“All right, knock it off, you assholes!” 7322 shouted as he reached down and pulled BMW off his humbled cohort, while giving Daniel a push backwards. “0303, get in the goddamn vehicle!” He shouted. “You two,” he said, pointing at a chuckling Daniel and BMW. “You two ride with me. Like dealing with fucking children here!”
“He started it,” Dan said sheepishly as he and BMW climbed into the back of 7322’s Humvee.
CHAPTER 4
Wizard-Ware was a white hat hacking firm. As far as cybercrime went, “white hats” would advise the US government on the ways of criminal hackers while “black hats” would exploit secure systems.
Ronan, Majesty and Lars entered the small Los Angeles office of Wizard-Ware. They stopped in the middle of the small reception area where a young female receptionist waited at a glass desk. She flipped through her iPhone and, without looking up, instructed them to sign in using an iPad nearby.
She never saw the gun that put the bullet through her head.
Two men ran out from a door behind the now deceased millennial and they too were shot dead.
Ronan, Majesty, and Lars stepped over the dead men’s bodies and walked through. A half dozen more twenty-somethings cowered behind computer workstations.
“Mr. Barnes,” Ronan called out. “I am seeking the elusive Mr. Barnes.”
There was silence in the room other than the weak sound from the headphones of a Zune that had fallen to the ground.
Majesty looked at the rare device. “A Zune? Really?” she said to the cowering man with the neck beard who obviously had dropped it. “What, are you trying to be unique or something? Some sort of way to stand out?” She shot him in his beard.
Lars walked over and pointed the gun at the heavyset nerd next to him. “You. Recite a verse from the Koran.”
“W-w-w...what?” the terrified and confused man asked.
“Recite a verse from the Koran and I will let you live,” Lars repeated.
“I...I don’t know any verses. I’m not a Muslim,” the man whimpered.
“Dude. I’m just fucking with you.” Lars laughed. “Do we look like camel jockeys to you?” Lars shot the man in the head.
“How many more have to die before I meet the elusive Mr. Barnes?” Ronan yelled out.
A slender man in his thirties rose up with his hands raised. “I am George Barnes,” he said, voice quivering.
“Ahh, Mr. Barnes.” Ronan sneered. “How long I have been trying to reach you. I call, I email you, I leave you messages on the dark web, yet you don’t respond.”
“I don’t know who you are.” Barnes replied.
“Who I am does not matter. Who we are is what matters. We are GRASS. And you have been trying to thwart us. Isn’t that true?”
Barnes did not respond. His eyelids became slits.
Ronan sniffed. “Working for the man, every night and day. All your talent. What a waste.”
Barnes and Wizard-Ware had been hired by the NSA to track and cyber infiltrate GRASS prior to the Skell virus.
“Well, I get it,” Ronan continued. “We are all trying to make a buck in this capitalist system. It’s not that you worked for the government. That didn’t bother me. It’s not that you tried to infiltrate my organization and hack into my networks that bothered me.” He smiled. “Actually, I was flattered by the attention. What bothered me was that you would not respond to me, elusive Mr. Barnes. Soon, everyone will respond to me. Kings, presidents, dictators will take my call. But you, the elusive Mr. Barnes, put me on the ‘Pay No Mind list.’ It hurt.”
Barnes did not know what to say. “I’m... I’m sorry?” he said meekly. Confused.
Ronan’s grin spread from ear to ear. “Apology accepted!” he declared. “Now we can become friends. And as friends, I want you to share something with me. Something that will spare the life of these remaining employees. Nothing much. Just a little bit of code. A few ones and zeros. That is all I need. A little bit of code for a little program that I know you helped develop. That sounds like a fair swap for the lives of your people, doesn’t it?
Barnes nodded.
“Good. Now, my associate here will be securing your people in the server room while you and I have a little SCRUM meeting.”
Lars waved his gun and hustled the remaining staff through a door in the rear. He gave Ronan the Nazi straight arm, raised hand salute, which drew a nasty glare from Majesty.
