Washington Deceased

by Stephen Jones

  Leaning back, Ty read over what he’d just typed, and thought Ames Parker would have approved.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  KEVIN WOKE SLOWLY, allowing himself to drift up from sleep, a feather caught in a gentle draft. The crisp, cool sheets were delicious against his skin, his stomach was happily rumbling in anticipation of breakfast, and even the chemical scents of hospital disinfectants were welcome after days of smelling sweat and urine and blood.

  He still hurt in places – mainly his right ankle, where the metal shackle had rubbed a red circle and led to an infection – and he was weak. He thought he might try getting out of bed and walking a little . . . but later.

  When he’d been brought in last night, he’d barely been conscious enough to know what was happening. He was exhausted and feverish. He remembered isolated images: a security gate; a large complex of some kind; armed guards patrolling; a stretcher rolled up to the van; white-coated doctors and nurses asking him questions and tending to him.

  They’d all treated him with compassion he could barely recognize.

  Now, with dawn spilling in through a nearby window, he had a chance to look around. He was in a hospital room, but an elegant one with high-tech medical equipment Kevin had never seen before, spotless floors and fixtures, a flatscreen television facing the single bed, and two luxurious leather armchairs.

  This was obviously no ordinary hospital.

  Kevin was hooked up to an IV, and he thought he recognized a heart monitor, but there were wires taking readings from him that he couldn’t guess at. He needed to urinate, and glanced under the sheet just to make sure he didn’t have a catheter; instead, he saw he wore simple cotton pyjamas. He was thankful to realize he’d been thoroughly cleaned, although he had no memory of that happening.

  He found a call button tucked into the guard rail on the bed’s right side, and he pressed the button. Within seconds, the door opened and a man in a white lab coat entered. He smiled at Kevin and said, “Well, good morning, Mr Moon. I’m Dr Singh. How are you feeling?”

  What Kevin felt at that exact moment was incredulity: Dr Singh was one of the handsomest men he’d ever seen. With gleaming black hair tousled in a boyish cut, skin the colour of cherry wood and perfectly white teeth, Kevin was tempted to ask if he was a real doctor or an actor playing one.

  “Mr Moon . . .?”

  “Oh, sorry. Still a little out of it, I guess, but much better today. Much better.”

  “Good.”

  Dr Singh bent forward to examine readings on the equipment, and Kevin saw that there was a patch sewn on to his lab coat – the logo for New World Pharmaceuticals Group. “Is that where I am – some facility or something for New World Pharmaceuticals?”

  “Exactly right. This is our US headquarters just outside Baltimore. We have a large and very secure complex here, so you’re quite safe. Now, what can I help you with?”

  It took Kevin a few seconds to remember that he’d pressed the call button. Singh helped him out of bed and the few steps to the bathroom, while rolling the IV stand. When he’d finished, Kevin was startled to realize how much just that small action had fatigued him, and he was grateful for the solace of the bed. Once he was settled, Singh said, “Whenever you’re ready, Mr Moon, I’m going to need to ask you a few questions.”

  “I’m ready now.”

  Singh pulled up a chair, and for the next ten minutes they went over Kevin’s entire medical history, beginning with childhood vaccinations and winding up with three days of exposure, dehydration and starvation. Singh tapped some notes into a keyboard attached to a metal extension over the bed, and when he finished he eyed Kevin with fresh appreciation. “It’s a wonder you’ve survived everything that’s happened to you, Mr Moon.”

  “Could you call me Kevin? Mr Moon sounds like my Dad.”

  Singh smiled, and Kevin was dazzled again. “Of course, Kevin.”

  “So . . . what’s going to happen to me here?”

  A flicker of trepidation crossed Singh’s face, but was replaced almost instantly by warmth and reassurance. “You’re going to be very well looked after here, let me assure you. I’ll be frank with you, Kevin: you’re the first human survivor of HRV, or at least the first one who we know of. At this point, that makes you a pretty important guy and we’ll take good care of you. I’ll be overseeing your medical care, so we’ll be getting to know each other pretty well.”

