Zombie Apocalypse

by Cassiday, Bryan

  Byrd nodded. “If we nuke our entire continent, we should be safe from infection.”

  “The question is, can these cannibals survive in the Arctic and the Antarctic? Are we gonna have to worry about being attacked from the North Pole?”

  “This is insane,” said Dr. Laslo, face twisted in anguish. “The more you talk about this, the more insane it gets. Think about what you’re saying, for heaven’s sake. You’re talking about a nuclear holocaust the likes of which the world has never seen.”

  “It’s the only way to deal with a plague the likes of which the world has never seen,” said Byrd.

  “We have no idea what the end result will be if you drop hundreds of A-bombs on the world.”

  “More than hundreds, probably.”

  “Even worse,” said Dr. Laslo in exasperation. “You may raise so much atomic dust with these blasts it will blot out the sun for centuries to come, killing off all life.”

  Byrd smirked. “Surely you exaggerate, Doctor.”

  “I wish.”

  “The fact of the matter is nuclear wars are winnable,” said Byrd, folding his hands on the tabletop. “You’re playing into the hands of that hysterical claptrap back in the fifties that preached nuclear wars meant the end of the world.”

  “Claptrap?”

  “We know now that that’s just not true. Nuclear explosions will not end the world.”

  “Who’s feeding you this hokum, General?”

  “I’m not downplaying the effects of nuclear blasts. Of course, they will be catastrophic. That’s why we need them to eradicate the plague. Nothing short of nuclear blasts will wipe out the disease. But the bottom line is, nuclear blasts are survivable.”

  “What if you’re wrong, General?” said Director Paris. “It’s not like we’re gonna get any second chances at this.”

  Byrd pulled on his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m not wrong.”

  DCI Slocum fiddled with a stick of gum in his hands, trying to open its wrapper. “Do you know what happened to the dinosaurs, General?”

  “Dinosaurs? Who care about dinosaurs?”

  “There’s a scientific theory currently in vogue that says the dinosaurs became extinct after a giant comet crashed into the earth and kicked up so much dust and smoke that their combination in the atmosphere blotted out the sun for years, chilling the weather and killing off the dinosaurs.”

  Byrd pooh-poohed the idea. “Politically correct poppycock. That’s another riff on the nuclear winter sham.”

  “It sounds plausible to me.”

  Byrd waved Slocum off. “Theories come and go. You know that. They’re flavors of the month with scientists. Here today, gone tomorrow. No theory can be proved. That’s why they’re just theories.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said President Cole. “Are we all agreed that we must blow up our entire continent with nuclear blasts to cleanse it of the plague?”

  “No way!” said Dr. Laslo, slapping his hands against the tabletop and jumping to his feet out of his chair.

  “I think I can speak for everyone in this room when I say I have friends and relatives who could still be alive outside of this bunker,” said DHS Director Sheila Klauss. “They have no chance, if you give that order, Mr. President. If they don’t die from the plague, they’ll die from the nuclear blasts.”

  A sobering thought, decided Mellors. He had a sister and two parents out there somewhere. There wasn’t any room for them in Mount Weather. He wanted to believe they were still alive, though he hadn’t heard from them since the plague broke out. If A-bombs started raining down from the heavens, he could kiss his family good-bye.

  Cole said nothing.

  “Maybe they’re in bomb shelters,” said Byrd with an almost apologetic shrug after an awkward silence.

  Klauss gave him a look. “Do you really believe that, General?”

  “What happens after you give the order, Mr. President?” asked FBI Director Paris.

  “After the president gives the order and I confirm it, drones carrying WMD will be launched,” answered Byrd.

  “Approximately when will bombs start hitting the ground after the order is given?”

  “It could be as soon as a half hour later. Depends on how far the drones are from their targets.”

  Either they were all mad or he was, decided Mellors. Contrary to what the poet said, the world wasn’t going to end with a whimper but with a bang, if the president and the secretary of defense had their way.

  Nobody said anything for a while as they revolved the inconceivable, their faces grim.

