Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse

by Nicholas Ryan

  “Well what about the Rose Garden, or upstairs in the residence?” Walter Ford offered.

  Patrick Austin nodded. “The Rose Garden.”

  “Mr. President, there is a procedure for these kind of one-on-one interviews. Traditionally they have been conducted in the Cabinet Room with the table removed. We do it that way, sir, so we can control the environmental conditions, and so the TV people can easily get power to their equipment. I appreciate the Rose Garden might be a more relaxed setting… but what if it rains? What if the wind is blowing?”

  POTUS grimaced and nodded in concession. “Okay. The Cabinet Room.”

  The conversation moved on.

  “Who do you want for the interview, sir?” Rita May asked. An exclusive interview with the President in the midst of a worldwide cataclysmic event would catapult the chosen journalist into the ranks of celebrity. It was an instant career-making event. In the days since the apocalypse, Rita had fielded an endless procession of calls to her office from TV networks desperate to speak to the president.

  “Jim Ploughman is known to be sympathetic…”

  Again the President grunted. It was an uninspired suggestion. For long moments no one had a better thought. Finally Jim Poe spoke up, wincing a little as he began. He had the face of a bomb disposal expert about to cut a wire. He didn’t know how the room would react.

  “What about Carly Clementine?”

  “Jesus, no!” Walter Ford’s response was horrified alarm. “The Perfumed Bulldozer? You have to be crazy. No one voluntarily does interviews with that woman. She’s a man-eater.”

  “Sir, I have to agree with the National Security Advisor,” Rita May’s face turned pale as ivory. “Carly Clementine will do the administration no favors. She’s got a reputation for being ruthless.”

  POTUS smiled wanly. “Rita, I don’t want favors. I want to speak to the people. They’re asking hard questions. So why shouldn’t Carly Clementine ask them on the people’s behalf. We have nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve acted carefully, effectively and honorably on every level. We’ve done all we can to keep America safe. I want the people to know that. I want them to feel reassured that their government hasn’t let them down. But most of all I want to tell them not to give up hope. They must maintain order. They must continue to be kind to their neighbors.”

  “Sir, there are several other networks, and a host of other journalists who could conduct the interview…” Rita tried one last time until she saw the resolved look in the President’s eyes. Her words trailed into silence.

  “Call Carly,” the President insisted, his decision final. “I want you to make this happen as soon as possible.”

  BLACK SITE ECHO-59

  GUAM

  Angie came through the cell door and stood in the middle of the room, directly under the bare light bulb that hung from the ceiling. Black and White filed in behind her. The two men were carrying a small table and a canvas bag between them.

  Angie stared into the eyes of Ju Young-sik and held his gaze until the noise behind her had stopped. The door to the cell slammed shut. Black and White went to stand behind the North Korean scientist, out of his sight.

  “My name is Angie,” she said in faultless Korean. “People call me the Angel of Death. I’ve come to torture you. I’ve come to cause so much pain that you will beg me to let you die. I’m not going to interrogate you. I’m not going to ask you a lot of questions. It will be up to you to talk. Talking is the only way you will be able to make the pain stop. Until you start talking, I am going to keep on hurting you, using knives, needles, pliers, hammers and a bone saw. Do you understand?”

  She could tell by the horrified look on the man’s face that he understood every word. His eyes grew wide with fear and a stream of dribble escaped his slack lips and ran down his chin. Angie saw a quake of shuddering tremors shake the man. She stepped aside and let him see the tools of her trade, laid out neatly on the tabletop.

  “Fuck you, woman!” the scientist blubbered defiantly.

  Angie smiled.

  She went back to the door and began to undress. She peeled off her shirt, taking her time to fold the garment neatly. Then, bare-breasted, she bent to untie her shoes. She turned away from the scientist and shimmied her hips to pull the skin-tight jeans down her long legs. She stepped out of the jeans and stood, glorious and golden and lithe as a leopard before him in just a brief pair of panties. She saw the incredulous look in his eyes. She cupped her hands beneath her breasts and squeezed out the nipples until they were hard, then cast him a sly, sensual look. She licked her lips.

