by Ben S Reeder
The trail curved right before it came out of the trees, and Amy gunned the engine on her bike, heading for a dirt road. It turned into asphalt a few hundred yards later, and we sped along it as the first of the infected broke from the trees behind us. They fell behind and out of sight as the road curved. Amy looked back over her shoulder and grinned, then let off on the throttle. Eventually, the road T’ed and we turned back east until we ended up on 385 again. For the next hour or so, we simply rode north, following the highway. We skirted Chadron and crossed the border into South Dakota ten minutes later. About an hour later, I pulled to a stop outside of a town called Hermosa and broke out the Spitfire to check our coordinates.
“We head about ten miles west from here,” I said as Amy came back from her trip to answer nature’s call. “And maybe two miles north.”
“That’s right in the middle of the park,” she said with a nod toward a sign advertising the shortest route to Mt Rushmore. “Maybe we can stop and see that.”
“Sure,” I said as I finished strapping the radio back to my bike. “For that matter, if it isn’t overrun with infected, we could probably camp nearby. I’m sure there’s a campground we can use.” We started the bikes up and followed the road west, taking the winding turns as fast as we dared. The signs for Mt Rushmore put it very close to our true destination, and I started to get the strange feeling that it might actually be that destination. We blew through a tiny town a mile or so out, leaving a hundred or so second stage infected shambling in our wake, and took the last couple of miles as fast as we dared. Finally, we pulled into the entrance to Mt. Rushmore.
Whatever I had been expecting, it wasn’t a nearly empty place. We took the driveway up to the top of the parking garage, and I pulled up short when I saw two Blackhawks parked on the top level. A Chinook rested on the next parking structure.
“I think we’re in the right place,” I said after I pulled my helmet off. The hackles on the back of my neck started to rise as I looked around, and my gaze was slowly pulled northwest.
“Do you feel that?” Amy said.
“Yeah,” I answered. “There’s an alpha zombie around here somewhere.”
“What the hell is it doing way out here?” she asked.
“No idea,” I said as I pulled the M4 from its scabbard. “In Springfield, they thought Patient Zero was the source of the infection, so I figured they’d show up where there were a lot of infected. The only one I know of that wasn’t in a big city was the one in Nevada. And DHS imported that one.”
“That didn’t go well. I hope that isn’t going on here.”
“Me, too,” I said. “But always assume the worst case scenario.”
“Yeah, this is gonna be real fun,” Amy said as she slung her Ruger and grabbed the Mossberg off the front of her bike’s handlebars. I cycled a round into the chamber of the M4 and started toward the entrance to the park itself. Just to the right inside the arched entryway was the bookstore. A guided audio tour booth sat on the opposite side, flanked by the restrooms.
“If you have to go, now’s the time to brave the possibly zombie infested bathrooms,” I said as we passed them.
“I’m never peeing again,” she said. “Thanks, Dave.” I looked back over my shoulder at her to flash a grin, and my eyes went to the lettering beneath the bookstore’s larger signage. National Park Service, U.S. Department of the Interior. Making a mental note to avoid hunting while on Park Service grounds, or at least to not get caught at it, I pressed on under the gaze of the four presidents above the end of the walkway. We made our way down the stone paved walkway, guns at the ready, eyes moving left and right.
“Hold up for a second,” Amy said after we passed under the second archway. I looked back at her and saw her snap a picture of the monument. “Might as well get one while things are calm, right?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Might as well, gift shop’s closed.” We followed the pathway through a series of columns bearing state flags, then found ourselves looking over the amphitheater. I stopped while Amy took another picture, and concentrated on the prickly feeling that was running down my spine. Again, I let my gaze follow that feeling, and found myself looking at the cliff face. Though my eyes naturally wanted to look at the massive faces looking down at me, somehow, I was sure that what I wanted to kill was below them and behind them. I went over to one of the maps posted near the edge of the amphitheater and looked at the route of the Presidential Trail.
“Are we on the wrong side of the mountain?” Amy asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “Let’s follow the trail here and see if we can get closer.” The first part of the trail felt like we were moving away from it, but when it curved around, it started getting stronger again. As we got to a curve that started to head back across the front of the sculpture, I heard something moving in the brush above us. I froze and pointed to one of the trees nearby, leading by example as I took cover behind another tree. Whoever it was, they were a good distance away, and their bushcraft was for crap. I could hear rocks tumbling down beneath them and small twigs snapping under their feet. Either they weren’t trying to be stealthy, or they were failing miserably at it.
I moved to Amy’s side and pointed to a boulder on her right, then held a finger to my lips before nodding toward where I wanted her to go. She nodded back to me and padded to the boulder. I followed once she got there, then headed past her to a nearby tree. Amy followed when I gestured for her to, and we leapfrogged like that another few yards up the trail. I motioned for her to take her helmet off and duck down behind a boulder, then we waited as the group of people got closer. Before long, they came into view.