  At last the president said through a dry, tight throat, “Would somebody please talk me out of this?”

  CHAPTER 57

  Las Vegas

  Halverson, Victoria, and McLellan were running for their lives through the Venetian’s palatial gaming room on the ground floor.

  Guns at the ready, Quantrill’s team of soldiers burst through the lobby doors, into the room, and unleashed M4 carbine volleys at Halverson and his companions, who tacked between slot machines and gaming tables in their desperation to escape the hail of bullets.

  Bathed in sweat, Halverson felt a slug sing by his ear as he jinked through the hodgepodge of slot machines.

  Halverson and Victoria followed McLellan as he barreled into the crash bar of a metal fire door and exploded into an alley in the rear of the casino.

  McLellan signaled toward a green metal Dumpster with graffiti scrawled on it ten feet from the fire door.

  Nodding, Halverson followed McLellan to the Dumpster and they rolled it in front of the door. At the same time, bullets tore through the fire door’s metal surface and into the Dumpster.

  “That’s not gonna hold ’em very long,” said Halverson, pressing the Dumpster against the door.

  “I know,” said McLellan. “We’re buying time is all.”

  “We need to circle around and get back onto the strip so we can see where the school bus goes.”

  “We don’t want to lose Chogan and Arnold,” said Victoria, helping Halverson press the Dumpster against the fire door.

  “We don’t want to get ourselves killed either,” said McLellan.

  As if on cue more bullets slammed through the fire door into the Dumpster.

  Halverson could feel somebody trying to shove the door open against the Dumpster. When the door didn’t budge, another barrage of lead perforated it, leaving ragged holes in the metal.

  Several of the rounds penetrated the side of the Dumpster. They clattered around inside the bin. Others bounced off its exterior wall. The projectiles didn’t have the impetus to pass through the metal door and both sides of the Dumpster.

  McLellan raised his arm over the protective barrier of the Dumpster, trained his FN 5.7 on the door, and fired a round through the fire door at shoulder height. That was one of the things McLellan liked about the FN 5.7, besides its low recoil. Even though it was only a pistol, the FN 5.7 fired high-velocity 5.7 x 28 mm SS190 cartridges that could pierce body armor, as well as metal.

  The gunfire behind the door halted at McLellan’s return fire.

  “Follow me,” said McLellan.

  He piked off down the alley, legs pumping for all they were worth.

  Halverson and Victoria belted after him.

  Halverson’s left hand was throbbing but he was scarcely aware of the pain as he sprinted down the alley, his heart pumping furiously, his lungs bursting.

  Legs firing like pistons, Halverson made up ground fast and caught up to McLellan.

  Blue plastic garbage cans lined the alley behind the mom-and-pop businesses that occupied the side of the alley opposite the back of the Venetian. In advanced states of disrepair, the shops didn’t look inviting. A teenage girl with tattoos on her arms and legs was standing in the alley pawing through a portable rack of T-shirts that hung in front of a gift shop.

  Halverson wondered how the shop could possibly prosper sequestered in an alley. And yet there the girl was selecting a Ve
gas T.

  Halverson heard the Dumpster scraping against the alley’s asphalt behind him as the soldiers horsed the fire door open. He cringed as he heard slugs whizzing around him.

  McLellan cut down a side street on his right, Halverson two steps behind him.

  Halverson realized with a start that Victoria wasn’t with them. Fearing lest the soldiers had shot her he darted back to the alley in search of her.

  Gasping for breath as she scurried down the alley, Victoria hadn’t arrived at the side street yet.

  Halverson sighed with relief, seeing she was unharmed—so far. He picked up on a team of soldiers scrambling down the alley, firing their M4 carbines on the run, which was throwing off their aims, fortunately for Victoria.

  Halverson waved for her to follow him. He ducked into the side street to avoid being hit by the soldiers’ bullets, which flew through the alley like angry wasps that carried stings of death.