  “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked sweetly.

  The North Korean said nothing, but he watched her mesmerized the way a mouse is hypnotized by the weaving dance of a deadly cobra.

  She came to him slowly, moving closer. Her eyes glittered like precious gemstones.

  “Tell me I’m pretty,” she whispered.

  She was so close to the prisoner that she could smell the stale stench of his sweat and see the goosebumps that broke in a rash along his forearms. His chest hair was a silver fuzz, the skin of his stomach loose and flabby from malnourishment. She drew a line with a fingernail from his throat, slowly down his body, edging lower and lower while her eyes stayed locked on his and she saw the confused turmoil of emotions play across his features.

  She felt the brush of the man’s pubic hair against her palm. The scientist’s eyes flashed sudden alarm. Angie cupped the man’s testicles in her hand and the pink tip of her tongue flicked provocatively from between her lips. She was close enough to kiss him. She shared the same gasp of breath he exhaled. She began to slowly squeeze.

  “I didn’t undress for you,” Angie whispered as her grip slowly tightened. The prisoner began to squirm. “I undressed because I had no time to pack fresh clothes…” Her grip closed over the man’s scrotum and he gasped, then moaned in sickening pain. He screwed his eyes tightly shut and began to pant great gulps of breath. Angie squeezed until the man screamed like a teenage girl.

  She waited until the echo of the noise had washed around the room and the prisoner hung, sagging from his chains. His face was a mask of agony, his cheeks stained with the streaks of his tears. His head hung down on his chin. At last she let go of the man’s testicles and snatched a handful of his hair to lift his face.

  “I got undressed because I didn’t want to get my clothes covered in your blood,” she said matter-of-factly.

  She stood back and propped her hands on her hips, appraising the man’s body critically. She looked pointedly at his shriveled penis and began to laugh. The sound was wicked and cuttingly cruel.

  “Your cock is so small!” she criticized the scientist. “It’s… it’s deformed. I can’t believe how little your dick is.” She called Black and White closer and pointed at the man’s genitals. She sensed him cringe with humiliation.

  “Boys? Is that the littlest dick you’ve ever seen?”

  Both men laughed, but the sound of the woman’s voice cut the deepest. The prisoner’s face flushed, and he sobbed for breath.

  Angie reached out and took the man’s flaccid member between two fingers. She manipulated him with cunning clever touches, then suddenly punched him full-fisted. The air whooshed from his lungs in a moaning gasp of white-aching agony. His groin felt swollen and on fire. He tried desperately to pull his knees up to his chest to ease the pain, but the chains holding his arms made it impossible. He cried out, drool running from his mouth and from his nose.

  “Fuck you! Fuck you, fucking whore! Filthy fucking American whore!”

  Black slapped the prisoner back-handed across the face. It was a savage blow that snapped the man’s head sideways and rattled the teeth in his jaw. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  He was about to swing a second blow when a sudden loud rap at the door made him hesitate. White answered the knock. When he came back in view of the prisoner, he was balancing several large plates of food. He shared them with Angie and Bl
ack. The three sat cross-legged together in a corner and began eating with enthusiasm.

  There were dishes of beef and chicken, heaped with rice and noodles. Delicious aromas filled the room. The prisoner watched on with silent envy. He had not eaten in twenty-four hours. His stomach cramped, and his bleeding mouth filled with saliva. The interrogators took their time, talking quietly amongst themselves until Angie looked up suddenly, as if she had forgotten the North Korean’s existence.

  “We’ve released your comrades,” she said flatly. “You’re the only one still being held and interrogated. The other two men we captured with you are under the care of a military doctor. They’re resting and they’re eating well. I just wanted you to know. I thought it would put your mind at ease.”

  “You lie! Filthy bitch.”

  Angie blinked. Her expression changed. Emotion swam behind her eyes and her face clouded. She set down her plate and got slowly to her feet. Something menacing in the way she moved filled the prisoner with a fresh wave of dread.

