically before saying more. When he spoke again his voice sounded oily. “They have their own interrogators talking to them right now,” the Captain lied. He gave an eloquent shrug of his shoulders. “Perhaps one of them will be more willing to cooperate than you are. Maybe one of them has a conscience. If that’s the case, and if they prove helpful…” he smiled tightly. “Well, you would become expendable, wouldn’t you?”
The scientist flinched. It was just a flicker of movement; a nervous twitch of his eye that would have been missed in a blink. Kurz recognized the first tiny crack in the prisoner’s resistance. It was a start. He turned suddenly and strode for the door. The North Korean called out after him.
“I… I need to void my bladder.”
Kurz spun around, his face expressionless. He kicked an empty bucket towards the prisoner and left the cell, slamming the door loudly behind him.
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
The alarming news of Western Europe’s demise sent shock waves through the US. The threads of American society began to unravel as fear and panic turned into hysteria. It seemed that nothing could stop the spread of the contagion; death was inevitable.
People took to the streets and a wave of crime swept across the country.
In Scranton, Pennsylvania, food riots broke out when a gang of people smashed plate-glass windows and broke into several of the city’s supermarkets. When police units and elements of the local National Guard confronted the rioters, shots were fired and a running gun battle broke out. Two police officers were killed in the exchange and several of the food rioters were injured.
In San Francisco, over a hundred thousand Christians marched through the main streets of the city, waving banners and placards. They marched in the name of peace, singing songs of religious praise. They held their hands aloft in group prayer, begging the Almighty for salvation. At the end of the march the city’s religious leaders, who could offer no hope, addressed the protesters and told them it was the End of Days. The priests claimed that mankind’s disregard for God’s laws had brought about the ruin of the world. People openly wept. The sound on the streets became a great wailing of pain and anguish. The young and the old fell to their knees and sobbed for God’s forgiveness.
In Omaha, Nebraska, the South Omaha Main Street Historical District on South 24th Street was burned down to the ground. Two dozen historical buildings were turned to black ash during a night of running battles between armed mobs and National Guard troops. Cars were overturned. Firefighters were assaulted while they tried to contain the flames that threatened to spread through the heart of the business district. Shots were fired. Two rioters were killed in the battle and seventeen others were injured before the mobs dispersed at daylight.
On the east coast, millions flocked to churches. Some attended huge gatherings that spilled out onto the steps of vast cathedrals. Others joined midnight prayer vigils at their local community church. They lit candles and huddled close to each other, drawing comfort from those around them. Strangers became new friends and priests, pastors and evangelists were overwhelmed with desperate pleas for salvation.
In New York, gun violence on th
e streets reached alarming new levels. The city seemed lawless. There were simply not enough police and National Guard troops on duty to deal with the epidemic of savagery that swept through the metropolis. Dozens died in shootouts, and Manhattan became a battlefield. Wailing sirens and flashing blue lights cut through the night. Shops were raided and buildings burned. The Mayor declared a state of emergency. Hospitals across the city were overwhelmed as despair and desperation reached fever pitch.
All around the nation, in large cities and small towns, people surrendered to a sense of overwhelming despair and desperate fatalism. It was the ugly face of primal instinct.
America began to tear itself apart in a volcanic eruption of fear and violence.
BLACK SITE ECHO-59
GUAM
“Well?” the man demanded, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. He wore an open-necked shirt, faded denim jeans and dusty cowboy boots. The sleeves of his shirt were bunched high above the elbows, and his steely eyes stayed hidden behind a pair of Aviator sunglasses. He chewed gum while he waited for an answer.
Captain Leonard Kurz sighed. “It’s not going to be easy,” he admitted. “And it’s not going to be fast. All three subjects have had too long to acclimatize to their situation. The initial shock of capture has worn off. Maybe if I had been allowed access earlier…”
The man grunted. His face stayed expressionless but his displeasure was apparent in his tone.
“That’s your professional opinion, Captain?”
Kurz stiffened, sensing a challenge. “Yes,” he said.
The man behind the desk spat out his gum. From a pocket he produced a flat tin of cigars. He selected one and lit it carefully, holding the flame of the match steady until the cigar was drawing evenly. The small office filled with a cloud of pungent tobacco smoke.
“You’re aware of how important these three prisoners are? You understand the quality of the information we need to extract, and the time-critical circumstances?” The man asked. He looked utterly baleful. His expression became savagely unfriendly.
“Yes,” Kurz said. “But none of those factors matter to the prisoners. You’re looking at the issue from one side of the fence. The men in those cells don’t care about the spread of the infection. They need to be motivated. They need to want to cooperate. Until I can find a way to elicit a sense of empathy and a willingness, they will continue to stubbornly resist.”
The sound of a growling engine came through the fly-spotted office window, followed by a harsh squeal of brakes. The man wearing the dark sunglasses smiled. It was a thin, cruel expression devoid of any humor. “Very well. The United States Government thanks you for your efforts. You can return to your normal intelligence duties.”
“What? You’re dismissing me?”
“Yes.”
“On whose authority?” Kurz had seen no paperwork for the prisoners and no one of military rank since he had first been summoned to the remote corner of the Naval Base.
“On the President’s authority,” the man said testily. “That will be all, Captain.”
The office door opened and a shaft of sunlight sliced through the gloom. Three silhouetted figures stood in the doorway, each holding a canvas bag. They were tall. The figure in the middle was a woman.
“Are you the guy in charge?” her voice was low and husky.