For all that they weren’t stealthy, these men knew their business. They covered each other as they made their way down to our position, their eyes on their flanks and rear as much as on what was in front of them. Not a one of them looked like he was under two hundred pounds, and not a one of them was dressed for the woods. I counted eight men in slacks and bullet proof vests over long sleeved button down shirts. They carried FN P90s like they knew how to use them, and I pitied anyone they were serious about killing. I’d seen hard men before; Nate was a former Delta operator, and Captain Adams’ Special Forces team was concentrated badass, and these men had the same look about them. The only thing that was keeping me safe just now was the fact that I knew how to hide and move quietly in the woods better than they did. Most of that skill was in knowing where to step, how to stay still and how to break up your body’s silhouette. I let them get past us before I moved to a tree behind them and crouched down again.
“Gentlemen,” I said aloud. Anything else I planned to say was drowned out in a hail of gunfire.
“Contact rear!” someone called out.
“Ya think!” I yelled. “God damn it! I’m not trying to hurt you!”
“We know there’s two of you,” another man yelled. “Both of you step out where we can see you!”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“None of your business. Now step out or we’ll open fire again!”
“That isn’t very reassuring,” I said. There was a long silence, then I heard one of the men speaking softly.
“We’re with the government,” the guy who had been doing the talking said. “We’re not going to hurt you.” It was still a risk, but I had a hunch about these men. I stood and held the M4 by the barrel, then held it out where they could see it. I moved out from behind the tree behind it, and found myself facing eight gun barrels.
“Well, you didn’t shoot me on sight, so that’s a good start,” I said.
“Where’s your friend?” the lead man demanded.
“My daughter is nearby,” I said. The man closest to the talker looked over at him, and I could see doubt cross the faces of the others. The leader looked to the guy next to him and nodded toward me, then lowered his own gun.
“Stand down,” he said. The others lowered their weapons, except for the one beside him. His gun stayed on me.
“
Amy, hold your shotgun by the barrel and hold it away from your body, then stand up where these men can see you,” I said. The leader started when Amy stood up less than ten feet from him.
“There’s someone who wants to see you,” the leader said. “We’re going to have to ask you to disarm first, though.” Beside him, Amy made a disgusted noise. “Sorry, miss, that’s not a request.”
“I wasn’t saying no,” she said. “It’s just that…disarming is kind of a long process.” She handed one of them her shotgun and started drawing weapons slowly. I stepped forward and started the process myself, chuckling as the man who was taking my weapons started having to hand things off to make room. Four pistols, three knives, two rifles and a sword later, I was as disarmed as I was going to get barring a cavity search. Amy stepped up beside me looking decidedly unhappy about the current state of affairs.
“If you’ll please follow us,” the leader said. The path back up the hill turned into a set of wooden steps that led to a gap behind the sculptures, and then to an opening in the cliff wall. They led us to the back of a narrow cave where a thick door stood open. Through that was a hallway that led to a set of metal stairs. With every step we took, the prickling feeling got stronger. Finally, we came to an open room with a long table set in the middle. An old base relief map covered its surface, and framed versions of various documents adorned the walls. A woman with graying black hair in a rumpled pair of coveralls stood near the head of the table, flanked by another man and a woman, both looking like they’d been dressed by the same person who had dressed the men escorting us. The woman in the coveralls looked older then the others around her, and she was the only person in the room who wasn’t armed. She stepped forward and extended a hand to me.
“I’m Madeline Morris,” she said, her voice a strong but pleasant contralto. “I’m sorry for the rather hostile reception you got outside. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, starting with what this place is, and who we are.”
“No, ma’am,” I said as I shook her hand. “That part I’m pretty sure of. This is a Cold War era continuity of government bunker. And, it’s nice to meet you Madam President.”
Chapter 7
Theories & Revelations
~ People love conspiracy theories. ~ Neil Armstrong
“How do you know that?” President Morris demanded as ten gun barrels zeroed in on me.
“It’s kind of obvious,” I said, secretly pleased with myself. Okay, maybe not so secretly pleased, but no one was asking and I wasn’t telling. “I mean, you’re in a secret government bunker, surrounded by athletic looking young men and women armed with FN P90s. They’re either with the Secret Service or Stargate Command. Since the SGC isn’t real, I’m going with Secret Service. And who else would be holed up in a secret COG bunker with a detail of Secret Service agents? So, where were you on the line of succession?”
“Secretary of the Interior. You’re remarkably well informed, Mister…?” Morris left the question hanging. Something about the way she asked it made me wonder if she really needed me to give her the answer.
“Stewart,” I said. “My name’s Dave Stewart.”
“Did you by chance write Operation: Terror?” Morris asked.
“Yeah,” I said with a smile. “And the Frankenstein Code. You’ve read my books?”
“Not by choice,” she said. “My predecessor’s analysts describe your work as juvenile, needlessly violent and written at a fifth grade reading level. They also wanted you detained indefinitely for treason.”
“Oh,” I said as my ego deflated. Talk about tough critics.
“Damn, do you need some ice for that burn?” Amy asked with a mocking wince.
“My predecessor’s analysts were idiots,” she went on. “They had a tendency to see enemies where there were none. Fortunately, the President was smart enough to know when not to listen to them.”
“The President even knew who I was?” I said. “I’m not sure I want to know what he thought.”