  “I don’t lie,” she said slowly. She glanced over her shoulder and gave a curt nod. White had been waiting for his cue. He picked up the plates and went out through the cell door. He returned a few minutes later escorting one of the other captured prisoners into the room.

  “Bahk?” Ju Young-sik gaped, his voice a hoarse rasp of incredulity. He looked like he was staring at a ghost. “Bahk, are you well?”

  The North Korean prisoner in the doorway said nothing. He was dressed in a freshly laundered white shirt and blue denim jeans. The clothes were too large for his frame and had been rolled up at the collars and cuffs. On his feet were new Nikes. White had his hand protectively resting on the man’s shoulder. Angie went to the prisoner. She towered over him, tall and blonde as an Amazon. She gave him a lingeringly long kiss, full on the lips, then crushed her breasts against the man’s chest, writhing her body with hungry sexual desire. Her hand slid down the man’s torso and groped inside his pants. Angie moaned, then looked back over her shoulder so Ju Young-sik could see the raw lust in her eyes. The man in the doorway stood stiff and silent. Angie whispered something in the prisoner’s ear, then kissed him again. When the show was over, White escorted the stunned scientist back out of the cell and slammed the door shut.

  “See?” Angie smiled smugly at Ju Young-sik, hanging from his chains. “Your friends are both being cared for… and I must say,” she arched an eyebrow with wicked mischief, “your young friend is an excellent lover. His cock is much longer and thicker than yours, and he fucked me very well the first time. So well, in fact, that I’ve promised to return to his bed tonight.”

  The North Korean scientist said nothing. He clamped his mouth shut but behind the fixed, tight expression his mind was reeling in a maelstrom of turmoil and doubt. He closed his eyes, but fear of what the American woman might do to him made him force them open again. He swayed on his feet. The ache in his arms was now a continuous agony, and the throbbing pain in his testicles washed over him in waves. He sobbed through shuddering breaths.

  Angie went on, relentless. “Did you get much sex back in North Korea, Ju?”

  The prisoner said nothing.

  “Were you married? Did you have an ugly wife?”

  Ju Young-sik shook his head.

  “Did you have a pretty young woman to fuck?”

  Angie let the questions hang in the air for a long moment and then answered them herself, her tone mocking and cruel.

  “No, I think you were married to your work, Ju. I think you gave your life to Kim Jong-un’s insane dreams… and I don’t think your cock is big enough to satisfy a woman. I bet you went home from your laboratory every night and pleasured yourself with your hand, didn’t you?”

  She started to laugh again and the sound was like the repeating stab of a knife in Ju Young-sik’s mind, made all the more demeaning because a woman was delivering the ridicule. A woman! He had never in his life felt such deep cutting barbs of humiliation. He could feel himself somehow shriveling.

  “What did you fantasize about when you were trying to get your tiny cock hard?” Angie poured scorn and contempt into her questions. “Did you imagine yourself pleasuring an American woman like me? Did you dream about a sweet young Korean girl… or do boys turn you on? Is that it, Ju? Are you a boy lover?”

  Ju Young-sik spat in her face.

  Angie stopped suddenly and her expression changed in an instant from callous merriment to the look of a stone-cold killer. She let the slimy glob of phlegm run down her cheek and drip off the edge of her jaw as if it wasn’t there.

  “You’ll pay for that,” she declared, with a sadistic splinter of promise in her voice. “Your days of masturbating are over, Ju. Because when I come back, I’m going to start severing the fingers of your right hand, one by one. By the time I’m finished sawing through your knuckles, you’ll never be able to jerk yourself off ever again.”

  *

  “Did you put the other fucker back in his cell?” Angie turned her head and shielded her eyes from the sun. She was lying on a beach towel in the long grass by the perimeter fence, wearing a skimpy bikini and working on her tan.

  “Yeah,” White stood over her, blocking out the glare and casting her face in temporary shadow. “Stripped naked, chained and slapped around a bit.”

  Angie nodded. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the sky. “The poor bastard didn’t know what to do when I kissed him.”

