Zombie Apocalypse

by Cassiday, Bryan

  “They can’t touch us while we’re here in Mount Weather, Mr. President,” said Slocum. “We’re impervious to assault here.”

  “I hope you’re right, Ernest, for all our sakes.”

  CHAPTER 73

  Nevada

  Halverson was watching the bank of CCTV monitors on the wall of Guzman’s office, as he listened to the commotion out in the hallway beyond the door. He saw an interesting sight.

  One of the CCTV screens showed the desert directly beyond the bunker’s garage entrance. Thousands of flesh eaters were stumbling around among the sagebrush and an odd Joshua tree here and there. Some of the creatures were even plodding down the cement escarpment that led to the garage entrance.

  Swiggum watched the door to Guzman’s office vibrate as soldiers pounded on it with their fists in the hallway.

  “I’m pretty sure they can break down that door if they want to,” he said with concern.

  “We can’t stay here,” said Victoria.

  “What’s the plan, Mr. Special Forces?” asked Swiggum.

  “If we open the door now, we’re dead where we stand,” answered Halverson, still surveying the CCTV monitors.

  “So what do we do?”

  “We need a diversion.”

  On one of the screens, Halverson picked up on a black Chevy Suburban four-by-four with smoked windows driving through the pack of flesh eaters in the desert toward the garage entrance, heedless of whether it ran over creatures in its way. The creatures gravitated toward the movement of the vehicle, following it down the escarpment that led to the garage door.

  As the Suburban neared the door, one of the soldiers in the back opened fire through the rear window on the creatures that were already on the escarpment, mowing down the ones on the driveway with automatic weapons’ fire.

  When the escarpment was free of living flesh eaters, the driver opened the garage door with a remote and drove toward the bunker’s parking garage.

  “This ain’t exactly a good time to become a couch potato,” said Swiggum, staring at Halverson.

  “We may have a diversion to help us,” said Halverson, eyes glued to the CCTV monitor.

  Flesh eaters that had been released from the decontamination room were milling around in the garage as the black Suburban entered. As a matter of fact, the four-by-four collided with half a dozen of the creatures and ground to a halt as the creatures got caught between the front wheels and their wells.

  Another dozen of the creatures swarmed around the motionless four-by-four. Two entered through the vehicle’s back window, which was still open, followed by six more that piled in. The soldiers in the Suburban opened fire on the creatures, blasting the heads of two of them apart, but there were too many flesh eaters, so many, in fact, that they overwhelmed the soldiers.

  Meanwhile, on the escarpment the clatter of the gunfire attracted the flesh eaters moseying around in front of the entrance. To check out the commotion the creatures stumbled down the escarpment and through the open garage door.

  Inside the SUV the rattle of gunfire died off, as blood from the screaming passengers sprayed the inside of the windows like red spindrift, and the creatures squirmed among the mortally wounded, tore them apart, and gorged on their flesh.

  The driver died before he had a chance to close the garage door, Halverson noticed. The flesh eaters congregated outside the entrance were taking the opportunity to pour down the escarpment and into the garage.

  The knocking on Guzman’s door grew louder.

  “Let’s move this desk in front of the door,” said Halverson, grabbing the desk with both hands.

  Swiggum and Victoria helped him slide the heavy desk against the door.

  “That’s not gonna hold ’em long,” said Swiggum.

  “We’re just playing for time,” said Halverson.

  “So we gain a few minutes? So?”

  “Look at the TV screen.” Halverson gestured toward the screen that displayed the entrance to the garage. “Flesh eaters are invading the garage.”

  Victoria and Swiggum watched the flickering black-and-white image on the monitor.

  “I never thought I’d be happy to see zombies,” said Swiggum.

  “When a guard sees them and sounds the alarm, the guards at our door will respond and leave us alone.”

  “Too bad we can’t signal them somehow that the creatures are entering the bunker,” said Victoria.

