Zombie Rules | Book 8 | Who The Hell Is That?

by Achord, David

  “We’ll get back to these so-called scavenging missions into Philadelphia in a minute. Let’s now talk about this rumor I’ve been hearing,” President VanAllen said.

  “What rumor might that be, Mister President?” Roscoe asked.

  “The rumor is, the two of you have authorized the construction of some sort of trading post. An agora, maybe?”

  Both Roscoe and Johnny G stood there, stunned, but like Justin, they kept their facial expressions neutral.

  “Yes, Mister President. We have. We hope to have it up and running by spring.”

  “That is splendid news, but my question is why weren’t we apprised of this project?”

  “Why?” Johnny G said.

  “Excuse me?” Gil asked.

  “Mister President, why do you think we are required to inform you of our projects?”

  “Cohesiveness and unity of command, Mister Sidebottom. We, that includes the members of the senate, the vice president, and me, we can provide valuable input and guidance for a project of this type. In addition, all projects of this magnitude require oversight.”

  “Actually, you’d just hinder us,” Johnny G said. “The personnel at Marcus Hook are more than capable. We don’t need any input nor guidance, and we damn sure do not need any oversight from meddlesome politicians. We can use some manual laborers though. Are you volunteering?”

  President Gil VanAllen stared with a less than friendly expression. The niceties were gone.

  “That leads me to my next line of questioning. Is it true that you two have offered the job of running this trading post to the Fitzgerald family?”

  “Yes, we have,” Roscoe said.

  The president made a clucking sound with his tongue. “That will not do, Roscoe. You know you should have come to me with this before making these decisions. A delegation will need to be created to conduct a proper evaluation and assessment of this endeavor, and while we are at it, a feasibility study needs to be conducted of venturing into Philadelphia.”

  “Do you have people here who are experts at trading posts, Mister President?” Johnny G asked. “If you do, I will need to conduct a proper evaluation of them to ensure they are not full of shit. Same for anyone else who thinks they are experts at scavenging.”

  Gil fixed him with a rebuking stare before speaking. “Furthermore, I find it unacceptable that two seemingly intelligent men have been duped into allowing this Fitzgerald family to beguile you two into appointing them to manage such an important facet of this bureaucracy.”

  “I don’t follow,” Roscoe said. “Joe Fitzgerald Senior is an intelligent, educated man. An attorney in his past life, I believe. Plus, the Fitzgerald family have previous experience in post-apocalyptic bartering; they are more than qualified.”

  “I must disagree. I have received credible information that the Fitzgeralds have a shady past and may possibly have acted as accomplices to Zach Gunderson when he murdered my wife and her staff. They will not be running any outpost.”

  “An executive order reflecting this directive would be a prudent measure, Mister President,” Vice President Rhinehart suggested.

  “Yes, of course. I will prepare an executive order ordering a cease and desist on the building of the trading post until an evaluation is completed. In addition, there are to be no more foolish scavenging forays into Philadelphia, or any other city, without my express approval. Do I make myself clear?”

  Johnny G started to say something, but Roscoe spoke before he could.

  “We understand, Mister President. If there is nothing else, we need to get back to Marcus Hook.”

  VanAllen waved a dismissive hand. There was a guffaw from someone in the audience. Roscoe pretended not to notice while Johnny G glared at the room, trying to determine the perpetrator. Justin watched them walk out. He wanted to join them, but he needed to stick around and talk to Bob. Maybe he could get some straight answers about what the hell was going on around here.

  The President issued a few more asinine directives before dismissing the meeting. Justin waited in the hallway. Bob was the last person to walk out, glanced at Justin, and made a head motion. He then walked off. Justin waited a few seconds and then followed him. They ended up outside. Bob led him to a familiar spot in the ground. He pointed and smiled.

  “Remember?”

  It was a garden plot that was currently covered by a thin layer of snow. It’s where Justin showed Ensign Boner that he was the alpha male of the Marines.

  “Seems like a long time ago,” Justin remarked.

  “We’ve made a lot of progress around here since then,” Bob said. “Until now, that is.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Justin asked.

  “It’s been kind of strange around here since Gil arrived and took over. He spends almost every night in the party barn, getting drunk with the sots and stoners. Sometimes he goes around all day wearing that damn granny sweater he was wearing at the meeting.”

  Justin frowned and swore under his breath. “Can’t something be done?”

  “At the moment, he’s pretty popular around here. My guess is that popularity is going to wear off soon. Until then, all I can do is document all his bizarre behavior and plant little bugs in people’s ears. Tonight, during dinner, I am going to throw out a few casual questions about the logic of today’s directives. I must be subtle about it, but if I can get people to start seeing how detrimental all this is to Mount Weather, I can get him removed from office. It might take some time though.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Justin asked.

