Exit Zero (Book 2): Nuke Jersey

by Neil A. Cohen

  7322 raised his mug to take a sip. “So, Mr. White, or may I now call you 8080?”

  “You can call me BMW.” He shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

  7322 was still stuck on the nickname thing “I thought that stood for Black Malcolm White, what the kids called you when you were in grade school. You don’t find that a little offensive?”

  “Not at all, I’ve made peace with it. I own it.”

  “Mr. White, we would like you to assist us on a project.”

  BMW stabbed a link of sausage and plopped it in his mouth. “Nah man, I’m not a mercenary like the Sullivan boys. I’m just a pilot.”

  “Well, that is a shame, because we need your piloting skills. We can ensure that you are compensated for your work with us.”

  “Thanks, but I really need to get back to Atlantic City. The chopper belongs to the casino. I don’t want the law coming after me thinking I stole it.”

  “Mr. White, first of all, martial law has been declared and the local law enforcement now falls under the purview of the military, which currently falls under the purview of PCRC. So, your service and the casino’s chopper is supporting the state’s restoration operations.”

  “Understood,” BMW insisted, “but still, I think it’s time I was on my way.”

  “That is your choice, but your helicopter is staying here. We have a no-fly zone across New Jersey, so no civilian air travel is allowed. All non-approved flights will be forced down, or shot down.”

  “Look man, I’m not part of this,” BMW said as he stood, abandoning his food.

  “Everyone is part of this now,” 7322 assured him. “There are no bystanders. If you want to leave, you are free to go. But you are not taking your helicopter. You can walk out of here, right now. The front door is just down that hallway. But I’m not sure how far you are going to get. You won’t make it to Atlantic City on foot and I don’t believe Uber is still running.”

  BMW sat back down. “If I help you, and when this is resolved, I can take my chopper and go?”

  7322 took a friendlier tone. “I am not here to recruit you, but we are looking for good people. PCRC has the contract to provide security here in Jersey for the next three years. We will also be expanding to California to manage this terror upstart group GRASS. If the outbreak spreads beyond the state, we will expand the scope of our deployment.”

  BMW shrugged and began eating again. More eggs. “Well, when you put it that way, in the Us vs Them way, how could I say no? And if you get some sort of recruitment bonus for bringing me in, you better damn well split it with me.”

  Growing up one of the only black kids in an all-white suburb, he was regularly put in positions where he needed to make a choice of us vs them. Gangs from less lily-white neighborhoods approached him when he was out and about in high school. They also wanted him to make a decision, their gangs or a beating. He then managed to keep both sides thinking he was with them and against the others. He figured that, right now, it was time to do the same.

  CHAPTER 23

  Daniel rejoined BMW and 7322 in the courtyard of the hotel. He had now been fitted with his own black tactical outfit and assigned the number 8150.

  In the middle of the courtyard, two Skells were being held in a cage. They were pretty ravaged, seeming to have been infected for some time and having suffered the full effects of the virus. Bone thin, bulging stomach, eyes empty of any recognition, drooling, and hostile.

  “We have been experimenting with some different types of less than lethal devices to help us manage and round up the infected,” 7322 said, standing in front of a table with several devices displayed. “We do have some devices that will prove to immobilize the infected, while only causing temporary discomfort for the innocents around them.”

  Daniel eyed the gadgets on the table. “If these things are zombies, can’t you just shoot them in the head?”

  7322 grumbled. “First off, they’re not zombies.” Then he let out an exasperated sigh. “We don’t have a complete understanding of the current situation, but I can tell you, these people are not reanimated corpses, they are infected living beings who need to be rounded up humanely, and placed into quarantine for their own protection, as well as for the public safety. FEMA has set up camps at the major universities around the state and we will be using the dorm rooms to house them until we can find a cure.”

  “Okay, so headshots are out,” Daniel said.