  Even as Halverson drew up and peeked around the corner of the Venetian high-rise and down the alley, Victoria came careening onto the side street, almost colliding with him, her mouth gaping as she sucked in air, her hair mussed up from her running.

  She stumbled and would have fallen if he hadn’t been standing there to catch her.

  A couple of bullets tore into a Dumpster in the alley beyond the entrance to the side street, reminding Halverson he had to get a move on it.

  Halverson and Victoria stormed down the side street after McLellan, who was slowing his gait waiting for them to catch up to him.

  “I can’t keep up this pace much longer,” gasped Victoria, running full-bore.

  “We need to find a hiding place where we can watch the school bus,” said Halverson.

  He knew the soldiers chasing them would round the corner any minute now and sweep down the side street in pursuit.

  Halverson, McLellan, and Victoria emerged onto the strip sooner than Halverson had expected. They juked onto the strip to avoid the firing of the soldiers who were now barging onto the side street that Halverson had just exited.

  Halverson gazed down the wide thoroughfare at the Mirage, where the school bus was just pulling out of the turnaround and heading out of Vegas.

  “We need a car,” said McLellan, eyes on the bus.

  Halverson cast around the boulevard for a vehicle.

  An odd car here and there drove fitfully down the street.

  “We’ll have to carjack one,” said Halverson as the school bus increased the distance between it and him.

  “We got to do it fast,” said McLellan, “or we’ll never catch up to that bus.”

  So saying, he bounded out into the thoroughfare in front of an approaching coupe, gun at the ready. It was a fiery red 2010 Mustang GT.

  The driver screeched his car to a halt in order to avoid hitting McLellan. White-faced, the rawboned twentysomething driver stuck his head out his window and cursed McLellan. The curses died in the driver’s mouth when he picked up on McLellan’s gun, which McLellan was now leveling at him.

  Halverson smelled burnt rubber that the car’s high-performance tires had splayed on the asphalt.

  “We need your car,” McLellan told the driver.

  McLellan pointed his pistol in the driver’s face.

  Eyes wide, the driver opened his car door and clambered out onto the street. Without being told, he raised his arms above his head and backed away from McLellan and the Mustang. McLellan kept his pistol trained on the guy.

  “This is a police emergency,” said McLellan. “Back away from the car.”

  “I know what it is,” said the driver, stepping backward. “You’re carjacking me.”

  “Can you drive with your hand busted like that?” McLellan asked Halverson.

  “Not very well,” answered Halverson, glancing at his swollen, misshapen left hand. “But I can still shoot.” He held up his healthy right hand.

  “You ride shotgun then.”

  Halverson scooted around to the passenger side of the car.

  Victoria folded the front seat-back forward and ducked into the cramped backseat before Halverson arrived at the door. Halverson flipped the seat-back upright and climbed into the leather-upholstered front bucket seat, slamming the door shut behind him.

  McLellan backed into the driver’s seat, keeping his gun trained on the car’s owner.

  “Gangsters all over the place,” grumbled the owner. “And wearing suits these days. The world’s going to hell.”

  “You think?” said McLellan.

  Halverson withdrew his Sig Sauer, aimed it at the owner, and kept McLellan covered as McLellan slipped into his seat and shut his door.

  McLellan stowed away his automatic in its holster and eyed the transmission. “A five-speed stick. I haven’t driven one of these in a while.” He buckled his seat belt. “Should be fun. Buckle up everybody.”

  Halverson and Victoria followed his lead.

  McLellan fired the engine, put the Mustang in first gear, and applied the gas.

  The car jerked forward. Halverson, McLellan, and Victoria felt their heads snap backward.

  “I can’t see the school bus,” said Victoria, massaging her neck as she craned it between the two front bucket seats and peered out the windshield from the backseat.

  “They drove out of sight a while back,” said Halverson.

  “We’ll catch ’em in no time,” said McLellan.

  He shifted into second gear. The car stalled.

  “Are you sure about that?” said Victoria.

  “You need to give it some gas,” said Halverson.

  “I hate backseat drivers, especially when they’re in the front seat,” said McLellan.