  “Do the same thing I’m doing. Talk to people, feed them little suggestions of doubt,” Bob said.

  Justin sighed deeply. “In the meantime, I go forward with shutting down Fort Detrick.”

  Bob nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll do it, but I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Chapter 42 – Betrayal

  Both Roscoe and Johnny G were seething, but the two men did not speak until they had reached the parking area and ensured nobody was within earshot.

  “Did you see that smug smirk on his face when we were leaving? He did it on purpose,” Roscoe growled. “A public humiliation to show everyone who is in charge.”

  “He seems to have forgotten that when we took them in, they didn’t even have a pot to piss in,” Johnny G said. “We welcomed them with open arms and treated them like family. We even accommodated them when Rochelle ran for president.”

  “And this is how he repays us,” Roscoe said. “The power has gone to his head. He thinks we’re his subjects now.”

  “I should have called him out, right then and there, show everyone what a little shit he really is,” Johnny G said.

  “No, if you had done that, there’s no telling how he might have reacted,” Roscoe countered. “He probably would’ve had us arrested for treason or something.”

  Johnny G scoffed. “He needs to be taken care of.”

  “I’m not sure that’d work,” Roscoe said, understanding the inference his friend was making. “If that little squirt is killed, both he and his wife would become martyrs to the idiots who voted for them in the first place. No, he must be allowed to live so he can ruin himself, and we’re going to help it along,” Roscoe said.

  Johnny G stared at his best friend. “Operation Betrayal?”

  “Yes indeed,” Roscoe replied.

  Johnny G gave a small smile. “See, I told you all those nights of playing what-if wasn’t a waste of time after all.”

  Roscoe chuckled. When the two men met years ago, they had instantly become the closest of friends. They worked hard from before sunup to well after sundown every day. At night, they sat around strategizing. Much like the original Mount Weather think tank, they dreamed up multiple post-apocalyptic scenarios and then created contingencies for each one.

  They were leery of Mount Weather and its politicians from the beginning, but the demands of running a refinery left little time for the population of Marcus Hook to cultiv
ate a sustainable farming operation. Johnny G personally led a recon mission on Mount Weather one week and was impressed by their farming operation. So, they made the decision to visit Mount Weather and create a partnership.

  It turned out to be a mutually beneficial arrangement and strong friendships were forged. One night after the recent election, Roscoe opened a bottle of Four Roses bourbon and the two men discussed the possible ramifications of Rochelle VanAllen and her husband taking office. They assumed, since the couple had lived at Marcus Hook, that the friendly relations would continue. Even though they were drinking the bourbon to celebrate the election, bourbon has a way of sometimes altering a person’s mindset to a more paranoid way of thinking. This night was no exception.

  And it was on this night, with this bourbon induced mindset, that Operation Betrayal was created. The plan was rather straightforward. If their relationship with Mount Weather soured, they’d cut off all contact with them. This included turning off the phone system and creating roadblocks to the main routes between the two communities. And most importantly, they would cease supplying diesel to them.

  They chuckled at the silliness of it the next morning over breakfast, but Johnny G did not discard the notes. Instead, he fine-tuned them and added them to his notebook which contained all the other contingency plans.

  “Alright, we’ll send out some invites to people we want to join us and then we’ll put the roadblocks in place,” Roscoe said.

  “Good. I’ll get my team together and brief them tonight. We can start in the morning,” Johnny G said.

  “And I’ll disable the phones. The only way they’ll be able to communicate with us is by radio and we’ll simply ignore them. Before I disable them, I’ll give Captain Smithson a call and explain everything.” He listed a few other people he wanted to talk to. Johnny G agreed to each name Roscoe mentioned.

  “Discretion is the key,” Johnny G remarked. “If VanAllen gets word of this, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to send an armed force to intervene.”

  Roscoe glanced at him. “No diplomatic envoy?”

  “If it were Stark, or even Rhinehart, certainly. With him? I highly doubt it. When you talk to the Captain, let him know how we feel about something like that.”

  “Noted,” Roscoe replied. “You know, we forgot one person we should extend a personal invite to.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Fred McCoy,” Roscoe said.

  “Good one. He and Rachel would be good to have around. I’ve got some pictures of a big, nice farm a couple miles west of Hook. That might lure him.”

  “If he’s with us, we’ll always have Zach on our side.”

  “Yes, we will,” Johnny G agreed. “His place is only a little out of the way. Let’s stop by there on our way back home.”

  They waved at the guards as they exited the main gate and turned onto Blueridge Mountain Road.

  “I’m going to miss this place,” Roscoe said. “Especially all the different varieties of spiced tea they have.”

  “Maybe one day, the people of Mount Weather will come to their senses and make some changes,” Johnny G said. “Maybe by spring. In the meantime, we’ll be on our own.”

