Washington Deceased

by Stephen Jones

  Suicide was simply another part of her job.

  From:

  Landen Jones

  To:

  Dr. Brewster Gilray

  Sent:

  THU, Aug 29, 3:16 PM

  Subject:

  Merry Christmas!

  I know it’s still summer, but I think you’re about to get the best present ever: we’re getting reports of an HRV survivor. Will keep you advised when I track down name and location.

  Love,

  Landen Claus

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “WAIT – YOU’RE KIDDING, right?”

  Forbes, the blonde soldier, gestured with a rifle. “Do I look like I’m kidding? Now put it on.”

  Any ideas Kevin had had about being taken to a high-tech research facility, or even a low-tech one, had gone out the window when the back of the truck had opened and he’d found himself facing the overgrown front yard of a rambling house in the country. It didn’t look as if it had ever been a proper farm – there were no outbuildings or fenced-in corrals, no fields of long-dead crops – but Kevin, city boy that he was, couldn’t imagine why else anyone would have built a huge house in the middle of bugfuck nowhere.

  Forbes and the fifty-something black man, who Forbes called “Pepper”, had led him out of the truck at gunpoint, to a large steel post in the middle of the yard. A length of chain was attached to the bottom of the post, with a set of handcuffs at one end. “Put that around your ankle,” Forbes had just said.

  “Didn’t you guys hear? I’m immune—”

  Pepper cut him off. “Maybe you are, and maybe you aren’t. We all watched you get bit, so now we wait to see if you turn.”

  Forbes added, “Oh, he’ll turn, all right,” with a lopsided grin.

  “How many other guys are here?”

  Forbes and Pepper looked at each other in perplexity, and then Forbes turned to squint at Kevin. “What the fuck difference does it make?”

  “Because if it’s just us three, you could easily lock me in a room in that house and still have plenty of space to yourselves.”

  Forbes ran his finger over the rifle’s trigger as he glared at Kevin. “You’re not goin’ into the house. Now I’m not gonna tell you again – put on the fuckin’ cuff!”

  Kevin saw there was no point in arguing; he believed that Forbes would be happy to shoot him, and Pepper would probably yawn and stroll away. Reluctantly, he sat on the grass and picked up the open cuff.

  It was stained. It’d been used for this before, maybe a lot.

  He rolled one sock down and snapped the cuff around his ankle. He had a small build, but even on him the cuff was tight, designed as it was for wrists. He realized the stains were from where it had bit into the flesh of someone who was larger.

  “Snap it closed.”

  “I did!” Kevin gave the chain a yank to prove it. He regretted the action instantly, as he felt the metal bite into his leg.

  “Okay. Welcome to your new home, asswipe. You need to take a piss or a shit, you just do it right there in the grass.”

  “How long will I be here?”

  They were already turning away. Pepper called back over one shoulder, “However long it takes.” He and Forbes guffawed and headed off to the house.

  It wasn’t a hot day, but it was clear and sunny, and Kevin was soon covered in sweat. He took off his jacket and laid it aside, intending to use it as a cushion later on; then his T-shirt came off, he folded it into a triangle, and tied it around his head. At least it might keep him from getting heat stroke.

  He settled back in the grass to wait.

  The sun had just set and Kevin had put his shirt back on when Forbes ambled out of the house. From his unsteady gait, Kevin knew he was drunk. He had an unwrapped candy bar in one hand; he paused a few feet from Kevin.

  “We’re supposed to feed you an’ shit,” Forbes said, gesturing with the candy bar, “but you know what? This is chocolate, so you’re shit outta luck.” He tore off the wrapper and bit the candy bar in half, chewing noisily.

  Kevin’s stomach rumbled and rolled through a cramp. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and that meal had been small, just a half-plate of canned hash, not even heated. “Hey, man,” Kevin said, trying to sound light and amiable, “you could spare half of that, couldn’t you?”

  The way Forbes’ face twisted up made Kevin think of a mask – a sculpted work of art that perfectly embodied hate. “Sure,” he said, before tossing the uneaten half of the bar into the dirt driveway thirty feet away.