  “Well, actually, the infected are quite resilient, so we have had to resort to more unique methods. We found one of the most effective device is a modified free electron laser, which allow us to tune the frequency of targeted sound waves which affect the gastrointestinal processes of whomever it is directed at.”

  He removed the device from a plastic case the size of a footlocker. It looked like a parabolic microphone from the sidelines of football games. There was a handle at the bottom like a cordless drill and a foot-long silver rod with a plastic cone at the base.

  7322 said, “This tool came from a classified Defense Threat Reduction Agency program called Thunder Storm. The project was experimenting with sonic weaponry. I will simplify this as much as I can, but they were experimenting with VLF’s, or very low frequencies, that could create a resonance within human subjects.”

  BMW and Daniel stared at him blankly.

  7322 continued: “Basically, all cells in your body are affected by electromagnetic vibrations. In fact, everything is vibrating all the time, at their own frequency.”

  Daniel played class clown. “Yeah, well, I’m vibrating off the ground right now just waiting to hear why the hell you’re putting us through chemistry class.”

  “Well, it’s actually more biology than chemistry.”

  Daniel started to walk away.

  7322 called after him, “Okay, okay, let me get to the point. Resonance is when our device makes a connection with the target and both the device and the target cells begin vibrating at the same frequency. Once this link has been made, an energy exchange takes place in the membrane of each cell, causing a biological reaction. An enclosed chamber is usually needed to facilitate this resonance. For our purposes, we used the chamber of the stomach lining.”

  “You’re killing me here, professor!” Daniel snapped in exasperation.

  “No, keep going, this is interesting,” BMW encouraged.

  Daniel rolled his eyes. “Teacher’s pet.”

  7322, obviously excited about what he was talking about even though his two students weren’t, continued the lesson.

  “What I am holding here is an ultrasonic generator, which emits a very low frequency directed towards the subjects, be they rioting citizens or flesh hungry Skells. The effects are not lethal, nor are they lasting, but they are nonetheless unpleasant. Nausea, vomiting, and incontinence are common. Now, with proper tuning and sound amplifiers, this device will greatly affect the stomach acid of the infected, causing them to become so confused as to be immobile. For those innocent bystanders who get caught in the burst, the effects are unpleasant, but nothing a little Pepto won’t fix. But the worst reaction is ED.”

  BMW was confused. He shook his head. “ED? You mean like this?” He made a hand motion with his index finger bending downwards as if it was going limp.

  7322 laughed. “Not that ED, I mean explosive diarrhea. That is why DTRA may have called this tool Thunder Storm, but we call it Shit Storm. They had designed it for non-lethal crowd control. It is pretty hard to riot when you’ve got a load in your pants.”

  He turned the device on. Other than a very slight hum, it did not appear to be working. He pointed the device at the Skells in the cage and pulled the trigger, causing them to immediately drop to the ground and convulse with seizures.

  BMW squinted at the writhing monsters. “Why is it effecting them like that?”

  7322 said, “That is classified, just know that it does work, and we will be bringing this into the field with us.”

  “Can I try that out?”


  7322 handed him the gun but warned him not to point it at anyone other than the Skells.

  0303 walked into the courtyard. “Well, well. Look what we have here, a young black male with a weapon. When I was a sheriff’s deputy, I lived for such encounters.” 0303 raised his arms in the air. “Hey partner, hands up don’t shoot.”

  BMW pointed the device at 0303, smiled, and pulled the trigger.

  0303 immediately dropped to a squatting position. One hand grabbed his stomach and the other his ass, as if he was trying to stop a garden hose. What emitted from him was a horrific sound and stench.

  “I just shit my pants!” 0303 screamed. “What the hell happened, I just shit my fucking pants!”

  7322 usually would not tolerate this type of action, but as BMW was the teacher’s pet.

  He let this particular infraction go.

