Washington Deceased

by Stephen Jones

  The President never took her eyes off Ty as she asked, “And what are you talking about?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, this country died the day I found myself in the middle of a desert where nobody spoke my language, fighting some rich man’s war I didn’t understand and killing a boy who’d just shot me. It was dead by the time I got home, was given ninety days of treatment and then told to get the fuck out. It’s been dead for the last seven years, while I’ve rotted in the only home I could find, with a small business that couldn’t get any smaller and a couple of meaningless medals I couldn’t even fucking sell on eBay. If anything, I think the zombies are doing us a favour.”

  Steele tensed, ready to escort Ty from the office, but the President made no gesture towards her. Instead, she addressed Ty. “I understand your feelings, Mr Ward, and I’m not without sympathy. I know you’ve suffered. So have a lot of people over the past decade. But you didn’t give up, did you? Why is that?”

  Ty’s head dropped in guilt. “I . . . because there was still one person I cared about. My nephew, Ben. He’s the one who took a chunk from your daughter, before she shot him.”

  A small shock spiked in Steele’s mind. There’d been no reason to check the identity of the dead zombie they’d found near the President’s daughter . . . or had there? Had she missed that, in her haste to exit the scene? She should’ve at least interviewed Ty Ward more thoroughly. She’d messed up . . .

  The President’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Oh, dear God. I’m truly sorry, Ty.”

  “Ben was a great kid. He—” Ty broke off, unable to continue.

  “So, even though you’d just seen your nephew shot, you still managed to comply with my daughter’s final request?”

  “Yeah, I guess I did,” Ty muttered.

  “Mr Ward, I think you’re a man of more character and decency than you realize. I’d like to have you on my staff, because you’re honest about what’s going on; you’ve had first-hand combat experience both abroad and here, at home; and I’d like to help you find a second chance, because I think you deserve one.

  “But I understand your reasons for not accepting the offer. I hope you can find some other work in the facility here that will suit you better.”

  Now the President did look at Steele, and she stepped forward, ready to lead Ty out . . . but he didn’t move. Instead, he said, “I’m not good being on my feet for long periods of time. Because of the injury, I mean.”

  Steele saw the President’s hand twitch, so she waited.

  “When would I have to start?”

  “As soon as possible. I’m sure Steele will assist you with whatever you need.”

  Ty considered briefly, then said, “A second chance, huh?”

  “And not just for you, Ty. For . . . a lot of us.”

  “Okay. God help me, I’ll try.”

  The President stood and thrust a hand out. “Welcome aboard.”

  Ty rose, grimacing at the pain, and accepted the hand, but stayed silent.

  Steele led Ty back to the small cubicle that would serve as his quarters. She knew that later today she’d meet with the President and they’d discuss this, and Steele would voice concern. It was her job, after all.

  But they had a new Chief of Staff, and Steele could only hope the President’s instincts were right.

  Chapter Eight

  TY HAD BEEN surprised to receive the lunch request from General Parker on his first day on the new job, and he was even more surprised to realize, after spending five minutes with Parker, that he liked the man a great deal.

  He’d had a love-hate relationship with military commanders ever since his experience in Iraq. On the one hand, his own sergeant had carried him back to base after he’d been shot; on the other hand, Ty felt as if the subsequent commanders had handed him a medal and then abandoned him. He’d been shoved out on to the street and forgotten by the system.

  Added to Ty’s uncertainty was the fact that Ames Parker was justifiably famous. He’d commanded battles, written books, lectured around the world, been a hero to many Americans. Parker had worked his way up from an impoverished Detroit childhood, had joined the ROTC in college and had eventually found himself in the position of Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  They met in Parker’s small office, where he offered Ty a chicken breast sandwich. After they shook hands and sat, Parker said, “We got lucky and had a baker survive and join the staff down here, so the bread’s worth the whole meal. Go on, try it.”

  Ty took a bite, and had to agree – the chicken breast was simply prepared, but the bread was fluffy, slightly sweet and very fresh.

  Parker started on his own sandwich, and after a bite he asked, “So, may I call you Ty? How are you settling in here?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ty said around swallows. “It takes some getting used to. I mean, you’re all people I’ve read about for years, and now . . .” He finished with a helpless shrug.

  Ames took another bite and set his sandwich aside. “I understand. I also know something of your history. I read your file.”

  Ty’s appetite abruptly vanished and he returned his sandwich to the simple tin plate. “Yes, sir?”

  “You don’t have to stand on military address here, Ty. Please call me Ames.”

  Ty opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  Parker saw his discomfort and smiled warmly. “It’s okay, you’ll get used to it. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other down here, with you serving as Chief of Staff now, and I . . . well, I wanted to talk to you about a possible second job.”

  “What would that be, si . . . I mean, Ames?”

  Parker gazed for a few seconds at a photograph and then turned it around to show Ty a family portrait, taken perhaps ten years ago. In it, Parker sat next to a striking middle-aged woman while two twenty-something children, one son and one daughter, stood behind them. “My wife and children are still alive in our home in Michigan. They’ve got a military encampment in the backyard and the infected are pretty spread out up there, so they’re safe. They’ve even got a little vegetable garden going; my wife’s the one with the green thumb.”

