Zombie Apocalypse

by Cassiday, Bryan

  “Except one’s underground, which makes a big difference.”

  “Not the way I see it.” He paused. “Why does it matter?”

  “You were exposed to more radioactivity than you led us to believe.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So what?” cut in Probst. “So we were prisoners. What difference does it make?”

  “If it doesn’t make any difference, why didn’t you admit it to us in the first place?” asked Victoria, gesturing with a tilt of her head toward Halverson as she said “us.”

  “We thought you might fight us, if we said we were cons,” put in Swiggum before Probst could answer.

  “So we were in jail? So what?” said Nordstrom. “I didn’t belong there, anyway. I was framed for rape.” He surveyed the walls surrounding him. “Now it looks like we’re in jail again.”

  “At least you told us the truth that you were a photographer,” said Victoria.

  “Pornographer is more like it,” said Swiggum with a knowing leer.

  “It’s perfectly legal,” said Nordstrom.

  “Whatever.”

  “Which jail were you in?” asked Victoria.

  “We were in Clark County prison, except for Simone,” answered Nordstrom. “She was at Florence McClure.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “We found her walking on the side of the road as we drove by her in the stake truck.”

  Simone paid no attention to them. If she heard her name, she gave no indication of it. Her face remained buried in her crossed arms.

  “Where’d you get the stake truck from?” asked Victoria.

  “We found it abandoned on the street,” said Swiggum with more than a trace of irritation. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “We just want to know what really happened,” said Halverson.

  “You’re like a couple of cops grilling us.”

  “Is what Simone said about her sister true?” asked Victoria.

  “I think so,” answered Nordstrom. “Why else would she be acting the way she is? That bit with her sister happened before she met up with us.”

  “What about you, Travis? I thought you were a teacher.”

  “I was a part-time teacher of Algebra in high school,” said Probst. “Then the state went bankrupt and had to make cutbacks in the education budget. Guess who got cut back?”

  Swiggum sniffled. “I need a hanky,” he mocked.

  “We had to listen to your sob story,” rapped out Probst. “Now you have to listen to mine.”

  “Hector said you were a check kiter,” said Victoria.

  Probst shrugged. “You do what you gotta do to pay your bills.”

  “None of this matters,” cut in Swiggum. “What matters is we’re in prison now.”

  “That’s not what Hector says,” said Victoria.

  “The suit? You believe anything that guy says?”

  “He was right about you.”

  “If we’re not in prison, why are our hands tied? And I got another question.” Swiggum slewed around and faced Halverson. “Who the hell are you?”

  Halverson had been expecting a question along that line after Guzman had not ID’d him. “I told you. I’m Chad Halverson.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I told you that, too. I’m a journalist.”

  “Then how come the swami with the bleached do didn’t say anything about you?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “I intend to.”

  Not good, decided Halverson. Guzman would reply that he could find no trace of Halverson in his computer’s facial recognition database, which would arouse suspicion about him all around.

  “Man, you’re like Mr. Mysterioso,” said Nordstrom. “Hector fingers all of us except you.”

  “He probably forgot about me,” said Halverson, shrugging it off. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “Maybe,” said Swiggum, unconvinced.

  “This is getting us nowhere. We need to get out of here.”

  “Welcome to our perfect storm,” said Nordstrom.

  Swiggum gave him a blank look.

  “I don’t know,” said Probst. “At least we’re safe from radioactive poisoning here.”

  “But we’re prisoners,” said Swiggum. “No way I’m staying here.”

  He strode to the door and tried to open it. It was locked, as he had suspected.

  He started when he heard a key turning in the lock.

  CHAPTER 31

  Swiggum shushed the rest of them in the room.

  “Let’s jump them when they enter,” he whispered.

  “With our hands tied?” whispered Nordstrom. “You gotta be kidding. We’d be lambs to the slaughter.”

  “We can use our heads. I learned that in the cooler. A head is a dangerous weapon. You can kill a guy with a head-butt.”