  He fired the engine again, put the car into first gear, and drove off. After he shifted into second, he crushed the gas pedal, and the Mustang rocketed forward down the boulevard, tires shrieking.

  “You can’t be gentle with this brute,” he said.

  Halverson suddenly became aware of the pain in his mangled hand.

  “I need some Tylenol,” he said through clenched teeth, holding up his swollen hand.

  “What you need is a doctor,” said McLellan.

  Victoria peered at Halverson’s hand from the backseat. “Tylenol won’t help that swelling.”

  She rooted through her purse and fished out a plastic bottle of aspirin. She handed the bottle to Halverson.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Aspirin reduces inflammation,” she said. “Tylenol doesn’t.”

  Halverson struggled with the bottle, trying to open it, but was unable to twist off the childproof cap with only one hand.

  “Could you open it?” he said, embarrassed, handing the bottle back to her.

  CHAPTER 58

  Consumed with mounting dread, Meers was sitting in the school bus fidgeting. He had no idea where they were going. All he knew was it couldn’t be good.

  “Why is Quantrill going with us?” asked Chogan, seated beside Meers. “Did she win too?”

  “She always rides out with the winners,” answered Meers, his teeth chattering.

  “Are you cold?” said Chogan, a puzzled expression on his face.

  “No.”

  “It’s at least eighty degrees in here. You look like you’re shivering.”

  Meers didn’t like their chances. Nothing good was going to come of this journey, he decided.

  “I think they’re going to kill us,” he said.

  “Pull yourself together. It can’t be that bad.”

  “I hope I’m wrong.”

  Chogan gazed toward the front of the bus. “I don’t understand why Quantrill’s going with us if she didn’t win.”

  “She supervises the trip.”

  “Kwang-Sun is here too,” said Chogan, spotting Kwang-Sun sitting beside Quantrill.

  “He’s probably taking the place of McLellan as her bodyguard.”

  “What’s the deal with McLellan?”

  “He never leaves her side. Something must have happen
ed to him.”

  Chogan screwed up his face in thought. “I wonder if it had anything to do with Halverson. They’re both missing. Could there be a connection?”

  Meers had no answer.

  The bus hung a right, turned off the main road with a jolt over the camber, and headed into the desert. Meers and Chogan felt the rough ground through the cheap padding in their seats as the bus jounced over the uneven terrain.

  “This crate wasn’t built for driving on dirt,” said Chogan, rocking in his seat, his spine taking a pounding.

  With consternation Meers watched the bus leave the road.

  They drove past a Joshua tree and cruised toward a saguaro cactus. Other than these last two vestiges of vegetation, miles of barren brown desert swept before them toward saddlebacks and brown mountains in the distance.

  Meers felt his sense of dread intensifying. He grabbed the seat-back in front of him as the bus jostled him to and fro.

  “Where are we going?” said Chogan.

  Meers shook his head. “There’s nothing in this direction I know of.”

  “All I see is desert,” said Chogan, perplexed.

  “I don’t like the looks of this.”

  “Where are we going?” Chogan shouted toward Quantrill.

  Quantrill whipped her head around to scowl at him. “Don’t worry about it. The road’s clogged with cars up ahead. We’re taking a detour. Chill out. Meers, are you causing trouble back there?”

  “Yeah, blame everything on me,” said Meers under his breath, his visage sour.

  “At least you could have gotten an all-terrain vehicle for this kind of travel,” said Chogan. “A school bus isn’t my idea of an ATV.”

  Kwang-Sun turned around to face Chogan and told him to shut up.

  “You’re not sitting here in the back where we are,” said Chogan. “The springs are lousy back here.”

  “Boo-hoo,” said Kwang-Sun. “Get out the violins.”

  “Fuck you,” said Chogan.

  “You want me to come back there?” said Kwang-Sun like it was a threat.

  “Yeah. Do it.”

  Kwang-Sun sneered at Chogan and faced forward.

  Chogan winced with pain as the juddering of the bus opened his leg wound.