Washington Deceased

by Stephen Jones

  She saw Cheung’s blood on her own hand and sprayed across her neat jacket, and she turned to check the President. “Did any of her blood hit you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Steele confirmed that, and then ran her eyes quickly over the paralyzed onlookers packed into the exit. “How about anyone else? Any contact?”

  She heard murmurs of “No.”

  “I’ll need to get to decontamination as soon as possible.” Steele turned to go, but had a last thought. She scanned the witnesses for Gillespie.

  He was already gone.

  Steele turned to the President, speaking in low tones. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Understood.”

  Before she left, Steele saw Delancy. He hadn’t even risen from his seat throughout the scene; he’d stayed rooted, the only sign of anxiety the way his fingers were gripping the arms of his chair.

  He didn’t look stricken, and Steele knew there’d been no affair between Cheung and Delancy. Instead, he looked almost angry.

  As Steele headed out to the decontamination showers, she vowed to herself to find out what Delancy had really been up to with the late Marissa Cheung. And if that something had led to the death of a capable woman . . .

  Delancy would pay.

  From:

  Kevin Moon

  To:

  “HottyScotty”

  Sent:

  SUN, Jul 07, 10:42 PM

  Subject:

  Goodbye

  I hope you get this, Scotty. There’s no electricity where I am, but I’ve been using the Hummer to keep my phone charged. Kinda crazy, I know . . . like somebody’s going to call me. But it’s been useful for navigation, I guess.

  Not that I’m going anywhere. Ever again. They got me. First some old bitch in Oklahoma, then Bobby. Fuckin Bobby was turned, can you believe it? I came all this way, and they got to him first, the dead fucks.

  I’m gonna die now. Double dose, after all. I’m out in the country, not far from Richmond. I found a pretty little abandoned farmhouse. Even had a cellar full of homemade jams and pickles. They’re pretty good.

  It’s a nice place. The weather’s been good. I’ll just wait it out here.

  Stay alive, Scotty. Please.

  Love,

  Kevin

  Chapter Eleven

  KEVIN WOKE UP, squinting from the sunlight in his eyes. He reached for his phone, thumbed at the screen, saw it was after 3:00 pm. He felt the empty bottle of whiskey he still clutched, and groaned at the pain in his head.

  After a few seconds, he staggered to his feet and made his way to the bathroom. He relieved his aching bladder and then swung the mirrored front of the medicine cabinet back, finding a half-full bottle of aspirin. He poured four into his hand, tossed them into his mouth, and endured the bitter taste as he chewed and dry-swallowed.

  He returned to the bedroom and collapsed on to the narrow twin bed. The aspirin started to work, and he allowed himself to drift with the diminishing pain, just taking in the details of the room: floral print wallpaper. A dresser painted bright yellow, framed photos of grinning young girls on top of it. Lacy curtains, waving in a light breeze. A desk with a dead laptop, a few textbooks, some pencils.

  It’d been a girl’s bedroom. An undergraduate college student probably majoring in English, by the look of the textbooks (a Norton anthology, a few classic novels). Probably not even out of her teens yet.

  Probably dead now.

  Kevin fought against a tsunami of sadness that threatened to drag him under. He forced himself to sit up, wander out to the kitchen and retrieve a bottle of water from the refrigerator. There was no electricity and the water was room temperature, but it washed away the last of the acrid tang of the aspirins.

  He was feeling better now, the hangover working its way out of his system. He was halfway through another long gulp of water when it hit him: he was feeling better. In fact, except for the fading throb of the headache and fatigue, he felt fine.

  That shouldn’t be possible. He’d been bitten by the woman . . . what, more than a week ago? Wouldn’t infection have set in by now? Hell, shouldn’t he have been long dead by now?

  Startled, he set the water down and rushed back to retrieve his phone. He should be able to still reach the Center for Disease Control’s web page on HRV. Maybe the virus had mutated, maybe they’d updated the page—

  He glanced at his phone and stopped, staring. He’d been wrong about the date: it was later than he’d thought. He’d been infected almost two weeks ago. And again six days ago by Bobby.