  Which was true, Halverson knew. As a black ops agent he knew over a hundred ways to kill a person. A head-butt was one of those ways. The problem was it only worked in CQB (close-quarters battles) and was a poor defense against an armed enemy. Still, it was better than nothing.

  “I’ll take out the first guy, and you give me cover and take out the second so he can’t shoot me,” said Halverson.

  “You’re on,” said Swiggum.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Nordstrom. “We have no idea how many of them are out there. There could be a dozen or more. What’s to stop them from firing at us and whacking out all of us when we start whaling at them like a bunch of rams in heat?”

  “What’s your plan?” said Swiggum, eyebrow cocked.

  “Let’s bide our time.”

  “This is nuts,” said Probst. “It’s never gonna work.”

  The door cracked open.

  Heart pounding, Halverson tensed and stood on the balls of his feet ready to pounce on the lead guy.

  Halverson saw him entering through the doorway and, head down, charged him.

  The guy’s right fist hammered Halverson’s jaw. Halverson hit the floor like dead weight without getting his head within a yard of the guy.

  “We heard every word you said,” said Wolfman, chuckling as he leered down at Halverson sprawled on the linoleum. “This room’s rigged for sound.”

  Wolfman pulled a Glock 19 semiautomatic out of his holster in a trice and trained the muzzle on Swiggum, who was preparing to launch an assault.

  When Swiggum picked up on the Glock leveled at him, he thought better of it and stood stock-still.

  Wolfman stood a good six three. He wore a dark beard an inch long that may have earned him his nickname. He wore faded stone-washed blue jeans and a grey sweatshirt with its sleeves cut off at the shoulders, leaving frayed edges.

  Jaw throbbing, Halverson rolled over on his back on his bound arms and gazed up uncomfortably at the grinning Wolfman. The guy was heavyset and no doubt weighed over 250 pounds. His exposed teeth gleamed like two rows of Chiclets out of his dense growth of black whiskers.

  “You think I’m gonna let you get close enough to head-butt me?” said Wolfman.

  Halverson worked his sore jaw. It didn’t feel like he had lost any teeth.

  “When are you gonna get it through your thick heads that we’re your friends?” Wolfman went on.

  “Maybe when you untie us and stop pulling guns on us,” said Halverson and winced at the pain in his bruised jaw.

  “Get on your feet,” said Wolfman, flourishing his automatic. “You’re the one who started this fight. Remember? Now get up.”

  Which wasn’t easy with his hands bound, decided Halverson. He rolled onto his stomach, rose to his knees, and stood up with a groan.

  “Why do you guys hate us so much?” said Nordstrom.

  “How would you like getting head-butted?” said Wolfman.

  “You’re Wolfman, aren’t you?” said Halverson.

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Aren’t you the one who brought us here? We couldn’t see your
face through that tinted face mask you were wearing.”

  “Right again. Now move over to the other side of the room. All of you.”

  Wolfman aimed his Glock in their direction.

  Halverson recognized the Glock 19. Its standard magazine carried fifteen 9 X 19 mm Parabellum rounds. A polymer gun favored by many US police departments. It won most arguments, and it won this one.

  Without being told twice, Halverson, Swiggum, Probst, Victoria, and Nordstrom backed toward the wall opposite the door. Simone continued to sit in her corner, which she had yet to leave since plunking down there.

  Wolfman ignored her, satisfied she presented no danger to him in her current emotional state.

  “That doesn’t explain why you hate us so much,” said Victoria.

  “If we hated you, why would we bring you dinner?” said Wolfman.

  Victoria looked puzzled.

  “Bring in the food and furniture,” Wolfman told his men that were standing in the corridor.

  Now that Wolfman mentioned it, Halverson could smell the tangy aroma of a barbecued steak wafting into the room.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” said Nordstrom, sniffing away, his mouth watering.

  Three men armed with semiautomatics entered the room first and brought them to bear on Halverson and his group, followed by a knot of men carrying a dining table into the room.