  “Okay. And how long will I be here?”

  “I think you’ll be ready for regular quarters by tomorrow. After that . . . well, it’ll be pretty comfortable here, especially compared to what’s going on outside.”

  Kevin nodded, and realized he wouldn’t mind staying anywhere that was near Singh.

  The doctor rose and reached into a pocket for a syringe. “Now, if you don’t mind, Kevin, I’m going to need to draw some blood . . . for tests. I’m afraid you may be feeling like a pincushion in another few days.”

  “Hey, doc, I’ll take pincushion over punching bag any day.”

  Singh took Kevin’s right hand, turned it over to expose the wrist, and found a vein. His fingers were sure and warm, and lingered slightly as he removed the needle and pocketed the vial of blood. He taped a band-aid over the pinprick, told Kevin he’d be back in the afternoon and left.

  Kevin closed his eyes, letting comfortable drowsiness settle in, luxuriating in the possibility that everything might actually be fine at last.

  CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

  AARON GILLESPIE, DIRECTOR

  CONFIDENTIAL

  Two days ago, as you may recall from the bulletin I sent at that time, the self-proclaimed NZO government under the control of James Moreby restored power to most of the eastern seaboard, including Washington and, specifically, the White House. As of yesterday, we were able to access all intelligence-gathering devices in the structure with the exception of those in the Oval Office, the Rose Garden, and the South Lawn, all of which were destroyed or damaged in the recent combat operations.

  This morning, September 21, at 6:41 am, Moreby convened a meeting of what our earlier intelligence indicates to be his “Well of Seven”. They met in the Roosevelt Room, and we were able to obtain a complete and clear audio recording of the meeting, which has been transcribed herein.

  The choice of time and date – at dawn, on the day of one of the eight Pagan Sabbats known as “Mabon”, the time of the Autumn equinox – is consistent with reports from the early 1800s of Thomas Moreby’s meetings with his acolytes (“The Well of Seven”). As hesitant as I am to suggest some sort of occult method of reincarnation, we believe that “James Moreby” is in fact Thomas Moreby, and the ministers who took part in this morning’s cabinet meeting represent some of the original Well of Seven; that is to say, their consciousness has somehow been transplanted into contemporary bodies. As you’ll note from the transcription, their manner of speech and level of familiarity with modern technology and American society would indicate that they do indeed possess an early 19th-century British sensibility.

  The members of The Well of Seven have evidently always been intended to serve as Moreby’s ministers in a crude, largely dictatorial government. We can only guess that the earlier version of Moreby promised them this form of extended life in return for their services at his side.

  In addition to Moreby, we have identified five male voices (“Jonathan”, “Charles”, “General Arnold”, “Sir William”, and “Lovett” – there is some confusion on the gender of this latter, as you’ll see – and two female voices (“Cecilia” and “Dr. Fremont”). You’ll also note that each discusses his or her role in Moreby’s government.

  TRANSCRIPTION:

  Moreby: I hereby call this first meeting of the provisional NZO government to order, President James Moreby, presiding—

  Cecilia [interrupting]: Are we not to call you “Thomas”, then?

  Moreby: Dear Lady Cecilia, I must request that you not interrupt me, especially in my capacity as President – it would appea
r entirely disrespectful were any outside of this group to witness it.

  Cecilia: But I—

  Moreby: In private, I care not how you address me, but in public situations you will refer to me henceforth as President Moreby. Is that quite clear, my dear?

  Cecilia: Yes, Thomas.

  Moreby: And please, Cecilia, in the future, I think we’d all appreciate it if you could attend our meetings in a less gruesome state. Being covered in blood is not acceptable for a minister of my government.

  Cecilia: Oh. My apologies. I shall address my hygiene more carefully in the future.

  Moreby: Very good. Now, I trust you all understand the importance of—

  Lovett [interrupting]: Before we go any further, Mr. Moreby, I must protest the body you have assigned to me.

