Well, Mr. President, New World is technically not a government . . . yet . . .
Moreby:
New World? I know more about New World Pharmaceuticals than you can possibly imagine . . . Landen. I am talking about the Federal Government.
Jones:
I’m sorry, sir – I’m not following.
Moreby:
The message that I received indicated that you would be representing the United States of America here today.
Jones:
[stammering slightly]: No, sir – I’m here from New World Pharmaceuticals.
Moreby:
Interesting. We seem to have had some sort of . . . breakdown in communications.
Jones:
[very nervous]: Look, I’m sure this is just a simple misunderstanding. I can still be of use . . .
Moreby:
Oh, I know you can.
Jones:
Why is he getting up? What’s he doing?
Moreby:
Lord Charles, sit down.
Charles:
But Thomas, he looks so delicious.
Moreby:
I should have given you the body of a pig. Now, please give me the courtesy of saving this one for myself.
Jones:
Now, hold on there, Mr. President - you don’t have to come so close, sir, I–
[Jones screams, and there are ripping and chewing sounds.]
Moreby:
You were quite right, my dear - he is delicious! Here, have a taste . . .
[Jones’s screams are muffled, and fade to a series of gulping whimpers. More chewing sounds are heard, indicating multiple acts of consumption going on. Suddenly a retching noise is heard.]
Arnold:
President Moreby . . .?
[Moreby gasps, but forms no coherent words. Now there are other choking and vomiting sounds.]
Cecilia:
What is happening . . .!
[There’s the sound of a body falling. It’s soon followed by several more. Two voices are still moaning and gasping, and then those are silenced as well, followed by the final two thuds.]
Chapter Fifty
AS THE BLACK Hawk prepared to set down on the South Lawn, Ty addressed his team again. “Remember, quick in and out – we only want Moreby.”
They nodded. They were good soldiers; all seemed prepared, confident, cool.
Ty wished he felt that way.
Breaking into New World Pharmaceuticals had been easier because he hadn’t been the real commander – he’d been a tag-along figurehead. Now, however . . . he couldn’t help but think over and over that he wasn’t Ames Parker – or Steele, for that matter. He’d done reasonably well as the President’s Chief of Staff, but this was real combat.
He glanced out the side of the bird as it descended, and noticed that what Steele had told him minutes before – “I think it worked; we’re getting reports from all over the country that the zombies seem to be suddenly in disarray, confused” – was happening here as well. Dead soldiers with guns, who’d stood at alert attention until Moreby’s attempt to eat Landen Jones, now moved erratically, without direction. One young male was trying to eat the laser sight atop his assault rifle.
Dawson had guessed right: consuming a human injected with the HRV antiserum had in essence poisoned Moreby; although they had no visual confirmation, they believed that he’d fallen into some sort of unconsciousness, since his connection with the zombies had apparently been severed. Now they could only hope that he would not recover before they could get him out of the White House and to the underground chamber where Dawson waited.
The Black Hawk touched down, and Ty was (guiltily) relieved to see that he didn’t even have to shout commands – his forward units were already on the ground, laying down fire. Fortunately the zombies were spread out, and although they had started to converge on the ’copter, they were still moving slowly. Soon their remains littered the lawn and the Rose Garden.
Next, they focused on clearing a path to the West Wing. Ty’s team aimed first at any zombie in a uniform or carrying a weapon, but no gunfire was returned. Ty had chosen his men and women well, and they worked with practised efficiency.
Steele had indicated that they’d likely find Moreby in the Roosevelt Room, only a few feet from the Oval Office. It should be a simple operation to enter through the Office, cross a corridor and pick up Moreby from the Roosevelt Room.
Ty knew things were rarely simple, though.
With half his troops now forming an armed line leading to the Oval Office, Ty and the rest of his unit ran forward. The door was unlocked, and his forward leaders ran in first, rifles ready. They shot three of the dead in the Office, and shouted, “Clear!”
