Washington Deceased

by Stephen Jones

  “We’re through.” That was Schechter, motioning at the path they’d created through the fence. For an instant, she was split: help her agents, or head for the house while they had the chance?

  There was no choice. Anderson and Chavez were on their own. She turned to the house.

  She emptied the Glock’s magazine on two zombies – teenagers, both of them, one still wearing the remnants of a Marilyn Manson T-shirt – and popped it out. She was just slamming a full magazine back into the gun when she felt something tug at the backpack she bore.

  Byrne moved up beside her. “Allow me.” She saw that Byrne was carrying a three-foot-long length of metal pipe. With both hands wrapped around it, he swung at something behind Steele and she felt the pull on the backpack ease. Excited by the first kill, Byrne waded in.

  As Steele and the others watched in disbelief, Byrne transformed into a human fury, whirling the length of pipe in every direction, battering skulls and kicking corpses out of the way. Steele had to appreciate the pipe as a weapon: it worked better in close quarters than a gun, didn’t need to be reloaded and rarely required multiple hits. Byrne did have to pause once to wipe his visor free of gore, but then he laid into the zombies again.

  Somehow, the writhing mass of walking dead didn’t seem to thin out, and they were still ten yards from the house when Byrne’s stamina started to flag. He panted and had to lower the pipe after every swing, and the zombies were closing in.

  “Fuck!” That was D’Agostino, just behind Steele. She whirled and saw that a fat middle-aged man in crimson-splattered overalls had grabbed Aggy from behind and was trying to sink his teeth into the cop’s upper arm. The gel suit held, and the zombie’s teeth shattered on the tough material; but Aggy couldn’t pull his arm free from the zombie’s grip. Steele raised the Glock, fired on two other zombies that were about to reach Aggy, but couldn’t get a clear sight on the one holding his arm.

  “Aggy, duck!”

  D’Agostino dropped – and came face to face with a legless woman clawing at his feet. He screamed and fell back just as Steele shot the zombie that held him. The zombie fell – but so did Aggy, pinned beneath the bulk of the flabby corpse. “Get it off me, get it off me!”

  More zombies circled in. Steele and Schechter shot them while Petrosyan covered Byrne. When Steele could finally get back to Aggy, she looked down just in time to see the crawling woman yanking Aggy’s left boot off and sinking her teeth through his sock into the foot.

  D’Agostino screamed again. Steele shouted.

  But she couldn’t get to him. The dead were between her and the downed man. As three of them descended on him, she knew his agonized scream was his last and she forced her focus away from him.

  Aggy was done.

  Schechter kept firing as Steele finished off another magazine and slammed a new one in. “Byrne, get us to that house!”

  “Working on it!”

  Something fell against Steele and she tensed, but saw that it was a real corpse, its head barely recognizable as a result of having met Byrne’s pipe. She side-stepped the falling body, watched as Byrne brought the bar around in a side swing and sent another zombie to its final rest, and she could see the house now, just a few feet away.

  She heard Byrne grunting with the effort of the last few blows, but then they’d reached the house, with Petrosyan, Schechter and Steele covering the sides and rear of their trail. Steele shot a zombie to her right as she edged that way to a back door, its inset window boarded over. She pounded on it with a fist as she called out, “Hello! Anyone alive in there? Hello!”

  There was no answer.

  “What now?” Petrosyan asked, as he sighted along his rifle barrel and took out another zombie shambling towards them.

  “We go in. Everybody stand back.” Steele pointed her pistol at the doorknob and fired. When she aimed at the deadbolt lock, one of the bullets ricocheted off and struck a zombie in the chest, staggering it.

  “Good shot, Director,” Schechter said, as she pumped a round into the thing’s head to finish it off.

  Steele pulled the door back only to see the backboard of a large cabinet blocking the way. She waved Byrne and Petrosyan up. “Can you push that out of the way?”

  They put their shoulders against the heavy furniture and grunted with effort as Steele and Schechter guarded the rear. Steele heard wood scrape on tile and knew they’d managed to slide the cabinet aside. She didn’t wait, but stepped into the house. She was in the kitchen, which was large and modern, with a centre island and chrome fixtures. “Hello?” Again, there was no answer.

