Washington Deceased

by Stephen Jones

  “Come out where I can see you.”

  Crawling slowly, Kevin edged around the crates. A single man stood silhouetted against the early morning daylight pouring into the truck through the open doors.

  “Are there two of you?”

  Kevin stood slowly and nodded down at Singh. “Yes, but . . . my friend didn’t make it.”

  “Come on out where I can see you.”

  The man backed away towards the rear lip of the vehicle, keeping a rifle trained on Kevin, who walked forwards slowly, his hands up. As he drew nearer the light, it blinded him, a stabbing pain, and he flinched.

  “How long have you been in here?”

  “I’m not even sure.”

  “Are you hurt? Or . . .?”

  His eyes adjusting slowly, Kevin tried to see the man, but could still make out only a silhouette. As he realized what the man was asking, he laughed, a small, mirthless sound.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re asking if I’ve been bitten, right? No, I haven’t, but it wouldn’t make any difference if I had, because I’m immune.”

  There was an instance of silence before the man said, “Bullshit. Nobody’s immune.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I am. I was being held by New World Pharmaceuticals so they could use my blood to create antiserum.” Kevin reached into a pocket and withdrew Singh’s USB stick. “This has my friend’s notes on making the antiserum. New World stole his research, then bled him dry and I was next. I’d probably be dead by now if I hadn’t escaped.”

  “Do you have any weapons?”

  “No.”

  The rifle lowered, and the man turned to walk out of the truck. “You’re too trusting – if I was a bad guy, I would’ve just known that you were unarmed and valuable. Now, let’s get out of here.”

  Kevin walked forwards, still squinting against the sunlight, moving carefully. He reached the edge, sat down and lowered himself to the ground, his knees nearly giving way. The man with the gun was walking towards his own vehicle, a big dented and battered 4 x 4 pickup. Kevin followed, unsteadily. He stumbled on something, and his stomach lurched when he looked down and saw a corpse in the road. He stepped around it, realizing as he did that it was the corpse of a corpse – a truly dead zombie, its brains sprayed across the asphalt, its blood lacking any hint of crimson. He looked to the sides, and saw at least five other prone figures; from the grey messes surrounding them, he guessed them all to be zombies.

  “You took all these out?”

  “Yep. Unfortunately I was too late to save the two men in the cab.”

  Kevin looked up as the man turned to face him . . .

  And he staggered back, gasping, as he saw it wasn’t a man at all, but a glassy-eyed, bluish-skinned zombie, fresh blood staining his chin. His breath quickening, Kevin looked to the right, wondering how far he could run before his legs gave way and the monster was on him . . .

  “Hey, whoa there – sorry, I should’ve warned you. Yeah, I’m dead, but I’m not one of them.”

  The voice seemed sincere, the zombie made no threatening moves, and Kevin hesitated, eyeing him uncertainly.

  The dead man gestured back towards the truck. “Look, if you don’t trust me, maybe you’ll trust my friend.”

  Following his wave, Kevin saw another figure in the front of the truck. It looked like a small person, or . . . a child. Incredulous, Kevin stumbled forward until he could clearly see a little boy, no more than twelve, and with the brown skin and glossy black hair of a Latino. Even though he eyed Kevin uncertainly, he glowed with health and was clearly human and living.

  “That’s Maxi – short for Maximiliano,” said the zombie. “We came all the way from Los Angeles.”

  “Los Angeles?” Kevin turned to look at the zombie. “That’s where I came from, too.”

  “And where are you headed now?”

  “I don’t know,” Kevin confessed. “Anywhere away from New World Pharmaceuticals, I guess.”

  “Well, if you’d like to come with us, Mister . . .?”

  “Moon. Kevin Moon.”

  “Mister Moon, we’re headed for Washington. I’m sure the human government would be most grateful to have the world’s only immune man and a thumb drive full of instructions on making a cure.”

  Kevin eyed the zombie, curious about his bearing, his air of authority. “And you are . . .?”

  “Harland Dawson. I was a general in the zombie army. In fact . . . I led the troops who took Los Angeles.”

