Zombie Apocalypse

by Cassiday, Bryan

  “We gotta get off this bus,” Meers told Chogan.

  Meers noticed other passengers becoming restless and gazing out the windows with concern.

  “And go where?” said Chogan. “Look around. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  “If we stay here, we’re dead.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Once we get back on the road or get where we’re going, we’ll be OK. You worry too much.”

  “Think about it. Where could we be going in the middle of the desert for a vacation?”

  Chogan shrugged. “I’m not gonna sit around and worry about it. They got all the guns up front and we got nothing.”

  “One thing keeps nagging at me. Why do we need all these soldiers with us?”

  “For protection, maybe.”

  “Protection from what?”

  “Maybe we have to pass through dangerous territory to reach our destination. The walking dead are all around here. Wasn’t it you who said that?”

  “They’re all around the strip, is what I said.”

  “Exactly.” Face sweaty, Chogan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I could use a drink of water.”

  Meers noticed that several of the soldiers up front had coils of rope looped around their shoulders. “What’s with the rope those soldiers are carrying?”

  Chogan followed the direction of Meers’s gaze then pulled at his nose. “Beats me. Looks like mountain-climbing gear maybe. I don’t get it.”

  “That’s our prize? We go mountain climbing?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  Meers cut his eyes back and forth repeatedly like he was caught in a cage and looking for a way out. “I’m getting bad vibes about this.”

  “Your hinky act is getting old.”

  “I’m telling you . . .”

  Meers’s words trailed off in the rumbling of the bus as it negotiated the wasteland.

  CHAPTER 59

  Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

  Puffing on a cigarette President Cole was sitting at the table in the Situation Room with the leftovers of his administration.

  “I hate to bring this up, Mr. President,” said Dr. Laslo, “but since you obviously don’t care about your own health, did you ever hear of secondhand smoke?”

  “I have more pressing concerns than the dangers of tobacco on my mind,” said Cole.

  Dr. Laslo waved his hand in front of his face to dissipate the tobacco smoke swirling in front of him. “We’re in an airtight environment. We’re breathing recirculated air.”

  “The fate of humanity rests in my hands, Doctor,” said Cole, taking another hit of nicotine. “I need to make life-or-death decisions.”

  Dr. Laslo coughed on the cigarette smoke.

  Cole’s satphone hummed in his trouser pocket. Cole withdrew the red satphone and inserted its earbud in his ear.

  “Hello,” he said.

  He listened to the phone without saying anything.

  At last he said into the transmitter, “Do you have any idea what’s going on in the world? I’m trying to save the planet.”

  Cole listened.

  “You have no authority,” he said.

  He shook his head, ended his transmission, and put away his earbud and satphone.

  “Let me guess,” said Byrd. “That knucklehead Ho of the UN.”

  “He says he’s gonna try me for war crimes at The Hague because I ordered the bombing of my own people in New York,” said Cole.

  “Why didn’t the moron buy the farm in the thermite bombing?”

  “He must’ve managed to slip out of town before the bombs hit.”

  “He won’t get out when you give the order to drop a Fat Man on him, Mr. President.”

  “I’m not gonna nuke New York just to kill Ho. This isn’t about Ho or about me or about any of us, for that matter,” said Cole, gesturing at them with his arms spread out.

  “It’s about the world. We’re trying to save humanity, people.”

  “Doesn’t Ho understand what’s going on?” chimed in Slocum.

  “He’s trying to turn this into a petty turf war between me and him,” said Cole.

  “He has no turf,” said Byrd. “He doesn’t even have a country. The UN isn’t a country. It’s just a leech bleeding the US white.”

  “The man’s a fool,” said Slocum.

  “How does he expect to apprehend you and haul you over to The Hague, Mr. President?” sniggered Byrd. “No way is he getting inside this bunker.”

  “He probably doesn’t even know where we are.”

  “He’s becoming a pest,” said Cole.

  “All the more reason to nuke New York first, if you ask me. I don’t see Ho escaping a nuclear blast in his backyard.”