  CHAPTER 24

  Brannagan was a hard man with a simple plan. Roll into town on his Harley, set up his kingdom in the bar of his choice, and let the citizens know that he would provide their protection—though it would come with a price. He would keep them safe from the zombie hordes as long as they met his every drunken, lustful whim. He would be a leader of violence and intimidation, of strength and severity. But over time, he knew that their fear would turn to respect, and then loyalty. That the women he would take would soon give themselves to him willingly. Wantonly. Those under his protection would grow to revere him as their savior, and when necessary, they would die for him.

  He expected some would challenge his control of the town, and they would have to be dealt with harshly, brutally, fatally. He was ready. He had never taken a life before, but he was ready to do so to secure his place in this new, savage world of the Skells.

  This was a now a place where strong men, men of action, ruled swaths of land. Town and camps of survivors would wage war with each other, conquering smaller groups to grow their ranks and power. He knew that his clan would look to him for protection from not only the infected, but from other men like him.

  His mighty and embarrassing reign lasted 13 minutes.

  His current throne was an uncomfortable steel chair bolted to the floor of the Bergen county jail.

  The door opened and the guard escorted in a man in a very snappy suit and tie. “Here he is,” the guard said to his well-dressed companion. “Your client, the Warlord of Weehawken.” The guard let out a hearty laugh and left the two men to talk.

  “Hello, Mr. Brannagan,” said his court appointed lawyer. “My name is Ira Brillstein. I will be representing you at your hearing today. I want to ensure you understand the charges against you.”

  “What the fuck is going on here?” Brannagan said.

  “Well, sir, you have been arrested and charged with assault. Would you like to tell me why you caused so much trouble at the Applebee’s during lunch yesterday?” Ira spoke in a tone like he was talking to a troublesome child.

  “Where the hell did those cops come from? We are in the middle of the fucking zombie apocalypse, and they arrested me for punching a goddamn bartender? There ain’t no more law, man, this is the zombie apocalypse. End of days. People like me are the law now!”

  “Weeeell, yes, there are zombies around,” Ira reluctantly agreed. “Or at least reasonable approximations of zombies, if you desire to call these poor souls that. But this is not the apocalypse. Also, I believe the term ‘zombie’ refers to a reanimated dead person. These people are not that astonishing. They’re just people with a bad virus, like the flu or AIDS.”

  Brannagan was still not coming to grips with the discrepancy between what he believed and what was occurring. “I saw it, man. On the TV. Zombies eating people. Cops and soldiers being overrun. This is the end. Let me out of this fucking jail!”

  “Look.” Ira’s became soothing as he tried to calm his agitated client. “I know they say that only two things will survive the apocalypse, cockroaches and lawyers, but trust me, it just isn’t happening yet.” Ira’s eyes flitted around the jail before returning to Brannagan’s. “For example, tonight, I have dinner reservations with my wife and her mother. If this was the end of time, do you think that is how I would want to spend it?” He raised an eyebrow. “So, like it or not, life goes on. Later, I will be judged for my inadequacies, and tomorrow, you have an afternoon in court being judged for your mistakes.”

  Brannagan rested his head in his hands. “I... I thought it was all gone. I thought this was my time...” His voice trailed off. He was finally realizing the reality of his situation. He recalled entering the restaurant, of standing on the bar and announcing a self-appointed rule of the region. Then there was the laughter. The fight, the police, the handcuffs, and the very large amount of meth he had started the day with.

  Ira smiled, still trying to calm and soothe. “Listen, Mr. Brannagan. You made a mistake. That’s it. The bartender was not seriously harmed and most of the patrons thought it was a joke. There are bigger concerns on people’s minds right now than a biker declaring himself king.”

  Brannagan seemed to wilt.