  Halverson noticed that Wolfman and his men had doffed their hazmat uniforms. “If we’re contaminated, why aren’t you still wearing your uniforms?”

  “Just stay downwind of us,” said Wolfman, brandishing his Glock 19 in Halverson’s direction. “We don’t plan on staying long. It’s almost impossible to move in those things, let alone serve dinner in them.”

  Halverson stepped back till his bound wrists touched the wall. “Why take the chance?”

  “Boss’s orders.” Wolfman turned to his men. “Step lively there. In and out. No lollygagging. Keep it moving.”

  The men deposited the table in the room then scurried out, fetched chairs, and set them about the table.

  “How about untying us so we can eat?” said Halverson.

  “Hold your horses,” said Wolfman. He turned to the door. “Doc, come on in.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” said Nordstrom. “Nobody said anything about doctors. I only go to doctors if I’m in serious pain.”

  “I guarantee you will be in serious pain, if you don’t follow orders,” said Wolfman, turning his Glock 19 on Nordstrom.

  “I voted against national health care.”

  “It was never put to a vote.”

  “I’m still against it.”

  “Then who’s gonna put you back together after I put a bullet in you?”

  CHAPTER 32

  A doctor in white scrubs and a surgical mask, followed by a nurse in similar garb, entered the room and approached an empty chair that one of Wolfman’s men had set away from the table. The nurse was carrying a plastic tray filled with hypodermic needles, a bottle of alcohol, cotton swabs, and test tubes.

  “Who’s first?” asked the doctor, a middle-aged arrogant man with close-cropped brown hair shot with white.

  Wearing blue latex surgical gloves he adjusted his round-lensed horn-rims that lent his face an owlish aspect.

  “I’m not signing up for any mad-doctor experiments,” said Swiggum.

  Wolfman chortled. “He just wants a blood sample from each of you.”

  “Why?” asked Swiggum suspiciously.

  “To find out the extent of your radiation poisoning,” answered the doctor.

  “Do you untie us afterwards so we can eat?” asked Nordstrom.

  “Yep,” answered Wolfman. “Hurry it up, though. I don’t want to stay in this room with you contaminants any longer than I have to.”

  Nordstrom strode over to the doctor and nurse. “Fine with me. I’m starving.”

  “How about lowering your gun?” said Swiggum, eying Wolfman.

  “Not part of the deal,” said Wolfman. “Not after you guys rushed me. You think I’m stupid? Just get on with it.”

  Swiggum and Probst lined up behind Nordstrom.

  Halverson and Victoria were looking over at Simone, who was still sitting in the corner, head down.

  “What’s with her?” said Wolfman, following their gazes.

  Victoria approached Simone. “Let’s go to the doctor, Simone.”

  Simone did not respond.

  Victoria patted Simone on the arm.

  Simone stirred, raising her head and looking up with curiosity at Victoria.

  “They want blood samples,” said Victoria softly.

  Simone cut her eyes around the room like she was seeing it for the first time, taking in the doctor and the nurse as well as the table and chairs and the freshly cooked food.

  She got to her feet. “Why?”

  “To see if we’re OK,” said Victoria.

  Simone made no movement toward the doctor.

  “There’s no sense in sitting around kicking yourself,” said Victoria.

  “I could have saved her,” said Simone through clenched teeth.

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “I froze. It’s my fault.”

  “Hating yourself isn’t the answer.”

  Simone heaved a sigh. She headed for the queue to the doctor.

  Victoria and Halverson followed her.

  “OK, everybody,” said Wolfman. “The sooner you get your shots, the sooner you can chow down.”

  “I did it,” said Nordstrom, rolling down his sleeve and getting up out of the doctor’s chair. “Now what?”

  “Shorty, hold your breath and untie his hands,” Wolfman told a six-five guy standing with one of the trio of armed men that were keeping tabs on the prisoners.

