CANNIBAL KINGDOM

by John L. Campbell

  Wulandari set down his satchel and crossed his arms. “This is unacceptable.”

  Bags blinked. “Don’t get stroppy with me, ya little brownie. That’s the arrangement.” He took a step closer to the doctor and lowered his voice. “Your delay is putting my men at risk every minute we’re here. If you think I won’t shove you in a fucking bag and carry you out myself, think again.”

  Ocker’s voice came over the headset. “Bags, we’re about to get some blow-ins. They’re coming up the stairwell. What’s the fucking delay?”

  “The doc doesn’t want to come along.”

  “Does the contract say we have to bring him back alive? Pop a round in his head and we’ll haul the body.”

  Bags glared at the doctor, then to the mic said, “I’m handling it. How long?”

  “Well,” said Ocker, “if we leave right bloody now she’ll be apples.” Then there was a burst of automatic weapons fire that the team leader didn’t need a radio to hear, followed by Ocker’s tense voice saying, “Action stairwell.”

  Bags bared his teeth and grabbed Doctor Wulandari by the collar of his lab coat, propelling him past his two men and back down the hallway. The two mercs collapsed back behind their leader, and when the other Indonesians tried to follow, one of them put a burst of nine-millimeter into the ceiling above them, exploding acoustic tiles and darkened fluorescent bars, making them scatter.

  “My team!” Wulandari shrieked.

  “They’ll have to catch the next chopper, mate.”

  The Indonesian looked at him. “Another helicopter?”

  Bags laughed and shoved him out onto the stairwell landing. “Sure, doc.”

  More gunfire, followed by the CRUMP of a fragmentation grenade down the stairs, a blast loud and close enough to make the team leader’s ears ring. The new kid followed them onto the landing, then everyone headed up with the package, except for Bags. “You still with me, Ocky?” he asked his throat mic.

  Ocker bolted up the stairs two at a time, slapping in a fresh magazine. “They’re one floor down.”

  Bags could hear the horde shrieking and giggling as it poured up the fire stairwell. He pounded his friend on the shoulder to send him up, dropped his own frag grenade down the stairs and ran for the roof.

  When Bags came through the rooftop door, his men were loading Wulandari onto the bird, all of them climbing aboard behind him except for Ocker, who stood at the edge of the helipad looking down at Dunny. The man was sitting on the cement, his weapon lying forgotten beside him, head down with his palms pressed to the temples. Drool spilled down the front of his body armor and magazine pouches.

  “He’s finished,” Bags said, tugging on Ocker’s combat harness, pulling him toward the chopper. “We gotta leave him.”

  The rooftop door banged open, and one of the men in the open side of the helicopter sent a string of tracer fire in that direction, cutting down a trio of crazed Indonesians in pale blue hospital gowns. Ocker and Bags boarded, and in seconds the Sea King was airborne, banking away from the hospital and heading back toward the sea. There was no lingering over the fallen city. They’d seen enough.

  The troop compartment was quiet, except for Wulandari who was nearly hysterical. “You left them!” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. “You left them to die!”

  “I don’t write the contracts, mate,” said Bags.

  The doctor’s face was streaked with tears as he looked out at a shattered city, his home. No one spoke until the green earth below had been replaced with blue.

  “Oy,” Ocker said, nudging his friend and gesturing. Bags looked over and saw he was indicating the Grommet, the new kid. He sat slack-jawed, his eyes glassy and the skin purpling around them steadily. Bags nodded, and Ocker unholstered his pistol, firing once, blasting the Grommet in the temple and spraying pink and gray across the bulkhead. Bags leaned across a horrified Dr. Wulandari and shoved the lifeless body out the helicopter door.

  The WHO contract to extract Wulandari was worth half a million quid, and Bags wasn’t going to let anyone compromise that.

  Besides, he’d been the new kid.

  Camp David, Maryland

  “Mr. Vice President, we can’t debate this anymore. We have to move forward.”

  Collin Hughes, the man being addressed, sat on a sofa in the main lodge with his tie loosened, holding a copy of the Constitution in both hands. He was a man in his middle-fifties who looked as if he’d aged ten years overnight. He shook his head slowly. “I’m not convinced.”