  “This may sound stupid, but why don’t we tell them?” said Swiggum.

  Halverson thought about it. “No. They’ll think we’re lying to get them to leave.”

  “I bet there’s an alarm in here that can be activated,” said Swiggum, casting around the room.

  “How are you gonna know which button it is?” said Victoria. “What if you press the wrong one? You might open the door by mistake.”

  Halverson watched the TV screen as a contingent of guards bumped into the invading creatures in the parking garage. Terrified, the guards opened fire on the flesh eaters. Halverson thought he could discern one of the guards reach for a radio or a cell phone from his trouser pocket to summon more guards, but it was difficult to be sure thanks to the grainy resolution of the TV image.

  The guards’ pounding on Guzman’s door abated. Halverson could hear feet shuffling around in the hall and footfalls scurrying off. He scoped out the CCTV screen that was displaying the guards scuffling outside Guzman’s door and thundering off down the corridor after the guards in the garage had notified them of the flesh eaters’ breach of the entrance.

  On the TV screen that showed the entrance, Halverson could see a brunette guard with a ponytail standing thirty-odd yards from the bushwhacked Suburban frantically pressing a remote, trying to get the garage door to close. The heavy door lowered halfway then smashed against the roof of the derelict four-by-four, crumpling its roof before coming to a halt. It was impossible to close the garage door unless somebody moved the four-by-four out of the way. Which would not be easy, Halverson knew. First, there were dead flesh eaters wedged beneath the front tires preventing the wheels from turning. Second, a guard would have to enter the blood-soaked Suburban to start it and drive it out of the way—even as hordes of the creatures swarmed around the vehicle.

  With the garage door stuck open, there was no end to the amount of creatures that could stream into the bunker. The army of the dead thronged down the escarpment, past the four-by-four, parting like a wave around the vehicle, and crashed into the garage.

  Halverson knew the more creatures that entered the bunker, the longer they would preoccupy the guards and distract them from pursuing him, Victoria, and Swiggum.

  Halverson scoped out all of the CCTV monitors arrayed on the wall, hoping to find some sign of Guzman. There was none. Halverson wished he knew where Guzman had gone.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Swiggum, watching Halverson.

  “I was looking for Guzman.”

  “He probably split from the bunker already. Let’s get out of here while we still can.”

  “We have to stop him from launching missiles at Mount Weather.”

  Bamboozled, Swiggum shook his head. “Why bother?”

  “He wants to blow up the government and take over.”

  “Take over what? The country’s a wasteland. I say, let him.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Halverson picked up on an image of Guzman entering a room. It looked like some kind of control room. Maybe it was the missile control room.

  “We gotta find that room,” said Halverson, eying the CCTV image.

  Swiggum stalked to the door. “I’m leaving.” When he reached the door, he stopped and grasped the doorknob. “There’s one problem.”

  “What?” said Halverson, turning away from the TV screen to face him.

  “I can’t open this door.”

  CHAPTER 74

  Halverson turned back to the TV screen that was displaying an image of Guzman inspecting buttons in the missile control room. At the bottom of the screen
, Halverson could make out the words Western Quadrant. Now he knew in which direction to head once he got out of here.

  “Did you hear me, Mr. Special Forces?” said Swiggum.

  Halverson caught sight of Klecko entering the missile control room and joining Guzman.

  “Lookee, lookee,” said Halverson.

  Swiggum checked out the CCTV screen. “If it ain’t our old friend Klecko.” He turned to Halverson. “I guess you weren’t the mole, after all.”

  “Klecko was a plant. Guzman wanted to know what we were up to.”

  “There’s nothing I hate more than rats,” said Swiggum, eyes trained on Klecko. “They’re the lowest form of slime in the joint, right down there with the short eyes.” Swiggum spat on the floor.

  “We need to stop them.”

  “OK. Count me in, if I can personally whack out Klecko.”

  “He’s all yours.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that the door won’t open.”