“Ugh,” she groaned and gave Lars the finger.
Ronan turned to his beloved. “Majesty, please take Mr. Barnes down to our car and be sure he brings his laptop. Oh, and don’t forget your power cord. I hate when I leave for a trip and I forget my laptop’s power cord.”
She nodded in agreement and ushered the man out of the front door.
As Lars was locking the server door with the remaining staff inside, Ronan approached him angrily.
“Dude, will you knock off that Hitler shit. At least in front of my girlfriend?” He snapped.
Lars, a muscular man in his early twenties with a shaved head, stood his ground. “Hey man, this is what we’re about. I don’t feel comfortable with the Jewish presence.”
Ronan stood his ground too. “First off, Laurence,” Ronan said with an emphasis on his counterpart’s real name, not the more Germanic-sounding moniker he had started calling himself, “I am in charge here. You chose to follow me. And we are a secular collective. So knock off the Jew and Nazi shit. Don’t forget, your parents were Scientologists. If I didn’t come into your life, you would be worshiping Tom Cruise.”
Lars/Laurence was angry, but chastened. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. Let’s go before the cops get here.” He changed the subject. “You think this guy has the code we need?”
“I’m sure of it. I just need to figure out once I get it, how I deploy it. But don’t worry—something or someone will show us the way. After all, we are GRASS.” Ronan put his hand on the back of Lars’s neck to show there were no hard feelings.
CHAPTER 5
Dr. Woodrow peered through the child’s telescope he found in the abandoned second story bedroom. He, Mohammed, and their tag along night watchman Smoothie had followed Colonel Tindall and his men after they evacuated FOB Prince. They had taken up residence in several well-appointed, yet recently abandoned, houses at the end of a cul-de-sac. The neighborhood was posh, with houses possibly running in the millions of dollars. All of which had been evacuated by their former owners when PCRC contractors came and cordoned off the area surrounding Princeton campus. The once-prestigious university, which became a temporary military base, had now become a quarantine camp. White box trucks with the PCRC Containment Force logo rolled in carrying their dangerous cargo of infected, and rolled out empty to pick up fresh meat. Also rolling in were cylindrical tanker trucks. Lots of them. Perhaps fuel, Woodrow thought. But by the sheer quantity of trucks, he could not imagine what their cargo could be.
In the center of campus, he could see a large, single story structure. It had no windows that he could see.
There were black uniformed soldiers clearing out the remaining infected from areas surrounding the campus. Those that were found were restrained and shoved into the PCRC box trucks. Other security teams were moving from building to building. They were searching, and Woodrow knew who for. They were looking for Colonel Tindall. The houses that had already been searched had markings on the side to indicate they were empty. So it would be some time before crews came back for a second look. At least, Woodrow hoped so.
Woodrow, Mohammed, and Smoothie had found refuge at FOB Prince after escaping the PCRC building and being picked up on the side of the road by Reverend Bob. Things went south when Colonel Tindall asked the reverend to pray alongside his wife, who had become infected and turned Skell. The colonel walked in to find Rev. Bob administering more than last rights to his wife. Tindall’s mind snapped, and in a fit of madness, he killed the reverend and put his wife out of her misery. He then proactively called in the ill-timed strike on the chemical plants.
A once-respected military officer, Tindall was now a fugitive. About three dozen of his soldiers remained loyal to him, and rather than becoming conscripted into the PCRC security forces which now controlled the state. They followed Colonel Tindall and had hunkered down in abandoned houses waiting for his next move. He had instilled something within them. Although they did not know what they were going to do, they knew they should be following this man.
Woodrow believed it was better that he, too, kept in the safety of Colonel Tindall’s soldiers. Unlike the rent-a-thug contractors that were tearing apart buildings and hauling off Skells around the neighborhoods, these men were professional soldiers, heavily armed, and they had an innate sense to protect those that could not defend themselves.
