Fiona sneered. “Why? We’re not breaking curfew.”
“I did not say you were. I am just saying we need to commandeer your vehicle for ourselves.”
“Do you work for PCRC?” She demanded.
“No, ma’am, we do not.”
“Well, my friend here is a senior executive at PCRC, and they manage all the security for this state.”
James shot her a death-stare, realizing she just blew any chance they had of getting out of there without a fight.
“Oooh really.” The man looked off to some unknown authority. “We have a PCRC contractor.” Then back at James and Fiona. “Sir, can I ask you if you are currently armed?”
James said nothing.
“Sir, I am asking you—”
“I heard you. I am not armed,” James said reluctantly.
“Well, that is a surprise, as I have never, and I mean never, met a PCRC contractor who was not armed. Could you do me a favor and pop the trunk?”
“Why don’t you tell me who you are and what you want first.”
“Sir, my name is Colonel James Tindall, and these here are my men, and what I want is for you to pop the trunk.”
One of the soldiers raised his gun slightly higher to put James’s forehead directly in his crosshairs.
James reached down and pulled the latch to the trunk. A clunk sounded from behind. One of the soldiers walked over and looked in.
“Holy shit!”
“Sergeant!” Colonel Tindall scolded. “There is a lady present, watch your language!”
“Sorry, sir. There’s a whole arsenal back here.” The sergeant picked up and put down high-powered assault rifles, handguns, explosive charges, and boxes of ammo.
“Sir, ma’am, I apologize for my man’s coarse language, but if you don’t mind, I think you two better come with us for a bit. Our camp isn’t far from here, and I assure you, you will be safe and protected.”
CHAPTER 40
0303 pondered the glass of whisky he cradled in his hands. His ex-wife would have loved to see him like this, day drinking in a dive bar. He hated her even though he didn’t remember why, couldn’t recall when that hatred began.
He knew there must have been a beginning at the same that he knew he loved her at one time. A time before they were always angry at each other. Maybe it was because he was a simple man and anger was also simple. Easy. It was so easy to snipe at each other, identify reasons to criticize, or point out something the other did wrong. It was easy and he was lazy.
Forgiveness was difficult.
Apologies opened up vulnerabilities that could be later exploited.
Cynicism was easy too.
It was so easy to get lost in dark thoughts of regrets, of insults and slights, be they real or imagined. Those dark thoughts moved in a perpetual spiral on their own power. They would not gain or lose momentum. They just kept going and going and going at a steady, soul-crushing pace. Ceasing these dark, angry thoughts required work and effort. Ah! That was energy he chose not to expend. He’d rather leave his demons alone to feed.
The bar was populated by other, similarly angry people.
Angry they couldn’t go to work. Angry they couldn’t apply their trade. Angry they couldn’t make a living due to the Skells. Angry they felt helpless to stop the growing population of new Skells. Angry they no longer felt safe in their own neighborhoods, their homes. Angry they were stuck in New Jersey while news crews stood just outside the borders reporting as if it were now a leper colony full of diseased creatures that should never be let out.
Yet the narrative they heard on television and the radio was now compassionate bullshit.
Feel for the Skells, for they cannot help what they do. Feel for the Skells, for they do not know what they do.
The outside narrative was to be humane in rounding them up and housing them till a cure could be found.
Jersey’s working class wasn’t without sympathy for the Skells. They knew they were human beings. Or used to be human beings. Perhaps they still were. But there were too many of them. Violent. Dangerous. And their numbers were growing.
Humanitarianism could call in the future, once there was a better hold on the situation. Once more was known about them and how to deal with them. But right now, something needed to be done to contain them. To eradicate the threat.
Something needed to be done.
Ivan and Marifi walked through the door of The Shore Thing bar, holding it open just long enough for the light to shine directly onto the corner booth occupied by 0303.
He squinted at the light until the door closed and his eyes adjusted, recognizing Ivan.
“Well, well, look who’s here,” 0303 spat out. “Someone must have chanted Beetle-Jew three times for you to appear.”
Ivan ignored the anti-Semitic taunt, walked over to the booth, and sat down across from 0303. Marifi positioned herself on a barstool facing the door they just entered.
0303 lifted his whiskey. “So, the prodigal son returns. Want a drink? Might be your last.”
“Accepting wine from Judas, not likely Banko.” Ivan responded, using Bankowski’s high school bully nickname.
0303 sneered. “You may be a Jew, but you ain’t Jesus, and your dad ain’t God. Besides, I don’t have to poison you. When I kill you, I’ll do it with my bare hands.”
“Threatening the boss’s son. Not the path for a promotion,” Ivan replied.
“I don’t give a fuck what you think, asswipe. You’re lucky I’m off-duty, otherwise I would arrest your ass. Your daddy ain’t here to protect you, boy.”
“I know. That’s why I brought my wife.” Ivan kept an even, condescending tone.
“Wife!” 0303 laughed. “Is that what you still call her? Just a mutt your daddy brought home from the pound to keep his loser son company.”
“Okay, well, it was nice catching up.” Ivan flipped 0303 the bird with both hands. “But let’s cut to the chase. What I need from you is your PCRC electronic ID card so I can get into the hotel that houses my dad and our new young president.”
0303 let out a loud chortle. “Yeah, right!” He leaned forward in the booth. “Why don’t you just reach over and take it?”
