“To Guzman’s room,” said Halverson.
“Did I miss something?” said Swiggum, looking perplexed. “Who’s Guzman?”
“Our friend Hector.”
“Guzman? Is that who I think he is?”
Halverson gave Swiggum a knowing look.
“This is getting better by the minute,” said Swiggum.
Having been hauled to Guzman’s office earlier, Halverson had no need of directions to find his way there.
MP7 in hand, he slammed through the corridor full tilt, hoping he would not cross paths with any of Guzman’s guards along the way. He had only one clip and knew it wasn’t full. Hopefully, Swiggum’s was.
If Halverson did run into any guards, he would blow them away and latch onto their weapons.
Guzman was the key to this establishment, Halverson knew. Guzman had all the answers to what was going on here and why.
“Why were zombies in the decontamination room?” said Victoria, breathing hard, running flat out to keep up with Halverson.
“That wasn’t a decontamination room,” said Halverson. “I didn’t see any equipment in there, not even a shower.”
“Then why’d they call it a decontamination room?”
“It was a ruse to get us to go into it.”
“But why?”
“So the creatures could kill us,” said Swiggum.
“But what does Hector gain from having infected creatures kill us?”
“Good question,” said Halverson, spotting Guzman’s room up ahead. “There must be some point to it.”
“The point is, he wants us dead,” said Swiggum.
“Then why doesn’t he just line us up in front of a firing squad?”
“Beats me. Maybe he’s a sadist. This is how he gets his jollies—siccing flesh eaters on people.”
Halverson shook his head, no. “He’s up to something. This is all too well planned to be a thrill killing.” He pulled up in front of Guzman’s door. “We’re gonna find out what.”
CHAPTER 67
Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center
Harold Paris was standing talking to President Cole in Cole’s office as Cole sat behind his desk lighting up a smoke.
“I believe whoever killed Mellors did it to shut him up,” said Paris.
“Shut him up about what?” said Cole, drawing a draft from his cigarette and putting out the match with several flicks of his hand.
He tossed the spent, blackened match into a cut-glass ashtray on his desktop.
“I thought you stopped smoking, Mr. President,” said Paris, eying the cigarette with distaste, not looking forward to inhaling secondhand tobacco smoke, especially in a confined space.
“I did—for a while. Let’s cut to the chase. What’s this about, Harry?”
“Mellors was asking too many questions about the Orchid Organization and the apocalypse equation.”
“What’s bugging me about this is why the CCTVs in the NSA didn’t photograph the murderer when he shot Mellors.”
“One of the CCTVs did videotape the shooter, but his back was to the camera. The guy knew where the camera was and shielded his face.”
“Then at least we know it was a man.”
“Yeah, it was a man.”
“So what’s with this Orchid group?”
“Don’t you know, sir?”
Baffled, Cole shook his head. “Orchid? Am I supposed to know who they are?”
“They’re a group of wealthy transhumanist philanthropists.”
“Oh, yeah. Now that you mention it, I think I have heard of them. They seem harmless enough and go out of their way to avoid publicity. Isn’t that them? What do they have to do with Mellors’s murder?”
“Don’t you remember? One of the members of your administration is a member of Orchid. I gave you his top secret CV to read after I vetted him. His membership in Orchid was listed there.”
Cole shut his eyes and shook his head. “I see so many top secret documents, I can’t possibly recall everything that’s on them. Jog my memory.”
“General Eugene D. Byrd, your secretary of defense.”
Cole exhaled a cone of grey smoke, which he watched dissipate in front of him. “Where are you going with this, Harry?”
“I’m just saying he’s a member of the Orchid Organization.”
“And?”
“Maybe he can tell us something about this highly secretive organization.”
Cole reached for the phone on his desk and spoke into the handset. “This is the president, General. I need to see you in my office.” He turned to Paris. “Just what are you suggesting?”
“Byrd can give us intel about the Orchid Organization.”
“Let me get this straight, without your hemming and hawing. Are you saying that Orchid is involved in Mellors’s murder?”
Paris didn’t want to commit himself. He had no evidence to that effect. “I’m not saying anything. I’m just asking questions.”
“Let’s take this a step further. If Orchid is involved, where does that leave us? Are you talking conspiracy?”
“I hate to say this, but it’s a possibility we have to consider.”
There were three knocks on the door.
Byrd cleared his throat out in the hallway. “Mr. President?” he said through the wooden door.
“Come in, General,” said Cole.
CHAPTER 68
Clad in his navy blue army service uniform with a white button-down shirt and a dark necktie, Byrd entered and shut the door behind him. “You wanted to see me, Mr. President?”
“Yes. Did you know that somebody murdered Scot Mellors of the NCS?”
Taken aback, pausing in front of Cole’s desk in midstride, Byrd didn’t answer off the bat. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Where did it happen?”