  The thought that Los Angeles – his hometown – was now under control of these marauders left Kevin chilled. He realized he had no idea how long it had been since he’d left the city, how long he’d been tossed from one captivity to another, and that the world had changed while he’d hidden, been beaten and tormented, examined and drained.

  Los Angeles belonged to the zombies now.

  Dawson stood by the truck, not moving, waiting calmly, his glassy eyes fixed on Kevin.

  “So why exactly should I trust you?” asked Kevin.

  “Because I abandoned my command and went AWOL. I work for the human resistance now. Maxi’s parents were leaders, and I’m . . . carrying on their legacy.”

  Kevin’s gaze moved past Dawson and his pickup to the surrounding landscape, an area of open fields and distant structures, and dotted with the dead . . . all moving in this direction. He wouldn’t make it far on foot, and even if the delivery truck was still operable, he didn’t know how to drive it. There didn’t seem to be much choice.

  “I’d suggest you decide quickly, Mr Moon,” Dawson said. He raised the rifle, sighted along it, and picked off the nearest zombie.

  “Okay.” Kevin forced his legs to walk to the truck. “I guess if you were gonna eat me, you could’ve done it already.”

  “I’m not going to eat you. I already ate the two men who were in the front of the truck.”

  Kevin was about to climb into the truck, but now he stopped and stared, seeing again the fresh blood staining Dawson’s chin. Dawson reached the side of the truck and added, “I didn’t kill them – they were dying by the time I reached them.”

  “Let’s go,” said a small voice. Kevin looked down and saw the little boy, Maxi, glancing around anxiously as zombies staggered towards them. That voice – so young, so human – spurred him, and he crawled into the rear seat. Dawson got in, stashed the rifle in a gun rack, locked the doors and started up the engine. As he drove forward, moving around the delivery truck, carelessly rolling over corpses, Kevin thought about Singh’s body and issued a mental farewell and apology.

  His reverie was interrupted when Maxi turned around and thrust a hand over the seat back. “Hi, I’m Maxi.”

  Kevin took the offered hand and tried to smile. “I’m Kevin. I’m from Los Angeles, too.”

  “Cool.” Maxi held a candy bar out to Kevin. “You hungry? We lucked out and got a couple of crates of these.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Kevin took the candy bar and wolfed it down. When he looked up, he saw Dawson’s eyes on him in the rearview mirror, and even behind the covering of death there was compassion.

  Kevin thought, Goddamnit, Singh . . . we almost made it; then he sank back into the truck’s seat and tried not to sob.

  [Release from New Zombie Order, issued as leaflets dropped on human resistance forces and posted to all remaining Internet sites]

  FROM: NZO PRESIDENT JAMES MOREBY

  To all living citizens of the former United States of America:

  I applaud you all. You have fought a courageous, valiant war; you have survived against difficult odds.

  But the war is over. You must realize by now that your old world is dead. Or perhaps I should say that the dead have taken that world.

  Your United States is gone. Despite rumors to the contrary, the human Government is no more. If you have received supplies or communications recently, know that those lines have been severed and you are now abandoned.

  But you are not forgotten. My Government would
welcome you. Surrender now and I guarantee your safety. You will not be harmed. You will not be consumed.

  I’m pleased to inform you that NZO scientists have succeeded in creating synthetic human meat. We are now in the initial stages of mass production of this foodstuff, and we will soon begin distributing it to all of NZO’s citizens in need. You will be protected as we transition to this new nourishment.

  NZO is dedicated to achieving – for the first time in the history of Earth’s intelligent species – world peace. Humans and zombies will live side by side, securely and happily. Together we will wipe out poverty, crime and misery; even death will be a thing of the past. We will rebuild a shining new future from the ruins of the old.

  Join us now. Lay down your arms. And welcome the future.

  Yours in Brotherhood,

  President James Moreby

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  STEELE FINISHED READING the report and couldn’t resist hitting the DELETE button on the tablet. She missed the days of paper printouts – she would have enjoyed wadding this particular report up and hurling the crumpled remains against the nearest wall.