  Slocum cleared his throat. “The problem is, Ho has a point.”

  Byrd shot Slocum a look. “You can’t be serious.”

  “To the outside world, it looks like we’re bombing our own citizens.”

  “That’s because we are,” said Dr. Laslo.

  “Ho can use that perception against us in the court of public opinion. He can turn the world against us by accusing the president of war crimes.”

  “Why should we care what the rest of the world thinks about us?” said Byrd, puffing out his barrel chest. “The more scared of us they are, the better, I say.”

  Mellors found himself downwind of Byrd’s bad breath again and winced at the odor. Mellors dug his peppermint Life Savers out of his trouser pocket, opened the cylindrical package, and offered a mint to Byrd.

  Glancing down at the Life Savers, Byrd shook his head no.

  “Please,” said Mellors.

  Byrd waved Mellors off.

  Mellors popped one of the Life Savers into his own mouth, hoping the candy’s tang would cut the morbid reek of Byrd’s halitosis that was penetrating Mellors’s nostrils.

  “Ho is a joke, Mr. President,” said Byrd. “You know what we call him at the Pentagon?” Byrd paused for effect. “Ho-ho-ho.” Byrd scoped out everybody’s face expectantly.

  Nobody laughed.

  Grim expressions ringed the table.

  Byrd fetched a noisy sigh. “Get it? Ho-ho-ho.”

  Stony silence greeted his remark.

  Sheila Klauss went so far as to shake her head in disgust at him.

  “Granted Ho is a joke, General, like you say,” said Cole, “but he can cause this administration irreparable harm with these scurrilous charges he’s leveling at me.”

  “Do you really think anyone with half a brain would buy into Ho’s propaganda?” said Byrd.

  “All they got to do is look at all that smoke over New York and all those collapsed buildings lying in the streets,” said Dr. Laslo. “If you start nuking the country, the mushroom clouds will be a dead giveaway.”

  “The thing is,” said Byrd, “just because Ho can see the smoke from the bombs doesn’t mean that anyone else in the world can. How can anyone see us from across the ocean?”

  “What’s to stop him from snapping pictures of the explosions and sending them via his satphone all over the world?”

  “If he has a satphone.”

  “He must have one,” put in Slocum. “How else could he be putting calls through to the president? We’re jamming cell phones and the Internet. That means he’s using a satellite phone.”

  “And?” said Byrd.

  “And he can transmit pictures of a bombed-out New York City to everybody that’s left in the world.”

  “Do you really think people will believe that we’re bombing our own country?”

  “I sure can’t believe it,” said Dr. Laslo.

  Byrd shot Dr. Laslo a look.

  Cole rapped his knuckles on the tabletop softly but firmly.

  The room became quiet.

  “It’s not important what the rest of the world thinks of us,” he said. “What’s important is that we save America from the plague. Let the citizens of other countries think what they will of us. That’s immaterial. What
we need to do is scotch the plague. Burn it to ashes. If WMD are the only things that will do this, then we need to use WMD. World public opinion be damned!”

  Byrd whooped and set to clapping. He leaped to his feet, kicking his chair back and knocking it over as he clapped.

  Director Paris also stood up, applauding. Followed by DNI Hilda Molson and DHS Director Sheila Klauss.

  Slocum clapped listlessly while he remained seated, assimilating the full consequences of Cole’s words.

  Dr. Laslo groaned.

  Dumfounded, hands at his sides, Mellors wondered why everybody was applauding. Unless Mellors had misunderstood him, Cole had just announced the nuclear annihilation of America.

  “The last laugh is gonna be on Ho,” chuckled Byrd. “’Cause I’ll bet my bottom dollar he’s still at ground zero somewhere near New York City.”

  There were no easy answers, decided Cole, his face haggard. People were going to have to die so others could go on living. He wasn’t a warmonger. He didn’t want to rain death down from the skies on his people. But he had no other options. The infected must be destroyed or the plague would continue to spread until it consumed the entire world population and ended the human race.

