Washington Deceased

by Stephen Jones

All she could do was watch and listen.

  Parker tore off his belt, formed it into a loop, and cinched it tight around his left bicep, slowing the flow of blood from the bullet hole just above his elbow. “Steele,” he said into the headpiece through gritted teeth, “if I can take out these two coming in, I want you to run.” His firing arm was still unharmed, and he lifted the pistol, sighting on the two dead men stepping through the French windows . . .

  And so he didn’t see the squad that entered the room behind him until it was too late.

  From where he crouched by a window, Parker spun and lifted his pistol, aiming at the one in front. The bullet went right through the zombie’s throat but missed the brain. Angry, the zombie brought a foot down on Parker’s gun hand. Steele nearly yanked her earpiece out as it filled her head with Parker’s shrieks while the zombie ground its foot down on to his hand. When the torment finished, Parker stopped screaming, but he breathed raggedly, the gasping after-effects of pain.

  The zombies grabbed him by the arms, and he groaned as they dragged him across the Oval Office to a couch. They hauled him up on to it, leaving a thick trail of blood. He lolled there, weak, trying to remain conscious.

  “Parker,” Steele breathed into the mike.

  He didn’t answer.

  Steele knew Parker was dying. She should run now, while their focus was on him . . . but she couldn’t. She had to see this play out. If she couldn’t save Parker (she couldn’t), at least she could possibly give his death meaning by gaining some useful intelligence.

  So she crouched, unseen, behind the wreckage, and observed.

  Zombie soldiers moved in and out of the room, relaying information and exchanging positions. In a few minutes, Parker (whose dark skin had greyed as his blood soaked into the expensive upholstery of the couch) was guarded by two dead men in suits, one armed with a rifle, the other holding his hands clasped politely near his holstered pistol.

  Steele felt a surge of rage: the two men were Secret Service. One she even recognized, as distant as she was: Michael Barber was a thirty-four-year-old African American who’d once been a champion body builder and who Steele had regarded highly. She remembered him as a crack shot who’d defeated an Army sniper in an impromptu shooting contest; now he gripped a rifle that she knew he’d turn on her without hesitation. Seeing him there, as an agent of the living dead, made her hands shake in unsatisfied rage.

  A few seconds later, a new figure entered the office, moving authoritatively. He was dressed in an elegant grey suit, only lightly spattered with blood, and there were others entering behind him. Steele was astonished to realize that she recognized all of them: there was the one-time Governor who’d had fifteen minutes of fame as a vice presidential candidate; there was the elegant Speaker of the House who’d gained a reputation for blocking every piece of legislation initiated by the other party; and the woman with the brunette hair and unblinking stare, wasn’t that the Minnesota Representative who’d scoffed at evolution?

  It took Steele a few more seconds to recognize the first man, the one whose bearing and position in front of the others marked him as leader. Of course: she’d seen this man’s face in photographs and on videos of speeches. He was James Moreby, the would-be president of the New Zombie Order.

  “Welcome, General Parker,” Moreby said, and Steele heard him over Parker’s mike, his voice hinting at a British accent, but one buried beneath an American tongue. “It is an honour to have you.”

  A feminine giggle sounded somewhere. Steele guessed it belonged to the former Governor.

  Moreby also heard the sound and said, “Pardon my ministers, General. They have only recently been incarnated in these bodies, and their thinking, I fear, is somewhat addled by hunger right now.”

  The giggling woman turned towards Moreby, and Steele thought she saw fury on her features. “Moreby—”

  “That is President Moreby, my dear, and you will remain quiet until my business with the General is concluded.”

  The Governor started to respond, then crossed her arms and stayed sullenly silent.

  Moreby returned his attention to Parker. “We have been most curious about where your human president is being kept, General. I applaud you for managing to keep that rather large secret . . . until now, that is. Time for a little taste . . .”

  Moreby began walking forward, his mouth already opening.

  Steele tried to steady her hands as they gripped the pistol. Could she get a shot from here? Moreby wore no helmet; he was vulnerable. One shot . . .

