Washington Deceased

by Stephen Jones

  She led the way into the room. For the second time, Kevin found himself staring at Singh in disbelief.

  The doctor looked like death. He was emaciated and colourless, sleeping or comatose, his breathing shallow. “My God,” Kevin murmured.

  Rebekah stepped up to the bed, saying loudly, “Good evening, Dr Singh. Dr Jacobson is here to see you.”

  Singh gave no sign that he’d heard.

  “We have to move you for a few minutes, Dr Singh. Dr Jacobson’s going to assist me. Okay?”

  Still no response.

  Rebekah plucked the needles from Singh and motioned to the chair Kevin still gripped. “Doctor, can you bring that over here and help me get him into it?”

  Kevin nodded, and wheeled the chair over. His throat constricted as he got even closer to Singh, and he had to work not to groan. Rebekah got Singh’s light body sitting up, and they managed to wrestle him into the wheelchair. He was barely conscious.

  “Doctor, can you take him outside?”

  Kevin started to push, but Singh whispered, “Wait.” Kevin did, and Singh raised one hand – the effort costing him – and reached under the mattress. He dug for a few seconds, and withdrew a USB stick which he handed to Kevin. “Go,” he croaked.

  Kevin wheeled the chair out the door and into the hallway. After a few seconds, Rebekah joined him with a blanket that she tucked around Singh’s limp body.

  “Is he going to make it?”

  Adjusting the blanket, Rebekah said, “I really don’t know. But we have to go now.”

  She walked swiftly down the hallway and Kevin struggled to keep up, pushing Singh in the chair. At the end of the corridor Rebekah indicated they wait as she looked outside. Kevin risked a glance past her and saw a man wheeling a laden trolley away from a large delivery truck. A guard with an assault rifle lounged against the side of the vehicle, smoking a cigarette.

  “Wait here until I call you,” Rebekah said. She stepped through the doorway and approached the guard.

  Standing as far back in the shadows as possible, Kevin watched as Rebekah walked to the guard, said something, and pointed off to the right. The guard looked in that direction, dropped his cigarette, stubbed it out with a booted foot and walked off. Rebekah waited a few seconds, checked for the man with the trolley and finally waved to Kevin.

  He pushed Singh before him, moving as rapidly as he could, until they reached the back of the truck. Two boards served as a ramp up to the truck bed, and Kevin prayed he had the strength to get Singh up there. He glanced in and saw racks of linens, cases of medicines, and stacks of plastic crates. It would be easy enough to hide in there, but the chair wouldn’t fit – he really would have to carry Singh.

  “Hurry,” Rebekah said.

  Kevin knelt beneath Singh, grabbed him around the waist, and managed to lift him in a fireman’s carry over one shoulder. Even as slender as Singh was, the weight nearly buckled Kevin’s knees. He didn’t know how he’d get him up the boards.

  He made it halfway up and could go no further, but it was enough – leaning forward as gently as possible, he deposited Singh on the edge of the truck bed, then gently laid him back. Rebekah ran the wheelchair back to the facility, and Kevin got behind Singh to drag him. Somehow that seemed harder, and he was only halfway to the back when Rebekah reappeared and whispered, “They’re coming!”

  “Okay,” Kevin said, before adding, “and thank you.”

  Rebekah didn’t respond. Instead she stepped around the side of the truck. Kevin heard the sounds of the trolley wheel’s trundling over asphalt, and Rebekah in conversation with the guard, their words dulled by the metal side of the truck.

  Redoubling his efforts, Kevin hauled Singh all the way to the back – then dropped to his knees and crouched behind boxes as the man with the trolley came into view. If the man looked carefully, or had a flashlight, he’d see Singh’s legs plainly visible at the end of the truck . . .

  Instead, the man pushed the two planks up on to the bed, lifted the trolley and set it next to the boards, closed the rear doors and sealed them. The interior of the truck was completely dark, and Kevin clutched on to Singh as if the void might suck him away.

  Kevin didn’t allow himself to breathe yet. He waited until the truck’s engine rumbled to life and it rolled forward. After a few turns, it stopped, and he overheard a brief conversation with NWP’s perimeter guards. At last the truck started moving again.