“He thought your books were harmless enough,” she said with a small smile. “But, your writing career aside, how did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “I was just asked to pick up some info at an old COG base about Operation: Home Shield.”
“By whom?”
“Colonel Schafer, with US SOCOM,” I said. Morris frowned and tilted her head.
“And you talked to him recently?” she asked.
“Last night.”
“Come with me,” she said after a moment, then turned and headed through a door behind her. I followed her into what looked like a command center. The wall to my left was covered with maps pinned to bulletin boards, while the right side of the room was occupied by a bank of radios, some of them antiques and some copies of the Spitfire I’d left on my bike. In the center of the room was a table with four people at laptops, two to a side. Every eye turned to us when we came in, and one of the people at the table stood and approached us.
“Ma’am, Special Agent Shepherd has the intru-” she stopped abruptly when she caught site of Amy and me. “The bikes are in the garage, ma’am.”
“Good, Simone. Reactivate Colonel Schafer’s file. Mr. Stewart tells me he’s alive.”
“Madam President, with all due respect,” Simone said with a sidelong glance at me, “FOB Oscar was a total loss. Sikes left the soldiers there to die.”
“I helped Schafer get out along with Captain Adams’ team.”
Simone turned to Morris. “Is he really..?” She nodded, and Simone turned back to me with a speculative look. “You’ve been declared dead twice. Between you and Carson, it’s like Whack-a-Mole. Okay, we’ll reactivate Schafer and Karma One.”
“President Morris,” I said, “before we go any further, I have to ask you something. Where is the alpha zombie?” The room went quiet, and again, every eye focused on us.
“Mister Stewart, there are no zombies here,” Morris said smoothly.
“Bullshit,” Amy said. “We can feel it.” That got a few gasps. Morris looked at Amy and stepped up to her.
“What do you mean you can feel it?” she asked in a voice that even Amy backed down from.
“Amy and I can both tell when there are zombies around,” I interjected. “Especially the alpha zombies, the ones the CDC labeled Patient Zeros. Tends to make us a little cranky.” Morris’s face hardened as I spoke, and her eyes narrowed.
“Mr. Stewart, you seem to know an awful lot about these zombies. Far more, in fact, than you ought to.”
“Of course I know a lot about them!” I said. “I’ve killed enough of them. And not just your run of the mill stage one and stage two cases. We’ve killed some infected that would make you lose your lunch. You think there are just three kinds? Hell no. There are Screamers, Burners, Blobs and last but certainly not least, there are the Trolls.”
“Ogres,” Amy said.
“Whatever. The point is we’ve been out there for the past two weeks fighting them. We know our infected, maybe better than you do. We can feel them, and we can kill them like nobody’s business. And we can both feel the alpha zombie you have locked away in here.”
“If there was an…alpha zombie in here, you wouldn’t be cleared to know about it,” Morris said. “Furthermore, if you did have that kind of-” she stopped as the door on the other side of the room opened and a woman in a lab coat burst into the room.
“Madam President, she’s awake,” the woman said. Her gaze fell on us before she continued “And she’s talking.”
“McGregor,” Morris said crisply, “Take these two to the dining room and keep an eye on them. Phillips, Trowbridge, you’re with me.” She followed the doctor and McGregor, an older looking agent with a little silver in his close cropped black hair, led us out the same door his boss had exited through, but instead of turning left in her footsteps, he led us to the right, past two more hallways until we came to a set of double doors that led into an old cafeteria. He pointed to a round table that was surrounded b
y orange and green plastic chairs. Amy and I sat. Most of the lights were off, save for those over the door and in the kitchen area, leaving the room dimly lit except for a couple of pools of light.
“Did we miss lunch?” Amy asked after a couple of minutes. McGregor nodded and made an affirmative sounding noise. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, then leaned back in her chair. “So, how did this lady end up president?” she asked after a few moments.
“She’s further up the line of succession than Shaw,” I said. “Homeland Security is the newest addition to the chain, so the Secretary of pretty much anything else would outrank him. Or, in this case, the Secretary of Everything Else.”
“You lost me,” she said.
“It’s something my granddad used to say. He was a Forest Ranger for a few years, and he used to joke that he worked for the Department of Everything Else, because the Department of the Interior covered so many things.” Seconds later, the doctor poked her head in.
“Come with me,” she said. We got up and followed, wondering if someone had started rationing words or something. The doctor type led us back down the hallway, past several doors until we came to one on the right marked “Infirmary.” With every step we took, the feel at the back of my head got stronger, until my heart was pounding in my chest and my fists were clenched at my sides. By the time she pushed the door open, I was ready to rip someone’s head off.
The first thing I saw was the alpha zombie, or what was left of it. Its legs and arms had been removed just above the elbows and knees. Before death, she had been blonde, and her face and hair seemed very well preserved by comparison to the rest of her. She was still gaunt and pale, but she didn’t have the desiccated, slightly rotted look the last alpha I’d seen had. They had her in a metal box that had a clear cover on it with holes drilled in it. Her display case was tilted so that it was almost upright, giving her a view of the room, and vice versa.