Ty entered, crossed to the President’s desk and unplugged a laptop sitting there, which he handed to another of his men who stored it in a backpack. Working quickly, Ty checked around the desk, yanked open drawers and circled the room, but found nothing else that might contain useful information.
Remembering the plans he’d studied, he walked to the door that should face on to the corridor and the Roosevelt Room just beyond, and risked a glance out. There were several zombies in the corridor; the door on the far side was closed.
Ty nodded to his troops, who stepped into the corridor and took down the approaching dead with a single shot each. They moved up to the closed door of the Roosevelt Room, two on either side, and looked to Ty. He nodded again.
One of them tentatively tried the knob, which turned. He abruptly threw the door back and raised his rifle, tensing.
No sound came from the Roosevelt, but from his vantage point in the Oval Office Ty saw bodies on the floor.
As his troops moved into the room, Ty followed. There were figures sprawled everywhere, in chairs, on the floor, slumped across the table. Blood was splattered on faces and clothing; in several cases, where the fallen faced up, Ty was startled to realize he recognized some of them from news coverage of the past, when they’d been Congressmen and Governors who’d made news by arguing or accusing or preening.
A choked moan sounded from one corner, and rifles were raised in immediate response. “Sir,” one of the soldiers said, gesturing Ty over. Ty joined him, and it took him a moment to identify who he was looking down at.
Landen Jones was still alive, even though he’d been partially eaten. Half his scalp, with his styled hair still attached, now hung on one side of his head, revealing a crimson-splotched white skull. One cheek was a gaping hole, his jacket had been ripped off and his left arm ended a few inches below the elbow, a bone protruding from the torn, red-soaked flesh. His crisp white shirt had turned almost entirely red, and one of his Italian loafers was missing.
One eye had filled with blood, but he could still see well enough with the other one to recognize Ty. “You set me up,” he rasped out.
“You know, Landen,” Ty said, for the first time not trying to disguise the contempt in his voice, “I prefer to think that I finally gave you a chance to serve your country.”
A rush of blood burbled up over Jones’ bottom lip, he convulsed and died. Ty raised his own rifle until the barrel was a few inches above Jones’ ruined forehead and he squeezed the trigger. Landen Jones wouldn’t be coming back.
“Sir,” a man called from a few feet away, “target identified.”
Ty stepped over another prone figure and looked down. The man in the grey suit, with the blood-spattered face of a one-time janitor, was unquestionably Moreby. He was moving weakly, spasmodically, and Ty knew he might recover at any time. “That’s him. Let’s move quickly.”
Ty stood back and let two others step forward. One had a white hockey mask that he secured around Moreby’s head, removing his ability to bite. “You’re kidding me,” said another soldier who lifted Moreby forward and secured his wrists behind him.
“No,” said the man who’d put on the mask, “got the idea from that movie, the one with the serial killer—”
“Let’s stay foc
used,” Ty said. Something felt wrong here. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but a dread of terrible failure was building in Ty, something . . .
His right leg flared in pain. He gasped and instinctively jerked back, looking down.
A woman who had once represented Minnesota in the House of Representatives and who had become well known for her fundamentalist beliefs had pushed up the leg of Ty’s protective suit and sunk her teeth into the soft flesh of his calf just above his boot. “Goddamnit,” Ty cried out, as the zombie refused to relinquish her hold on him. He was lowering his rifle when one of his soldiers stepped forward, pulled her own pistol and shot the former Congresswoman in the head. “I always hated that dumb bitch,” the soldier said, before bending to look at Ty’s leg.
“I’m okay. We’ve got antiserum in the bird – let’s just get back there before the rest of them wake up and get hungry.”
A black sack was thrown over Moreby’s head and a large soldier – who’d been brought along for his ability to lift – knelt, hefted the zombie President over one shoulder, rose and started out.
They made the trip back to the Black Hawk safely. Once everyone was on board, the ’copter lifted off, returning to Bolling.