  Kevin exhaled in relief. They’d made it – they’d escaped New World Pharmaceuticals. “Singh, we did it – we’re free.”

  Kevin felt something hard in a pocket of the lab coat, and reached down; there was a stethoscope and a small Maglite there. Whether Rebekah had planned the maglite or not, Kevin was grateful to find it. He twisted the end and the small bluish beam shot out. He aimed it down at Singh, who still seemed to be only semi-conscious.

  “Singh . . .” Kevin tried shaking him slightly, but the doctor’s head just rolled to one side. Kevin began to panic. He aimed the light beam into Singh’s face, holding it close to his eyes. “Singh . . .!”

  Singh groaned, and Kevin cried out. “Singh, we’re out of NWP.”

  His eyes bleary and half-focused, Singh looked up at Kevin. “The drive . . . has my research . . .”

  The truck bounced over a large object, and Singh gasped as his back hit the hard metal floor. Kevin bent down, concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “No . . .”

  Peeling off his bogus white coat, Kevin wadded it up and shoved it under Singh’s back to try to provide some cushioning; the doctor’s head rested on his knee. “Is that better?”

  “That’s . . .” Singh had to swallow before he could go on; talking, even just a few simple words, was obviously difficult. “. . . not . . . the problem. I’m dying.”

  “No . . .”

  “They . . . took too much.” Singh’s hand fluttered up like an injured bird, and Kevin took it in his own.

  “Just hang in there, Garud. This truck’s headed for Washington. We can get help there—”

  A faint trace of a smile crossed Singh’s face. “I won’t . . . but you must . . .”

  “Garud—”

  Singh’s fingers tightened around Kevin’s. “I’m sorry . . .”

  His eyes closed, his grip loosened.

  “No, Garud – don’t do this . . .”

  Kevin squeezed Singh’s hand harder, but there was no response. In the noisy, dim, bouncing truck, it was impossible to tell if his friend was dead, but Kevin knew it didn’t matter; even if he had merely lapsed into unconsciousness, Singh wouldn’t make it to Washington.

  Kevin turned off the Maglite, lowered his head and sobbed.

  [CIA transcript of phone call received by Sandra Steele]

  STEELE:

  Steele.

  MARCUS:

  Director Steele, this is Colonel Marcus up in Bolling.

  STEELE:

  Yes, Colonel. What can I do for you?

  MARCUS:

  Your boy Delancy is outside our front gate asking for admittance. How would you like us to proceed?

  STEELE:

  Is he alone?

  MARCUS:

  Confirmed. Both ground and air surveillance are negative on other targets.

  STEELE:

  Okay. Follow standard protocol for dealing with extremely dangerous subjects. Assume he’s armed, carrying explosives, the works. Oh, and also assume he’s HRV-positive. Then bring him inside and get him in your best cell, round-the-clock guards. I’ll be there in an hour.

  MARCUS:

  You got it, Director. We’ll make sure Delancy’s not carrying so much as a toothpick.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  BY THE TIME Steele arrived at Bolling’s brig, Delancy had been X-rayed, frisked, stripped and examined. He’d been provided with a simple dark jumpsuit, and when Steele looked at the monitor hooked up to the cell’s camera, he was seated calmly on the room’s bunk.

  “So, speak to me,” she
said, addressing Bolling’s commander, Colonel Paul Marcus.

  “He was unarmed and alone. He cooperated fully with our instructions. Just one thing, though . . .” Marcus looked at Steele, enjoying drawing out the suspense.

  “And that is . . .?”

  “He’s dead. We found a chunk missing from his side, and the doc confirmed that he shows all the signs of reanimation after HRV infection. Well, I should say almost all the signs – the one he doesn’t show is a complete lack of higher brain function. He’s completely aware and lucid; in fact, we had no idea he was dead until we found the bite wound.”

  On the monitor, Delancy looked straight up into the camera and smiled, and Steele had the eerie notion that he could somehow see her. “Did he have his security card?”

