Washington Deceased

by Stephen Jones

  Ty jerked upright to the feel of his heart slamming in his chest and an overwhelming sense of panic. He felt around for his gun, didn’t find it, looked at the light coming into the room . . .

  . . . and realized he was home, in Rhonebach. He wasn’t in a barracks somewhere in Iraq, or a military hospital. That’d been six years ago.

  Six years, and he still awoke almost every morning with nightmares. The doctors had called it post-traumatic stress disorder, and had assured him it would pass. It hadn’t.

  He jumped as a knock sounded, followed by a muffled voice saying, “Ty? You awake?”

  Ty collected himself from the bed of his small guest house, the one his brother had magnanimously allowed him to live in after his return from the veteran’s hospital, and limped to the front door. His back was in agony this morning and the pain reminded him of the metal he still carried there, the bits of shrapnel they’d been unable to remove because of their proximity to the spinal cord.

  He ignored the knocking to massage the sore spot for a few seconds, then opened the door a crack and stared out.

  Mike Symonds, the diner owner, was there looking like a kid on the first day of school. “We got one. Gerald spotted it coming out of the forest around his back field.”

  Ty rubbed his eyes and glanced around. The day was warm and clear, closing in fast on afternoon. “So Gerald shot it?”

  Mike’s enthusiasm was undimmed. “No – he just hid in his house and watched it walk right on by. I guess they really are pretty stupid.”

  Ty literally bit his tongue, and then asked, “So where’s the fucker now?”

  “C’mon, Ty, do you have to use that language?”

  Restraining the urge to reach out and slap the other man, Ty smiled tightly and said through gritted teeth, “I’m sorry. Where is the lovely shambling rotten corpse now?”

  “Coming towards the barricade at the west end of Main.”

  “Those folks at the barricade know to aim for the head, right?”

  “They were kind of hoping you’d do it, Ty. Being the war hero and all.”

  Ty grabbed the door frame, looked away for a moment, and said, “Fine. Give me two minutes.”

  “But—”

  Ty slammed the door in the man’s face.

  He tore off the stained Red Sox shirt he’d slept in, went into the bathroom, splashed water on his face, then looked into the mirror.

  The only thing that newspaper article had gotten right was his grey hair; they’d missed the rest of his face, though. He didn’t look thirty. With his red-rimmed eyes surrounded by black circles and his unshaven silver stubble, he looked fifteen years older.

  And he was sure as shit no hero. The article hadn’t mentioned that his Purple Heart had come courtesy of a kid . . . a kid Ty had shot. Now he was supposed to pick up a gun again and protect this town.

  He briefly considered not going. The town fools could let the zombie blunder through, nipping at everyone it passed, taking a few with it, none of them smart or steady or brave enough to stop it. He could hide out here, in the guest house his brother let him stay in for free. He could just lock the doors and wait until it was all over, then maybe just sit in the corner and rot away slowly with the rest of the world.

  But they’d find him. Not the zombies, but the townies, all the ones out there like Mike who were looking to Ty as their leader now.

  That’s a laugh. ’Bout the only thing I can lead is a pill to my mouth.

  But there was his nephew Ben to think about, too. Ben was one of the only things that kept him going; Ty and Ben had always been close, but at sixteen Ben had finally grasped exactly why Ty limped, and he admired him now as well as loved him. Ty might have been an antisocial, disabled ex-vet saddled with uncurable PTSD and a computer repair business that didn’t pay enough for a real place to live, but Ben almost made him believe in a future.

  Ty sighed, left the bathroom, threw on the closest thing to a clean shirt he had (it featured the logo of a rock band Ty knew only through Ben – most of his clothes were cast-offs from his nephew) and headed out.

  Mike was still waiting for him outside, practically dancing with eagerness as he walked beside Ty. “Why aren’t you bringin’ a gun? I thought you’d have your Army pistol or something . . .”

  “They don’t let you keep that stuff.”