  “We must continue to debate the nuclear option before we make any rash decisions,” Dr. Laslo all but pleaded.

  “The time for debate is over,” said Byrd. “We can’t wait for every American to become infected.”

  “Why can’t we wait? Maybe the cure and the vaccine are just around the corner.”

  “We’re just going around in circles with these discussions, saying the same things over and over again. It’s time for action,” said Byrd, his jaw set.

  “Remember your Latin, General? Festina lente. Make haste slowly. That’s what the ancient Romans used to say.”

  Byrd sneered. “He who hesitates is lost, is what I say.” Byrd hung fire. “There’s one good thing about this.”

  “How can you see anything good about this?” said Cole.

  “At least we don’t have to deal with the media dissecting our every decision and second-guessing us every inch of the way. The fourth estate is dead and buried with a stake through its sleazy heart.”

  “Maybe not,” said Dr. Laslo.

  “The printing presses are silent,” said Byrd. “Nobody’s left to man them. And we’re jamming the Internet.”

  Dr. Laslo pricked up his ears. “Why are we jamming the Internet anyway?”

  “To prevent the spread of bad news that will demoralize and panic the public.”

  “Are you sure it’s not because you’re afraid the public wouldn’t like the decisions we’re making in this room if they got wind of them?”

  “The media aren’t a problem,” said Cole. “They’re not gonna affect my decisions.”

  Satisfied, Byrd crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “That’s the way it should be. I hate Monday-morning quarterbacks. Never listen to ’em.”

  CHAPTER 60

  Nevada

  “I need to contact the Bureau director and let him know what’s happening with Quantrill’s militia here,” said McLellan at the wheel of the Mustang.

  “First things first,” said Halverson, riding shotgun. “We have to find Chogan and Meers.”

  “And Emma,” said Victoria from the backseat.

  “I don’t think she’s with them.”

  “Maybe you missed seeing her.”

  The Mustang sped down the asphalt at 90 mph, kicking up dust, with no school bus in sight.

  Halverson smelled the cloying odor of strawberry deodorant that hung from the rearview mirror in the shape of a three-inch-high cardboard strawberry that oscillated as the car moved.

  “I need to report back to the director about Quantrill’s militia,” repeated McLellan, looking away from the windshield to confront Halverson. “That’s my assignment. It takes pride of place over everything else.”

  Halverson was cool to McLellan’s plan. Halverson figured if McLellan contacted the FBI, it could have disastrous effects for Halverson. Director Paris might be in the loop about the CIA contract on Halverson and might tell McLellan about it. Then McLellan might try to whack Halverson or, at the very least, bust him.

  Without arousing McLellan’s suspicions Halverson had to do everything in his power to prevent McLellan from contacting the Bureau. Halverson’s neck depended on it.

  “The point is, you don’t have any equipment to contact him,” said Halverson.

  “True,” said McLellan, hating to admit it.

  “Where are you gonna find a phone out here in the desert?”

  “Point taken.”

  “And Chogan’s life may hang in the balance. We have no idea where that bus is going. If we don’t reach him in time—”

  “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill,” cut in McLellan. “He won the lottery. He’s going on a vacation. That’s all.”

  “What happened to the bus, anyway?” said Victoria. “We should have caught up to it by now.”

  “Maybe you should slow down,” Halverson told McLellan. “The bus might have turned off somewhere.”

  “Where’s it gonna go?” said McLellan. “There aren’t any side streets around here. All there is is desert.”

  “Maybe they turned off onto the desert.”

  “But there’s nothing around here,” said McLellan, his hands on the steering wheel, panning his head, taking in the barren dirt surroundings studded here and there with isolated Joshua trees and cacti.

  “If you slow down, maybe we can spot tracks left by the bus turning off onto the dirt.”

  McLellan eased up on the accelerator. “I can’t imagine why they would drive onto the desert.”

