End Zone

by D C Alden

  ‘A commodity we don’t have,’ Coffman reminded the Admiral.

  ‘And when we do?’ It was Clark this time. ‘Find them, I mean. What if it’s a foreign country whose government will not cooperate? What’s the plan for that?’

  Schultz shrugged. ‘We drop a Tomahawk on them anyway.’

  ‘That’s an act of war, Charlie.’ Behind her glasses, Clark’s brown eyes switched to Coffman. ‘And what about Nunez?’

  The President sighed. ‘Charlie’s right, we need to eliminate the threat instantaneously. The Nunez family believe he died in Baghdad anyway, and rescuing a highly infectious casualty in a combat situation seems like a pretty stupid thing to do.’

  ‘What about the fallout?’ Baranski asked. ‘Is there a chance a missile strike could spread the infection?’

  ‘It didn’t in Baghdad. Maybe extreme heat kills this thing.’

  ‘What if we can’t use a missile?’ Mulholland asked. ‘What if they’re hiding Nunez in a city? What happens if they cut him loose on the New York subway? How could we even combat that kind of threat?’

  ‘We nuke the city.’

  All eyes turned to the white-haired Schultz. Coffman broke the stunned silence. ‘First Tomahawks and now nukes, Charlie? Come on.’

  ‘An out-of-control bio-weapon is something that’s been gamed many times by the war planners, ma’am. And Erik has raised a valid point; imagine Nunez spraying his shit all over a carload of rush hour commuters. How many could he infect before he was stopped? Fifty? A hundred? Next thing you know there’s a thousand homicidal maniacs pouring out of the subway into Times Square. The only way to stop it cold would be to use tactical nukes. Or fuel air ordinance.’

  Erik looked like he was going to throw up. Baranski and Clark had paled significantly. As far as Coffman was concerned, the solution made perfect sense.

  ‘You’re telling me that plans exist for such a scenario?’

  Schultz nodded. ‘Back in the day, an outbreak situation would be managed by containment and isolation, but advances in bio-weaponry, delivery systems and contemporary culture has influenced the war planners’ thinking to a significant degree.’ The admiral smiled and said, ‘they call it the Zombie Protocol.’

  Clark was the first to speak. ‘You can’t be serious. The Pentagon has war-gamed zombie scenarios?’

  ‘Forget the word and its flippant connotations for a moment,’ Schultz cautioned, turning to the SecDef. ‘You and I faced off against the Russians during the Cold War, remember? Chemical weapons were a frightening scenario back then, all those blood, blister and nerve agents the Soviet Union had stockpiled in massive quantities, ready to use against us.’ Schultz tapped his finger on the table. ‘What we’re dealing with here is not so different. This H-1 virus is nothing more than a commutable bio-weapon that turns the host into a highly-infectious, prehistoric killer. And what do you do when ten thousand of those maniacs pour across the Brooklyn Bridge towards the most densely populated borough in New York?’

  ‘You blow the goddamn bridge.’

  Schultz turned and smiled. ‘See? Erik gets it.’

  Coffman raised a surprised eyebrow at her Chief of Staff. He shrugged and said, ‘We can’t afford to take any chances, right?’

  ‘And what if H-1 is released in a dozen different cities?’ Coffman countered. ‘What do we do then, Erik? Nuke them all? Do we nuke the Canadians and Mexicans if our borders are threatened? Where does it end?’

  Mulholland ran a hand through his thick grey hair. ‘I’m thinking aloud, that’s all.’

  Coffman turned back to Schultz. ‘Did they game-plan a multiple-target scenario, Charlie?’

  ‘They did. A two city attack, one on each coast.’

  ‘And the nuclear option was used both times?’

  ‘Only in the Manhattan scenario. The tall buildings, they helped to contain the fallout. California was different, a lot of real estate with a widely dispersed population. Artillery and fuel-air explosives were deployed successfully but there was some leakage. Ultimately the attack succeeded.’