  He brought up the page on the CDC’s website and read over the information: the first signs of infection (fever) usually set in within the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours and, depending on the wound inflicted, it could take anything between one and five days for the virus to cause you to completely turn.

  But he had never had a fever. He ran a hand over his forehead, just in case, but his skin still felt cool and dry.

  This shouldn’t be possible. He had been bitten nearly two weeks ago.

  He checked the date on the CDC’s site. The page had not been updated for several days.

  Kevin’s mind raced through possibilities: the woman in Oklahoma hadn’t bitten him deeply enough. He’d got the amount of time passed wrong. He had a fever but just couldn’t feel it.

  Bobby hadn’t really been dead.

  But he rejected them all; he knew they weren’t true. The truth was that he’d been subjected to the usual means of spreading the infection – not once, but twice – and had survived. The only explanation that made sense was some sort of natural immunity.

  He decided he’d spend another few days in the farmhouse, just to be certain. This was a good place to rest; it had food, water, sunlight, and he hadn’t seen a zombie since Bobby. It was, in fact, tempting to stay here.

  Kevin dismissed that quickly. He needed to find other survivors now; he had to know if there were more like him. If not, then maybe he could help.

  It crossed his mind that he might even be important. It seemed unlikely; he’d never been more than a statistic: a gay man. A Korean. A Californian.

  Surely that wouldn’t have changed at the end of the world.

  Chapter Twelve

  TY FINISHED WITH the morning schedule and examined it, and then emailed it to all involved. He’d prepare the afternoon schedule during the lunch break. They were planning little in advance right now, while they still struggled with issues of basic security and survival.

  It was almost 7:30 am, and Ty pushed his tablet aside. He was already showered and dressed, with just enough time for a quick breakfast of powdered eggs and coffee. He stretched, moving carefully; his little apartment was barely big enough to be a closet, with nothing but a single army bed, a chair and table, and an adjoining bathroom.

  At least he had his own bathroom. He was fielding daily complaints from Congressmen who had to share a facility.

  Ty downed his rations and stopped to examine himself in the bathroom mirror a last time.

  He froze at the unknown face that stared back at him. This man looked groomed and healthy, confident even. He was working harder than he ever had in his life – even when he’d been enduring basic training after his Army enlistment – but he looked well-rested.

  Of course; he hadn’t had a nightmare in three nights.

  He thought about the dreams (muzzle flash, blood explodes, child falls) and felt a tremor start in his right hand, but he willed it away. No, no more.

  As he left his cubicle and stepped out into the steel-lined hall, he felt the image of the murdered boy trailing after him like a ghost chained to his guilt. He knew that he would never truly escape that terrible night, but he thought he might finally have learned how to live with it. He was working again. He had purpose and goals. He was alive.

  Those things mattered.

  He made his way down several lengths of corridor, exchanging greetings and no
ds with those he passed. It occasionally surprised Ty to think that he’d once seen some of these people on television or in the newspaper, as distant from him as the moon. Now he saw them every day, and he was learning their personalities and foibles. He already knew that the senator from Alaska had a temper, the Democrat representative from Washington state possessed a delightful sense of humour and a craving for chocolate, and the young soldier with the boyish face from a little town in Iowa was about to be promoted to Major.

  “Oh, Ty, I was looking for you.”

  Ty turned and saw Sandra Steele approaching. Steele had become his closest friend in this strange new world; the President may have been the one who had given him life again, but it was Steele who had saved it in the first place. And she’d taken a great deal of time with him over the past couple of weeks, giving him tips, insider information and even the gossip he’d need to blend in with Capitol Hill’s political zoo.

  “Good morning, Director Steele. What can I do for you?”

  Steele waited until two Congressmen passed them, then she spoke in low tones. “We finally finished going over Marissa Cheung’s body—”

  “‘We’? Is there anything around here you don’t do?”