Woodrow had manipulated such men for his own protection since he could remember. Growing up, he had a weak body, but a strong mind, a quick wit, and a sharp tongue. He loved to poke the power structure in the eye. In high school, he would mock the jocks and face-men. Provoking these bullies through insults and exposing their dimness to shrieks of laughter from the girls. Once the objects of his insults could take no more and moved in to pound him, he would run and hide behind the Sullivan brothers, who were always eager for a fight. It was a great symbiotic relationship. He provided them laughs and they provided him protection. But they were gone now, the enemy was much more dangerous, and the consequences would be more than broken eye glasses and a black eye. He needed someone to protect him, to fight his battles, and right now, Tindall’s men would do nicely.
CHAPTER 6
Operator: Hello, 911, what is your emergency.
Caller: Yeah, I got like three of those fucking zombies on my lawn.
Operator: Sir, they are infected, not zombies. Please provide me your address.
Caller: Or Skells, isn’t that what they’re calling these skinny fucks?
Operator: Sir, you do not need to use foul language. Is your house secured, are you or anyone else in immediate danger?
Caller: I’m in my living room, these things are on my lawn. They’re the ones in immediate danger. I can go out and bash their fucking heads in right now, leave a nice pile for you to come clean up.
Operator: Sir, please do not leave your house or engage with the infected. I have pulled up your address from our system based on your phone number and we will be sending a containment team out to your location right now.
Caller: Save your gas, honey, I’ve been watching these dumb fucks and they don’t seem to wily. I think I can clean them out myself. Leave them on the curb for Monday’s pick up.
Operator: Sir, again, I am telling you not to leave your house or to interact with the infected in any way.
Caller: Um, do you think they’d be picked up during trash day or during recycling day? So ridiculous having to put out bottles and cans on their own day. My garage stinks from soup cans and beer bottle residue. Fucking tree huggers.
Operator: Sir, I have asked you to refrain from foul language, and also, you will be committing a felony if you purposely go out and harm or kill the infected.
Caller: They’re dead already, I can just go out and put them down.
Operator: Sir, I said—
Caller: Hold on, honey, I’ll be right back.
Operator: Sir, I am telling you containment will be there in less than a minute.
Caller: Gotta go kill these zombies.
Operator: Sir? Sir! ...Sir?
Unknown voice: Hello?
Operator: Sir, I am asking you not to leave your—
Unknown voice: Hold on, ma’am, this is PCRC Officer 0401, who am I speaking with?
Operator: Thank goodness. This is the 911 operator, please tell the caller not to leave his house.
PCRC Officer 0401: Oh, you’re probably referring to the homeowner. He’s dead. We are cleaning up the situation now. Is that all?
Operator: Yes. Yes, I have other calls to take. Fucking rednecks.
CHAPTER 7
The Cape May-based Congress Hotel, now home to the temporary Oval Office, was like a fortress. The streets surrounding the building were sealed off and those living there had been re-located. Outside, a safe-zone had been established. The perimeter was comprised of wooden barricades, triple concertina wire fencing, and guard dogs. Just outside the concentric circles of barricades were frightened and angry citizens. They chanted, yelled, and prayed. Some with signs demanding answers or large placards accusing the new president of orchestrating the crisis himself to usurp power. Some hauled large crucifixes and pleaded with people to repent, that the end of days was upon us. All religions were represented in different segments of the crowd. Bowing, kneeling, wailing, singing or just standing still in silent prayer. A complete diversity of divine fervor.
Meanwhile, others went about their normal life as if nothing had happened. Stores, restaurants, and bars were open for business.
Inside the hotel, things were equally frenetic, with furniture being moved, phones ringing, military leaders convening, senior government officials and low level aides rushing through the halls. BMW was escorted by one of the PCRC security team to the hotel bar, which was now also serving as the press area. Dan was escorted by 7322 to the transitory Oval Office.
Men and women, paramilitary types, clad in black tactical uniforms, lined the hallways. Secret service or uniformed police were nowhere to be seen.
