Controlling the Dead

by Annie Walls

  Carrie takes me to a shut door at the end of the corridor. The inside is an office, and a man sits behind a metal desk. Standing, he holds out his hand and I oblige and shake it. It is a firm handshake, one to respect. “Please, sit. I’m General Stevenson.”

  He waves at the woman, dismissing her. “Private Morgan, thank you.” After the door closes he gets right to business. “Please, do tell me what has happened to Staff Sergeant Collins?”

  “Sergeant?” I blurt. I don’t know anything about military ranks, but that sounds pretty high on the rack.

  “Yes, special ops Staff Sergeant. I would like to know what happened to him. I have received an ID tag, implying he is deceased.”

  I swallow and watch my fingers work and knot together in my lap. “He is. We buried him in Nebraska.”

  “I know all of that. What happened?”

  “Dalton didn’t explain? He was the one with the dog tag,” I say, meeting his eyes. They narrow around a gray color, set into a pale, wrinkled face.

  “The tag showed up in an unmarked envelope.” He slumps in his chair as if I really surprised him about something, and he doesn’t like it.

  “I don’t know how much you know about the community—”

  “Just assume I know everything and you’re telling your side.”

  I nod. “Guido shot him in the gut…he bled out.” My voice cracks. He stares at me.

  “Terrance wants to keep his ways, huh?” The general says, my eyes widening at his understanding. He rubs his chin as he contemplates something. “Was Collins helping you with anything?”

  “Just the…” I don’t know what to say or how to explain.

  “The Montana compound,” he finishes for me. Not sure where this is heading or what he wants to know, I don’t deny or confirm it. “Now that Collins is gone, and I will speak with Sgt. Jackson, believe me, something is up with that. But now, I need your help.” Sergeant Jackson? That must be Dalton.

  “With what?”

  “You are what I need. Your crossings with the revolutionists will help with that.” He studies my reaction.

  “Just helping the people who need it.”

  Stevenson scoffs and throws a pamphlet on top of his desk. “I’d say more than that. This pamphlet showed up with the ID tag.” It’s the leaflet with my mug shot on the front. I try not to gasp. Dalton. “I will have you know, they only see you as a fly needing to be swatted. Makes you a perfect candidate, I’d say.” He takes out another couple of folders. He opens one. “Kansas City Sunshine Moore, brought in for car theft, no charges were made. Internet forgery, federal felony, you weren’t convicted—the charges were thrown with service to the county system. Some community college classes, nothing special. Extensive art classes, waste of time and money, I’d say.

  “That is not what interests me.” He turns the pages and reads out loud, “Dr. Patrick Hampton Moore Sc.D.—” He goes on, but I’m frozen. I force a lump down my throat. This is what Mac and Rudy have been afraid of. “Postdoctoral from MIT! A doctor of science and technology only became a lowly professor at a state university. Wasteful!” the general says with excitement, clucking his tongue. What he doesn’t know is, my father’s time was more important to him than anything a scientific research job would have given him, like recognition and a handsome salary. Then the general goes on to name a list of people my father had been in contact with in the last two years of his life, and their degrees in physics, biology, and chemical engineering. I swallow another lump in my throat, remembering colleagues of my dad’s flying in for weekend visits—friends of my father’s who shared his worldviews. The general is interested in all of them, “Too bad they are dead now.

  “I got to thinking. Looking at your file.” I almost shrink at the expression on his face, but I keep my head high. With no reaction from me, he goes on, “Internet forgery? Stealing cars? Quite resourceful you are, Kansas. Fortunately for you, organized humanity ended before you could get into more trouble. Thing is, how do you know these things? You didn’t learn them on your own, Miss Art 101.” A rhetorical question. He clearly knows. That’s the point of this spiel. He leafs through the pamphlet checking out the damage photos. “Hmmm…what else?” He puts a finger on a picture. “Was this damage done by explosives?” Apparently, another rhetorical question.

  “I hope you’re getting to a point?”