  Shorty, a stone-faced taciturn guy with one of his earlobes missing and wearing a red-and-black checked lumberjack’s shirt tucked into his jeans, holstered his automatic and removed the zip tie from Nordstrom’s wrists.

  “I feel better already,” said Nordstrom, massaging his reddened wrists in front of him and making a beeline for the table of food.

  Shorty cut him off, blocking Nordstrom’s way.

  “Stand over there and wait for the others,” said Wolfman, wagging his gun at Nordstrom.

  Disappointed, Nordstrom retreated to the wall that Wolfman had indicated.

  Shorty untied Probst, Swiggum, Simone, Victoria, and Halverson after they gave blood.

  “Fall back,” Wolfman told his men and retreated out of the room with them. “Bon appétit,” he told Halverson and his group.

  Swiggum and Nordstrom barreled to the table and could not wait to gulp down their meals into their empty bellies. In Swiggum’s case, he snagged his T-bone steak with one hand and took prodigious bites from the juicy, barbecued meat without even bothering to cut it, which would have been difficult for him with only one hand.

  Halverson made it to his seat in three strides, sat down, and commenced attacking his steak with a knife and fork.

  “Where’s the beer?” asked Swiggum.

  “Yeah. I could use a cold beer right about now,” said Nordstrom between bites of his steak.

  “Agreed,” said Halverson.

  “Maybe they don’t want us to get drunk,” said Probst, taking a pull from a glass of sparkling water.

  “Is everybody happy?” said Nordstrom, snapping up a corn on the cob.

  “They’ve got a good cook,” said Victoria, chewing a morsel of steak as she sliced off another piece.

  “Maybe they are our friends, after all,” said Probst.

  Except they weren’t, Halverson knew, consuming his steak. Any organization run by Hector Guzman, billionaire drug dealer, could not possibly be friendly. Halverson wasn’t going to tell the others about Guzman’s true identity. Halverson now knew the room was wired for sound and if he told them, Guzman would overhear it and wonder how Halverson could know Guzman’s ID.

  Halverson was convinced Guzman
was suspicious of him already since Guzman’s facial recognition software had failed to ID Halverson.

  Halverson didn’t know what was going on with Guzman. Why did Guzman have this massive bunker in the middle of the Nevada desert as though he had expected the dropping of a nuclear bomb here? How could he possibly have known years ago when he built this bunker that A-bombs were going to fall in this particular place?

  Halverson could not get his head around it.

  He had to find out what was going on here before he escaped. He had to know what Guzman knew about the plague—if anything. The building of such an elaborate bunker complex made no sense unless Guzman knew about the plague and the nuclear winter in advance. But how could Guzman possibly have known about them before they happened?

  Halverson was giving himself a throbbing headache thinking about it. He needed to glean more information before he could come to a conclusion.

  The bottom line was, he didn’t feel they were safe here in Guzman’s lair.

  CHAPTER 33

  Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

  Secretary of Defense Byrd, clad in his general’s uniform, was throwing darts at a cork dartboard hung on one of the cement walls of his windowless office when Mellors walked in.

  “What did you want to see me about?” asked Byrd, glancing at Mellors.

  “I wanted to ask you some questions,” answered Mellors.

  Byrd flung a green plastic dart at the dartboard. “This doesn’t have to do with Hilda, does it? That’s an open-and-shut suicide.”

  “No.”

  Byrd flung another green dart, which landed with a thud the best part of eight inches from the bull’s eye. “Get on with it. This better not be a waste of my time.”

  “Did you ever hear of the Orchid Organization?”

  Maybe Mellors imagined it but Byrd seemed to freeze for a split second as he heard the name.

  “Can’t say that I have,” said Byrd. “What do they do? Grow flowers? What do they have to do with anything? I told you not to waste my time. I’m the secretary of defense, not agriculture.”

  “They have some involvement with the Erasmus Medical Center in Rotterdam where the plague pathogen escaped and infected the world.”

  “How so?”

  “They were involved with the funding and even more than that, I suspect.”