  “Yeah. We confiscated that safe and sound.” Marcus hesitated, and then asked, “Steele, what the hell is this? Are they all smart now?”

  Steele weighed her words carefully. “We’re still trying to figure it out ourselves.”

  “So what do we do with him?”

  Steele pulled away from the monitor and drew her Glock. “He’s a zombie, Marcus.”

  Marcus nodded. “Okay, then, Steele – he’s all yours.”

  He led her down the short hallway to Delancy’s cell, where he unlocked the door and motioned her inside. “I’ll wait just out here.”

  Steele nodded, and the door locked behind her. She held the Glock steady with both hands and stared down at Delancy. The Vice President rose; his eyes were filmy, skin paler than usual, but otherwise there was little sign of his transformation. He possessed the same swagger, the same thin veneer of amiability hiding a core of cunning and greed, and the reasons he made Steele’s skin crawl hadn’t changed, although they’d perhaps been amplified slightly. “Put that down, Steele,” he said, gesturing at the gun, “you won’t need it.”

  “You’re not just a zombie, Bob – you’re a zombie and a traitor. I could shoot you right here and be perfectly justified twice over.”

  “A traitor to what exactly? Not the United States of America, surely . . . because that great state hasn’t existed for quite some time.”

  “Bullshit. Moreby hasn’t won yet.”

  “Moreby?” Delancy barked a harsh laugh, and when he grinned Steele nearly winced at the sight of his death-blackened gums. “Moreby’s not what killed this nation. It’s that bloodless excuse for a President you serve.”

  Steele gaped in disbelief, and then said, “You’re dead and insane.”

  “Oh, please – don’t confuse me with your little CIA dog Gillespie. I assure you, I’m far from some paranoid junkie hyped on uppers and running around spouting conspiracy theories. Or maybe the problem is you, Steele. Maybe you just can’t face the fact that you backed a loser.”

  “So, let me guess: you figured you’d make a little deal with Moreby to hand her over so you could take her place?”

  Delancy nodded. “See? I always knew you were the smartest one in the bunch.”

  “Smarter than you at least, Bob, if you actually believe for a second that Moreby will honour that deal.”

  Steele experienced a deep satisfaction when she saw Delancy’s expression flicker briefly. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Jesus, you’re an idiot. Have you read his files? This is a man who was willing to sacrifice his own wife. He’ll use you just to get the real power out of the way, then toss you aside like a piece of peeled-off dead skin. Christ, he’s already eaten part of you.”

  Delancy’s fingers involuntarily reached for his wound. “That was a necessary sacrifice . . .”

  “Like his wife?”

  Delancy peered at Steele as he said, “Let me ask you something: if he wasn’t interested in working with me, why didn’t he just eat my brain, get what I know and go from there? Why turn me and let me come back?”

  “Well, our intelligence – and yes, we do still have some, regardless of what you think of Aaron Gillespie – suggests that Moreby is somehow in contact with those he personally turns. I think he’s using you as a sort of walking camera. Maybe he thought we’d take you back to the President, and he’d learn everything about us that way.”

  His expression suddenly guarded, Delancy said, “You don’t know everything, Steele.”

  “What? Tell me what I don’t know, and maybe you’ll live a little longer.”

  Delancy laughed so hard the wound in his torso started oozing, creating a large darker spot on the side of his jumpsuit. “You can’t kill me, Steele. I’m not one of those mindless monsters shambling around outside, scrabbling over scraps of flesh. Can you imagine how it would look to the rest of my party if they found out you’d murdered me in cold blood?”

  “The rest of your party? My God, Delancy, is that all you’re thinking about?”

  He took a step forward and Steele found herself reacting instinctively to tighten her grip on the gun. The motion caused Delancy to stop walking, but he spoke urgently. “My party is going to come out ahead this time, because we’ve been prepared for this, we’ve been thinking about it for a long time. The end of the world, I mean. We’ll work with Moreby to save whatever we can of humanity and then we’ll help him forge a new nation, a new world, where our foresight and our strength will be respected.”

