Coming, as he did, from the Netherlands, van Zanten found it difficult to imagine a country that believed it could not be invaded. His own homeland had been sacked by everyone from the Romans to the Nazis. Of course invasions happened. Of course they did. You prepared for them like you prepared for anything else.
But not here, apparently. Not in the Midwestern United States. Not until now.
There was nothing in the playbook for this. Americans were not prepared. Maybe nobody was.
Van Zanten was exhausted. He’d been on a date at a café in Broad Ripple when the shit had started to hit the fan. He’d kissed his girl goodnight and caught a cab to the capitol as fast as he could. But he also knew that crisis bred opportunity. Maybe even for assistant directors of communication . . .
10
The governor was snapped out of his early-morning meditation by the only member of his press team who had bothered to show up. It was that kid—what was his name?—van Zanten. The tall one, from Europe. Belgian, or something. The good-looking one who made all the college girls want to come out and vote the Burleson ticket.
The governor did not enjoy being disturbed when he was deep in thought.
“In my opinion, we need to make some sort of statement,” the tall foreigner was saying. He smiled brightly across the conference table and nodded, as if agreeing with his own idea. Maybe that was a European thing, Burleson thought.
Burleson’s eyes did not stir from their fixed position.
“When I want your opinion, I’ll choke you to death and guess,” Burleson responded flatly.
Van Zanten realized this was probably not hyperbole. The Dutchman’s face fell.
“Now go get me a cup of coffee,” Burleson said. “Heavy cream. Three sugars.”
The young man nodded and quickly backed out of the room.
“He might have a point,” Doug Huggins whispered when van Zanten was beyond earshot. Huggins had not left the governor’s side for the past twelve hours, not even to use the bathroom.
The governor looked at his chief of staff with a stern disappointment.
“I expect that from a kid . . . but not from you,” Burleson said. “You know what the procedure is now, Huggins. You told me yourself.”
The governor gestured to the emergency satellite phone resting on the conference table in front of him. It was enormous and looked very old—from the 1990s or earlier. It was physically dusty. It had sat in a storeroom in the capitol basement for who knew how many administrations, until a terrified secretary had dug it up and brought it to Burleson a few minutes after the phones and Internet had failed completely.
This overgrown piece of metal and plastic was the last and best hope issued by the Feds for just such a disaster. Instructions on what to do—and, indeed, on who was running the country—would presumably emerge from this device as soon as the federal government got its act together. That was the official story, anyway. Now it seemed laughable—laughable and terrifying—that such an ancient and poorly-maintained piece of equipment was all that stood between Indiana’s total disconnection from the larger world. Only the single glowing LED light on the side of the phone gave any indication that it was even operational.
“We can wait for them to call from anywhere,” Huggins said to the governor. “Theoretically, that phone will work in any conditions.”
“Theoretically?” the governor replied. “I’m not interested in theories right now.”
“We really should think about a press conference,” Huggins pressed. “Our young Dutch friend is too timid to say it, but people remember political appearances during times of crisis. People remember Giuliani after 9/11. People remember Churchill walking the streets of London after it was blitzed. But people only remember those things because they were captured by a camera.”
Burleson nodded.
“What the people think still matters, Governor. You want to rule whatever is left of Indiana after this, don’t you?”
The governor had to admit that he did.
“So we need to start thinking along those lines,” Huggins said.
“And maybe . . .” Burleson replied, brightening visibly for the first time in hours. “Maybe this constitutes extenuating circumstances . . . that override traditional restrictions on things like term limits.”
Huggins nodded, pleased to watch the governor’s soul catching fire.
“People will remember what you did here,” Huggins said. “People at the national level will remember. But they have to see it first.”
The use of opaque terms like “national level” was the only way Governor Burleson would consent to talk about his ultimate goal, which was, of course, the presidency. The impact of his actions at a “national level” was a delicate subject, but always on his mind. Burleson wanted it so badly that he couldn’t think about it for more than a few moments. Like watching your team shoot those final two free throws that would decide the championship. It was just too much. Yes, there it was, behind all that he said and did. The ultimate prize. A Hoosier had not been president for over a hundred years. Perhaps Burleson was the one to make it happen once again.
A terrified Ellard van Zanten reentered the conference room with a small, Styrofoam cup containing old, burnt coffee. He set it gingerly on the table in front of the governor.
“Remember the Gulf oil spill in 2010?” Huggins continued. “Or the Exxon Valdez back in the 80s? When you think of those disasters, what do you think of? What did the cameras show? They showed boats and cleanup crews on the water almost immediately. Do you think those ships were actually cleaning anything? Of course not! Not the first ones. They were window dressing. They were there for show. It was weeks before the proper cleaning equipment actually arrived. But people didn’t see that. When citizens turned on their TVs, it looked like the oil companies were responding quickly.”
Burleson did not like it when oil companies were badmouthed in his presence (which, it seemed, Huggins had just come precariously close to doing). Still, he saw that his chief of staff might have a point.
“Something for the media?” the governor said.