  Moreby: Why? It is really quite handsome, I believe.

  Lovett: But that is just it – the “handsome” part. It is male, your Lordship.

  Moreby: Yes, I am aware of that, Mrs. Lovett.

  Lovett: How can you call me “Mrs.” when I’ve got this . . . well, you know, this bit in my trousers? It’s just not fittin’ for a lady, it ain’t.

  Moreby: I do apologize for the confusion. But at the time of the incarnation ritual, this body was the best one present. It’s almost entirely undamaged and still quite presentable. I thought its strength might be useful to us should you decide to gift us with one of your delicious pies.

  Lovett [laughs, then]: Oh, it might at that, guv’nor.

  Moreby: That’s President now – why must I continue to remind you all of that? And my dear lady, you must understand that the incarnation ritual is dependent on place, availability of suitable subjects, and time. The next date when I can successfully perform a ritual as difficult as an incarnation is more than a month distant, I am afraid, so I suggest you reconcile yourself to your new form for now. And I should not have to remind you why you are perhaps most suited to this gathering regardless of gender – you are the only one amongst my lieutenants who subsisted on human flesh even before the change.

  Lovett: Fine, fine. I’ll muddle through, I will.

  Moreby: Excellent. Does anyone else have a complaint?

  Sir William: Mine is not famed.

  Moreby: What was that, Sir William?

  Sir William: My body was no one. Lord Charles and Lady Cecilia both have famous bodies. Dr. Fremont, who was not even counted amongst our original Well of Seven, has a famous body. Mine belonged to little more than a carriage driver.

  Moreby: They call them “cars” now, Sir William. And I would also point out that yours is the youngest of all those assembled here.

  Cecilia: Also the most becoming.

  Moreby: Cecilia, please, contain yourself. But she is right, Sir William. And you know that Dr. Fremont is here to replace the unfortunate Dr. Hawkins, whose consciousness was lost in transit. Now, may we proceed with business?

  Dr. Fremont: I must protest as well. You’ve placed me in the body of a woman who was a laughingstock. And with good reason – using this brain is like trying to use a butter knife to perform cardiac surgery.

  Moreby: Dr. Fremont . . . Clare, I can see to it that you have no body, if that is your preference.

  [No response]

  Moreby: Very well. I presume you have all had time by now to study your relative positions and the information you have been provided with. While I understand that we will all be spending many hours, if not indeed years, understanding the 21st century in which we now find ourselves, it is vitally important that we begin reconstruction of this country into the shape that I have outlined in your reports. Firstly, I would like to ask General Arnold, as our Minister of War, to report on the military situation.

  Arnold: Thank you, President Moreby.

  [A small feminine snort is heard here, presumably from Cecilia. Arnold clears his throat and continues.]

  Arnold: Our armies continue to grow in number and are in control of an estimated 82% of the former United States now. In the west, Major General Harland Dawson has proven especially effective in quashing human resistance, and we should have most of Southern California under control within two or three weeks. We owe our successes in part to advanced military equipment research, which has provided our troops with bulletproof helmets based on a Germanic style designed, so I am informed, to induce primary dread in the minds of our enemies; and also to Operation Darwin, which selects the human prisoners that our military commanders will consume on the basis of military knowledge and experience.

  Moreby: Well done, Minister. And on a personal note . . . I trust you are enjoying crushing the same Americans who have blackened your good name for so long, Benedict?

  Arnold: I am, sir.

  Moreby: Excellent. Next, I call upon our Minister of Administration – Lord Charles?

  Charles: Yes?

  Moreby: Your report?

  Charles: I do not have a report. I do not even know what my job is supposed to be – what on earth is a “Minister of Administration”? It sounds like some sort of sodding amanuensis.

  Moreby: Charles, we discussed this. Your job is second only to mine; you oversee all of the essential functions of the government – the sub-ministers, the governors, the mayors, the local ministers. They all report to you. And I even secured a powerful body for you – he was only two steps removed from the presidency. You have learned from his memories, have you not?