  Steele had heard enough. She reached back to rap on the door, never taking her eyes off Delancy or lowering her gun. As she heard the door buzz open, she stepped backward carefully.

  Just before the door closed behind her, Delancy called out, “Just remember, Steele: it’s your end coming, too. Will you be ready?”

  REPORT FROM COL. JOHN SIROCO, ACTING

  COMMANDER, FORT IRWIN MILITARY TRAINING CENTER

  TO: WASHINGTON COMMAND

  DATE: 5 November

  Relying on data collected from both civilian and military forces fighting the insurgents in the Southern California area, I am attempting to assemble here a comprehensive picture of the current situation in the area.

  Throughout September and October, the New Zombie Order Army Southwest (NZOASW) under the command of Major General Harland Dawson swept north from San Diego, moving largely via the inland route around the 5 freeway. They have established a base camp at what used to be USMC Camp Pendleton, situated 46 miles north of San Diego. The NZOASW stormtroopers are highly organized and well equipped.

  The sizeable civilian resistance movement in that area is providing heavy opposition, but they desperately need resupplying now that the NZOASW has successfully cut their supply lines via air, land and sea. Not only are they in need of food, but they also require automatic weapons and ammunition if they are to stand any chance of halting the zombie advance.

  We are also receiving so far unconfirmed reports that the NZOASW has started setting up Human Internment Camps across Southern California where those freedom fighters they capture are being incarcerated for god knows what fate.

  We believe Harland Dawson was part of Operation Darwin, an NZOASW project that groomed military leaders by feeding them only the brains of the finest and most devoted human fighters, allowing the zombies to gain their memories and experience.

  However, the situation changed on or about 30 October. At that time, Dawson (probably acting against orders) recklessly led a small squad against human resistance fighters in south Los Angeles County. We believe Dawson may have been driven by hunger to eat a couple of the resistance leaders, and that the knowledge he acquired at that point caused him to forsake his NZOASW command. On 2 November, Dawson fled, in search of the human children of the husband and wife he’d consumed; he was last seen stealing a vehicle in Hollywood. His whereabouts are currently unknown.

  Since Dawson’s disappearance, the NZOASW has been unable to proceed any further; their forces seem to be in disarray, in fact.

  We recommend monitoring the situation closely. Here in Fort Irwin, we are located approximately 150 miles from Los Angeles. While we are secure and see few insurgents (none intelligent so far), it also makes obtaining inf
ormation from the metropolitan areas more difficult.

  Respectfully submitted by

  Colonel John Siroco

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  KEVIN WASN’T SURE how long he’d been unconscious in the lightless back of the truck when the first explosion hit. It wasn’t direct, but it was close enough to rock the truck from side to side, jostling Kevin awake. The brakes squealed, and he collided with a metal rack as the truck slammed to a halt. Outside he heard gunshots, screams and more explosions.

  He had no idea if bullets could penetrate the metal sides of the truck or not, but he instinctively crouched down, his hands over his head. Another explosion – this one uncomfortably close – struck nearby, and the sound nearly deafened him.

  When the ringing passed he listened, trying to piece together what he was hearing. He thought he heard the driver and the guard shouting from the cab, and the rapid-fire blasts that followed he guessed might be the guard’s rifle. He heard poundings, as if hands were slapping the outside panels; a few seconds later, a high-pitched scream might have been the driver. There was another, more distant burst of gunfire, and then it was quiet for a few seconds.

  He waited in the dark, anxious, not sure what to dread more – never being found, or being found by whoever had just won the battle outside.

  A few moments later the handle on the rear opening was lifted, and as the doors were thrown open Kevin did his best to withdraw behind a stack of crates.

  The truck bounced slightly as someone climbed up on to the bed, and a single pair of footsteps walked slowly towards him; otherwise, it was quiet outside. Kevin trembled, from weakness and fear, as the unknown visitor stepped nearer . . . nearer . . .

  The click of a gun was followed by a question: “You, at the front – are you still alive?”

  “I’m alive, I’m human,” Kevin said, his voice as tremulous as his hands, “please don’t shoot.”