The Vice President stared for a few seconds, as if weighing what he’d just heard. Finally, he said, “You know, that’s funny, because I’ve been talking to a few of our field commanders and I’m not hearing anything about a problem with food. In fact, the men and women I’ve spoken to all have more food than action.”
“What does that mean?”
Delancy ignored the question and turned to Ty. “Mr Ward, you follow the chatter around here. Have you heard rumours of impeachment proceedings?”
Ty shrugged. “Rumours, yes, but—”
The President cut him off, her own temper flaring now. “Impeachment? On what grounds?”
Delancy, seeing that he’d managed to anger her, smiled slightly. “Does it matter?”
“It does if you want to call it ‘impeachment’ and not a ‘coup’. It matters if you want to maintain the illusion that this is a democracy and not a mob.”
“Well, here’s a news flash, Madame President,” Delancy said, rising, “however many of the American people are left out there, don’t think of this as either a democracy or a mob. I’d say the best comparison might be a really boring movie, maybe one of those French things where you have to read subtitles and you realize after a while that all that reading isn’t making this movie any better. Our people want – no, need – action. If you don’t have the balls to give it to them, somebody else will.”
Delancy left, doing his best to slam the door on the way out.
There was silence for a moment following his departure, and the President said, “I need to know exactly who he’s been talking to on that phone. I don’t care what it takes – we have to know who he’s calling and what’s being said. If any of our military leaders plan on joining him in a takeover, I don’t want to find out when they’ve got us up against a wall with guns to our heads.”
A few short weeks ago, Steele would have thought the President was overreacting; but today she said, “I agree.”
Ty made notes on his tablet and asked, “Do we know which side Gillespie would fall on?”
Steele shrugged. “I don’t think he’s ever quite forgiven Delancy for what happened with Marissa Cheung. We already know he’s been watching Delancy pretty closely anyway. I think he’s okay.”
The President said, “Can you check into that, Steele? I’m not quite as confident as you are.”
Nodding, Steele said, “Okay. I’ll pay Aaron a visit later today.”
“Good. And if we have to pull people from some other project to keep tabs on Delancy, do it.”
Ty stabbed a finger at his tablet and said, “Yes, ma’am. Are we done here?”
“I think so.”
Steele and Ty started to leave, but the President stopped them at the door. “Oh, and I’m sure you both know this, but: I’m not worried about us if Delancy manages to take over. I’m worried about the fact that a government further fractured and weakened by that sort of infighting will stand even less chance to make real progress than we do.”
Ty answered, “Oh, we get that. We know you’re the best shot.”
Steele remained silent. As she turned to go, she couldn’t shake a feeling of impending doom.
We can face the walking dead and apocalypse, but if we start turning on each other, it’s all over.
Chapter Thirty
FOR EIGHT DAYS, Kevin was not allowed to see Singh.
On the first day after the bite and the injection, Kevin had ventured over to the squat concrete block building and had tried the outer door, but it was locked. He sought out Landen Jones, who seemed to be in charge throughout the NWP complex. Jones agreed to see him in his office.
“What can I do for you, Mr Moon?”
“I want to see Dr Singh.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“Why?”
Jones’ smile and poise never flickered, and Kevin was seized with an irrational urge to slap the man until his expression changed. “Dr Singh is under quarantine right now. You were there when he was bitten, so surely you understand the need to keep him secured until we know if the antiserum worked or not.”
“Secured, yes . . . but why does that mean I can’t see him?”
“If he survives, you’ll be allowed to see him.”
“When will that be?”
Jones laughed. “Really, Mr Moon, what’s with the urgency? It’s not as if you still have any medical condition he needs to oversee.”
Fresh anger flared in Kevin. “He’s my friend, okay? Got any of those yourself?”
Jones peered at Kevin, scrutinizing him. “Are you sure he’s just a friend?”
“What does that mean?”