  “Well, I don’t trust Landen Jones. But I do trust you.”

  Ty was warmed by Steele’s confidence, but he also shared her wariness about Jones. The man’s slick exterior seemed like it was covering up something primordial and oozing. “Mr Jones seems . . . very knowledgeable.”

  “Unfortunately, he’s the closest thing we’ve got to a medical examiner right now and he’s hard to pin down. We found a wound on Marissa Cheung’s right ankle. Nothing serious, but clearly infected.”

  “So she’s been outside within the last few weeks . . .”

  “Either that, or someone from topside has been down here.”

  Ty rolled it over in his mind. “But that someone would have to be infected, too . . .”

  “Right. No, I think you nailed it: she found some way out of the OC, some exit we don’t know about. And who did she keep disappearing with?”

  Ty ran it through his head. “You don’t think Delancy’s infected, do you?”

  Steele grimaced. “HRV might be a step up for Delancy, frankly. But no; I think Marissa Cheung’s job was to keep him from getting infected.” She hesitated, and then gave Ty a hard, direct stare. “Ty, I need a favour. It could be dangerous, so don’t feel obligated—”

  Interrupting, Ty said, “You want me to follow Delancy.”

  She nodded. “We need to know where he’s been going, and what he’s doing topside. If he’s bringing potential threats to our safety back with him, I need to know now.”

  “Do you think he’s in something with the CIA?”

  “Yes, but . . .” Steele’s jaw knotted for a moment before she shook her head. “I think they’re protecting him. He used to chair the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence; hell, he used to golf with Gillespie’s predecessor. Whatever’s going on now, I don’t think it’s anything directly related to the CIA”

  Ty resisted an urge to look around nervously; they were alone in the hallway, but they were also planning to spy on the Vice President of the United States. “Okay. Can you get me a webcam?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’ll set it up across from that food storage room you saw him go into, and make sure only I can access the live feed. I may need you to cover for me when he leaves.”

  “You got it.”

  Ty started to walk away, but Steele called after him, “Thank you, Ty.”

  “C’mon, Steele – I think I owe you pretty big.”

  Steele nodded and walked away, and Ty wondered just how expensive his debt to her would be.

  REPORT ON THE ACTIVITIES OF R. DELANCY FOR S. STEELE

  FILED BY T. WARD

  On the afternoon of Tuesday, 17 July, at approximately 12:30 pm, I observed, via a webcam live feed, Vice President Robert Delancy step through the door of Food Storage Room 7. I immediately excused myself from a meeting with Senator R. Kowalski and hurried to the indicated room.

  I entered, and found a large storage warehouse. Steel racks holding rations and other supplies formed long aisles. At first I saw nothing else in the room – no other furnishings or side rooms.

  The room, however, was empty, so unless Delancy had left while I’d been en route to the room, I knew he had left via some other means.

  A more thorough search revealed one other exit in the form of a freight elevator at the rear of the room. I pressed the call button and stepped inside. The elevator only went to two floors: “G” and “U” (where I was). I pressed “G” and the elevator began to ascend.

  After several seconds, the doors opened again, and I peered out cautiously. I saw daylight a short distance away, but I was still inside a large building. I quickly realized this was some sort of loading dock, with an opening perhaps fifty yards away. This was the edge of the dock, where incoming trucks would back up to unload. I made out parts of Bolling Air Field a short distance outside.

  To the side the building continued, lit by overhead fixtures. I saw a hallway of offices. Voices were coming from within one of these; I clearly heard Delancy’s laugh, and several men I could not identify.

  I let the elevator doors close behind me, and heard the men approaching. I found a large stack of cardboard boxes to one side of the dock and hid behind them. Fortunately, I was able to observe around the edge of the boxes with little chance of being seen myself.

  Delancy walked on to the loading dock, accompanied by two men in military fatigues. The Vice President had put on what looked to be a hunting jacket and hat. He carried a rifle, and I thought he might be inebriated. He took up position near the open front of the loading dock, which I now saw was lined with barbed wire.