Patrick was seated behind the desk of what was once a luxury suite of the hotel as Daniel was escorted in. Lining the wall of the office were a half dozen more armor-clad PCRC security members, protecting, and perhaps monitoring, the new president.
It had only been two weeks, yet Patrick looked as if he had aged a decade. He was thin and somewhat withered. It seemed as if a strong wind could carry him away. He was a Flat Stanley version of Commander in Chief.
A man in a brown suit stood in front of Patrick’s desk holding a binder tightly in his clasped hands. He had been providing a briefing for the president, but immediately stopped and closed the binder when Dan walked into the room.
Patrick raised his hand as if to ease the concern of the brown suit wearing man. He then smiled weakly at Daniel and gestured for his old friend to sit in the leather chair in front of the desk. Daniel complied and sat down while 7322 went on to stand at parade rest near the back of the room.
Patrick returned his attention to the briefing. “That’s okay, Mr. Spencer, please continue what you were saying. I requested Mr. Sullivan come here. It is important that he understand what is going on and the magnitude of what we are dealing with here.”
As Spencer started to reopen the folder to resume the briefing, he hesitated, giving a sideways look at the slightly disheveled Daniel Sullivan.
“Mr. Spencer, you may speak freely,” Patrick assured. “He is a friend.”
Spencer replied sarcastically, “Sir, you’re the president now. It’s an isolating position. If you really want a friend, I suggest you get a dog.”
Patrick smiled. “I already have one.” He gave head nod and a knowing wink in the direction of Daniel.
“I feel like a mutt moving from one master to another,” Daniel muttered to himself.
Spencer continued his briefing. “We have a formal state of emergency declared for the entirety of New Jersey. We currently have control of all ingress and egress points of the state. We have had to severely restrict the movement of persons within our borders, temporarily, with curfew from 6pm until 8am. During non-curfew hours, the populace has been requested to stay off the streets in areas not yet cleared by our containment teams. This executive order is due to the occurring phenomena, and the public has been told these rules are to prevent, or at least minimize, loss of life.”
Patrick said, “I want to ensure we are following the rule of law and not overstepping our bounds. Are we following all existing procedures for these executive actions?” He sounded like a Boy Scout.
“Sir, yes,” Spencer continued. “You have the right to declare a state of e
mergency in the event of, but not exclusive to, infestations, riots, sabotage, hostile military or paramilitary action, bioterrorism, or incidents involving weapons of mass destruction. We have most of those occurring all at once right now. No one of reason would express concern over the actions we have taken in light of these most...unusual circumstances.”
“I understand,” Patrick said. “I just want to be clear that this is being handled no differently than we would handle a pandemic, an earthquake, a flood or any other large scale response. Please continue Mr. Spencer.”
Spencer nodded. “Currently, we have eleven counties in New Jersey with confirmed infection.” He looked over his briefing notes. “We have fifteen counties quarantined, including the prior mentioned eleven, the other four as a precaution due to unconfirmed reports of outbreak.
“We have seven additional counties under surveillance for unconfirmed sightings. Lots of false reports, hoaxes, and people abusing the circumstance to make false reports or cause trouble or settle scores.” Spencer flapped a hand. “People reporting their ex-spouses and bosses. That kind of thing. No crisis goes to waste for some people.”
“Dr. Reynolds.” Patrick said to some unknown person.
A female voice sounded off: “The infected are much more resilient than you or I, and despite their frail, skeletal appearance, they are quite strong, fast, and when not in stasis mode, difficult to restrain.”
Daniel did not realize where the voice was coming from at first, but then saw a small, prim looking woman sitting just to the right or Spencer. She was so slight and easy to miss that it barely seemed like she was in the room.
Dr. Reynolds spoke clinically. “It is important that we keep informing the people that this is not some sort of supernatural event or biblical prophecy or the dead coming back to life. There is also no such indication that this is some sort of outside terrorist attack. This is a virus, a particularly virulent and unusual one, which causes those infected to commit horrific atrocities, but in the end, it is just a virus.”
Exit Zero (Book 2): Nuke Jersey Page 4