  Ty was surprised and moved to hear the man choke up once; Parker had always been the calm, rational, smoothly modulated voice of whatever administration he’d worked with. It was startling to realize that the man missed his family and was as human as anyone else.

  “Why don’t you bring them here? To be with you?”

  “Because they’re better off where they are. This place is a dead end.”

  Ty found himself looking down at the sandwich – made with bread baked from stored flour and meat that had undoubtedly been frozen – and he knew it was the truth.

  Parker continued, “It works as a temporary sanctuary, but the President understands that we can’t retake the country from here. In a few days, I’ll be leading an assault against the forces above us. It’ll be the most dangerous military operation of my life. I think we can win, but can we hold it afterwards?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ty.

  Leaning forward, Parker spoke with the same soft intensity he’d once used when presenting plans in the most crucial briefings. “I’ll level with you. You and I aren’t the only vets down here – a few of the Congressmen served, but none of them saw any real action. You understand what that’s like, and I think you’re a decent, thoughtful man who won’t risk any lives unnecessarily. I’ll be taking every capable soldier with me when we make our attempt on the White House, and if we aren’t successful, I want you to take over the military operations down here.”

  “Me?” Ty pushed his chair back and waved his hands. “I really appreciate your confidence in me, General Parker, but I don’t share it. There have to be other choices – what about the man who runs Bolling topside . . .?”

  “Colonel Marcus,” Parker answered, “is a capable soldier, but he’s got his hands full up there. I want someone who knows what’s going on here.”

  “I understand, sir, but
. . . that someone just isn’t me.”

  Parker leaned back in his chair. “Well, please keep it in the back of your mind, Ty. Oh, and one other thing – I’ll want you to be the one to notify my wife.” Parker pushed an older model phone across the desk. “I use this to talk to them. Just punch 1 and it’ll automatically dial.”

  “Got it, but . . . I’m awful on the phone.”

  Parker smiled at him, then picked up his half-eaten food. “Now finish up your sandwich – it’s probably the best thing we’ve got left down here.”

  Ty took another bite, but even the bread had lost its appeal.

  From:

  Kevin Moon

  To:

  Bobby Van Arndt

  Sent:

  SUN, Jun 30, 8:12 AM

  Subject:

  Coming

  Back on the 40 now. Had some trouble just outside of Oklahoma City, but . . . well, I’ll tell you about it when I see you. Hopefully it won’t be long now. Love, Kevin

  ——-Original Message——-

  From:

  Bobby Van Arndt

  To:

  Kevin Moon

  Sent:

  SUN, Jun 30, 9:27 AM

  Subject:

  I can relate

  Trouble, huh? Yeah, we’ve had some of our own around here. Be careful, bro – they’re every-fucking-where now. Proceed with caution . . . but please proceed. You’re what I’m living for now.

  XOXO, Bobby

  ——-Original Message——-

  From:

  Kevin Moon

  To:

  Bobby Van Arndt

  Sent:

  WED, Jul 3, 10:27 AM

  Subject:

  Got stuck

  Sorry, man, had more problems just outside of Memphis. Ran out of gas, went to look for some, and got separated from the Hummer. Had to hide out in an office building for the last two days. But I finally got out, found some juice, and got back to the Hummer. I don’t think I’m that far now. I’m thinking tomorrow.

  Love, Kev

  ——-Original Message——-

  From:

  Kevin Moon

  To:

  Bobby Van Arndt

  Sent:

  THU, Jul 4, 7:17 PM

  Subject:

  You okay?

  Didn’t hear back from you yesterday. I guess emails are probably not getting through by now . . . but let me know if you get this, okay? Please? Okay? Love,

  Kev

  Chapter Nine

  IT WAS FULL night as Kevin approached the Van Arndt farm. He’d been within thirty miles as the sun had set. He’d tried contacting Bobby one last time to let him know he was an hour away and finally had continued on.

  He’d left Interstate 40 ten miles back, and had driven cautiously along narrow two-lane country roads since. The land was hilly and densely wooded, and even at twenty miles an hour he’d had to swerve dangerously on three occasions to miss a shambling figure. He knew the Hummer was safe, but he still found himself nervously re-checking the door locks.

  And of course the gas gauge. What had happened just outside Memphis had almost ended the trip. He’d smashed in the window of a car parked in a convenience store lot, setting off the car’s alarm. The zombies had converged from everywhere, and even though the Hummer was parked less than fifty feet away, they’d cut him off from reaching it. He’d considered fighting his way through with the crowbar, but there were too many. So he’d fled on foot, towards a large office block down the street, dodging more attackers as he went. He’d run into the parking garage first, giving cars as wide a berth as possible. Finally he’d spotted a door marked STAIRWAY.

  Of course it’d been locked.

  He’d managed to break the lock with the crowbar, and had yanked the door open just as the first of the zombies had staggered around the corner of the garage entrance. He knew they’d come soon.