An Asian soldier named Chu was acting as their medic. He squatted in the middle of the bird, pulled back Ty’s blood-soaked pants leg and examined the wound. “It’s deep, but I don’t think anything major has been severed. Can you still move the foot?”
“Yes,” Ty answered.
“Good. You should be okay.” The medic swabbed out the wound, applied a field dressing, gave Ty some painkillers, and then raised a hypodermic needle and a vial of antiserum. “You’ll be out of it for a few days,” the medic said as he gave Ty the injection, “but you should be just fine afterwards.”
“Good job. Thanks.”
Ty settled back against the side of the Black Hawk. The pills were already working, the pain in his leg subsiding, but he still felt the first anticipatory tingle of illness. They’d told him to expect a day or so of reduced symptoms. This was stronger than what he’d expected, though, and he wondered what it must be like to die of HRV if this was how a lesser version felt. The fever was already spreading, his limbs weakening, his concentration fading . . .
“You okay, Commander?” The medic was eyeing him with some concern.
“You’re sure you gave me the right dosage on the antiserum?”
The medic held up the syringe and examined it, even though it was now empty. “Yes. Why?”
“I feel . . . strange . . . maybe once the antiserum works its way through . . .” Ty’s voice trailed off as he passed out.
FIELD REPORT FROM 76TH INFANTRY BRIGADE COMBAT TEAM
HEADQUARTERED AT FORT BENJAMIN HARRISON,
LAWRENCE, INDIANA
COL. JACK WHITTAKER, COMMANDING
DATE: 11/24/13
As has been previously reported, the 76th BCT has been successful in holding our ground (including armory), despite constant threat of both intelligent and non-intelligent dead insurgents. The intelligent are members of the NZOAMW, and they are armed and knowledgeable about our strategies and defenses. They were victorious once in breaking our perimeter, but were repelled by a combination of explosive arms and close combat.
Since that time, the NZOAMW has continually mounted attacks. Although we have taken casualties (49 wounded, 12 dead, 5 transformed and MIA), we still have 212 troops stationed here, and ammo and supplies are good. We continue to take in civilians, although their numbers grow less with time.
Today at approximately 13:40 hours, we encountered a phenomenon we hadn’t hitherto witnessed: intelligent members of the NZOAMW, who had set up a machine-gun nest a few dozen yards from our southwest perimeter, abruptly ceased the attack. Initial assumptions were that they’d run out of ammo or experienced technical problems, but they failed to respond to our counter-attack, and the three members of NZOAMW manning the post were terminated with ease. A sweep of the area revealed eight other NZOAMW soldiers, all of whom seemed equally unaware and unfocused; only one tried to brandish a rifle as our squad approached, and he moved so slowly that he hadn’t finished raising the weapon before he was shot.
Since then, scouts have reported that the NZOAMW soldiers seem to be regaining awareness, but many are running from our troops and fleeing their posts.
We cannot account for this behavior, but it has – temporarily, at least – turned the tide here at Fort Benjamin Harrison, and for the first time since the rise of the NZOAMW we can safely state that we have won a battle against them.
Respectfully Submitted,
Col. Jack Whittaker
Chapter Fifty-One
STEELE RAN A finger down her tablet screen, glancing at the emails. “They’re coming in from all over: reports of Moreby’s troops flopping over like their batteries just ran out. Even when they sort of wake up, they seem disorganized. It’s a major victory for human forces everywhere.”
The President nodded and smiled. “We’re owed one, I think . . .”
Steele’s phone sounded. She glanced at the screen, murmured, “Marcus,” and then answered.
The news was only partly good: Moreby was on his way down, but Ty had been injured. “How severe is it?” Steele asked.
“He was apparently bitten by one of Moreby’s ministers. They administered antiserum promptly, so he should be okay, but he passed out on the flight home.”