  “Well, a shotgun, or a rifle—”

  Ty stopped walking and turned to face Mike. “I don’t own a fucking gun, okay?”

  “So,” Mike swallowed, and then asked, “what are you going to do?”

  Yeah, war hero, what are you going to do? Because you’re sure as hell not going to shoot it.

  Ty hadn’t been able to lift a gun since that night in Iraq. He’d had to pick up a hunting rifle two days ago to show someone how to use it, and he’d promptly staggered off and vomited into a bush. He had told his “students” – three middle-aged women, one young man and an ancient farmer – that he had food poisoning.

  Just the idea of raising a gun – pistol, rifle, shotgun, any gun – made Ty queasy. After a moment, Ty turned away from Mike and kept walking towards the centre of town. “The point, Mike, is to make sure you all know what to do. I won’t always be around when you need to have a zombie shot.”

  They walked past Rhonebach’s quaint white clapboard church, a row of antique stores and gift shops, and turned the corner on to Main. Ty walked into the middle of the wide street, momentarily disoriented, not sure which way was west.

  He heard a scream.

  It came from the right, and Ty’s head jerked towards the source. He jogged a block down the street, heading for a group surrounding a single lurching shape. As Ty drew closer, he saw people he recognized in the circle – Mike’s waitress Selma, Jake from the hardware store, the Mason’s oldest boy Roger, the local paper’s reporter Missy – all battling a zombie that staggered because a large part of its right thigh was gone.

  Ty stopped, gaping, as he saw the townspeople were wielding bats, shovels and rakes, which they used to keep the zombie at bay.

  “There it is,” Mike burst out.

  Ty muttered to himself, “Are they fucking crazy?”

  As he watched, Dean Fetter, who owned Rhonebach’s sporting goods store, came running up with a hunting rifle that still had the price tag dangling from it. “I got it!”

  As Fetter raised the barrel, still running, Ty shouted, “No!”

  Fetter stopped and stared at Ty. “But—!”

  Ty limped up, motioning at the circle. “Wait until you’ve got a clear shot – right now there are people all around that thing.”

  Fetter stopped and stared, almost as if he didn’t understand. He considered for a moment before thrusting the rifle at Ty. “You do it.”

  Ty’s vision seemed to contract until he could see nothing but the rifle. He was frozen, rooted . . . but then shouts and cries broke his paralysis and he snatched the gun from Fetter. He swallowed against a lump in his throat as he raised the weapon (why was it so heavy?), but he knew his hands were shaking too badly to get a steady shot.

  And everyone was watching him. Or at least it seemed that way to Ty.

  The sound of approaching tyres interrupted the scene, turning attention away from Ty. An expensive hybrid car appeared and braked to a stop until the barricade – two wooden sawhorses – was pushed aside. A young woman was behind the wheel; as she came abreast of the crowd, she rolled down her window and shouted, “There are a lot of them coming this way – you should all take shelter.”

  As she sped on past them, Ty got a glimpse of her face and there was something familiar about her. Had they met somewhere? Or . . .

  His attempt at recollection was shattered when Fetter grabbed the rifle away from him and ran. Everyone was fleeing now, both the single zombie and Ty forgotten. They raced back to their stores and homes.

  Ty heard moaning. He turned and saw the zombie now trying to make its tortuous way towards him. It had once been a young man, although Ty di
dn’t recognize him; there was nothing unusual or distinguishing about him. He’d looked like millions of other young men – he’d been a son, a brother, a friend.

  He could have been Ben.

  Now, as one of the hungry dead, the need in his eyes filled Ty with sadness. Ty couldn’t have shot him.

  But when the stench of the dead thing hit Ty, he turned and ran with all the rest of them – back to his guest house, where he locked the door, crouched shaking in a corner, and tried to wash the image of a murdered eight-year-old from his mind.

  CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

  CLASSIFIED – EYES ONLY

  DATE: 06/28/13

  SUBJECT: RENDITION OF PATIENT ZERO

  On June 19, HRV Patient Zero was acquired by special U.S. forces who captured him from a renegade British intelligence agent in the countryside not far from Oxford, England. He was then flown to The Bunker, a special research facility run by NWP, where he underwent testing and observation in an attempt to isolate and study the Human Reanimation Virus. So far NWP is cooperating with us and providing information on Patient Zero (PZ), although we remain as always suspicious of their motives and the quality of the data they give us.

  The history provided with PZ is frankly confusing and possibly suspect. According to the report, PZ claims to be a British national named Thomas James Moreby, who was released from a subterranean chamber beneath All Hallows Church, south London, when construction crews working on that country’s New Festival of Britain (see separate report #1803-01/13/12 for security assessment and threat evaluation) accidentally broke into said crypt. Initial reports stated that Moreby was surrounded by a swarm of fleas that attacked those who came near; victims of the flea bites were apparently among the first to contract HRV, and soon spread it to others via the methods we are now familiar with (bites, scratches, or any contact which involves an exchange of bodily fluids or the breaking of the skin).

  The report also indicates that a Thomas James Moreby was born in the early 18th century and was involved with various forms of occultism and black magic, including human sacrifice. After being caught in a particularly heinous act (with seven of his cult followers), Moreby was hauled through the streets of London and thrown into the crypt beneath All Hallows Church, where he remained in an unknown state of suspended animation until released. Yes, we are being asked to accept that Moreby survived imprisonment in this crypt for more than two centuries. While on the surface it seems unreasonable to accept this history, at this time we cannot provide any other verification concerning Moreby’s background.

  After disappearing for a short period, Moreby was subsequently captured by British intelligence forces, who were able to run a few preliminary tests and conduct interviews with Moreby. We have obtained copies of some (not all) of these interrogations and examinations, which suggest that:

  1) Moreby is arrogant and believes himself to be some sort of “King of the Dead”.

  2) There are actually two strains of HRV present in Moreby’s body – one of which may produce reanimated dead who are capable of limited thought and reasoning.

  3) Moreby may have an unspecified sort of mental connection to some of the infected.

  After Moreby’s transfer to The Bunker, a team led by Dr Jason Willson began research, all overseen by NWP. Initially, Moreby was surprisingly cooperative (although as vain as the British reports had indicated); he also claimed to have been born even earlier than the 18th century.

  Unfortunately, the project was terminated prematurely, and we are unsure as to the current disposition of Moreby, Dr Willson, or any of the other physicians involved. We have contacted Landen Jones, but he claims ignorance and has been of no use.

  We are awaiting an update from W. Leonard Paryder, Senior Controller (East), and will continue to monitor and report on the Moreby situation.

  PRELIMINARY REPORT PREPARED BY:

  Marissa Cheung, C.I.A. Analyst

  Chapter Four

  STEELE WAITED, WATCHING, as the President read the report, then exhaled and leaned back in her chair. For a second Steele thought she saw doubt cross the woman’s features, only to be replaced by a bitter smile.

  “You’ve read this?”

  Steele nodded. “I have.”

  “Did you believe it?”

  “I . . .” Steele didn’t know how to answer. A few months ago it would have been the stuff of pure fantasy – an immortal man trapped in a crypt beneath London, commanding hordes of virus-carrying fleas – but that was a few months before most of humanity had died and then come back as monsters. “. . . I’m truthfully not sure, ma’am.”

  “Who’s in charge of the CIA now?”

  “Director Gillespie survived. He’ll be part of the meeting today at three.”

  “Good. He can explain this nonsense then.” The President tossed the report to the side with a disdain that made Steele smile.

  When they’d arrived at the OC yesterday, everything had still been in chaos. After General Parker had declared martial law, military bases – like Bolling in Washington – had become both fortresses and refugee camps. As the Black Hawk flew over the camp, and started to descend, Steele saw how the other woman took in the large, newly erected tent camp.