  “We blew it. Nobody home,” Petrosyan muttered.

  The power was out, so Steele pulled a small maglite from a pocket of the gel suit and swung it around the dim interior. “No, look – this place is sealed tight from the inside. And everything’s clean . . . no sign of struggle.”

  A cry sounded from outside, and Steele turned to see a grey hand pulling Schechter away by the left shoulder. The ex-cop struggled to raise her gun, but another zombie yanked her right arm and from Schechter’s scream Steele knew the arm had been broken.

  “Petrosyan, Byrne—!”

  Steele lifted the Glock, trying to get a shot, but Schechter was in the way. She could only watch helplessly as a zombie tore at Schechter’s helmet visor, flipped it up and bit into her face.

  Byrne rained blows on Schechter’s attackers, but it was too late – Schechter’s face was a bloodied ruin, her eyes closed, body sagging.

  “Byrne, let her go.” It was one of the hardest commands Steele had ever given, but she couldn’t afford to lose Byrne as well, not when they were so close . . .

  She heard Byrne utter a curse as he stepped back into the house. “You better make this quick, because we can’t hold them much longer.”

  Steele called, “Copy that. Just give me a minute.”

  She slid out of the backpack, dropped it and ran from the kitchen. It took her less than a minute to check out the rest of the two-storey house, and she was panting by the time she returned to the kitchen. Petrosyan and Byrne were sweating it at the door. “We gotta go,” Petrosyan shouted back, “they’re bunching up again outside.”

  “Not yet,” Steele said. Her gut told her their quarry was still here, somewhere . . .

  “C’mon, ma’am, the place is empty,” Byrne said. Even his resolve was fraying into panic.

  Steele whirled. “The basement.”

  Byrne glanced back at her. “What?”

  “The basement. It’s where I’d hole up if the house I was in was surrounded.”

  There – a door at the other side of the kitchen that could only go down. Steele ran to it, turned the knob and pulled. The door didn’t move; it was somehow secured from the inside.

  “Hello? Anybody down there?” Steele called through the heavy wood.

  She was rewarded with a response from the other side: “Who are you?”

  Relief washed through Steele, so intense she had to put a hand on the door for a second to steady herself. “We’re from Washington, ma’am. We’re here to get you to safety. We’ve got transport just outside.”

  Steele waited anxiously, listening. It seemed like hours passed before she made out the sound of stairs creaking on the other side, and then something metallic being moved. Finally the door opened and a woman stood on the steps just inside, a heavy chain still held in one hand.

  As she stepped up into the kitchen, they all stared for a moment. Petrosyan and Byrne forgot the murderous hordes outside. The blonde woman in her sixties smiled at them in gratitude. “Am I glad to see you. It was getting boring down there.”

  Steele held out a supporting hand. “Are you okay to move?”

  The other woman nodded. Steele reached down to her backpack; she unzipped it and drew out a gel armour jacket and pants and a helmet, which she handed to her charge. “Put these on.”

  The woman eyed the armour; then, as she drew on the jacket she said, “Gel armour. I knew it was in the de
velopment stage, but I had no idea it was a done deal. How many suits were completed?”

  Steele gestured briefly around the kitchen. “Pretty much what you see here.” Then, speaking into her headset, Steele said, “We’ve got the package ready for delivery.”

  On the other end, Cheung answered, “Holy shit. I can’t believe you actually found her.”

  “Well, we’ve still got to get back to the bird. I’ll call again once we’re airborne.”

  “Copy. Good luck.”

  Steele gestured the woman to the door. “Let’s get you back where you belong . . . Madame President.”

  The woman arched her eyebrows. “When did that happen?”

  Petrosyan popped off three shots, a grim reminder of the difficulties that still lay before them. “We’ll have to save the explanations. Let’s go.”

  Petrosyan shot twice, and then Byrne leapt out, the pipe already swinging. Steele ushered the other woman out. “Petrosyan, behind us.”