  The Vice President’s Chief of Staff sighed and dropped into an armchair beside his boss. The main room of the rustic lodge felt crowded, though it wasn’t really, and could easily accommodate three times the number of people currently in here, far more than the dozen who were either sitting or standing. Most of them were in suits, and a Navy steward quietly serving coffee was the only one in uniform. Two of the suits – Secret Service agents – stood to one side of the room while two others – FBI agents who had arrived with the AG – stood on the opposite side of the room. Both pairs watched the other; the Secret Service agents because they didn’t like armed outsiders near the VP, and the FBI because no one was feeling too warm and fuzzy about the Service after what had happened in Cleveland.

  The Attorney General, a narrow woman in her late forties, faced VPOTUS as she sat on another couch next to the Secretaries of Commerce and Energy. The Speaker of the House stood near a fireplace next to the oldest and apparently only surviving Supreme Court Justice. President Fox’s Deputy Chief of Staff – some would say the Chief of Staff since Tommy Barrow had been killed in Cleveland, sat in a hard-backed chair looking pissed-off. If he was now the White House chief, that would make him the second-highest ranking person in the room after the VP, but the way the conversation was going – passing over him most of the time – he felt like the lowest. One more thing to add to the night’s confusion.

  “Sir, Bank Vault has been activated,” said the AG. She didn’t care much for Hughes, but kept her expression neutral. “We can sort this all out when we get to Feather Mountain.” There were three choppers out on the lawns below the main lodge, two of them containing fortunate though lower-ranking department deputies, along with VPOTUS’s family. A detachment of hand-picked Marines guarded not only the helicopters but also the wooded expanse of Camp David, but that didn’t necessarily make anyone feel more secure. Some of these men had gone missing, and there had already been one explosive outbreak in the Marine barracks that left several men dead. People were on edge. Anyone could be a ticking bomb.

  “No,” said the Speaker, “this needs to be decided now. We can’t afford this long a gap in continuity.”

  The AG wanted to know what the hurry was, her voice sharp. The Speaker gave her a sly look and a dismissive wave. Other voices rose, until the Vice President raised his voice to demand quiet.

  “Garrison Fox is a friend,” Hughes said, “and I’m not going to do this lightly. But we will make a decision before we leave.” He looked over at the President’s Deputy (maybe not) Chief of Staff. “Tell me about the airport in Cleveland again.”

  The deputy cleared his throat. “A surviving Secret Service agent and an Ohio state trooper made it out there. Both aircraft were still on the ground, and a pair of burned rescue helicopters was on the tarmac. The President’s limousine was completely burned with some doors standing open. Burnt bodies and shell casings everywhere. The bodies were too charred to make an identification.”

  “So he’s presumed dead,” the Vice President’s Chief of Staff told the room.

  “That’s not what I said,” Fox’s deputy snapped. “I said they couldn’t tell.”

  “But he might be,” Hughes said, holding up a hand. “At the very least missing in hostile territory. Is that fair to say?”

  Most heads nodded, but not all.

  “We need clear leadership.” He waved the Constitution he was holding. “And this isn’t nearly as clear as we’d like it.”

  “A
greed, Mr. Vice President,” said the Attorney General. “Which is why we need to make these decisions at the bunker.”

  “Oh, it’s plenty clear,” said the Speaker in his easy Georgia drawl, the one that thickened when he was lecturing or bullying other House members. “The Twenty-Fifth Amendment makes it clear.” He knew it by heart. It was the amendment dealing with presidential succession, and he was next in line if anything happened to VPOTUS.

  “One more time, if you please,” the VP said.

  The Speaker smiled. “Of course, sir. It clearly (he nodded at the AG when he said it) states that should the President become disabled, or otherwise unable to discharge his duties, then you, Mr. Vice President, can be easily placed in the role of acting President.”

  “It’s not easy,” snapped the AG.