  For a second Kevin wanted to pound the ground in pure frustration, but he wouldn’t give Forbes the pleasure. “You know, if I really am immune and you guys starve me to death, your superiors aren’t going to be very happy.”

  “Well, first off,” Forbes said, his words slightly slurred from drink, “you fuckin’ aren’t immune. And second off – we don’t give a rat’s ass what our superiors think. What’re they gonna do – replace us? Nope. Get a clue, you dumb chink.”

  Ahhh, Kevin thought, there it is. Of all the soldiers I could’ve been handed off to . . .

  “I’m not Chinese – I’m Korean-American.”

  “Oh, excuse me. So you eat that kimchi shit. Yeah, that’s a big improvement.”

  Kevin stood, his hands starting to tremble with anger he couldn’t release. Some small part of him told him to sit down, shut up, don’t make it worse than it already is . . . but he was hungry, and thirsty, and his ankle was already bruised from the restraint, and unloading on this cretin suddenly seemed like the best idea in the world. “Yeah, I eat kimchi . . . but I didn’t drop out of school in the ninth grade to marry my cousin.”

  Forbes’ face flushed instantly, and he staggered forward, trying to throw a punch. But the alcohol made him clumsy, and Kevin ducked easily. He came up again behind Forbes, grabbed his arm, and bit into the man’s forearm, tasting blood. Forbes screamed, jerked away and stumbled back, clutching his arm. He screamed for Pepper as Kevin spat Forbes’ blood out and grinned at the soldier.

  Pepper finally appeared, running clumsily from the house, obviously as drunk as his comrade. “What the fuck—?”

  “He bit me! He fuckin’ bit me!”

  Kevin lunged forward, not caring that the cuff was drawing blood now. “Yeah, that’s right, asshole, I bit you, and now you’re gonna turn and be just like me. Soon you’ll be craving all the kimchi you can get—”

  Pepper drew a pistol and pointed it at Kevin. “You – shut the fuck up.”

  Kevin’s fury ebbed instantly. He drew back, giving the chain slack, as Pepper turned to look at Forbes’ arm. “Let me see . . .”

  Forbes started to hold his arm out – then grabbed for Pepper’s gun. Pepper saw the grab and moved the gun hand up, putting it out of range of the smaller Forbes. “Whoa, whoa, what the hell you doin’—?”

  “I’m gonna kill this fuckin’ asshole, that’s what I’m doing. Don’t you get it? He bit me! I’m dead!”

  Pepper holstered the gun and grabbed Forbes’ wounded arm; blood was smeared across the flesh, but not gushing. “Yeah, he got you, man. You better hope he’s right and the HRV doesn’t take with him. Now, c’mon – let’s get back inside and clean that up.”

  Forbes began to cry as Pepper led him back towards the house. Kevin called after them, “Hey! Aren’t you gonna chain him up in the yard, too?”

  Pepper didn’t turn around but called back over his shoulder, “You’re goddamn lucky I didn’t just kill you.”

  They went back into the house. It was full night now, the temperature dropping, and Kevin tugged on his jacket as he sank down into the grass. At least the greenery was soft and he might be able to get some sleep.

  If one of his guards didn’t realize he was also gay and blow his brains out in the middle of the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  STEELE LOOKED DOWN through a window in Marine One at the seething mass below. “How can there be so goddamn ma
ny?”

  Parker heard her and glanced out his own window before responding. “Whole lot of people in the world. And with the older corpses resurrecting as well, there are now more dead than there were alive.”

  “I know, but . . . they always seem to group together like that.”

  “The live ones did it, too, if they got hungry enough.”

  The pilot called back to them, “One minute.”

  Steele gave her short blonde wig a tug, and then put on sunglasses. “How do I look?”

  “Like a Secret Service agent disguised as the President.”

  Grimacing, Steele shot back, “You know, I’ve never said this before to a four-star general, but – fuck you.”

  Parker looked at Steele seriously. “If we both get out of this . . . I’d like you to meet my wife. You two would have a lot in common.”