  The zombies were still thinned out slightly, but closing in on their path back to the Black Hawk. “Keep up the speed, Byrne!”

  “Right.”

  Behind them, Steele heard Petrosyan scream; his rifle threw out a series of shots, and something slammed into Steele’s back with enough force to throw her forward. She caught herself before she went down; pain exploded in her back, and she knew she’d taken one of Petrosyan’s bullets at close range, but the gel suit had kept it from doing more than just slamming into her.

  “You okay?”

  Steele didn’t take the time to nod or to look back at Petrosyan. “Just keep moving,” she called.

  She fired off six more shots from the Glock, taking down three zombies; she was getting tired and sloppy. An obese middle-aged man with one black eye socket and a missing ear lunged at her from the right. She raised the Glock, pulled the trigger – and the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. She dug a hand into a pouch on the gel suit, looking for a replacement magazine, and realized: there were no more magazines. She was out.

  Byrne jumped back, putting himself between her and the huge dead thing. “Go!” he called.

  Steele had just enough time to see Byrne raise the pipe, only to have it stopped in mid-swing by the zombie’s upraised arm. Then it raised its other hand and grabbed Byrne by the throat. Steele didn’t stay to see the rest; doing her best to protect her charge, she pushed through the zombies, ducking and dodging, dread curdling within her . . .

  A dead boy reaching for her fell back as a bullet exploded into his forehead. Steele looked up and saw they’d almost reached the ’copter, where Myers was aiming his sniper rifle. He paused long enough to help the two women into the bird.

  “Where’s Allmon?” Steele asked, panting.

  Between gritted teeth as he sighted and fired, Myers answered, “Gone. He tried to move up to the house and they got him.”

  “Chavez and Anderson?”

  “I don’t know, but I think they’re gone, too.”

  Steele looked out, saw zombies starting to converge on the Black Hawk and decided. Speaking into the headset, she said, “Get us out of here.”

  “Happy to,” answered the pilot.

  Steele made sure her charge was secured on the bench, then glanced out – and saw Chavez staggering out of the encroaching mass.

  “Wait!”

  The bird hovered a few feet off the ground. Steele leaned out, grabbed Chavez’s hands, and helped her in. The zombies were only a few feet behind. “Go, Go!”

  The Black Hawk lifted up, engines roaring. Steele saw the hungry mob falling away beneath them, and she turned to Chavez. The agent’s armour was covered in blood, the visor was missing from her helmet and she’d lost her gun somewhere along the way. But what alarmed Steele most was the look in Chavez’s eyes.

  It was defeat.

  “Chavez . . .?”

  A tear leaked out of one of the agent’s eyes. “They got me, Steele. The fuckers.”

  Steele was confused – she didn’t see a bite mark, the armour was still in place. “No, you’re—”

  Chavez cut her off, angling her jaw so Steele could see the thin red line there. It wasn’t deep, not even really bleeding, but it was . . .

  “A scratch.”

  “Yeah.” Chavez lowered her head.

  “Are you sure you got it from one of them? Maybe . . . maybe your helmet, or . . .”

  Chavez shook her head. “No, it was this fuckin’ girl. Just a girl. Half my age, but . . . dead.”

  Steele saw Myers looking at her, his expression unreadable. She turned her attention back to Chavez. “We’ll get you back to HQ, maybe—”

  Chavez shook her head. “No. I don’t want to risk infecting anyone else. Especially—” she directed her look at the blonde woman who sat across from her, “—especially not now.” Chavez pulled off the rest of the helmet, hurled it away and moved to the open hatchway in the side of the Black Hawk. Facing them, she gripped the edges tightly and nodded at Steele’s holstered Glock. “Do it. Now.”

  Steele drew the Glock, remembered. “I can’t. I’m out.”

  Myers was surprisingly gentle as he held the sniper rifle out to Steele. “Here.”

  Steele took it. Her fingers felt numb, the rifle too heavy as she tried to raise it.