  “Why, yes, yes I am. I need you to keep doing what you are doing, but report in. We have our satellite up and working. Gadgets and things for you. I would have liked you to go in under the radar, but that’s impossible now.” He pauses letting it all sink in. “My only condition is, no one must know you are working with me. Not even your friends.”

  “I’ll let you know after I talk to Rudy.”

  Stevenson bites his lip before it pops out fiercely. “Ah yes.” He reads more from another folder, “Rudolph Garret Hawthorne, convicted of two counts of DWI.” He tisks, “Getting ready for that third strike, was he? Quite the intelligent fellow, I see, having a 4.0 GPA at LSU in his graduate studies. Having attended FFA, the American Archery Society all the while, such a suffering soul.”

  I take in all this information. I know he was a college student, but graduate school? Usually people will say, “I’m a graduate student.” Even my dad had corrected people when they called him Mr. Moore. I can’t believe how much I don’t know about him. I can’t believe how much more I want to know, which brings me to the question, why is Stevenson telling me all of this?

  “His mother was arrested and convicted for several counts of DUI, public intoxication, and convicted of prostitution numerous times.”

  “What are you doing?” I know what he’s doing. He wants me to know he knows everything. My eyes sting, but I’m able to keep my cool. “Where is he?”

  “Mr. Hawthorne is on a transport. I need him elsewhere. I’ve been needing him elsewhere.”

  Blood rushes to my head or maybe it drains, I’m not sure, but I feel faint. I grip the desk in front of me. “What?”

  “He volunteered. Is that a problem?”

  Rudy wouldn’t do that. Would he? “Volunteered for what?”

  “Classified. I’m keeping that undisclosed for now. I hope we can come to an understanding, Miss Moore.”

  Standing with abruptness, I say, “I need a minute.”

  *

  Overwhelmed, I rush straight to the room I was in before and end up staring into space for a few hours. My brain shutting down even though I came in here to think.

  When I finally go back, it’s with a heavy, empty heart. I sit in his office right beside someone. I have no idea who he is. It does, however, give me time to size him up. He’s got light brown skin, quite young, I’ll say twenty-three round about, with a buzzed head, and his demeanor is familiar.

  “Miss Moore, I’m glad to know your minute equals two hours,” the general says, coming into his office. “Meet Private Raymond,” he tells me by way of introduction. “He’s Haitian. Practices Voodoo, light, like his mother.”

  I gasp, gripping my chair. His demeanor is familiar because he glides like his father, smiles like his sister, and has skin like his mother. “They’re here, aren’t they?” I ask to no one in particular. This new development must be why he knew Mac is buried in Nebraska.

  “Yes, in protection.” This is from Private Raymond. “After your infiltration, the plan was for them to come here.”

  My face heats. “What do you mean, the plan?” It clicks for me why Mac wasn’t worried about leaving the community for the mission in Montana. It was also the reason he was pissed about Mago. Mac didn’t want Mago telling the general about me. This explains Mac’s change of attitude. He must have had a long conversation with Mago, with them coming to an agreement of some kind.

  General Stevenson holds up a hand. “We are in war. The country…ah, for fuck’s sake, the world is in shambles. We do not have a president. We must rebuild, and it’s crucial that necessary actions are put in place. First and foremost, learnin
g about the virus. Second, getting rid of the drug they are giving to people without consent before knowing what it is. The Raymond family is our most valuable asset, and as of now….” He peers at me, “So are you.”

  “Why?” I ask simply.

  “They know of you, but do not see you as a threat. If you are caught, they won’t execute you on the spot.” He takes a deep breath. “When they released the virus onto society, it was strategically placed, all over the world. More than half of the troops and government officials were gone before we even realized what was going on. We were taken completely by surprise. The few years that followed were worse. Couldn’t be quarantined, tried that, it failed. Now, we work with what we have.”

  I remember Mago telling me it was trial and error, trying to get the zombies under some sort of control. He is working both sides, only being loyal to one, throwing me right in the middle of it. I desperately want to go back to my hole, my house, away from all this, and when I come out in another four years, everything will be back to normal.