  White nodded. “He probably thought you were going to bite his face off.”

  “I thought about it,” Angie admitted. “But we won’t get Ju Young-sik to talk by trying to scare him. He’s been brainwashed by Kim’s regime into complete loyalty. No, we’ve got to get past the North Korean scientist façade and find the weakness in the man underneath. My guess is it will be his pride. His vanity. I saw the way he looked at me when I had my hand down the other prisoner’s pants and when I humiliated him about the size of his cock. Ju sees himself as a man’s man – one of the science world’s Alpha dogs. It’s his ego that will be his undoing. We’ve just got to push the right buttons.”

  THE PRIME MINISTER’S OFFICE

  10 DOWNING STREET

  LONDON

  Were it not for the cataclysmic events overtaking the world, British Prime Minister Alistair Goodchild might well have seen out his term in office and then retired to the solitude of a Devon cottage, quickly forgotten by a nation that he was wholly inadequate and unprepared to serve.

  He was a poor politician; a drab, bland man, unsuited to the razzmatazz of modern day politics where image was everything and substance counted for little. Not that anyone had ever accused the British Prime Minister of being a person of substance. He was a grey man who had been thrust into the spotlight of British politics by sheer circumstance.

  He might have simply drifted into obscurity during the next election cycle if the NK Plague hadn’t brought the human race to the precipice of extinction.

  Now, all of Britain was looking to him for leadership, and all he could do was fulfill his role manfully, facing the crowd of press behind the barricades on the far side of the street with a stiff upper lip and a speech he had written himself.

  Downing Street was bathed in warm sunshine. Overhead, helicopters circled the blue sky. Goodchild stepped up to the lectern in the middle of the street and a battery of flashing camera lights dazzled his eyes. Behind him, and off to both sides of the lectern, stood armed police officers. The press was herded behind a steel fence – hundreds of them from newspapers and TV stations right across the country.

  Goodchild smiled thinly. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair. More cameras flashed and whirred. In the far distance, crowds could be heard chanting. It could have been a protest or a prayer; Goodchild didn’t know.

  “It is my duty to report to all of Britain’s citizens that western Germany and France have fallen to the insidious threat of the NK Plague,” the Prime Minister began. “The planned defense of the Rhine has failed. The infection has
leaped the proposed containment line and now burns through Paris, Lyon, Strasbourg and Bordeaux. Millions more have died. France is on fire. Northern Italy has become infected. There are reports of new contagion outbreaks in Spain. Britain now stands alone, like a rock in a dangerous sea, as the last safe place in all of Europe.

  “On the fourth of June, 1940, in the House of Commons, Prime Minister Winston Churchill made a famous war speech to stiffen the public’s resolve. In it he implored us to go on fighting until the end. He vowed that we would fight the enemy on the seas and oceans. He declared that we would defend our island, whatever the cost, on the beaches, the landing grounds in the fields and in the streets. He concluded his speech by vowing that Britain would never surrender.

  “During a bleak period in World War Two those words galvanized our nation. They brought us together. They made us determined and resolved. They encouraged us to resist. We thought then that we were facing our darkest days. We were wrong.

  “So many nations have fallen to the ravages of the NK Plague. So many fine friends and families around the world have died from this hideous infection. A dark pall of despair hangs over our world, and yet still we must find within us that resolute spark that marks us as British; that fierce resolve that makes us unwavering in the face of impossible odds. We have done it time and time again throughout the centuries. We have stood defiant and invincible against every adversary that sought our downfall. We have fought with arrows and spears, guns and bombs. Now we must fight one more time.

  “Our history has been littered with celebrated war heroes; Horatio Nelson, the Duke of Wellington, Sir Francis Drake… the list is endless through the annals of our illustrious past. But today’s fight cannot be won by a single hero, nor a single heroic deed. Today’s fight – the greatest fight we have ever known – can only be won by a nation of heroes; by each and every man, woman and child standing together, united in prayer and in vigilance while our armed forces wrap an iron cage around our homeland.