He turned to look at Huggins and dipped his chin, as if examining him over the tops of invisible eyeglasses.
“It’s definitely an idea,” Huggins explained. “And it doesn’t matter if people see it right away. We record it—create that digital asset—and then people will see it eventually. They’ll know what you were doing when the outbreak started. We create a record for when the power comes back on.”
The governor was silent for a moment.
“We should include the mayor,” he finally pronounced. “Do we know where she is?”
“Still in the City-County Building, I expect,” Huggins said. “Ellard’s been out more than I have.”
They looked down the table to the tall, nervous Dutchman.
“I . . . yes . . .” van Zanten began, looking around, trying to think. “I’ve heard from IMPD officers that she is still in the Green Zone.”
Police and Indiana National Guard troops had worked overnight to create a barricaded area containing the government buildings in downtown Indianapolis, blocking off streets and erecting barriers to funnel traffic away from the heart of the city. (Not that there was much. For the moment, the downtown streets were quiet and bare.)
“As far as a press conference . . . I’ve seen a couple of reporters, but they come and go,” van Zanten added.
“Explain that,” the governor said, taking a tiny sip of his awful coffee. “What do you mean?”
“I think with the local news outlets, it’s—erm—sort of like here,” van Zanten stammered. “They are running on generator power that they don’t like to expend. And that many personnel are missing. Then some who are present leave to go home to their families.”
The governor winced at the mention of family. There was still no word from his man Nolan. Still nothing about his daughter. Yet the governor had faith. If Nolan could not do it, then it could not be done. He shook of
f the thought and turned back to the matter at hand.
“That’s not a problem,” Huggins said. “We have our own camera equipment. We can shoot the video ourselves, and then take it over to the networks. You’ve got a nice new digital camera in the communications office, right, Ellard?”
“Absolutely,” the Dutchman agreed.
“See, we can take care of it,” Huggins said, “we’ll create our own movie that lets the national audience see what you’re doing. The networks can run it the moment the power comes back on.”
The governor smiled, but cautiously. Mostly this was because, deep down, he knew that he had done almost nothing worth recording in the hours since the start of the outbreak.
There had been a bit of talk—when the existence of the zombies had become absolutely incontrovertible—of sending what remained of the IMPD to keep watch over the city’s cemeteries and graveyards. They’d had a meeting about it and looked at maps. However, the few officers sent ahead to investigate had reported counterintuitive findings. Namely, that cemeteries were not the problem areas. Only a few of the walking corpses had found the strength to escape their coffins and dig through six feet of dirt. Most mausoleums were locked up tight, leaving the reanimated bodies to stagger around harmlessly inside. Even the funeral homes were mostly locked. The problem, it turned out, were all of the bodies that had been disposed of through extralegal channels. Bodies dumped by criminals. Bodies buried by meth gangs in shallow graves in cornfields. Bodies of people who had fallen down wells or into sewer drains. These were the ones who were coming out to roam the streets in search of brains. And they were all over the city, not centralized. There was almost no way to predict where the next one would pop up.
Thus, the governor had scrapped his plan to guard the cemeteries. Aside from giving his cursory blessing to the creation of the Green Zone, he had issued no other substantive order for the duration of the night.
“I’m not talking about specifics,” Huggins said, seeing the governor’s hesitation. “We’re not going to give specifics in this video. No, no, no. I’m envisioning something where people simply see that you are here. That you’re in control. You’re walking the streets of the city. You aren’t waiting for the federal government to tell you what you need to do. You’re out there being a leader.”
Burleson, Huggins, and van Zanten all looked at the large satellite phone for the smallest fraction of a second.
“I like it,” the governor finally said. “I like it a lot. How do we make it happen?”
Huggins stood up and stretched.
“Okay,” Huggins said. “I’ll spend the next few minutes crafting some remarks for you and the mayor to read. Van Zanten? Go get the camera and anything else that might be useful. Mister Governor, I’m thinking a jacket with no tie. Maybe khakis or even jeans.”
Burleson kept several changes of clothing upstairs in his office.
“We meet back here in twenty minutes?” Huggins said.
The men nodded in agreement, and each went to his task.
Burleson rose to his feet and finished the tiny cup of coffee. Then he placed the large satellite phone in his pocket—so heavy it pulled his blazer to one side—and trudged to the elevator. Moments later, he stood in front of the comically tall, yet venerable wooden doors—flanked by rows of flags—that constituted the entrance to his office.
He ached all over from lack of sleep and even felt slightly lightheaded. Yet in the governor’s breast there burned a hot, intoxicating spark of excitement usually reserved for election cycles. This was it, he realized, as he locked the door, pulled the shade, and began to don an ancient pair of Wranglers. This was the application for his next job. This was the campaign.
Yes.
He would lead Indiana through its darkest moment. He would do it without any help. And he would do it right now.
Minutes later, with the sun grandly lighting the Soldiers and Sailors Monument at the end of the street, the governor stepped out onto the front steps of the capitol building. He was flanked by Huggins and van Zanten, and also by six uniformed IMPD officers.