  Halverson jerked his attention away from the image of Guzman and scoped out the office that held him, Swiggum, and Victoria hostage.

  “This office is as good as a jail, it looks like,” said Victoria.

  “No wonder Guzman left the door open for us when we showed up here,” said Swiggum.

  “Then we’ll leave the same way he did,” said Halverson and strode over to the desk.

  “What are you doing? That trapdoor’s sealed tight.”

  Halverson cast around the desk. “He was sitting at this desk when he escaped. There must be a button or switch around here somewhere to activate the trapdoor.”

  “But the desk wasn’t against the door like it is now.”

  “Doesn’t matter. There must be a switch on the desk.”

  Stooping, he felt along the sides of the desk that bordered the kneehole.

  “Not necessarily,” said Victoria. “Maybe he used a remote that he took with him when he escaped.”

  That was possible, decided Halverson, feeling a bit let down at her words. But he figured Guzman would leave nothing to chance. Even if the guy had used a remote, there had to be a manual override switch somewhere in case of a dead battery. The fact of the matter was, remotes didn’t always work. There had to be a manual override, and there might also be an electronic switch as well. He could not discount that possibility.

  He slid his hand under the desktop above the kneehole, probing the wooden surface. His fingers encountered a plastic button. He stopped his hand. He depressed the button, waiting alertly for what would happen.

  The trapdoor whooshed open.

  “Here we go,” he said.

  As soon as he let go of the button, the door slid shut.

  “What happened?” said Swiggum, springing over to the desk to investigate.

  “The trapdoor shuts as soon as you release the button.”

  “Then how are we gonna use it while the desk’s over here near the front door?”

  “We’ll have to move the desk back to where it was.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  Halverson, Swiggum, and Victoria latched onto the desk and slid it back to its original position in the office.

  “Let Victoria go first,” said Halverson.

  Victoria approached the trapdoor tentatively. “Where do you think it goes?”

  “Only one way to find out,” said Swiggum.

  Halverson pressed the button that opened the trapdoor in the floor. The trapdoor slid open to reveal a seamless aluminum chute some two feet in diameter.

  Victoria stared down the dark chute. “A tight squeeze.”

  “I’ll pull up the rear to guard the office door and make sure nobody enters the room while we’re exiting,” said Halverson.

  “How do I do this?” she said, squatting down on her haunches beside the trapdoor.

  “Hold your arms close to your sides and go feet first like you’re riding a luge.” Halverson held his arms at his sides and scrunched his shoulders, pantomiming for her.

  “You mean, one of those sled things they use in the Olympics?” she said, cocking her head toward Halverson.

  “I hope you’re not claustrophobic,” said Swiggum.

  “It depends on how long this trip is gonna last,” she said, staring into the darkness of the chute in a kind of trance.

  Warily, Halverson was keeping his eye on the CCTV screen that showed Guzman sitting at the control panel of the missile launch room.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” said Halverson.

  “Bombs away,” said Victoria and slid down the chute with a gasp of surprise as she sped downward.

  “Does she have her shit together?” Swiggum asked after Victoria disappeared down the rabbit hole.

  “Yeah.”

  Halverson released the button. The trapdoor slid shut.

  Swiggum edged toward it, preparing to leap into the chute the next time Halverson opened the door. “I’m holding my arm flat on my stomach in there because I got the MP7 in my hand, if that’s OK with you, Mr. Special Forces. I don’t want the magazine striking the side of the chute as I’m going down.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Be seeing you. Open sesame.”

  Halverson held his hand up. “Not yet. Let’s wait a couple minutes so you don’t bump into her going down.”

  “I wouldn’t want that,” said Swiggum with a wolfish grin.

  They waited.

  “I don’t hear her screaming,” said Swiggum. “That’s a good sign.”

  Halverson glanced at his wristwatch. “OK. Your turn.” He pressed the button. The trapdoor slid open.

  “Thanks, Mr. Special Forces.”

  Halverson pulled a face.