“That means, Mr Moon,” Jones said, waving a hand at his desktop computer, “that I’ve read all of your files. I know that you’re a Korean from Los Angeles, that your mother’s name is Jung-ah but her American friends call her June, that you got poor grades in chemistry and math but did well in history, that your favourite drink is a blended margarita, and that you’re gay.”
Kevin sat stunned for a moment before asking, “How did . . . how did you know all that?”
“The average citizen would probably be surprised if they found out what their government really knows about them.”
“So you got my government file?”
Jones spread his arms wide. “Mr Moon, really – I am the Surgeon General.”
Kevin remembered then where he’d seen Jones: in the early days of the outbreak, there’d been a few photos of him posing with Ames Parker, who was then in charge. He’d heard gossip that Parker had died during a failed attempt to take back the White House, and he was sorry – he’d always thought the General seemed like a decent man. Jones, on the other hand . . . Kevin had always found his square-jawed grin and styled hair too perfect to be likeable. Now he knew he’d been right.
“Okay,” Kevin said, rising and turning to go.
“Mr Moon—”
Kevin turned back, and Jones continued. “I’m truly sorry, but we simply can’t allow you in to see Dr Singh at this time.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
Kevin left.
That night he waited until late, when work at the facility had ceased, and he strolled down a hallway lined with offices that were no longer in use. The first few he went into were empty; the third one he tried still had the previous tenant’s belongings in place, including a white lab coat with an ID card clipped to it. Kevin grabbed the card and left, heading for the building where Singh was being held.
The card admitted him through the outer door, and he made his way quickly past the first block of cells, down the central hallway to the second security door. He slid the pass card through the slot, the door buzzed, he pushed it open – and faced the muscular, tattooed security guard who’d come in with Jones. The man held a nightstick in one hand and said nothing, just stared at Kevin, making his warning clear without words.
“C’mon, I just want to see Singh,” Kevin said, knowing it would do nothing.
“You can use your stolen card to find your way out.”
Kevin tried to peer past him. He even shouted, “Singh—!”
The door closed in his face. For a second he imagined sliding the card through the security slot again, reminding the guard that his blood was valuable and trying to push past the man . . . but he doubted that the guard would hold his blood in high esteem. He’d be more likely to thoughtlessly spill it.
Instead he turned and stalked out. He went back to his office-cumapartment and stashed the stolen card in the desk. He’d try again tomorrow, during the day. Maybe a different guard might be easier to reason with. Or fight.
None of the guards let him in. In fact, by the third day the stolen card key no longer worked on the outer door.
Kevin paid another visit to Landen Jones. He caught up with him in the main hospital area, as Jones was walking and talking to a doctor. “Jones –!”
Jones stopped, and without glancing back said to his companion, “Will you ex
cuse me a moment?” He walked back to Kevin, smiling as always. “Yes, Mr Moon?”
“At least tell me how Singh’s doing. You can do that much, can’t you?”
“You know, after reading Dr Singh’s file, I’m still not sure if he’s straight or gay. The Indians can be somewhat mysterious that way, don’t you think?”
“Stop fucking around and be a human being for once in your pompous life.”
Jones almost blinked, the tiniest of cracks revealed in his exterior. His smile fell, and he leaned forward and whispered, “It’s too soon to tell. Now, if you come near me again, I’ll have you locked into your room.”
With that, Jones strode off.
The next morning, Kevin’s door was locked. He hadn’t even realized it was possible to lock it from the outside. At least they weren’t consigning him to one of those featureless cells in the concrete building.
The windows didn’t open, and he considered busting one out to escape, but the idea of possibly cutting himself on glass just so he could flee into the waiting jaws of zombies – who might not infect him but could still devour him – didn’t appeal. So instead he waited.
In the evening they brought him dinner. There was a knock on the door, followed by the sound of locks being drawn back. The door opened to reveal a frightened-looking young nurse. Kevin remembered her name from when he’d been a patient; she’d been kind to him. “Hi, Rebekah.”