  “Where do you think they went?” said Halverson, peering at the ground trying to pick up on tire tracks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must have some idea,” said Victoria from the backseat. “Quantrill’s had these vacations before.”

  “Many times. But Quantrill never told me where they went.”

  “Don’t you think that strange?”

  “Not really.”

  Victoria shook her head in disbelief. “Well, I do.”

  “No idea?” Halverson asked McLellan.

  McLellan heaved a sigh. “These vacations are a total mystery to me. Nobody ever returns from them, so how would I get any intel about them?”

  Victoria nodded. “That bears out what Arnold said.”

  “I wish I could help,” said McLellan, squinting through the windshield into the garish sunlight.

  “I don’t understand how both Chogan and Meers won,” said Halverson. “What are the chances that they would both win? Slim and none, if you ask me.”

  “Dumb luck.”

  “Anybody can get lucky,” said Victoria.

  Halverson started in his seat. He thought he saw tire marks in the dirt off to the right. “Slow down.”

  “What’s up?” said McLellan.

  Halverson powered down his window, letting the AC-cooled air seep out of the car into the heat, and pointed. “Over there. They look like tire tracks.”

  McLellan’s eyes followed the direction of Halverson’s finger. “Tire tracks all right.”

  “How do we know they were made by the bus?” said Victoria, feeling the warm wind rush into her face from Halverson’s open window.

  “Let’s take a closer look,” said Halverson.

  McLellan hung a right off the asphalt, bounced the Mustang over the camber, drove onto the dirt, and parked next to the tire tracks. He killed the engine, set the parking brake, shifted into first gear, and got out of the car.

  Halverson and Victoria piled out after him. The three of them hustled over to the tracks and inspected them.

  “How can we tell if the school bus made these?” asked Victoria.

  “This vehicle had long axles,” answered Halverson. He glanced back at the Mustang. “Longer than a car’s.”

  “Maybe it was an SUV.”


  McLellan shook his head no, walking along one of the tracks, scoping it out. “The distance between the tracks looks wider than what an SUV would make. I’d say a truck or bus left them.”

  “And look how wide the wheel treads are,” said Halverson. “Like they were left by double tires.”

  “It’s gotta be a truck or a bus.”

  “The tracks look fresh too,” said Victoria. “The ground hasn’t been disturbed in the tread marks.”

  Halverson nodded, scrutinizing the tracks. “No debris has been blown into them by the wind. The ground in the tracks hasn’t been disturbed. These tracks have to be new.”

  “Let’s go,” said McLellan.

  The three of them clambered into the Mustang.

  McLellan depressed the clutch, released the hand brake, fired the engine, put the car in gear, and followed alongside the tire tracks.

  “This car wasn’t built for driving on dirt,” he said, as the car bobbed and shuddered forward, spitting out a rooster tail of dust in its wake.

  “It’s built low to the ground,” said Halverson. “You might break an axle in one of these ruts.”

  McLellan slowed the Mustang down. “Yeah. We lose the advantage of speed driving in this dirt. Keep your eyes peeled for that bus.”

  CHAPTER 61

  Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

  Sitting at the conference table, Cole read the special code on the “biscuit,” which was lying on the tabletop beside the football in the Situation Room.

  Silence filled the room. Only the whooshing sound of the recycled air from the ventilation ducts in the walls could be heard as the air flowed into the room.

  Mellors found it unnerving to watch Cole using his forefinger to punch the alphanumeric code into the football’s keyboard. Once the code was punched in, Secretary of Defense Byrd would have to punch in his secret code to confirm the president’s order. After Byrd’s confirmation, the order to launch nuclear weapons would be irrevocable.

  Mellors saw Dr. Laslo writhing in his seat.

  Eyes glued on Cole’s pecking index finger, Dr. Laslo was breaking into a cold sweat.

  Cole finished punching his code into the football. It was up to Byrd now.

  Byrd fished a top-secret plastic card, his version of the “biscuit,” from his jacket pocket and approached the football that lay in front of the president.