  The President looked up from her own copy and addressed Ty. “There’s not a chance that they’ve really created a synthetic meat, is there?”

  Ty shrugged. “It’s remotely possible, I suppose, but even if they have . . . you’ll note that little missive contains no mention of the millions of unintelligent zombies staggering around out there. Unless Moreby is prepared to begin shooting his own kind, there’s no way they can guarantee human safety.”

  “It’s absolute bullshit.” Steele couldn’t restrain herself, and the President and Ty both turned to look at her. “This is the same kind of disinformation Moreby’s been distributing for a while. This is about as valid as that ridiculous thing he sent out which was supposed to be from you, the little speech that made you look about as sane as a schizophrenic serial killer off her meds.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” the President noted, “I enjoyed the part about the First Spouse dying in the Lincoln Bedroom with a young intern.”

  Steele knew that in reality the President’s late husband had died in the first battle for Washington, and that he’d been found with a gun in his hand on the National Mall near the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, not in flagrante delicto with another woman. The fact that the President could claim to find that fictitious slur amusing left Steele admiring her anew.

  “I agree,” Ty said. “And I’ll add: I think this disinformation campaign on Moreby’s part is actually a good sign. We are winning in many areas – we know, for example, that human forces have retaken both Albuquerque and Denver – and I think Moreby’s getting a little desperate.”

  Ty’s phone sounded. He glanced at the caller ID, and said, “It’s Marcus from Bolling. Excuse me for a minute . . .”

  He rose and stepped out of the President’s office. Steele looked at her boss, who returned her gaze with determination. “We’ve still got a shot, Steele.”

  “I believe you, but . . . I can’t help but wonder what happens even if we win. We’ve all lost so much; our families, our friends, our homes, our security. How do we go back?”

  “We don’t go back. We go forward.”

  “I know, but . . .” For a second it all threatened to overwhelm Steele. She struggled to keep from screaming, sobbing, laughing, throwing herself on the floor and letting everything just drain away. Giving up.

  The President’s voice had softened when she spoke again. “It won’t be easy. We may win the war and fail in the reconstruction. I know that. But if we fail, we at least tried. It’s all we can do.”

  Steele nodded. “It’s just . . . I’m so tired.”

  “We all are.”

  The office door re-opened and Ty Ward stood framed in the entrance, his expression one of astonishment. He seemed speechless.

  The President asked, “Ty . . .?”

  “That was Marcus up at Bolling. Major General Harland Dawson just surrendered to him. And he’s got Kevin Moon with him.”

  “Is Dawson talking?”

  Ty nodded to the President. “He says he wants to help us.”

  Steele and the President could only look at each other, wondering. Thinking.

  And daring to hope.

  TRANSCRIPTION OF INTERROGATION OF MAJOR GENERAL HARLAND DAWSON

  Interrogation conducted by Sandra Steele, assisted by Ty Ward

  The interrogation took place in a conference room within Bolling Air Field. Steele and Ward were already present as Dawson was led into the room by two armed guards.

  STEELE: Good afternoon, General Dawson. I’m Sandra Steele, serving as Director of Secret Services and Aide to the President, and this is Chief of Staff and Acting Joint Commander Ty Ward.

  DAWSON [nodding]: Ms. Steele, Mr. Ward.

  STEELE [to the guards]: Thank you, we’ll take it from here.

  GUARD #1: Are you sure, ma’am? He’s a zombie . . .

  STEELE [sets her pistol on the conference table]: I’m sure it will be fine, soldier.

  GUARD #1: Yes, ma’am.

  [The two guards exit]

  STEELE: Have a seat, General. [He does] Are you comfortable? Can we get you anything? Oh, sorry, strike that.

  DAWSON: I don’t need anything.

  STEELE: Okay, then let’s get started. General Dawson, I should inform you that not only is this interrogation being recorded, but the President is listening live as we proceed.

  DAWSON: I’m honored. Thank you, Madame President. I look forward to offering you my complete cooperation.

  STEELE: Let’s talk about that, then. Until recently, you were a general in the NZOA.