  “So no, this is not the apocalypse,” Ira said. “And yes, there is still law and in most places, order. I understand how confusing a time this is. I lived in Israel for two years. Did you know nearly everyone there carries guns? And not just pea shooters, I’m talking young men and women come in and lay down their assault rifles on the bar like it’s an iPhone. Teachers are required to be armed when escorting children on field trips. Every time you get on a public bus, you wonder if it will blow up and if today will be the day you don’t come home. But no one over there sees it as the apocalypse, and trust me, that is a region of people obsessed with end times.”

  Ira opened up his briefcase and took out his client’s folder. “I suggest we plead guilty to simple assault and offer to pay damages to the restaurant. You will probably have to do some time, but no more than ninety days. Perhaps when you get out, this whole thing will have cleared up. But, if it does spiral out of control, you can try the whole road warrior thing again. Promise me you will make me Prince of Paramus, though, great mall there,” his lawyer said with a smile.

  Ira paused for a moment, lost in thought. Then he opened up the folder and laid it out before the man who would be king. “When the laws of god and man do no longer apply, you and I will l scarf down a ham and mayo on white bread while burning down my old high school gym teacher’s house. How does that sound?”

  CHAPTER 25

  Patrick grew weary of Mr. Spencer. This ever-present advisor was midway through his umpteenth briefing of the day. Something about some group that has begun worshiping the Skells, believing they have raised from the dead like Jesus, and there is concern of a mass suicide planned by the followers. Meanwhile, passing by Patrick’s office door, the president observed generals, mayors, PCRC Security Forces Sector Leads, and businessmen as they made their way to and from meetings down the hallway with Maxwell Gold.

  He had asked Maxwell about these meetings and why he was not involved.

  “You have more pressing matters than to hear a lot of whining and questions you have already answered ten times. Leave the bullshit to me,” was Maxwell’s answer.

  And yet, here he was, listening to a briefing about a bunch of fanatics who had forsaken their idols and decided to follow the infected, believing them raised from the dead.

  “Okay, Spencer, what is your point? So a bunch of fanatics pray to the infected and may possibly want to commit mass suicide. Let them. It’s still a free country. If they want to pray to space aliens and science fiction writers, they can do that as well. This hardly seems like a national security threat!” Patrick snapped at Spencer mid-sentence, startling the man.

  Patrick frowned. “Who is Max meeting with now?”

  Spencer fumbled with his papers. “Um, sir, I am not quite sure. I will have to check Mr. Golds schedule.”

  “I want you to go down to his office right now and ask him to bring himself, and whomever he is meeting with at this moment, to my
office so that I can sit in on the rest of the meeting,” Patrick ordered.

  “Mr. Gold has instructed us to never interrupt his meetings. Especially if the door is closed, he was—”

  Patrick cut off the nervous sounding man. “I want you to go to his office and bring them down here.” Patrick said, his voice becoming a low growl.

  “Yes, sir, I will ask him—”

  “What the fuck are you not understanding?” Patrick shouted, again cutting the man off. “I did not say ask him anything. I told you to tell him to cease his meeting and continue it in my office. Did you understand that, or do you need to clean the shit out of your ears?”

  Spencer turned and walked out of the Oval Office in a hurry.

  Patrick fiddled with the pens on his desk. He tried to calm down. He had lost it on Spencer, used language that didn’t belong in the work environment. He was not used to handling situations, especially work situations, in such a manor. But he was also not used to being President of the United States before—the enormity of his position hit him. A couple weeks ago, he was nearly pissing his pants in a hotel room off the turnpike. Now he was sitting in the most powerful office in the world.

  He wielded powers that were unprecedented, but how much of that power was truly in his hands and who would obey his orders? Much of the country had been placed in a state of emergency and martial law. The military surrounded New Jersey, and the PCRC Security Forces were running things inside the state.

  Who were these PCRC men and women now in charge of security—both his own and the state’s? Soon, these contractors might be controlling the security of the nation. They presented themselves as if they were a military organization, but they weren’t. They were mercenaries, hired guns. Would they be loyal to him or to the PCRC organization that paid their salary? To Maxwell Gold alone?