“Christ. Okay, I’ll meet your group at the elevators.” Steele told the President what had happened, put the phone in a pocket and rose. “They’re bringing in Moreby now. With Ty out of order, I’ll need to take him to Dawson.”
The President started to rise. “Good. I’ll—”
Steele raised a hand and her voice both. “You’ll do nothing but stay in this office until you hear from me. We still need to consider Moreby extremely dangerous, and I won’t let you go anywhere near him.”
The President opened her mouth to argue, but instead dropped back into her chair. “Sorry, you’re right, of course. It’s just that . . .”
Softening, Steele said, “I know – you wanted to see him, especially as he’s locked away. I understand that, but . . . this is one historic scenario you’ll have to only hear about second-hand.”
With that, Steele left.
She stopped at Supply long enough to secure a hazmat suit, which she donned immediately. She issued orders to clear all the hallways between the elevators and the room where Dawson waited; all doors were to be locked, no one was to venture out again until she gave the all clear.
Steele was ready in the protective suit when the elevator arrived and the doors opened. Two men in suits like hers wheeled a gurney with Moreby strapped to it . . . or at least she had to assume it was Moreby, because a black sack still covered his head.
The men saluted, and Steele waved them forward, leading the way to the secret room. Walking this close to Moreby, even if he was strapped to a gurney and accompanied by two armed soldiers, made her anxious and she didn’t resist the urge to occasionally look back. He didn’t seem to be moving, but she knew he wasn’t dead.
They reached the storage room and Steele turned to the two soldiers; there was no point in exposing them to either further potential danger or the knowledge of the secret room. “Dismissed. I’ll take it from here.”
They didn’t argue, but instead turned soundlessly and left.
Steele struggled slightly manoeuvring the gurney into the cramped storage room. When she had it in, wedged between piles of bricks and filing cabinets, she closed the outer door and walked to the heavy wooden door behind which Dawson waited. She hauled it open and called his name.
He emerged from the darkness of the room, his filmy eyes going immediately to the figure on the gurney. After a few seconds, he looked into Steele’s suit, his brow furrowing when he saw her behind the transparent faceplate. “Steele? Where’s Ty?”
“He was injured capturing Moreby.”
“Was he infec
ted?”
“Yes, but he received a dose of antiserum. He should be all right.”
Dawson nodded. He looked down at the prone figure of Moreby again, his hand inching towards the black hood, but he hesitated. “I wish you didn’t have to be here, but . . . someone will need to lock us in again.”
“I understand.” After a second, Steele added, “Harland, are you sure you need to do this? We can just put him in there and seal it behind him . . .”
“I’m sure. But, I need to ask a favour . . .” Dawson nodded at the belt around the hazmat suit, one from which Steele’s holstered pistol was slung. “I need your sidearm.”
Steele blinked in surprise, and realized she was reluctant to give the Glock up; she’d used it for a decade now, and recently it had saved her life on more than one occasion. “Of course, but . . .”
“I’m going to try to kill Moreby.”
Something moved on the gurney. Steele’s gaze jerked down, and she saw that Moreby’s fingers were twitching; as she watched, they began to flex. Dawson moved quickly, unbuckling the straps that held Moreby to the gurney. “We may not have much time. We need to get him in there now.”
Steele nodded, and worked on the straps around Moreby’s legs. When the restraints were undone, Dawson hefted him under the arms and dragged him off the gurney; Moreby’s legs hit the floor with a thump and scraped along the painted concrete as Dawson, lurching backwards, dragged him into the secret room. By the time Dawson laid Moreby out in the centre of the chamber, he was beginning to moan softly. Dawson looked up at Steele, who hesitated in the doorway.
“The Glock,” he said.
Steele removed the weapon from its holster and passed it to Dawson. “The magazine’s full.”
Dawson accepted the Glock and weighed it in his hand, satisfied. “As soon as you seal that door, I’m going to put this to his head and pull the trigger.”
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