  There was still sporadic fighting going on behind her, and one of her former best agents held a rifle in front of her. If she took the shot, she’d be dead, whether she succeeded in killing Moreby or not.

  She was still weighing her chances when she saw Parker move. His uninjured arm jerked up and reached for the holstered pistol on the nearest guard’s hip. The man tried to wrestle the pistol away, but Parker pulled the trigger and blew most of the agent’s hand apart. The big guard, Barber, was trying to swing the rifle around . . .

  But Parker had already levelled the stolen pistol on Moreby, who stood six feet away.

  At first Steele didn’t understand what Parker was waiting for. “Take the shot,” she involuntarily said.

  Parker heard it. “Trying, but . . .”

  Then she realized: he was weakened by blood loss and shock, and his hand was shaking so badly that even at close range he couldn’t guarantee a hit.

  Moreby smiled down at Parker with almost parental concern. “Ames, Ames . . . just give it up. I am betting that your vision is fading, that your hands are shaking . . . do you even still have the strength to pull the trigger?”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

  Before they could stop him, he turned the gun around, put the barrel in his mouth and squeezed. An explosion sounded in Steele’s ear.

  She gasped and sagged, her own strength failing. Her gun hand fell to the grass, all thoughts of action gone. Everything . . . gone.

  After a few seconds she became aware of voices in her earpiece, and she looked up. In the Oval Office, Moreby was reaching down to the ruined remains of Ames Parker. He peeled something away from the General’s head, and at first Steele had the notion that it was tissue from the inside of Parker’s skull . . . then Moreby ran his fingers along it, wiping it clean, and when Steele heard a tiny thump in her ear, she knew what it was.

  Moreby licked his fingers clean of Parker’s blood, and tentatively placed the earpiece in his own ear and the mike near his throat. He walked to the nearest window and looked out at the tanks. When he spoke, Steele realized he wasn’t addressing her directly, but she thought he might as well be.

  “We will be coming for you next.”

  She pulled the earpiece out, flung the headset aside, hefted her gun and took off.

  She circled wide around the sheltering wreckage, trying to move from one large piece to another. She was making progress, closing in on the nearest tank. At thirty yards, she saw its hatch open and a soldier popped up, waving her on.

  There was no more wreckage between her and the tank. She’d have to try for it.

  She inhaled – and ran.

  She heard gunshots, but didn’t know how many were pointed in her direction. She saw a trio of zombies in front of the tank explode into pieces of tattered flesh as a grenade landed at their feet. When another stepped into view from around the rear of the vehicle, she fired into its chest, only to knock it back and give her time.

  The rear hatch started to lower. She waited, her palms sweating on the Glock’s handle.

  The zombie she’d hit in the chest began to rise. She raised the Glock – but didn’t need to fire, when the hatch suddenly fell open, pinning the zombie beneath. Soldiers inside waved her in. “Come on! Quick!”

  Steele jumped up – and tripped when her ankle was grabbed by the zombie beneath the hatch, who had reached over the edge with its free arm. Steele struggled briefly, lowered the G
lock and fired at the elbow. The arm was severed, her bullet ricocheted off the metal and away from the tank, and she reached down and pried the still-grasping hand from her ankle, tossing it out as the hatch began to rise. She ducked as she saw more attackers trying to pump bullets into the tank before the hatch sealed, but they were too late; their last few shots pinged off the metal outside.

  Steele was helped to a padded metal bench by two soldiers, a young woman with short hair and a wide jaw, and an older man with a prematurely lined face. The vehicle suddenly jounced as it began to roll forward, and the man grabbed Steele before she was thrown from the bench. “Hang on – it’s liable to be a bumpy ride.”

  She nodded and forced herself to wind down; adrenaline was still racing through her, making her heart slam and her fingers jitter. “Pretty rough, huh,” said the young woman.

  “Yeah.”

  “Were you hurt? Y’know . . .”

  “Bitten?” Steele asked.

  The woman nodded.

  “No,” Steele answered.