  Another smile from the Speaker. “Quite the contrary, Madam Secretary. All that is required is for the Vice President and a majority of Cabinet members to submit a letter to the Speaker of the House,” he placed a hand on his own chest, “and to the Senate Pro-Tem. Once we sign it, Mr. Hughes becomes acting President of the United States.”

  “But Congress…” started the elderly Justice.

  “Must decide on the matter of disability at a later time,” the Speaker finished for him.

  “The Senate Pro-Tem is dead,” the VP’s Chief of Staff said.

  The Speaker nodded. “Then only I would need to sign it.”

  “Wait a minute,” said the AG, “you need a majority of the Cabinet.” She gestured to herself and the two men seated on the sofa with her. “This isn’t the cabinet.”

  The VP’s Chief of Staff leaned forward. “It may be.” He ticked off the line of succession on his fingers. “After the VP there’s the Speaker, then President Pro-Tem. Alive or dead, none are Cabinet members. State, Treasury and Defense are known dead. Then there’s you, Madam Secretary, and that’s one. Interior is missing, Agriculture is dead, and Commerce is here. That’s two. Labor is dead.”

  The weight of it all seemed to descend with the roll call of casualties, people they all knew personally.

  “Health and Human Services,” he continued, “was at CDC Atlanta, but we’ve lost contact and Dr. Rusk is presumed dead. Housing and Transportation are known dead, and energy is on the couch beside you. That’s three. Education, Veterans Affairs and Homeland Security, all dead.”

  “Three Cabinet members,” Commerce said, his voice almost a whisper.

  “So only the Vice President and two of you would have to agree,” said the Speaker.

  All eyes turned to the eighty-eight-year-old Supreme Court Justice, the only one who hadn’t been torn apart (live on CNN as it turned out) by a mob of cannibals in Washington. The old man frowned, a move that turned his wrinkles into canyons and jowls into saddlebags. “Constitutionally,” he said slowly, “the Speaker is correct.”

  Eyes went back to VPOTUS, who tapped the Constitution softly in one palm. “Acting only. Not sworn in, not yet.”

  “There will be time for that later,” said his Chief of Staff. “Only if necessary, of course.”

  The AG folded her arms. “I’m not convinced. We don’t have enough information.”

  “Acting on the best information available,” drawled the Speaker, “we have to conclude that he’s gone. I know it’s a bitter pill to swallow.” He looked at Commerce and Energy. “The country needs leadership, and time is precious. Do you concur?”

  Both men nodded. The AG didn’t need to shake her head. She was out-voted.

  “Then we have a majority,” said the Speaker. “Mr. Vice President, if you and the others will quickly draft a short letter, I’ll add my signature and we’ll be official.”

  “And then we head to Feather Mountain and start putting this country back together,” the VP’s chief said.

  Fox’s deputy stood abruptly and went outside without a word, slamming the door behind him.

  “I won’t argue with the Justice,” the AG said, looking at the old man. “It’s his ruling to make. But when Garrison Fox shows up and wants to know why someone else is sitting in his chair, he’s going to know that I wasn’t a part of this.”

  “Duly noted,” drawled the Speaker.

  While the Navy steward went to gather writing supplies, Hughes and his Chief of Staff moved close together and discussed their next moves in low voices. Outside, the first rays of a new dawn’s sunrise were glowing through the pine trees.

  A rattle of distant rifle fire came from out there.

  There was a tremendous crash of metal trays and broken glass in the kitchen, followed by heavy thumping noises. Everyone froze. The FBI agents drew their weapons, and so did one of the Secret Service agents. The other clasped a palm to his forehead and staggered a few steps, his other hand clenching and unclenching.

  “Oh, shit,” said FBI, aiming at Secret Service.

  “Don’t you do it!” yelled Service, aiming at FBI.

  More rifle fire outside, close to the lodge now, and something banged hard against the front door. A giggle came from the stumbling Secret Service agent. One of the FBI men yelled, “He’s turning!” and aimed.