  Once again, Coffman cursed her luck. How many newly-elected presidents were forced to consider the prospect of nuking their own people in the first six months of their presidency? Then again, she thanked her lucky stars that she was on the inside, the ultimate decision-maker. The buck stopped with her, and she was glad of it. This is what you wanted, she reminded herself. And then there was another question, one that Coffman knew the others would also want the answer to.

  ‘This zombie scenario, Charlie. What happens if it can’t be controlled? If it becomes so widespread that society disintegrates and everything goes to hell. Like in the movies. Have we got a plan for that?’

  Schultz nodded his head and smiled. ‘Believe it or not, yes we do. And it doesn’t involve living underground either.’

  For the first time in almost three hours, Amy Coffman finally had some good news.

  Philip stood beneath his umbrella as he watched a cold rain front sweep across the Sachsenhausen Forest. The low clouds were keeping the dawn at bay, and impenetrable shadows lingered between the surrounding trees where men with guns stood guard. This was to be a private ceremony after all.

  He watched the forklift truck bounce and sway through the trees towards the rectangular hole in the ground. The clearing was several hundred yards from the main house and far enough from any of the paths that criss-crossed the estate. It was as remote as the conditions and terrain would allow, and Philip was confident their activities would pass unnoticed.

  The forklift rocked to a halt by the hole in the ground. Ten of Philip’s people stepped forward and manhandled the containment unit off the forks and onto the muddy ground, threading thick ropes through the unit’s strongpoints. On a signal from Philip, they dragged the containment unit to the edge of the hole and lowered it into the ground. The ropes followed it, and Philip stepped forward. They surrounded the grave, their faces unseen, the rain running off their dark hooded slickers, and Philip was reminded of other times and other rituals. Perhaps those days would return, he mused. Perhaps.

  He looked down. Fifteen feet below his mud-caked boots, Lance Corporal Hector Nunez stared back at him through the reinforced glass panel of the containment unit, his toothless mouth opening and closing like a dying fish, his fingers brushing against the safety glass. His body squirmed a little, but the thrashing intensity Nunez had once possessed was gone, along with a lung, a kidney, both his legs and one arm.

  As the rain drummed against Philip’s umbrella he felt a twinge of sadness for the American, but it lasted for just a moment. He gave the order. He stepped back as the thick pipe that dangled into the grave shuddered. He watched Nunez bare his toothless gums in a final gesture of defiance before the containment unit disappeared beneath a steady stream of liquid concrete. After twenty-four cubic metres of wet slurry had been pumped into the hole, the hose was retracted and the digger moved in, piling the freshly-dug earth back into the unmarked grave. Philip waited, until the ground had been flattened, until the new saplings had been planted across the clearing and the earth returned to its original state. He waited until the vehicles had wound their way back to the Schloss, until his people had trudged out of sight. And then Philip waited a little longer, until the gentle rhythms of the forest had returned, the sigh of the wind through the firs, the steady drip of rainwater, the musical chorus of wild birds as they greeted the new day.

  Order had been restored, and as a proud Pole of German descent, Philip respected order above all things.

  As he followed the path back to the distant Schloss, he thought about the days ahead. There was much work to do; the house had to be cleaned and mothballed, all traces of their recent habitation erased before the property could be vacated and secured. Then they would head south, to the compound on the outskirts of Vienna.

  All the sacrificial lambs gathered in one convenient location.

  Crash Test Dummies

  Marion came down the stairs, a lar
ge rucksack slung over her shoulder, head-counting the members of the Global Liberation Front’s UK branch as they waited in the dark-panelled lobby of Scotton Manor. All there, she saw, all twelve of them. Good.

  She’d spent the last hour packing her things and scrubbing the bathroom and door handles with bleach. She’d worn latex gloves for much of her time at the Manor, as had Lucas, but one couldn’t be too careful.

  ‘Good, you’re all here.’

  ‘Ready to go,’ Terry confirmed. He was surrounded by the others, all huddled together in winter coats and hats, bags piled at their feet. Lucas entered the lobby via the heavy front door and a blast of cold wind.

  ‘The minibus is all topped up,’ he told Marion.

  ‘I hope you gave it a good clean,’ Terry said. ‘Those tramps were ripe. I don’t fancy sitting in there for an hour wrapped in their stink.’