Paris was studying Byrd’s reaction, trying to catch him out in a lie. Paris’s instincts as an FBI agent never left him. He considered everyone a suspect, especially Byrd since he was a member of Orchid, which Mellors had been investigating when he was murdered. Paris didn’t remark any facial tics or other tells that indicated prevarication on Byrd’s part.
“On the NSA floor,” answered Cole.
“I didn’t know he had a permit to go there,” said Byrd.
“He didn’t. He stole one.”
“The last thing we need in this place is a murderer running around loose.”
“You don’t know anything about it?”
Byrd shrugged his broad shoulders. “Why would I?”
“What about the Orchid Organization?”
“What about it?”
“It has come to my attention that you’re a member.”
“Is that a crime?”
“I didn’t say it was. I’m trying to establish whether you’re a member or not.”
“I am, and proud of it.”
“Could you tell us something about the group?”
“We’re a society of likeminded philanthropists. What else is there to tell?”
“You’re transhumanists, too,” said Paris. “Is that correct?”
Byrd nodded. “We believe man can evolve with the use of science and technology. He doesn’t have to wait thousands of years for natural selection to take care of evolution.”
“Are we talking steroids and human growth hormone?”
Byrd looked annoyed at Paris. “We’re talking anything that helps man evolve beyond his current physical and mental limitations.”
“All of the members in your group believe this?”
“Yeah. Are you trying to insinuate something? If you are, I resent it.”
“We’re trying to figure out how the Orchid Organization fits into the escape of the plague at the Erasmus Medical Center in Rotterdam.”
“Who told you this?”
“Isn’t it true?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Mellors found documents that proved Orchid was involved in the running of the experiments on H5N1 at
Erasmus. Those were the same experiments that created the so-called zombie virus, aka plague, that wiped out the world’s population.”
Byrd cocked a bushy eyebrow. “Where are these documents? This is hard to believe.”
“I don’t know. Somebody stole Coogan’s laptop that had the document on it.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard of this,” said Cole, sitting bolt upright in his chair.
“Mellors reported the theft to me. He was trying to decrypt some of the documents that had to do with Orchid and the apocalypse equation on Coogan’s laptop.”
“So where is this laptop?”
Paris shook his head. “No idea. We don’t even have a suspect in the burglary.”
“I need to know about these kinds of developments as soon as they happen. Why am I being kept out of the loop?”
“At the time of the theft, I didn’t think it was that important. Mellors was pestering me with a slew of questions, but I didn’t put much stock in what he was working on.”
“Why not?”
“He never showed me any evidence. It was all speculation. It seemed to me he had nothing but accusations built out of thin air.”
“What’s this apocalypse equation you’ve been talking about? Tony was talking about that, too.”
“The document is on Coogan’s laptop, according to Mellors, but the document was encrypted so he couldn’t open it.”
Cole meditated as he puffed clouds of smoke. “What was Mellors doing in the NSA. Have we figured that out yet?”
“He was looking for information about Orchid and the apocalypse equation.”
Cole slapped his hands on his desktop with frustration. “Here we are back with Orchid and this damn apocalypse equation again. What does it mean?”
“If we could figure that out, we might be able to figure out what he was onto.”
“You think he was onto something.”
“If he was willing to steal a key card and break into the NSA, yeah I think he was onto something.”
“What was on the computer’s screen that he was working on when he got shot?”
“I tried to find that out myself when I investigated the scene of the crime.”
“Well?”
“The person who found Mellors’s body said the screen was blank.”
“The shooter must have turned off the computer,” said Byrd.
Cole heaved a sigh. “Can’t your IT boys find the cookies or whatever they call them and find out what Mellors was looking at when he died?”
“I asked the NSA techies that same question,” said Paris. “They told me they have special high-tech computers that don’t leave any trails, ‘footprints’ the IT guy told me.”
“What’s the point of using such equipment?” said Cole, screwing up his face with a mixture of irritation and puzzlement.
“So they don’t leave trails when they use the computers to hack into enemy computers. The NSA techies don’t want the enemy to know the NSA was the outfit that hacked them.”
“Everything’s hush-hush, what they do over there, sir,” said Byrd. “You know how secretive those guys are.”
“So what does that leave us with?” said Cole.
“We need to crack the password to this apocalypse equation document,” said Paris. “Then maybe we can figure out what’s going on here with Mellors’s murder and find out what the shooter’s got to hide.”
“How are we supposed to do that when we don’t even have the document?”
“Maybe if we can figure out exactly what Mellors was doing in the NSA . . .”
CHAPTER 69
Nevada
Halverson was in luck. As he stormed down the corridor toward Guzman’s office, he noticed that the door was ajar. His finger to his lips, he turned to Victoria and Swiggum and slowed down to deaden the sound of his footsteps. Victoria and Swiggum followed suit.
“What’s up?” whispered Swiggum.
“His door’s open,” Halverson whispered back. “We don’t want him to lock it before we get there.”
Before anyone could close it, Halverson, Victoria, and Swiggum stole toward the door and piled into the office. Victoria closed the door behind them and locked it.