One look at the sky, and he knew it was going to be a beautiful day. The air had that wonderful early-fall smell that made the governor think of high school football two-a-days, meaty cookouts, and long road trips with the windows down. It was a glorious, invigorating thing. Not quite the equivalent of a good night’s sleep, but the governor would take it.
They descended the stone steps of the capitol, passing statues of Civil War soldiers holding ancient rifles and bayonets. These unmoving works of bronze were flanked by SWAT teams—quite alive and real—draped in jet-black body armor. They parted ranks for the governor and his team.
“Has there been any action inside the Green Zone?” Burleson asked the senior-looking member of the SWAT team.
“We put down one of those things at about two in the morning, before the barricades were finished,” the officer answered stoically. “No trouble since then.”
“Good,” the governor beamed.
“We’re headed over to the City-County Building,” Huggins interjected.
“Sure thing,” the SWAT leader said, fingering his sniper rifle. “We can cover you for most of the way. Until the monument, at least.”
The governor and his party reached the street in front of the capitol. Huggins began to organize his players like a movie director on a set.
“Okay . . . van Zanten, start filming,” Huggins barked. “Turn on the camera and leave it on. Do it this moment.”
“Now?” the tall Dutchman said, fumbling with the tiny device. “Um, okay . . . we are now filming. This is going be very DOGME 95.”
“Very what?” the governor asked with a frown.
“It doesn’t matter,” Huggins told him. “I want to capture everything, not just the governor reading his statement. We want to show him walking through the streets. Surveying the city. We’ll edit it all later, and keep only what we want to show the public.”
Burleson nodded, apparently satisfied, but still narrowed his eyes at van Zanten one last time.
The Dutchman peed a little.
“Of course we’ll want you out front, Mister Governor, in the center of the shot,” Huggins continued, still directing. “I’m going to walk with you, but off to the side. Van Zanten, you stay close to us, but not too close. And make sure you get some shots of our surroundings. We need to show the emergency vehicles. The equipment. The point is to make it clear that things are being done. Look at all of this equipment; it’s doing something. Got it? Now, officers . . .”
Huggins turned to the six uniformed police.
“Sad to say, this is not your big Hollywood moment. I need you to stay at least ten paces behind our cameraman, understand? You are not in the shot.”
The police collectively retreated a few paces. They looked bemused by this attempt at choreography.
“All right, good,” Huggins declared, surveying the scene. “Now, Mister Governor, if you’d allow me . . .”
Huggins untucked the governor’s shirt from his blue jeans and rolled up the sleeves of the governor’s jacket. Then he tussled Burleson’s usually immaculate hair. It made the governor look five years older, true, but it also removed the patina of preparation. Now he looked like a man who had been up all night, working. (On solutions, no doubt, for his beloved state.)
“What in the Sam Hill is this?” Burleson said, wrinkling his nose to show he was uncomfortable with the new hairdo.
“Trust me,” Huggins said. “Okay, van Zanten . . . you’re rolling?”
“I am, I am!” the Dutchman insisted, and pointed to the little red “record” light on the camera.
“Crouch a little as you shoot,” Huggins told him. “You’re so tall; we don’t want the governor looking short.”
The Dutchman dutifully crouched down until he stood beneath the governor. He gave Huggins a thumbs-up from behind the lens.
It was time to begin.
The governor set
off down the street toward the City-County Building. After just a few steps, the governor hit his stride. Why, this was no different from a campaign commercial. He had done dozens of those. This was the same deal. (What did they always say to him? “Just have fun with it!”)
Burleson could feel that this was going to be big. This would be what he’d be remembered for. These moments. People all over the country would see the governor braving the streets. Commanding his troops like a general. Making things right again.
His courage would stand as an example to Hoosiers everywhere. No . . . as an example to the entire nation.
“Mister Governor,” Huggins called—he was using his “onstage” voice; the one he used at press conferences when he told reporters no more questions. “Can you tell everyone a little bit about where we are and what we’re doing?”
The governor nodded. His voice dropped into an affable Hoosier twang.
“Lessee . . . it’s coming up on eight in the morning, and we’re here in downtown Indianapolis,” the governor said. “It’s been a long night, but we’re making progress. I’m proud of the job that everyone is doing. I don’t think anybody here has slept a wink, but I haven’t heard a single complaint. I think all of us are just as committed to digging out.”
Huggins, though generally pleased with this opening, winced a little at this final phrase. Was a zombie outbreak like a snowstorm from which you dug out? Would Hoosiers see it that way? Maybe it was. Maybe in a few days the zombies would be removed like so much snow, and commerce, government, and everything else would begin to function again. Huggins found himself hoping that this was the case, and not just for continuity. . . .
“At this moment, we’re headed from the capitol over to the City-County Building to check on the city government,” the governor continued. “I’m excited to work with the mayor personally on a solution. That is . . . we are working together. Why, the mayor and I spoke just last night, at the beginning of this emergency. We’re continuing now to collaborate despite the . . . difficulties that have arisen.”
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