  “I strongly believe that you and your merry band of rebels can accomplish this. Look at how much you’ve accomplished so far. On your own, no less.”

  “No. Not on my own. Mago helped.” I swallow. “And so did Rudy. He’s an intricate part of our team.”

  “They will still help. Just not directly. Mago is intelligent and has excellent judgment. The Arizona council will help you as well.” I have a flash of the general wearing a “Mago for President” button with Mago wearing Uncle Sam’s top hat, pointing to the audience. I snort, covering it up with a cough so I won’t laugh. The general narrows his eyes at me. “You are not in this alone anymore. I have hope for a future. Do you?” His grey eyes burn into me. “Tell me, why did you meddle in it to begin with?”

  This question takes me aback. It’s a worthy question. When I found out there were zombie camps, I immediately wanted to know answers. So what? I want to know the answers, but the question is, what will I do with them when I have them?

  I clear my throat. “I was tired of hiding. I had nothing more to lose, and I wasn’t going down without a fight.”

  The general beams. “Excellent answer, Miss Moore.”

  “What am I going to tell my team about Rudy? I don’t think you understand how close we are. We’ve become family.” I release a breath and hope it doesn’t sound too shaky.

  He straightens his jacket, uncomfortable. “Was Collins a part of this family?” he snaps.

  I don’t hesitate. “Yes, he was. We were all devastated. Crippled, in a way.”

  “The only people who know you and Mr. Hawthorne are working with me are myself, my special ops, and the Raymond family. To others, you’re just a nuisance, rebellious zealots who have gotten extremely lucky. I’m working on my own special squad. Mr. Hawthorne will be a part of it. As I’ve said before, he’s agreed to it. Your best bet would be to tell them Hawthorne is dead.”

  What would he need a special squad for? Nothing comes to mind, but I’m not thinking clearly right now. That’s probably how he wants it. Looking up toward the ceiling, I will any threatening tears to stay put. My body thrums with nervous energy, and I doubt I’m keeping it together as much as I’d like. He doesn’t need to know how much his words affect me. “Is he?” I whisper to keep my voice from cracking.

  “No. Alive and well.”

  “How do I know you are telling the truth?”

  “Questioning my authority already? Since I believe trust will be invaluable between you and me, I’m prepared to prove it.” The fact he is prepared says how much he really does know. He gets up and calls out the door for someone. I watch as he opens a laptop and plugs in a bulky phone. “I advise you not to say a word. If you try, you’ll be held down.” He points to the man who just walked in. “When we connect, you’ll only be able to see them, they won’t see us.”

  He dials. Someone picks up speaking military jargon through static. Stevenson speaks back in code, but I have the feeling they are letting each other know who they are. Stevenson finally asks about Rudy and the man answers, “Fucker is like a bear coming out of hibernation. He’s not happy about being drugged again. Not happy about not knowing where he’s going and definitely pissed off about leaving without speaking to Moore. I have to hand it to him, though. He kept it together until Cross and Bartley taunted him about their late night frisk with the doors wide open.” The man laughs, but clears his throat as Stevenson watches me. My face flames. That was the off feeling. We were being watched.

  “Hmm… let me speak with him,” Stevenson says and turns the laptop for me to see the screen. The other guy steps up behind me, his body heat soaking through my clothes. I see Rudy’s thighs before he sits down. Gasping softly, I take in his face. It’s scratched up and scabbed over from his fall to the concrete. He has a black eye and his face and neck are completely red. He is pissed off, but doing a good job keeping himself in check.

  Rudy waits a moment before picking up the bulky phone. It seems he’s thinking on how to go about the conversation. I don’t think he knows we can see him. When he finally picks it up, he doesn’t waste time, “You lied to me.” He clutches the phone tighter in his palm. It could be a normal sized phone in his huge hand.

  “Now, now Mr. Hawthorne. I didn’t lie. Time is of the essence and the drug was still wearing off.”