  The two soldiers eyed her strangely – the man with mild curiosity, the woman with uncertainty – and Steele remembered that she still had on the blonde wig. She reached up and removed it, setting it in her lap.

  After a moment, the female soldier asked, “You’re not really her, are you?”

  “No, I’m not.” Steele looked down at the wig and for a moment was struck by the power of image. She’d seen an almost worshipful look on the soldier’s face when she’d first set foot in the tank, but that had changed to uncertainty and finally disappointment. And she understood how vitally important the woman she worked for was, how her likeness on a stranger could inspire courage and hope.

  Steele turned her gaze from the cast-off wig in her lap to the female soldier, and she stuck a hand out. “Sandra Steele, Director, United States Secret Service.”

  Her eyes widening, the twenty-something soldier accepted the offered hand. “It’s an honour, ma’am. Sergeant Raquelle LaFortune, but my friends call me Rocky. And this redneck is PFC Willson Danning.”

  Danning shook her hand as well. Rocky said, “You’re the first female Director, aren’t you?”

  Steele nodded. “They had to bring me in when the boys couldn’t keep their pants zipped. Oh, sorry, Danning – no offence meant.”

  “None taken—” Danning broke off as something rocked the tank with a deafening roar. “Another fuckin’ rocket,” he noted. He waited a second to make sure the tank was still moving forward, and added, laconically, “They didn’t quite get us.”

  “Danning’s a master of understatement,” Rocky said.

  Steele tried to smile, but couldn’t. She was thinking of the man she’d left behind, Ames Parker. She suffered the first flash of guilt at having abandoned him, and the second for having watched him die.

  She knew she’d feel that guilt for the rest of her life . . . which she didn’t expect to be long.

  From:

  Dr. Brewster Gilray

  To:

  W. Leonard Paryder

  Sent:

  THU, Aug 29, 5:27 PM

  Subject:

  URGENT – Patient Omega

  Landen has finally relayed information on Patient Omega, including name and location. Subject is Kevin Moon, of Korean descent, 23 years old, height 5’ 10”, weight 170. GPS coordinates for his present location will be relayed separately. Please pick up subject and clean location per the usual; then return subject to HQ.

  Ward, this is the missing link. Put your best team on it and make sure we don’t blow this one.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  KEVIN WAS DYING.

  At least that was what he thought, as the sun dawned on his fourth day without food or water. The hunger left his insides in knots, but the thirst had taken away his ability to think of anything else. Water was all he could imagine, all he could dream about, what his world had constricted to.

  Water.

  Yesterday Pepper had ambled out into the yard, a big litre bottle of water in his hands. He’d stood just beyond Kevin’s reach, gulping half the bottle at once; he’d then poured most of the rest over his head. When he finished, droplets running down his shaven, dark brown pate, there’d been two inches left in the bottle.

  “You want it?”

  Even slightly unfocused from hunger and thirst, Kevin heard the edge in the man’s voice. “C’mon, man, yeah – of course I’m thirsty.”

  “Tell me you want me to give you water.”

  Under any other circumstance, Kevin would’ve told him to fuck off, or laughed and turned his back . . . but thirst was controlling his tongue, his eyes riveted to those two inches of water. “Okay. I want you to give me water.”

  “You want my water?”

  “Just . . . any water.”

  “Okay.”

  With that, Pepper had tossed the bottle behind him, unzipped his pants, and pissed on Kevin.

  Kevin had jerked back, already gagging at the acrid smell and the hot liquid on his sunburned skin, but the chain pulled him up short, digging anew into the ragged flesh of his ankle. Pepper was laughing while he continued to spray the ground with urine. Finally he finished, shook himself and zipped up again. “You wanted it, you got it, dipshit.”

  Using his shirt to wipe his head clean, Kevin snarled, “What are your superiors gonna say when you hand me over dead, asswipe?”

  Pepper squatted down to get closer to Kevin, feigning a friendly chat. “Well, see, in the first place – we all know you’re gonna start to turn any time now; and even if you’re not – we don’t take kindly to having our brothers bitten by either the dead or the living. You’re gonna pay for that, and nobody’s gonna know the difference when you turn. See, I’m just gonna make your death as unpleasant as possible.” Pepper winked, rose and walked away.