  Charles: I have tried, but by God, Moreby, this man had no interest in real government. He lived only to create discord.

  Moreby: Charles, did you not hear General Arnold? We have taken most of the former U.S.; soon we will hold it in its entirety, and we will need to govern it. It is your job to see to it that we begin to establish political order out there . . . if you are not up to the task then please inform me thusly now.

  Charles: No, President Moreby, I shall apply myself and prepare a report for you by the morrow.

  Moreby: See that you do. Dr. Fremont, what progress on securing our food supply?

  Lovett: I’m starving, by God I am. I could do with a pie right now.

  Moreby: I understand that dear lady, but—

  Cecilia: I am, too. Why can we not have a human brought in here? We are the rulers of this world now – we should be feasting.

  Moreby: You arrive at this important gathering looking like some overstuffed harlot from an abattoir, and now you demand more?

  Cecilia: You are the one who conferred upon me a body with significant appetites, dear sir.

  [There is the sound of a chair being pushed back.]

  Moreby: Sir William, why are you rising?

  Sir William: We are all hungry, Moreby. I have not eaten in days. Surely you cannot expect us to function in this state.

  Moreby: Surely not.

  [Other chairs are pushed back.]

  Moreby: Oh, very well. This meeting is adjourned.

  Charles: Oh, do not sound so dour, Thomas. I would say that we accomplished as much as the last government’s typical meeting did.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  THE PRESIDENT STARED at Delancy in disbelief. “Say again?”

  “We need to hit back hard. Now.”

  The rest of the group gathered around the conference room – Steele, the President, Ty and Gillespie – all gaped at Delancy in unison.

  “Mr Vice President,” Steele said, no longer caring if she offended the man or not, “in case you weren’t paying attention . . . less than a month ago we got our ass handed to us by our enemies. We don’t have the manpower right now to kick back soft.”

  Delancy leaned forward, urgently. “But see, that’s the great thing about ass-whuppings: you learn from them. We know now what it is we really face.”

  “Yes,” the President said, “we face intelligent, heavily armed opponents with a 300-year-old leader who is apparently an immortal black magician. Just exactly how did you propose we strike back against that?”

  “A special team – strictly covert. Just like we did
with Bin Laden: they go in under cover of night, they find Moreby and take him out, then they extract themselves. We even have an advantage SEAL Team Six didn’t have: We know exactly where our target is. No guesswork.”

  The President appeared to consider before turning to Gillespie. “Aaron: analysis?”

  Gillespie laughed. “You’re kidding right? I mean, you do know it’s ridiculous, don’t you? We don’t have any highly trained men left. We don’t have the equipment. We can’t get through thousands of their troops, and we’re not even sure if a bullet will take out Moreby.”

  Delancy swung his hands wildly. “So are we supposed to just sit down here and wait for them to find us? Maybe hand all of us a cyanide capsule so we don’t have to be eaten when they burst in?”

  “Bob,” the President said as if speaking to a very young child, “we’ve been working on other things.”

  “Like what?”

  The President nodded at Ty, who glanced at his tablet. “We’ve got a CDC research team looking into medical alternatives to combat—”

  “Aw, bullshit,” Delancy blurted, “we all know that’s a dead end. NWP would’ve found something by now if there was anything to find. You better have something more than that.”

  Silence. Delancy stared from one to the other. Only the President held his gaze, but she remained mute.

  After a few seconds, Delancy rose. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I figure I might as well go finish off my will and then see how far up my ass I can stick my thumbs while I wait for some zombie to sink its teeth into my scalp.” He strode out, not bothering to close the door behind him.

  Ty got up and pulled it shut, and returned to his chair. The President cleared her throat lightly, said, “Aaron, I know your agency has a long relationship with the Vice President, but I have to tell you: he’s on the verge of becoming a liability.”

  “I agree,” Gillespie said.