The burly, tattooed guard – who’s name Kevin had been told was Joker – was behind her.
She passed Kevin a tray that held several covered dishes and two bottles of water. She didn’t speak, or look at him. He took the tray from her. “Thank you.”
“I . . .” Whatever she’d been about to say trailed off as she remembered the man standing behind her, glowering. Instead she turned and strode off. The door was closed and locked again.
This went on for three days. Kevin was brought breakfast, lunch and dinner. It was always Rebekah and Joker. Neither of them spoke. By the second day, Kevin didn’t, either; he simply took his tray of food in silence. In the evenings, Rebekah collected all the empty dishes and trays.
On the fourth day, Rebekah arrived without Joker.
“Where’s the gorilla?” Kevin asked, looking behind her.
“He got called off to handle something else.” Rebekah, anxious, set down the tray and turned to go.
“Hey—!” Kevin called after her. She hesitated in the doorway, and Kevin said, “I’m not going to try to escape. There’s nowhere to go, anyway.”
She relaxed and turned to look back at him. “That’s good.”
“Do you have to rush right off? Could we just . . . you know, talk for a few minutes? It gets kind of boring in here alone.”
Rebekah offered a half-smile. “Sure. I guess I could spare some time.”
They ended up talking for an hour. Rebekah told Kevin about how she’d been fresh out of nursing school when NWP had hired her to work in their experimental facility two years ago, and how the pay had been great but she had seen terrible things she couldn’t talk about, and how she still held on to her Catholic beliefs and missed her parents and sisters and her old church. She’d listened with interest to Kevin’s account of his trip from Los Angeles, she was sorry to hear of the fate of Bobby, and she was horrified by Kevin’s brief description of the treatment he’d received from the two soldiers. “Monsters,” she said.
“Well, I probably owe my life to you,” Kevin said.
“Thanks, but it was really Dr Singh. He’s amazing.”
“Rebekah,” Kevin asked, nervously, “do you know if he’s okay?”
She shrugged. “I’ve heard he is, but I haven’t seen him in nearly two weeks. I hope so.”
When she left, Kevin thanked her for being his friend. She smiled and nodded.
The next day, a knock was followed by the appearance of not Rebekah, but Landen Jones and Joker. “Good morning, Mr Moon,” Jones said, with false amiability. “I trust your short . . . shall we call it an enforced vacation . . . has been satisfactory?”
“Sure. Next time I want cable TV, too, though.”
“Don’t we all. God, I used to love HBO. Well, on to the matter at hand today: Would you like to see Dr Singh now?”
Kevin was jolted by both hope and dread. “Is he alive?”
“Oh yes, he is. All the tests indicate that the antiserum worked. Shall we?” Jones gestured out of the office. Behind him, Joker flexed his arms, causing the ink marks (barbed wire, a death’s head in a rose) to ripple.
Left with little choice, Kevin shrugged and exited the office.
They walked down the hall to the end of his building and stepped outside. The early October weather had turned cold, colder than Kevin had expected (or was used to, being a Californian), and he shivered and clutched at himself. Then, to his surprise, they turned left and entered the building that housed the facility’s hospital rooms.
“This way,” Jones said, obviously relishing Kevin’s confusion.
They passed the room where Kevin had recovered and stopped at one a few doors down.
It was locked.
Jones slid his key through a reader, and the door buzzed open. Jones entered first, followed by Kevin and Joker.
Kevin took one step into the room – and froze, staring in disbelief.
Singh was on the room’s only bed, and although he was covered by a thin sheet Kevin could see that his hands and feet were strapped to the bed’s rails. There were wires attached to his chest, and multiple intravenous needles fed in and out of his arms. One tube was bright red, and draining into a pouch.
They were collecting Singh’s blood, a lot of it, judging by the greyish tone of his normally richly hued brown skin; and they were collecting the blood against his will.