  Later in the day he and Forbes had eaten lunch (microwaved burritos) in front of Kevin, they’d set up bottles behind him and fired away with their rifles, intentionally coming close to him, and they’d blared country music at ear-splitting volumes. After the sun had gone down, they’d started drinking again, and Forbes at one point had staggered out of the house with a freshly dead rat that he’d tossed to Kevin, shrieking with laughter before he’d wandered back inside.

  The worst part had been that Kevin had seriously considered eating the rat. Instead, he’d finally removed the temptation by picking it up and tossing it out of his reach.

  At least they’d drunk enough to pass out, and he knew they’d both be suffering from hangovers. Of course even with throbbing heads, they’d still spent a warm night in comfortable beds, while he’d huddled under his jacket for warmth, shivering as the night temperatures dropped to a few degrees above freezing. He was bare-chested under the jacket since his T-shirt had served as everything from pillow to towel, and he’d tossed it aside after wiping off Pepper’s urine with it.

  Now, on this third morning, he was thankful for the sunrise and the increasing warmth, but weak and wary of what the day would bring.

  He guessed it was about noon when Pepper staggered out, blinking in the sun, downing another bottle of water. Pepper stopped, looked down at him. “Well, you don’t look so good today, you little freak.”

  “I’m not turning, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m hungry and thirsty and just spent the night freezing out here, thanks to your hospitality.”

  Pepper actually frowned and stepped closer, eyeing Kevin carefully. “You don’t look like somebody with HRV . . .”

  “I don’t have HRV! For fuck’s sake, what does it take to get through to you? I’m immune. Get it?”

  Doubt flickered across the soldier’s dark face. He jiggled his half-full bottle uncertainly, and for an instant Kevin thought he might offer it to him, realize he’d made a terrible error . . . but instead he poured it on to the ground before rising and dropping the empty bottle. “Yeah, well, whatever. Forbes ain’t lookin’ so good. That place wher
e you bit him is all purple, and he’s got a fever.”

  “You probably just didn’t disinfect the wound well enough. Does it look like HRV?”

  Again, uncertainty clouded Pepper’s expression, but was swiftly replaced by anger. “Just shut the fuck up. I got somethin’ special in mind for you tonight, boy. Somethin’ that’s gonna make Forbes feel better, and you feel a whole lot worse. I’m tellin’ you now just so you’ll have somethin’ to look forward to all day long. You just lay there and think about the shitstorm that’s comin’ your way.”

  Pepper turned and walked off. And as much as Kevin hated it, his body did exactly what Pepper wanted – anxiety ramped up his cramping another notch, and he shook, not from cold this time but from stark, undeniable fear.

  Just before sunset, Kevin heard the door to the house bang open. He turned to see both Pepper and Forbes walking towards him, purposefully.

  Pepper held a long butcher’s knife in one hand and a length of white nylon rope in the other. Forbes had a roll of duct tape.

  Kevin’s heart started to hammer.

  They stopped just beyond Kevin’s reach, glanced at each other, and then looked down at him with hard eyes. Forbes had dirty gauze wrapped around his bite wound, and he looked pale, but he obviously wasn’t suffering from HRV.

  He began rubbing his crotch.

  “You ready for playtime?” Pepper asked.

  Kevin crawled back as far as the chain would allow. He pulled at it, knowing it wouldn’t give but driven by instinct to seek any escape. They both walked forward now, and Pepper gestured with the knife as he spoke. “Flat on your stomach, hands behind your back.”

  “No.” Kevin sat and stared up with what he hoped was defiance.

  Pepper drew back a boot. Kevin had just enough time to see the steel in the toe before it impacted with his head.

  Pain exploded, vision darkened. He didn’t completely lose consciousness, but he couldn’t seem to make anything work. He felt himself hit the ground, and then his arms were being pulled up behind his back and tied, duct tape was wound several times around his head, sealing his mouth shut. They didn’t tape his nose, though. They wanted him to live through this.