  “Don’t feed me any bullshit,” he spits through his clenched jaw. I’ve never seen him so pissed. It takes him a moment to gather himself. “Is she awake now?”

  Stevenson smiles. “Yes, she’ll be headed to Arizona shortly.”

  Rudy visibly relaxes, letting me know exactly why he agreed to whatever they are having him do. “Let me talk to her.”

  Stevenson’s jaw twitches, but I think he expected this. He gestures for me to say something, and I’m struck silent with being put on the spot. I finally decide what to say, and what I say doesn’t matter where it is said or whom it is in front of.

  Rudy waits, still clutching the phone for an answer from Stevenson, but he gets something completely different. “Rudy?” The air goes out of him in a rush when he hears my voice. “I love you, too,” I say, watching him closely.

  His eyes shut and a brilliant smile crosses his face. He knows I remember our jeep conversation. “I know. We’ve never needed words, but you know how much I love you, too, right?”

  “Yes, but I still thought I should tell—” The laptop slams shut.

  “Finally, down to business,” Stevenson says as if he just didn’t hear something extraordinary. I swallow any smart-mouthed retorts I have for this man. He sticks the laptop in his desk. “I need any computer information, samples of anything from the virus and vaccine from labs—and then destroy the labs. We have the majority of this already, but it doesn’t hurt to see if they’ve developed something new. You take any survivors to Arizona. They have a nice safe system. I would take them here, but it’s crucial you stay under wraps.”

  His words trigger something. Something I should be thinking about. I nod, even though I don’t believe a word he says. If I ask the wrong questions, he’ll get suspicious. Stevenson rubs his hands together. “Excellent. Oh, if at all possible, deter the council in Arizona from looking into the vaccine, and I need a list of names of who has had it.”

  “What does it do? That vaccine?”

  He smiles tightly. “When we find out, I will let you know. What we do know is, it doesn’t do what they claim.”

  “Um, Sir,” I say sir as if it’s a foreign language. “I have information on the vaccine.” I look at my feet.

  “I suppose it’s housed in a system somewhere?”

  “Yeah, the council has it.” I tell him, but it even comes out reluctant to my own ears. I’m not sure if I should mention that Mago might have something, but we never confirmed if he took any of the stolen computer equipment or not. Again, I keep my mouth shut about it.

  He clucks his tongue, glancing at Raymond and then to me. “They don’t have any physical sam
ples?” I’m catching a condescending tone.

  “No, they don’t. We blew up the lab in Montana. We did send you vials months back, though.”

  “If you are referring to the virus. Yes, I have it. The revolutionists are making it better, more sustainable.”

  My eyes widen as I figure out he’s saying we had a bag full of stuff that turns the living into dead, hungry things. I had that bag on my shoulders. I touched those vials.

  “What do you mean, more sustainable?” I ask the general.

  “It appears to me and my biologists, the revolutionists are trying to produce it to tolerant heat for longer periods of time.” He watches me as this sinks in. If this is true, zombies won’t be sticking to the night and cool temperatures for much longer. He goes on, “You did bring me a whole bag of it. I suspect they know someone has it and have moved on from that project, but we must keep our eyes open for anything. Which is why it is very important to get any samples. After all, that lab in Clarksville is only one of many.

  “You brought the fact they are changing it to our attention. Not just the fact that the virus is adapting. It completely makes my point.” He lays his hand flat on the desk. “You will send me any information you have via satellite. Private Raymond has everything you will need to stay in contact with me. You report to me and only me.” His tone says there is no arguing the point. “Let me know your next step, and I will advise accordingly. You’ll be taken to where we picked you up. You are to go straight to Arizona. No stops. Please, do attend Staff Sgt. Collins’ memorial.” With that, he dismisses me.

  *

  I do not attend the memorial, but it’s something Rudy would have attended. A few hours after my talk with the general, Carrie comes in carrying a folded flag and gives it to me. Staring at it, I know I’ll give it to Gwen.

  “Is it true?” Carrie inquires.

  “What?”

  “Ma—Collins found his mother?”