  DAWSON: Correct. Specifically, I commanded the New Zombie Order Army Southwest.

  STEELE: And I believe your last act as their commander was to lead the NZOA against the human resistance in Southern California.

  DAWSON: Correct. We had taken San Diego and Orange County, and were pushing into Los Angeles.

  STEELE: When you abandoned your command.

  DAWSON [hesitates, then]: Yes.

  STEELE: Why did you do that, General?

  DAWSON: Are you familiar with Operation Darwin, Director Steele?

  STEELE: That’s the NZO project in which military commanders are fed specially selected humans to acquire additional military knowledge, yes?

  DAWSON: That’s correct. I was a primary participant in Operation Darwin. However, during the incursions into Los Angeles, my superiors were delayed in providing me with sufficient subjects. I . . . was starving. I disobeyed orders and engaged in the consumption of a subject who was not approved by Operation Darwin.

  WARD: Yes, we’ve got that here. You consumed Hector Robles, a leader in the Southern California resistance forces.

  DAWSON: Yes.

  [After several seconds of silence]

  STEELE: What happened then?

  DAWSON: I . . . changed. I disobeyed orders, sought out Robles’ wife, and consumed her as well. I now possess the sum knowledge of both their lives. I experienced their commitment and passion, and I saw that we -- those led by Moreby, I mean -- will ultimately fail. We can only increase our numbers by destroying lives, and we can only create by building on what others have done. We are a people destined to slowly decay and fade out.

  WARD: General, do you know if there’s any truth to Moreby’s claim that NZO scientists have developed synthetic human meat?

  DAWSON [laughs]: I know they haven’t. Look, the only reason his tech guys were able to come up with better helmets for zombie troops was that it was a process one of them had designed before he died. I guarantee that none of them are capable of creating anything as new as fake human flesh. It’s a lie.

  STEELE: Let’s go back to what happened after you consumed Hector and Alejandra Robles . . .

  DAWSON: The Robles had two children, Maribel and Maximiliano. I made it my mission to find them and protect them.

  STEELE: That’s Maximiliano you arrived
with?

  DAWSON: Yes. Maribel was already gone when I reached them.

  STEELE: Why were you coming to Washington?

  DAWSON: Because I have both inside knowledge about Moreby’s operations, and considerable skill as a military expert, something I think you’ve needed since you lost Ames Parker. No offense, Mr. Ward.

  WARD: None taken.

  STEELE: General Dawson, you’ll understand if I tell you that we will need considerable proof of your intention to aid us, and even then we will proceed with extreme caution.

  DAWSON: Of course, Director. I expect no less.

  STEELE: Is there anything you can tell us right now, sir?

  DAWSON: I was turned as the result of a direct bite from Moreby, just as your Vice President Delancy was . . .

  WARD [interrupting]: How do you know about Delancy? We haven’t gone public with that.

  DAWSON: Those of us who were infected by Moreby himself are reborn with a sort of direct mental connection to Moreby.

  STEELE: Are you telling me you share Moreby’s mind in some way?

  DAWSON: Yes, although . . . it’s hard to explain. We’re like . . . I think you might call it a hive mind. Those of us turned by Moreby or turned by Moreby’s original victims -- the intelligent zombies, in other words -- have both our own thoughts and general, overwhelming directives. If Moreby wants us to perform some task for him, we all work together to do it.

  STEELE: Although you can also apparently deny the instructions.

  DAWSON: Yes, but . . . most don’t. It’s always easier to go with the rest of the tribe, isn’t it?

  STEELE: If you know about Delancy, what else do you know?

  DAWSON: We know where human forces are mobilizing. We know how well armed they are and what their numbers are. We know your Government is in tatters and hidden in a complex beneath Washington. And we know of the occult nature of that complex.

  STEELE: “Occult nature”?

  DAWSON: Yes. You do know of Benjamin Henry Latrobe, one of the original architects, don’t you?

  [A few seconds of silence]

  DAWSON: My apologies. Even Moreby thought you’d discovered that already.