  He also knew he’d be trapped. If the floors above him were full of them . . .

  But they weren’t. He’d run up the stairs until he came to the fifth floor. Out of breath, he’d paused in the dim stairwell, then ventured to the landing and peered through the window inset into the exit door.

  It was dark, but from what little he could see, it looked empty.

  He heard moans from the stairwell below him, so he decided to risk it. The door was thankfully unlocked, and he pulled it open, stepping into the corridor beyond.

  Kevin jogged down the hallway, trying doors as he went. Finally he came to one that was unlocked. He quickly stepped inside.

  The office beyond was small – just a reception area and an inner office. Both were empty. He opened the blinds on the outer window to give himself working light, pushed the heavy metal reception desk up against the outer doorway, and waited.

  The sun had gone down two hours later. He helped himself to room-temperature water from a cooler and hunkered down to wait. He managed to grab some sleep on a battered leather couch, but when dawn came, he heard the moans again from outside.

  So he waited still longer. Through another day and another night. Relieving himself in the office trash can. Eating some wrapped crackers he found in a desk drawer. And waiting.

  At some point he glanced at his hand and remembered a hotel parking lot in Erick, Oklahoma, where a woman with no lower jaw had sunk her upper teeth into his flesh. The woman had been a zombie, carrying HRV. All bite wounds were infectious. Shouldn’t he be sick by now? Feverish? Aching? Vomiting?

  Turning?

  He wasn’t, though. In fact, except for feeling anxious and bored and hungry, he was fine.

  So he waited. And when the second day dawned to silence, he ventured out.

  Only to find a zombie in the hallway, between him and the stairwell.

  He almost ran back into his office sanctuary, but anger and desperation prevailed, and – virtually without being aware of it – he charged the dead woman, crowbar raised. She moved forward, reaching for him, but at the last second he dodged to the left and smacked her midsection. She went down and Kevin pounced, driving the end of the crowbar into her forehead.

  He hadn’t realized he was screaming until then.

  Kevin continued on, even as he knew his voice had probably acted like a dinner bell for every zombie in the building. He rushed down the stairwell recklessly. When he reached the bottom, he burst into the parking garage like a force of nature. There was a dead man near the door. He went down in one bone-crunching blow.

  After running back to the Hummer, Kevin had found the parking lot empty. The car he’d originally meant to check for gas turned out to have a full tank. The irony of the past two days was not lost on him.

  He finally refilled the Hummer and got back on the road.

  And now, thanks to GPS tracking and satellites that continued to orbit, beaming information down in disregard for the chaos below, his headlights picked out a mailbox with VAN ARNDT stencilled on the side in faded block letters.

  He hadn’t seen a zombie in the past mile, so he dared to hope that Bobby’s farm had stayed untouched, pristine. Just past the mailbox was a gravel drive that led a short distance to a two-storey farmhouse and barn. A chain-link fence had recently been added around the structures, and Kevin had to stop the Hummer at a gate across the drive.

  Kevin looked around, surveying the situation. He saw none of the dead, and there were lights on in the house. It would have all looked perfectly normal – cozy, even – had it not been for the fence.

  Setting the Hummer’s parking brake, he shifted into neutral, leaving the engine running as he climbed from the car. He examined the fence, but saw no sort of buzzer or bell. As much as he hated to use the car’s horn (dinner bell!), he saw little choice.

  He leaned into the car, gave the horn one tap and stood by the vehicle. He wanted to make sure he could be seen and
identified.

  A figure started forward from the house. Kevin wasn’t sure who it was or where they’d come from; the front door hadn’t opened, but they might have come from the rear of the house. They weren’t in the path of the headlights and he couldn’t make out a face.

  “Bobby?” He’d shouted to be heard above the engine rumble, but there was no response.

  His stomach clenched. The figure was walking evenly, but too slowly, mechanically. Finally it stepped into the light, just a few feet on the other side of the gate.

  It was Bobby. And he was dead.

  “Oh, God, no,” Kevin cried out, as he saw his friend’s eggshell-white eyes and cracked lips. Bobby had no obvious wounds, but as he reached the gate and thrust a hand through a gap in the chain link, he snarled.

  “Damn it. I should’ve gotten here sooner. I’m so sorry, Bobby, I tried, I really tried—”

  A gun blast split the night air. Kevin jumped back, and saw now that a man had come out on to the porch of the house, a smoking .22 rifle still clutched in his hands.

  “You got no business here and we got nothin’ you’d want, so just turn your vehicle around and get back on the road,” he shouted at Kevin.

  He was an elderly man, sparse white hair crowning a wrinkled face, and Kevin knew that this must be Bobby’s grandfather. Bobby had spoken often about the old man, who’d raised him after his parents had been killed in a car accident; he practised what Bobby had jokingly referred to as “tough love”, but Bobby had loved “the old bastard” anyway.

  “Mr Van Arndt, my name is Kevin Moon. I’m a friend of Bobby’s. I just drove here all the way from California to see him.”