Singh was drowsy, but he did hear the visitors enter, and he smiled. “Kevin . . .”
Kevin started forward, but Joker interposed himself, and Kevin turned furiously on Jones. “What the hell is this?”
“Well, Mr Moon, here’s the deal: the antiserum created from your blood successfully fought off the HRV infection Dr Singh sustained after receiving the bite. We have now determined that Dr Singh’s blood can be used to create antiserum, just as yours can.”
“But why is he strapped down? You’re killing him—”
“No, no, we aren’t, of course not. He’s of no use dead. Neither are you.”
Before Kevin could react, Joker grabbed his arms from behind. He started to cry out, to struggle, then he felt something cool pressed against his neck. The last thing he saw was Singh’s face, looking stricken and desperate.
CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
CONFIDENTIAL REPORT ON V.P. BOB DELANCY
Prepared by Aaron Gillespie, Director, C.I.A.
Pursuant to my earlier report on the activities of Bob Delancy, I believe it is possible that our Vice President is attempting to parlez with the enemy, i.e. New Zombie Order President James “Thomas” Moreby.
Although I have been unable to trace calls made by Delancy on a satellite phone, I do have two pieces of evidence which support this:
On Tuesday evening, at approximately 11:00 pm, Delancy took the satellite phone to an unused office, which he obviously believed to be clean. Fortunately for us, we have installed microphones in all unused offices now, and we were able to obtain a clear recording of Delancy’s side of this conversation, which ran as follows:
DELANCY: Yes, it’s Delancy. You know that proposition we discussed earlier? I’d like to act on it, so I need to know where we start . . . I understand, but I . . . that’s going to be difficult for me, and I . . . no, of course it’s not that I don’t trust you – we’re going to be partners in this enterprise, after all – but I do have concerns about some of the others around you, and I don’t think I’m asking too much to have my safety guaranteed . . . well, let’s both think about it, then, and I’ll contact you again tomorrow.
The following day, Wednesday at 2:30 pm, we recorded
a call that Moreby picked up in the Roosevelt Room in the White House, which we still have undiscovered transmitters in. The following is a record of Moreby’s side of that conversation.
MOREBY: President Moreby . . . yes, hello, Bob . . . oh, that is good news, and I certainly think it is the correct decision for both our sides. So when should we expect you? . . . Are you sure you cannot make it sooner? . . . No, I quite understand . . . Thank you . . . yes, I look forward to seeing you, then.
In light of these two conversations, I think we must consider that Delancy is attempting to create an alliance with Moreby, to further his own ambitions.
I’d also like to suggest that we seriously consider the possibility that Delancy is possessed. While I know this might sound preposterous at first, please consider that we now accept the existence of zombies (creatures returned from the dead to consume human flesh), black magic (since we believe that Moreby created the virus which has spread the occult infestation), and reincarnation (Moreby’s “Well of Seven”). Given that, we should also consider the existence of other supernatural entities as well, which could include ghosts, vampires, or demonic forces.
Delancy was always a friend of this office and a solid American in the past, but his recent behavior suggests a turnabout so severe that it might be attributable to the intercession of unearthly powers. If this is the case, perhaps we can exorcize Delancy and restore him to his former self. I will begin investigating this immediately.
Chapter Thirty-One
STEELE TOOK A deep breath, and pressed the buzzer set into the wall below the hand-written sign that read CIA DIRECTOR AARON GILLESPIE. After a few seconds, the intercom sounded.
“Yes?” asked Gillespie’s voice.
“Aaron, it’s Steele. Can you buzz me in?”
“How do I know you’re really Steele?”
Steele made a fist and let her head droop. After reading Gillespie’s last report, the President had immediately ordered Steele to pay a visit on Gillespie and assess his mental state. Steele had never completely liked or trusted the man, but she would never have believed him to be the type who would develop mental illness . . . until now.
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