  “What’s that fenced-in area?”

  Steele followed her gaze. “Quarantine. When civilians arrive, they’re kept there for seventy-two hours to make sure they’re not carrying HRV. Then, if they’re virus-free, they’re released into the tent city.”

  The new President looked down at the outdoor, fenced-in space, teeming with bodies, and asked, “Is it really necessary to keep them out in the open like that? It’s like some kind of cattle pen.”

  “There’s just nowhere else to put them.”

  As soon as the ’copter touched down, the President insisted on touring the tent city first. Even though she was exhausted, she moved with grace among the survivors, offering handshakes and waves. When an African-American woman with a five-year-old boy clutching at her legs saw the President, she burst into tears and ran forward. “You gotta keep us safe,” she said between sobs. “I lost everything but my little boy, and he’s all that matters now. I know you can save him.” The President hugged the woman while the child stood back, shy and uncertain.

  Two hours later, they left the refugee camp and entered an office building marked DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE ANALYSIS CENTER. The guard at the front desk nodded to Steele and then gaped when he saw who she accompanied.

  They walked behind the guard, passing offices (mostly empty) until they reached the end of a long corridor and stepped through a plain, unmarked door. On the other side was a single large elevator with no call buttons, only a security card reader beside it. Steele handed the President a plastic card on a lanyard. “Keep this with you – it operates the elevator. Yours is also keyed to operate all secure areas of the complex.”

  “How many elevators are there?”

  “Just this one that we know of, but we don’t have the original plans and we haven’t had time to assemble a complete map yet.”

  “It’s that big?”

  Steele smiled and slid her key through the slot. “It’s that big.”

  During her years on Capitol Hill, prior to becoming President, she had heard rumours of the series of underground bunkers built beneath the city, but when they reached the bottom after a long descent and stepped out, she was still nonetheless surprised by the size and scope of the complex. As they walked past storage rooms, control rooms, offices and quarters, the President asked about the history of the complex.

  “Amazingly,” Steele said, “it was laid out along with most of the rest of the city in the early 19th century, and was the last part of the construction to be completed. The original White House architect was James Hoban, but the work was continued by an Englishman named Benjamin Henry Latrobe, who we think completed the underground area in 1803 and then vanished. After the Greenbrier Bunker in West Virginia was decommissioned in the ’90s, a secret project was started to
renovate this facility and bring it up to date. Here, look at this, for example . . .” Steele slid her card through a slot next to a door marked FOOD STORAGE 4, and opened the door to show the President a cavernous space filled with metal racks extending off into the distance, the racks filled with cardboard boxes.

  “This place was stocked to house most of Washington in the event of nuclear war. We’ve theoretically got everything we need down here, from food stocks to apartments, offices, mess halls, even a brig. It’s almost like a small city, one that could accommodate hundreds comfortably.”

  What Steele didn’t add was that no one was comfortable. Those now living in the underground complex had been used to excesses of wealth and glamour; many had lived in staffed mansions with large families. Now they were crammed together in small, metal-and-concrete-lined rooms in a fluorescent-lit facility that had come to be known as the OC – short for “Occupied Caves”. Tensions that had already been high before HRV – political foes and rivals jockeying for power and prestige – had escalated when set to simmer in the OC. Steele wondered how many of them would fare in the tent city above their heads.

  Steele led the President to a suite of rooms reserved for her, and wasn’t surprised when the woman told her she wanted to get started right away. She asked first for a roster of survivors; next, she wanted all the information they had on the zombies.

  When Steele finally bid her good night, so weary she could barely stagger off to her own small quarters, the President was engrossed in studying and acknowledged Steele’s departure with only a small wave.

  That had been yesterday. Today had begun with the President asking about her daughter.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Steele told her, “we know she got out of Manhattan before it was nuked, but we lost her after that. Hopefully she’s safe somewhere. We’ll keep looking.”