  “I’d like that.”

  The squat olive-and-white ’copter began its descent, and Steele reached under her blazer, instinctively checking the Glock holstered there. She hoped the bulge wouldn’t show, but reminded herself that nobody would be watching. At least nobody alive.

  Parker, who had no need for disguise, brought out his own pistol and held it loosely in his hand. “Remember, we just walk to the Oval Office, nice and slow. Colonel Harkins and his troops will be waiting for us.”

  “Right.”

  The bird manoeuvred slowly down to the scorched ground, turning while still in the air so that the front hatch faced the Oval Office, perhaps fifty yards away. When the landing was complete, the pilot stepped out of the cockpit, opened the front hatch, and lowered the steps. Steele undid her seatbelt, took a deep breath and rose. She was starting forward when Parker put up a hand to stop her. “Remember, you’re the President today. I go first, to make sure it’s clear.”

  “Sorry – old habits.”

  Parker turned to the pilot. “Keep the engine hot. When I give the all clear, you return to base and await further orders.”

  “Yes, sir.” The pilot returned to the cockpit.

  Parker and Steele both scanned the area outside. The earth was pitted and blackened from the recent battle, and there were still a few corpses littering the ground, but most had been cleared away. Behind them, the tanks, RCVs and trucks formed a solid ring; before them stood the White House. Harkins waited just outside the Oval Office with four of his soldiers, all standing at attention now.

  It looked safe.

  Parker spoke softly, the words picked up by the tiny throat mike that was connected to his earpiece. “Ready?”

  Steele pushed her own earpiece in tightly and arranged a lock of hair over it. “Let’s do it.”

  Parker stepped out of the ’copter and turned to wait for her. She moved down the steps, trying to mimic the woman she’d rescued and advised and admired, her careful but self-assured walk. Steele was bigger than the President, but knew that crouching down to appear smaller was wrong; confidence was the key.

  She tensed as she reached the ground, and tried to imagine what the President would do. She saw the soldiers back around the tanks staring in her direction, and raised one hand to them. She thought she heard a cheer.

  She started to follow Parker across the lawn. They walked slowly, eyes constantly scanning.

  There were no signs of danger.

  They were halfway across the lawn when Steele stepped up beside Parker and said softly, “Still looks good . . .”

  Parker nodded – but his scrutiny didn’t let up for a second. “It does, but . . .” He trailed off and stopped walking, his head cocked as if listening.

  “What—?” Then Steele heard it, too – a high-pitched whistling, growing louder.

  “Down!”

  Parker threw himself at her and they both went down . . .

  As Marine One exploded.

  For a second Steele was stunned . . . what the fuck happened? Then she felt Parker’s weight partly on her, and heard his voice in her ear. “Javelin.”

  “What?”

  Parker rolled aside, giving Steele the room to look up and back. Their ride was gone, nothing but flaming metal chunks. She saw smoke billow up from Parker’s back and instinctively reached out. “You’re hit . . .”

  He waved her off. “Later. Move!”

  Steele got to her feet, taking a few seconds to orient herself. She heard more explosions, and saw two of the trucks near the fences going up in blinding balls of light. Soldiers were running and shouting. She heard voices screaming in her earpieces; one of them was Ty, demanding to know what was happening. Two soldiers were on fire, their arms waving frantically. Several were streaming blood from head and chest wounds. The tanks had already opened fire. At first Steele didn’t see what they were shooting at.

  Then smoke from one of the exploded trucks cleared, and she saw where a large section of the fence had already gone down – and soldiers armed with assault rifles were pouring through. Steele stared at them, unable at first to comprehend what she was seeing. These new attackers moved with trained expertise and obvious cunning; they were ruthless and efficient, and the human ground troops were being decimated.

  Who were these attackers – some terrorist group? Humans allied with the dead? As they drew closer, she saw that the advancing soldiers – who all wore Stormtrooper-style combat helmets – were grey-skinned and red-eyed.