  ‘She’s fresh as a daisy,’ Lucas told him.

  Marion stood by the front door. ‘Right, let’s make a move then, shall we?’

  The dreadlocked Olivia was the last to leave. ‘How can we get in touch, Marion? You know, before it starts?’

  The quiet one, Marion observed. Olivia Paige was a recent recruit, and Marion’s background checks revealed that the reserved, diminutive Olivia had a considerable police record, including criminal damage, harassment and violent assault. Never judge a book, Marion reminded herself. She’d also formed a relationship with Lucas, and Marion hoped for his sake it wasn’t serious. Marion smiled.

  ‘Terry will know how to contact me. If you have any questions or concerns, speak to him.’

  Olivia looked down at her trainers.

  Marion frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ’Terry’s been a bit weird lately. It’s making me feel a little uncomfortable. I’d rather talk directly to you, Marion. Have you got a number I can call you on? I won’t tell anyone else.’

  ‘Really, Olivia? Tough little thing like you, worried about old Terry? You’ll be fine,’ she said, opening the door a little wider. ‘I’ll speak to him, when we all meet at the Refuge.’

  ‘Where is the Refuge exactly?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough. Now, drop your bags by the minibus. Lucas will load them.’

  Olivia offered a fleeting smile. Unconvinced, Marion realised. She watched Olivia trudge towards the vehicle, then she pulled the door closed. She helped Lucas load the last of the luggage then climbed aboard. Five minutes later they’d left Scotton Manor behind them and were heading north.

  ‘You’re going the wrong way,’ Terry said from behind her. ‘Kettering’s south.’

  Marion twisted around in her seat. ‘I thought we’d drop you at Peterborough. It’s a bit further but the trains to London run every thirty minutes.’

  Terry shrugged. ‘Makes sense.’

  Marion smiled and turned back around. Daylight still lingered over the horizon and a cloak of mist hung over the surrounding countryside. They drove for another fifteen minutes, the mood subdued, the passengers lulled by the warmth and motion of the minibus, then Lucas turned off the main road onto a narrow country lane. After a while, open fields gave way to thick woods.

  ‘What’s this now, a bloody shortcut?’

  Terry again. Marion wanted to tell him to shut his mouth. ‘We have a storage facility up ahead. There’s something I need to pick up. It won’t take a minute.’

  A smaller gravel track disappeared at a right angle into the trees. Lucas pumped the brakes and turned onto it. Trees crowded the minibus, and the shadows ran deep on either side. Branches scraped against the windows. Lucas hit the brakes again and the minibus stopped in front of a chain-link fence.

  Marion jumped out, removed a heavy padlock and swung the gate open. Lucas drove through and Marion climbed aboard once more. They drove for another minute, the track twisting and turning through the woods. Up ahead, the trees thinned and a patch of grey sky appeared.

  Lucas brought the minibus to a halt.

  ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ Marion announced, climbing out.

  She slammed the door behind her.

  Olivia Paige’s heart was beating like a jack-hammer.

  She reached behind her head and re-tied the thick knot of dreadlocks with shaking hands. What she’d heard these last few weeks, what she’d seen, had scarred her deeply. The training she’d undergone was designed to prepare her for most things. When she’d joined the group she’d expected to see some rough stuff; violence, intimidation, criminal damage. She was prepared to get her hands dirty. She’d attended enough marches and demos in her time, had seen plenty of blood and broken bones, but this was a different world entirely. Nothing had prepared her for Scotton Manor.

  Terry had been the target, and like most men he’d been easy to manipulate. She’d met him at the Boomtown festival in Hampshire, back in the summer when her uniform of choice had been cut-off denim shorts, biker boots and a series of brightly-coloured crop tops that barely contained her generous, bra-less boobs. They’d smoked dope and talked politics. She’d even tugged him off one mad, ecstasy-fuelled night, and after that she was in, but the middle-aged activist had never returned for more. Olivia discovered that there was only one thing that gave Terry a real hard-on, and that was the death of industrialisation and the modern world.