  Half a smile on his lips, Swiggum bounded feet first into the mouth of the chute and vanished into the darkness.

  Halverson waited the better part of two minutes then took the plunge, barely clearing the trapdoor as it sprang shut soon after he released the button. The all-engulfing darkness swallowed him whole.

  CHAPTER 75

  Halverson held his MP7 pointed down between his legs so it would not strike the sides of the chute as he slid pell-mell down the smooth sides of the cylindrical aluminum shaft. He could not see a thing in the pitch-black stuffy passageway.

  As long as he did not bump into anything going down, he would probably be OK, he decided. After all, Guzman would not have taken this escape route if it led to dire consequences at the other end.

  To prevent his elbows from bumping into the aluminum, Halverson kept them tight to his flanks. As well, he kept his legs straight to protect his knees. In fact, he kept his entire body straight and rigid.

  This tunnel seemed to extend for a long time. It went down at about a sixty-degree angle. He wondered how much longer he had to go. The air was fuggy in here, and breathing it was starting to make him sick. The tunnel seemed to be getting narrower, or was that his imagination? Getting wedged inside this aluminum tube for the rest of life wasn’t an enviable prospect. There was no way he could crawl back up the chute. It was too slick, without anything to hold onto. No way to find purchase. If he got stuck in here, it was forever.

  It had to be his imagination working overtime, he decided. Why would Guzman construct an escape route that would end up as his tomb? And Halverson knew for a fact that Guzman had escaped unharmed, because Halverson had seen Guzman in the missile control room.

  It did feel like the walls were closing in on him, though, decided Halverson. It even seemed like it was getting darker, if that was possible. As the tube seemed to narrow, it scrunched his shoulders closer together, increasing his sensation of claustrophobia.

  He told himself to relax. He would be out of this aluminum coffin soon.

  . . . And then he was sliding out of the chute at speed and landing with a thump on a mattress on the floor of a small room devoid of furniture.

  Victoria and Swiggum were standing nearby looking at him.

  “They should have one of these rides at Disne
yland,” cracked Swiggum.

  Halverson rolled off the mattress and got to his feet.

  “Let’s get Guzman,” he said.

  He opened the door to the hallway and poked his head out.

  The corridor was empty, but he could hear the echoing of automatic weapons’ fire in the distance. The crackling of the gunfire seemed to be getting louder, meaning the brouhaha was headed this way, he decided.

  He checked the compass on his NCS watch. He struck off down the hall in a westerly direction, toward Guzman and the missile control room.

  Victoria and Swiggum followed.

  “There must be flesh eaters and soldiers around here somewhere,” said Swiggum, his ears registering the gunfire.

  “And we’re heading straight for them,” said Halverson with concern.

  “Why are we going toward them?” asked Victoria anxiously. “Shouldn’t we be going in the opposite direction?”

  “The missile control room is in this direction,” answered Halverson.

  Halverson stopped in his tracks. Her breath catching, Victoria bumped into him from behind. Halverson held his arms out at his sides to prevent her from passing him.

  Two flesh eaters had just rounded the corner up ahead and were shambling toward Halverson, their glazed thousand-yard stares directed in his vicinity.

  “I’ll pop their heads,” said Swiggum, drawing a bead on the first creature, which was dressed in a moth-eaten black suit and could have been a mortician.

  “Make every shot count,” said Halverson. “We’re gonna need our ammo. Those things are pouring into this bunker like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “I know. I saw the video.”

  “Why don’t we head in a different direction?” said Victoria.

  “We need to go west,” said Halverson. “We have to stop Guzman.”

  Swiggum whacked out the undertaker in the forehead. The scraggy revenant collapsed in a heap of bones.

  Swiggum took on the redheaded thirtysomething female ghoul behind the dead undertaker. Half her green dress was missing, exposing her besmirched slip. Her stockings had runs in them and were bunched up around her ankles. She staggered toward Swiggum.