Guzman was sitting behind his desk.
Halverson was puzzled because Guzman revealed no surprise at the presence of the three intruders crashing his office.
“What took you so long?” said Guzman.
Halverson’s eyes flicked toward the grainy black-and-white CCTV screens mounted on the wall to his left. One of the screens displayed the guest room, where Shorty sprawled dead in a small puddle of his own blood on the floor. He had not bled much, since he had died instantly. It didn’t take a genius to figure out Guzman had watched Halverson kill Shorty onscreen. Then why hadn’t Guzman sent for reinforcements? Halverson wondered.
Had Guzman also seen him liberate Victoria? Probably, decided Halverson. He could not be sure, however, since he wasn’t able to find the screen showing the decontamination room. One of the screens was dark, he noted. Could that be it?
Did Guzman realize the flesh eaters had escaped their confinement in the decontamination room? Halverson wondered. Guzman might have been focusing his attention on Halverson to the exclusion of all else, or perhaps the screen had been dark when the flesh eaters had escaped. Halverson doubted the latter. Guzman must have switched off that specific CCTV after Halverson freed Victoria. However, it was possible Guzman had been watching Halverson and Victoria in the room and had not been watching the flesh eaters. The creatures might indeed by roaming around the bunker at large without anyone the wiser in Guzman’s camp.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Guzman. “I knew you’d head back here, so I didn’t sent an escort for you.”
“I guess you’re tired of living,” said Halverson, training his MP7 on Guzman.
“You won’t kill me,” said Guzman calmly. “Not just yet. You have too many questions you want to ask me. Isn’t that why you returned here?”
“I want to know what kind of an operation you’re running here,” said Halverson, not impressed with Guzman’s mind-reading act.
“I’m sure you do, because you’re some kind of an intelligence officer. Aren’t you?”
“I’m the one asking the questions this time. Not you.”
“I knew it,” said Guzman, snapping his fingers. “I knew you were. It’s the only explanation for there being no trace of you in any database.”
Halverson brandished his MP7 at Guzman. “What are you up to here?”
“Actually, I don’t mind telling you, because you’re not gonna live much longer anyway. I’m quite proud of what we’re doing. You see—”
“I see you’re full of shit,” cut in Swiggum with a sneer. “Out with it. Let’s hear all of it.”
“Go ahead and ask your questions.”
“What happened to Probst, Simone, and Nordstrom?”
Guzman startled when the satellite phone on his desk buzzed. He debated whether to answer it.
From the expression on Guzman’s face, Halverson figured it might be an important call. Halverson didn’t want Guzman to alert his troops about Halverson’s escape. On the other hand, this call could be about another matter. It might have something to do with what was going on in this blast shelter.
CHAPTER 70
“Answer it,” said Halverson.
Swiggum shot Halverson a questioning look. “He’ll warn his troops we’re here.”
“I don’t think it’s them on the line.”
“Go ahead,” said Halverson and waved his MP7 at Guzman. “So everyone can hear it.”
Guzman took the hint. He lifted up his satphone and switched it on. “Hello.”
“Plato?” said the electronically distorted voice on the other end of the line.
“Yeah.”
“This is Socrates. How are your experiments coming along?”
“The results aren’t encouraging.”
“No headway
?”
“None.”
“Are we on the wrong track?”
“I still have some more test subjects I haven’t experimented on yet. Is that all?”
“No. We’re having problems at this end.”
Brow knitted, Guzman looked intent. “What kind of problems?”
“I had to eliminate Mellors. He was asking too many questions about us.”
“Wet work?”
“I had no choice.”
“They know about us?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think they know the whole story yet. They might try to shut us down.”
“Who is that?” demanded Swiggum.
The caller must have heard him because he hung up.
Guzman inserted the satphone into his trouser pocket.
“Who was that?” said Swiggum.
“He’s a fellow member of my organization,” said Guzman.
“What are these experiments Electric Voice was talking about?” said Halverson.
“I was getting ready to tell you when he interrupted us.”
“You mean they have to do with Probst, Simone, and Nordstrom?”
“What? You’re using them as human guinea pigs?” said Swiggum, outraged.
“They were gonna die anyway,” said Guzman. “We might as well put them to good use before they kick the bucket.”
“We’re all gonna die,” said Halverson. “What kind of twisted rationale is that for you to conduct fatal experiments on test subjects?”
“So you admit you killed them?” said Swiggum.
“It’s true they died during the experiments,” said Guzman.
“You bastard,” said Halverson through his teeth.
“It was for a good cause.”
“I’ve heard that one before—the old end-justifies-the means argument.”
“If you’d stop interrupting me, I’ll explain.”
“I say we whack him right now,” Swiggum told Halverson.
“Let’s hear him out,” said Halverson.
“Your friends were gonna die soon from radiation poisoning,” said Guzman. “Their bodies were saturated with the stuff.”
“What kind of sadistic experiments did you perform on them?”
Zombie Apocalypse Page 136