  Secret Service number two shot FBI one. His partner shot both Service agents. Bodies hit the floor as Navy kitchen staff in bloody cook’s whites came spilling through an open doorway, howling and gibbering as they tore into the people gathered in the main room. There was screaming, the sounds of more bodies hitting the floor. The front door to the lodge burst open, swinging back hard and almost knocking down the elderly Justice. A wide-eyed young Marine in blood-soaked camo came through, and several more like him followed. They fell upon the nation’s leadership.

  An FBI pistol went off twice more and was silent.

  The Vice President died at the teeth of a cook, the Speaker was disemboweled by a Marine and the others died soon after.

  Slipping around the open front door and then outside, the eighty-eight-year-old Justice hopped down the porch steps, then headed down the lawns toward helicopters he hoped were still there. The old man hadn’t run this fast in forty years.

  -26-

  LABCOAT

  CDC Atlanta – October 29

  Dr. Rusk switched on the high-intensity lights over the table, bathing the naked body in white, making it appear even paler than it already was in its dead, blood-depleted state. The stainless steel instruments and surfaces in the room gleamed.

  The physician clipped a wireless, digital microphone to the pale green, rubber apron she wore over blue scrubs. She was also wearing elbow-length gloves, a surgical mask and cap, and clear plastic glasses. She turned on the microphone (it was synced to a look-down digital camera above the autopsy table to make a complete record of the examination) and began.

  “Post-mortem procedure, CDC Atlanta. The date is October twenty-nine, the time is two-oh-five AM. Doctor Moira Rusk attending.” She looked up at a flat-screen monitor suspended amid the table lights. A CDC employee photograph was imaged beside the biographical and medical history of her patient.

  And patient seemed hardly applicable.

  “Subject is Terry Butters,” she told the audio recording, “twenty-seven-year-old Caucasian male.” She gave his height and weight. “Time of death was at eleven PM, three hours ago. Initial assessment of cause of death is puncture trauma to the right side of the neck, followed by severing of the right carotid artery.” She used a long pair of forceps to pull the broken test tube from the corpse’s neck, then plucked out the fragments she could find, placing it all in a plastic container.

  Moira hadn’t performed an autopsy in decades, and she could immediately tell that she’d lost much of her precision. In her youth she’d had regular opportunity to do the cutting, both as a medical researcher and during her time in Africa serving on a Doctors without Borders team, hunting that little bastard Ebola. That was a long time ago though, and now she was both unsteady and going through a process that was certain to be out of order compared to standardized post-mortem procedures. As a
n administrator at the apex of her career, Moira hadn’t expected to ever need to perform an autopsy again. Certainly not on one of her own team members. But it was coming back quickly – like riding a bike, as they say – and if she made the odd mistake, her patient wasn’t in a position to complain.

  She returned to her examination; a head-to-toe inspection of the body. Moira looked closely at the skin, rolled the corpse from side-to-side and manipulated the joints.

  “Rigor is consistent with time of death,” she said, “and lividity looks normal.” After death, gravity pulled the remaining blood downward until it pooled and began to congeal in the lowermost areas of the body, darkening and appearing as purple bruising. It Mr. Butters’ case, it had collected in his back, buttock, thighs calves and arms, except where the flesh was pressed against the stainless steel table. There, the skin appeared as stark, white circles and ovals, pressure forcing the thickening blood away from the points of contact.

  “No unusual marks or wounds, other than a hypodermic puncture inside the left elbow for a mandatory CDC blood draw.” She glanced up at the monitor. “Toxicology shows the mandated antivirals, but is clear of illicit substances. Subject tests positive for heavy concentrations of the Trident organism and for the as-yet unclassified parasitic infestation.”

  Moira selected a scalpel from the tray and moved to the head of the table. “Making my incision to expose the skull.” She made a circular cut around Terry Butters’ head, cutting through hair, leaving the skin of his forehead untouched. Then with both hands she peeled the scalp up and forward, exposing the curve of the skull and leaving the inverted scalp as a grisly red mask resting on the dead man’s face.

  “Making cranial incision,” she told the mic, triggering the bone saw and running it around the top of the skull. Ivory-colored dust and larger fragments made a small cloud around her hands as she worked. When she was done she used both hands again (and more than the expected exertion) to pull the skull cap off with a sticky, sucking sound.