  A cell phone rang, and one of the uniformed men answered. He said a few words, then ended the call and turned to Delancy. “Get ready, sir. I think you’re going to like what we’ve got for you today.”

  Delancy grinned. “I always do, Sergeant.” Delancy threw the rifle’s bolt, preparing to fire.

  After a short time, I heard the distinctive sound of zombies moaning. The two uniformed men stood at the edge of the loading dock, just behind the barbed wire, and shouted, “This way, you fuckers! Come and get it, assholes.”

  A group of four zombies appeared around the edge of the building. They were perhaps forty feet away and staggering forward.

  Delancy whooped, sighted through the scope mounted on his rifle and popped off a shot. It was a direct kill and one of the zombies fell.

  A soldier shouted. “Good one, sir!” Delancy grinned and chambered his next round.

  (Since all three men were preoccupied at this time, I was able to capture some of what happened next on video. I apologize for the shaky quality – I was still concerned with the possibility of discovery – but the audio is clear and will confirm my account.)

  As the next zombie staggered up, Delancy peered through the sight and said, “By God, I know this one – this dipshit tried to filibuster a bill I sponsored once.”

  “We knew you’d like that one, sir.”

  Delancy fired, and the shot hit a middle-aged zombie in a tattered business suit. The zombie staggered back from the impact, but it was only a chest wound, not a kill shot. “Oh, yeah, you bastard,” Delancy said, finger poised on the trigger, “you’re going to suffer a little. Let’s see: you wanted health care, is that right?” He fired again, hitting the zombie in the right foot so it stumbled and continued on with a shuffle. Delancy continued, “And you weren’t too happy when I blocked your gun control bill, were you?” His next shot took the zombie in the stomach, and as it continued forward some of its organs began to ooze out through the wound. “Aw, hell,” Delancy said, sighting again, “this might be the first time you ever showed any guts.” He finally pumped a bullet into the zombie’s brain, and it dropped, splattering blood and intestines on the pavement. The soldiers applauded.


  Two of the zombies reached the loading dock and attempted to grab at the barbed wire. One of the soldiers pointed and laughed. “Look at this dumb fuck – he’ll probably cut his fingers right off and not even notice.”

  The other uniformed man stepped forward and drew a pistol. “Hey, be careful, man – that’s how Cheung got it. They may look stupid, but they can also reach through that barbed wire.” He started to aim at the zombie’s head, when a shot sounded and the zombie dropped. Delancy laughed like crazy, but the soldiers glared.

  “Hey, you think maybe you could wait until we’re out of the way?”

  Delancy chuckled. “Oh, come on, boys, that shot was perfect.”

  He shot the remaining zombie and turned to the soldiers. “Any more coming?”

  “Not today. It’s not so easy to round them up, you know.”

  Delancy clapped the sergeant on the shoulder. “I do know, and I really appreciate it.”

  “Don’t thank us – thank your pal Gillespie.”

  “Right.” Delancy nodded at the corpse of the one he’d recognized. “Hey, can I get a picture with Mr Filibusted?”

  The soldiers grinned, despite having been angry with Delancy a few minutes ago. “Yeah, I think we can arrange that.” They rolled back a few feet of the curls of barbed wire, jumped down, grabbed the one in the suit, and hauled him up on to the dock, grunting and sweating from the effort of moving dead weight, leaving a thick trail of gore.

  Once they had him up there, they arranged the corpse into a sitting position propped up against a box. Then one of them grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked the zombie’s bloody face up, and Delancy crouched down next to it, holding his rifle and smiling for the soldier with the smartphone camera. They snapped a few shots, and then Delancy stood. “I need a beer.”

  One of the soldiers gestured towards the offices. “We’ve got a whole case on ice for you back here, sir.”

  They started off towards the far side of the building. “Don’t forget to send me that picture,” I heard Delancy say.