  At first she thought it was all talk, but then he’d introduced her to Marion and Lucas. It wasn’t long before Olivia knew she was involved in something far darker than blockading shale gas sites.

  It was the hulking giant Lucas who’d told her the whole story. To her surprise and frustration it had taken three weeks to bed him, and while the sex had been a disappointment, the post-coital pillow talk had revealed a story so horrific that Olivia had welcomed the dark of her bedroom if only to hide the revulsion on her face.

  The training had seen her through. Were it not for that, Olivia knew her body language would’ve screamed the type of signals Marion would surely have detected.

  Despite some very subtle probing, Olivia knew nothing about the woman. She was a blank canvas, a forgettable individual of indeterminate age and origin. All electronic devices were banned at the Manor, and Marion had worn latex gloves all the time, even during the late-night drinking sessions that gave them all a chance to decompress after killing and cremating another batch of homeless people. No phones, no pictures, no fingerprints. Even Lucas had remained silent about Marion, despite Olivia riding him like a bucking bronco night after night.

  As she watched them talking by the side of the track, Olivia remembered her first time in the control room, when she’d witnessed the infections and carbon monoxide gassings. She’d choked back the bile as she’d helped stretcher the bodies to the incinerator at the back of the house. Terry and the others had taken it all in their stride, committed as they were to a cause that Olivia could not have imagined. The moment she was clear of them, she’d make contact with her handler. The priority then would be to stop them.

  Impatient grumbles rippled around the minibus and Olivia blocked it out. She was focussed on Marion and Lucas, their body language. Marion’s arms were folded, her head cocked to one side. Lucas was tight-lipped, nodding his head as Marion appeared to lecture him about something. Whatever it was, Lucas didn’t like it. Then Marion put a hand on his arm, smiled, and walked into the trees.

  Olivia shifted in her seat, her heart beating fast. She watched Lucas take a bunch of keys out of his pocket and walk towards the vehicle.

  ‘About bloody time,’ Terry grumbled.

  Olivia tracked Lucas as he walked around the back of the minibus. She heard a key in the lock and saw him check it with a huge paw. He did the same with the side door, then he climbed behind the wheel.

  ‘Come on big ‘un, we’ve got a train to catch.’

  Lucas ignored him. Instead, he fired up the engine then reached down beneath the seat. Olivia couldn’t see what he was doing but she was filled with a sudden dread.

  ‘Lucas?’ She watched his big shoulders w
restling beneath his coat, his hands working earnestly out of sight. ‘Lucas!’ she yelled.

  Terry spun around in his seat. ‘Jesus, Livvy, what the hell’s wrong with you?’

  The van’s engine roared. Lucas turned around. He looked directly at Olivia and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  And then he was scrambling out of the minibus as it lurched forward and accelerated along the gravel path. Terry and the others were shouting and swearing, but not yet terrified. Olivia was already there. She could see the plastic ties locking the steering wheel in place, imagined the length of timber jammed onto the pedal. Her hands scrabbled for the seatbelt, dragging it across her chest and snapping it home as the minibus hurtled towards the clearing ahead.

  Not a clearing, Olivia realised.

  Trees flashed by on either side and then the ground opened up. She saw the wide canyon ahead, the distant trees that crowded its impossibly steep flanks.

  One of the girls screamed. Terry joined her, then the others. Olivia’s stomach lurched as the ground fell away and the minibus hurtled into the quarry. She glimpsed the steep walls rushing by, heard the scream of the engine as it competed with the death cries of the people around her.

  Black water rushed up to meet them.

  Olivia took a lungful of air and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Grave Decision

  The service was held at the Westhampton Memorial Park, a quiet, well-tended cemetery located five miles north-west of downtown Richmond, Virginia.

  By the time Ray Wilson had parked his car and marched to the graveside, Kelly Novak was being lowered into her final resting place. Ray stood behind the large crowd of mourners as the rain drummed against his umbrella. Hell of a day for it, he observed. More often than not, nature seemed to conspire against memorial services. Ray had attended several over the fifty-three years of his life, and he couldn’t remember one where it hadn’t rained. Or maybe he just misremembered, as the folks up on the Hill often said.