  Chavez closed her eyes and leaned back, letting the downdraft from the helicopter’s rotor whip her dark hair. Steele tried to sight on Chavez’s forehead, tried to force herself to imagine Chavez as a hungry dead thing tearing at her, eyes glassy, teeth champing . . .

  It didn’t work. She lowered the rifle. “Chavez, I—”

  Before she could continue, the blonde woman had unstrapped herself and knelt beside Steele. She looked into Steele’s eyes, and Steele saw reserves of strength and courage there that left her stunned. Steele let the rifle be taken from her, but she turned away until after she heard the shot. Chavez made no sound as she fell, and there was only a heavy thunk as the rifle hit the deck of the Black Hawk before Steele felt a hand grip hers.

  She turned to look at the new President and said only, “Thank you.”

  The other woman nodded, gently.

  In that moment, Steele knew she would gladly die to defend this woman.

  From:

  Bobby Van Arndt

  To:

  Kevin Moon

  Sent:

  FRI, Jun 28, 2:14 PM

  Subject:

  Okay?

  Hey, Kev, we keep hearing a lot of bad shit is going down out there in L.A. Hope you’re hanging in and it’s just the media over-hyping everything as usual. Out here in Virginia we aren’t seeing a lot of the dead yet, but of course we’re out here in the sticks. We did finally put up an honest-to-God fence around the farm, so I think we’re safe. Grandpa has dug out the old shotgun and bought a bunch of cartridges for it. Wow, this could be the first time I’ve ever been pro-gun.

  Let me know how you are. I worry, you know.

  Love,

  Bobby

  ——-Original Message——-

  From:

  Kevin Moon

  To:

  Bobby Van Arndt

  Sent:

  FRI, Jun 28, 2:16 PM

  Subject:

  RE: Okay?

  Thanks for the note, bro. And yeah, it’s bad out here and getting worse. Fucking zombies are everywhere. I had to leave West Hollywood because it got so bad. I’m staying now with friends at a house up in the hills (remember cute Scotty? He knows this guy who’s a rich music producer who’s letting us all crash here because it’s hard to reach and a little safer). But we’re running out of food, the power keeps going in and out, and frankly I don’t know how much longer anyone will be able to stay in L.A.

  I miss you.

  Kevin

  ——-Original Message——-

  From:

  Bobby Van Arndt

  To:

&nb
sp; Kevin Moon

  Sent:

  FRI, Jun 28, 2:18 PM

  Subject:

  RE: RE: Okay?

  Kevin, srsly – get your ass out of there. Can you get to a truck or a car or something? I was hoping the news reports were all lies, but it sounds like they may have actually understated how bad it was.

  Come out here, Kevin. You can stay with Grandpa and me at the farm. We’ve got plenty of food, we’ve got candles if the power gives out, we’ve got a well for fresh water, and . . . well, we’ve got ME.

  Please be safe, and please please PLEASE get out of there, whether you decide to come to ol’ Virginia or not.

  Love,

  Bobby

  Chapter Two

  THE SILVER LEXUS GX SUV circled the parking lot of the huge warehouse store in Burbank, moving slowly from the south entrance to the far north parking lot and around the building. The three men and one woman inside peered through the tinted windows, nervously squeezing tools and homemade weapons.

  In the rear seat, Kevin said, “Damn. The parking lot was never this empty when I shopped here in the past.”

  The woman in the front passenger seat, Nancy, nodded as they rounded a corner. “It’s not completely empty, Moony.”

  Kevin gritted his teeth – he hated that nickname. Yes, his last name was Moon, but it was a fine Korean surname and he’d heard “Moony” and “Moon the Loon” since his days as a first-grader in Oregon. Nancy – probably the smartest person in the car – must have known how irritating that jibe was, so Kevin figured she wanted to annoy him. Maybe she just found the rest of the apocalypse boring and was trying to entertain herself.

  Kevin tried to move past the obnoxious name to see what she was looking at. There, maybe fifty feet away – a single figure walking purposelessly near the store’s entrance.

  The blonde man next to Kevin saw the walker, threw back another gulp from the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he cradled in his lap and muttered, “Fuck . . .”