  Intelligent zombies. Hordes of them. They’d obviously hidden among their slower, thoughtless kin, waiting. What was it Parker had murmured in her ear? Javelin. It took her a moment to remember: the Javelin was a standard anti-tank guided missile, fired by a two-man team. They had weapons as well as training, and linked minds that enabled them to act in unison.

  The humans didn’t stand a chance.

  In that instant she felt Parker tug at her. “Go!” He was pulling her towards the Oval Office, where Harkins and his troops were already crouching and offering covering fire. Steele collected her wits, pulled her Glock, and ran with Parker.

  Bullets traced the ground beside her. She dodged, expecting to feel the fatal impact any second. Thirty feet away, Harkins was frantically waving her forward . . .

  A bullet exploded Harkins’ face. He fell back, dead.

  Steele stopped and whirled, the Glock already raised. A zombie with a pointed rifle was fifty feet behind her. She sighted and fired. The zombie’s helmet caught her shot, and the impact threw the dead man back, but he regained his footing and raised the rifle again.

  “Fuck,” Steele said.

  Unfortunately for the zombie, Steele’s first shot had also knocked his Stahlhelm helmet askew, and her second shot lodged perfectly the middle of his forehead; he collapsed, a look of surprise frozen on his face.

  Parker, beside her, was shouting now to be heard over the gunfire and explosions. “We can’t stay. The tanks are our only chance.”

  Steele nodded and looked back. The Bradleys were firing their big guns at the advancing wave, holding them back . . . but not for long.

  Parker pulled her down behind the temporary shield of a smouldering hunk of metal as he spoke into his headset. “Tank commanders, this is General Ames Parker. Prepare to retreat, but not until my signal. We’re going to try to reach you first.”

  Steele heard several voices bark, “Yes, sir!”

  Parker looked around. “At least we’ve got a shot at an escape route.”

  Steele was about to ask Parker how he suggested they get to the tanks when he rose. “Where are you going?”

  He looked towards the Oval Office. “I need to take control of Colonel Harkins’ unit, tell them to get the hell out of here with us.”

  “Right.”

  “Cover me.”

  Parker ran.

  Steele saw that the zombies all seemed to be preoccupied with the combat surrounding the tanks. She saw one glance at Parker and raise an assault rifle, but she fired first, from behind the safety of the metal wreckage. Her shot knocked the zombie off-balance and gave Parker time to finish running.

 
; But then she saw the zombie lower the rifle and lift a phone instead.

  She risked another shot, and it was good – the phone exploded with most of the zombie’s hand. It looked down with something like mild irritation, and then began scanning the area for her. Steele ducked behind the wreckage and hoped she hadn’t been spotted. She glanced towards the Oval Office – and saw chaos.

  Parker and two of Harkins’ troops (the last two?) were popping off shots from just inside the room; several of the zombie soldiers were advancing on their position, spraying the area with assault rifle fire. From her vantage, she could see Parker clearly through one of the tall windows that circled the Oval Office; he looked up, saw her, and waved towards the tanks. “Start moving, Steele!”

  Steele shook her head. “Not without you,” she said into her own headpiece.

  He gestured angrily. “Dammit—!”

  Steele fired at the nearest zombie. Her shot went wide. A second shot caught it in the chest. It staggered slightly, but kept going, inexorable.

  One of the soldiers next to Parker took a round in the heart and dropped. It was now just Parker and one other soldier, trying to hold the Oval Office.

  Steele surveyed the area. She knew it was unlikely that she could reach the White House alive; there were two zombie soldiers striding forward, both carrying automatic weapons. They’d cut her down in a firestorm. If only she had a grenade, or even a Molotov cocktail . . .

  “You know, if you served under me I’d court martial you.”

  It was Parker’s voice. Steele looked across the fifty feet of lawn separating them, and saw him speaking into his headset. He stopped talking and shot at the nearest zombie, who returned fire. The remaining human soldier with him fell dead. Parker reached out as the young soldier collapsed – and a bullet caught him in the arm.

  “Parker—!” She leapt to her feet.

  “Steele, go!”

  She didn’t. She ducked down again.