  “We can handle it,” Roscoe said.

  They stopped at Fred’s house and learned from Rachel he was away on a mission. The two men extended the invite and showed Rachel the pictures of the abandoned farm while promising to provide all the help they needed to make it livable again. Rachel promised she’d discuss it with Fred when he returned.

  Once back on the road, they spent the next hour discussing the finer details of Operation Betrayal. After a lull in conversation, Roscoe changed the subject.

  “Who do you think told him about Ringo and the trading post?”

  “Irena, no doubt,” Johnny G answered.

  Roscoe bit his lower lip while he pondered it. Suddenly, his eyebrows jumped up. “He said agora.”

  “He did,” Johnny G said. “Nobody uses that word anymore, except you and anyone else who knows Greek history. And the only time that word has been mentioned lately was the other night at our little secret meeting. That is no coincidence.”

  “So, it has to be one of the Fitzgeralds, Irena, or Hermione.”

  “Definitely Irena. Hermione isn’t all that smart and she wouldn’t care anyway. And it wouldn’t have been any of the Fitzgeralds.”

  “I don’t know,” Roscoe said. “Trader Joe may be playing some kind of angle.”

  “I’ll bet you it’s Irena.”

  Roscoe glanced over at his friend. “What kind of bet?”

  “I’ll bet you a dollar it’s her,” he said.

  “Do you have a dollar?”

  “Actually, I have a mint condition hundred-dollar bill sitting in my desk. I kept it as a memento. I’ll bet that.”

  Roscoe thought a second. “I have a few real copper pennies somewhere in my room. I’ll bet those.”

  “Deal,” Johnny G said. “When I win, I’m going to make them my lucky pennies.”

  Roscoe grunted. “How do you think our people are going to handle this?”

  “There will be some grumbling, but they know we consider them family and we take care of our own first.”

  “True enough. Anybody who disagrees can always leave,” Roscoe said.

  “Nobody will leave,” Johnny G said. “In fact, once the fuel runs out at Mount Weather, I strongly suspect we’ll have a lot of people who will want to come live with us.”

  Roscoe gave a dry chuckle. “VanAllen and his cronies are about to find out the hard way that he who controls the diesel is he who is actually in charge. That’s another reason why I want Fred to come join us. There are only one or two of them who know how to break a horse and we don’t have anyone who is even close to being a farrier.”

  “He can breed them, break them, shoe them, he can even float their teeth, everything you need to do with a horse he knows how,” Johnny G added.

  “I wonder how they’re doing with things like bicycles and parts.”

  “No idea.”

  “Do you want to know what I think?” Roscoe asked.

  “Sure,” Johnny G said.

  “I think the man has no intention of continuing with the mission of rebuilding America.”

  “His behavior doesn’t seem to indicate it,” Johnny G said.

  Roscoe murmured his agreement. “It’s a shame. Stark was on the right track.”

  The ambitious plan of rebuilding America required mobility, which allowed a larger span of control of the country. They needed fuel to achieve it. They also needed fuel to power their farm equipment. Roscoe doubted any of them knew how to hitch up a team of mules and plow a field. President VanAllen and his new tagalongs were going to learn their arrogance exceeded their actual power.

  “It’s too bad about the man,” Johnny G said, referring to Stark’s illness. “I wonder how much longer he has to live.”

  “It sure came on quickly. I guess that’s what happens without the benefit of modern medicine.”

  “Yep,” Johnny G said.

  “If something like that happens to me, do me a favor and put me out of my misery.”

  “You got it,” Johnny G said solemnly. “The first time you piss yourself, I’ll put a bullet in the back of your head.”

  Roscoe laughed. “Alright, if it is Irena, what do you think Joe Senior is going to do about it?”

  “I’m not sure I know him well enough to answer,” Johnny G said.

  Roscoe paused a few seconds before asking the next question. “What about Riley?”

  Johnny G gave a small chuckle. “I’ll keep her straight. In fact, I’ve been thinking I can use her to prove Irena is the little rat.” He explained his thoughts.

  Roscoe chuckled. “I like it. Okay, if Irena is the rat, we’ll talk it over with Senior. But what if it’s one of the Fitzgeralds?”

  “I don’t see how it would benefit them by ratting on themselves, but if it is, we’ll confront him and hear
him out.”

  Roscoe scratched his face. “The more I think about it, the more I think you’re right. I sure am going to miss those pennies. Are you going to kill her?”

  Johnny G smiled. “Nope. In fact, we’re going to have some fun.”

  “How so?”

  “We can use Irena to give them false information.” He explained the plan that was formulating in his head.

  A smile spread across Roscoe’s face. “I like it. We can really mess with VanAllen.”

  “Yep.”