“Yeah,” the man answered.
“I’m Angie.” She stepped out of the shadows, flanked by her two companions. There was a moment of silent appreciation for her sheer physical splendor, and then suddenly Captain Kurz leaped to his feet, his eyes wide with outrage, his mouth working in agitation.
“You’re the fucking Angel of Death!” he accused the woman. He glared at the man behind the dark sunglasses for confirmation. “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re the evil bitch that savaged those poor bastards in Kuwait.”
The woman stood, unmoving, all her weight on one leg, her hand on her hip in a gesture that emphasized the narrowness of her waist. She stared at the Intelligence Officer with indolent amusement, her eyes flashing a wicked challenge.
She smiled, a languid slanting of the eyes. Despite her relaxed pose, the woman gave off a sense of dangerous intensity; a look that suggested she might snarl at any moment.
“You should have gone to prison for the way you butchered those men. They were protected by the rules and regulations of war.”
The man behind the desk got to his feet slowly. The sound of his chair scraping back on the bare concrete was harsh in the small space. He wedged his cigar into the corner of his mouth.
“Captain Kurz, you are dismissed,” he said civilly, but with tight restraint. “You may return to your normal duties – immediately.”
Kurz’s mouth twisted into a grimace of insolent contempt. He paused, bristling – and then stormed out of the office.
For a long time no one spoke. The woman peeled off her nylon jacket and dug into the pocket of her tight jeans for a cigarette.
By any standard she was stunningly beautiful; a tall statuesque figure with golden hair down to her shoulders, large unfettered breasts, and a perfect face around deep blue eyes and dazzlingly white teeth. She appeared to be of Scandinavian heritage, yet when she spoke her voice was American accented.
“So? What are we dealing with?” Angie asked.
“Three North Koreans,” the man tossed wafer-thin files onto the desk. Each file contained less than a single typed page of information and there were no photographs. “We think the senior guy is this one,” he tapped a file with his finger. “His name is Ju Young-sik. The CIA is pretty sure he attended a science symposium in Kazakhstan back in ’08, and met with Russian and Chinese scientists again in 2011. The other two prisoners seemed to defer to him in the moments immediately after capture. We think he’s the big fish.”
Angie didn’t glance at the file. “What have you learned so far?”
“Fuck all,” the man said frankly. From behind the reflective lenses of his glasses he was admiring the interrogator’s super-model looks. It seemed incongruous that beneath her physical beauty lurked a vicious, ruthless contract torturer. But like Captain Kurz, he too had heard the hushed, awed whispers that followed this woman around the world. She had been used four times in Afghanistan and twice in Syria. She had been sent to Kuwait and to Poland. She had never failed.
The man gestured at the two figures still standing in the doorway. “Is this your team?”
“Yes,” Angie drew deeply on the cigarette and blew a feather of smoke at the ceiling. “Mr. Black and Mr. White.”
The man behind the desk smiled wryly. This was a shadow world; a realm of whispers and aliases. Black and White were probably both ex-Marines, or maybe former Special Forces, the man guessed. They were hugely muscled, their brawny arms covered with intricate tattoos. They had hard eyes and carried themselves with arrogant confidence.
“How long have I got?” Angie asked.
“It’s urgent,” the man said. “Real urgent. And it matters to people right at the top of the tree, okay. There is a lot of pressure on this one.”
“Limits?”
“None. You’re off the leash. Do whatever you have to do to get the answers we need, short of killing. I’ve got a special fucking envoy of the President cooling his heels over at Anderson AFB. His name is Nathan Power. He’s from the CDC. As soon as you get these Gooks talking, he will take over. All you’re here to do is crack ‘em wide open so we can get their guts.”
Angie smiled.
THE OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
POTUS listened to the aide’s briefing with a rising sense of frustration and despair. The summary of overnight unrest around the country took several shocking minutes, each new revelation more appalling than the last. President Austin sat back in his chair and closed his eyes until the aide finished speaking.
When POTUS opened his eyes again, Jim Poe noticed how bloodshot they were. The President looked bleakly around the room.
Apart from the SecDef and the aide, only Walter Ford and the President’s Press Secretary were in the room.
The President clasped his hands together in a long moment of contemplation. “I think I need to go back on television,” he declared. “The people need reassurance. In the absence of clear leadership, the country is falling apart.”
No one argued. Rita May consulted a leather-bound folder she held clasped against her chest. “We can make that happen, Mr. President. You have time in your schedule. I can arrange another press briefing – ”
“No,” Patrick Austin held up his hand and Rita fell instantly silent. “I don’t want to send another message through the press. And I don’t want to do another address to the nation, either. There has to be another way we can reassure the American public.”
“The newspapers?” Walter Ford sounded skeptical.
“Maybe a one-on-one interview with the Times?” Jim Poe chimed in.
POTUS grunted. “Better, but still not what I had in mind. The message through the newspapers is too sterile. I want to talk to the people, dammit. I just don’t want to do it in a staged environment.”
“How about a TV interview?” Rita May suggested.
POTUS’ eyebrows shot up. He snapped his fingers. “Yes. I like it. Just a journalist, and me, in an intimate setting. Not in this office, for God’s sake. And not in a television studio, either.”
“What about Camp David?”
“No. I need to be here while the crisis is sweeping Europe. I can’t be seen to be anywhere else, and certainly not Camp David. People know it’s a Presidential retreat. I don’t want that image. I want everyone to know that I am at my desk, doing everything I can on their behalf.”
Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse Page 62