“Banko, I am going—”
“Going to what?” He interrupted. “What? You gonna sic your chink wife on me?”
Ivan adjusted himself in his seat and displayed a .38 in his waistband.
Another loud laugh burst forth from 0303. “You brought a fucking revolver to a gun fight? You’re worse than your fucking ‘wife’ with her knife. She gonna cut me with her little sword?” He pointed to Marifi’s Golok. “How about I take it from her and carve my initials in your forehead?”
“My wife would slice open your nutsack before you got half way over there.”
Marifi did not look at them, but she listened to every word, and it surprised her how good it felt to hear Ivan refer to her as his wife.
“Maybe I should go over there and give her my sword,” 0303 threatened, grabbing his crotch. “I would split that little whore in half.”
Ivan sighed. “I was hoping this would go so much better.”
“Gold, get the fuck out of here before you both come down with a case of dead.”
“Okay.” Ivan held up his hands in mock surrender. “I did try to reason with you.” He stood and walked towards the door.
“Oh, and Ivan,” 0303 called after him. “When the order comes down to kill you, it’s not gonna be your wife who does it, it’s gonna be me.”
Ivan turned around and stormed back to 0303. “How are you going to do that when you’re in quarantine?” Ivan enacted the only fight move he had ever learned and gave a swift kick to his opponent’s balls, bringing 0303 to his knees, groaning in pain.
“This man has been infected!” Ivan yelled. “He tried to bite me!”
The bar patrons sprang to action and grabbed brooms, bar stools, and anything else they could find. They wailed on the crouching, cursing man.
Marifi reached into the scrum and sliced the cord to 0303’s PCRC contractor ID, which provided access to all facilities.
She tossed it to Ivan and the two ran out the door.
CHAPTER 41
Woodrow spoke into the laptop microphone. He hoped the audience would be receptive. “My name is Dr. Woodrow Coleman. I am an author and a scientist. What you are seeing right now is not a hoax. This is live footage from inside the quarantine zones of New Jersey.”
Website and television monitors around the globe displayed eight video feeds side by side, each in a box as if watching the beginning of The Brady Bunch. Instead of displaying the smiling faces of that extended, incestuous family, each box displayed a different security camera from quarantine camps and depopulation facilities around the state. The feeds changed every thirty seconds to show different angles the Skell slaughtering activities that took place.
GRASS was now fully in control of Colonel Tindall’s laptop. As soon as Woodrow had powered it on and the computer connected to the web, GRASS took control. They searched through the code of all loaded applications for what they were really after.
Patrick sat in his presidential office in Cape May, watching the broadcast, along with much of the rest of the United States.
“How is he doing this?” President Callahan demanded of his aides in the room.
“Sir, he somehow got access to a private signal the military has control over should there be a need to communicate with the country during a national emergency.”
Patrick pointed to the screen displaying Skells suffocating in foam. “Is this real? Is this happening? Have we sanctioned this?”
Woodrow continued, “The infected are not being housed until a cure can be found, they are being slaughtered in a process called depopulation. They are being suffocated and their remains are being carted out as medical waste to be incinerated.”
The cameras showed scenes of infected struggling against the foam, appearing to shriek and suffer. Other cameras showed more queued up for entry into depopulation chambers. Other cameras showed trucks marked “PCRC Bio Hazard Transport” leaving camps.
What viewers did not see was that GRASS had found the application they were looking for on Tindall’s laptop.
Woodrow talked over the ever-switching images. “It is my belief that our new president was unaware of this activity and I know he would never allow this to occur. I hope he’s watching this so that he can put a stop to this barbarity.”
Woodrow took a deep breath.
“I know these people, the poor infected, seem scary. I know the first thought is to destroy them. We often want to destroy what we fear or don’t understand. I myself destroyed a group of infected when I didn’t understand what was truly happening.”
Woodrow thought back to the PCRC lab. How he had melted dozens of Skells by releasing a shower of thermite on them before he fled the building.
Woodrow pleaded with his invisible listening audience. “We don’t need to do this; these are not monsters. They are infected. They are evolving and changing in ways we don’t know, but we can stop the spread. We can even possibly reverse the process for those exposed. I was the one whose ideas caused this to happen. Please allow me the time to set things right. Skells are people!”
The cameras showed bulldozers being driven by men in hazmat suits pushing the remains of the infected into large bins, which were then sealed and loaded into trucks. Occasionally, an infected would start to stagger up, not yet dead. Other workers in black tactical outfits and gas masks would walk over and slice open the survivor’s midsection, causing internal organs and the stomach to fall to the ground. Sometimes the men would need to cut the remaining intestines to get the stomach completely separated. Sometimes they would stomp on or kick the fallen stomach to ensure it was destroyed.
What the watchers did not see was the GRASS Cyber Army preparing their closing remarks.
CHAPTER 42
“Thank you, Dr. Woody, your services will no longer be needed,” came the electronic voice.
Woodrow pushed several buttons on the keyboard. He no longer had any control of the laptop.
The voice spoke. Digitized. Deep. Menacing. “I would now like to address the American sheeple. I am speaking on behalf of the Blades of GRASS. As grass feeds the sheep, the GRASS movement will spoon feed you sheeple.”
“Fear not America, the zombie apocalypse will not bring about the end. Because the trough-feeding pigs of our government are the real living dead. The sign of the devil is not marked by three sixes. It is marked by the three evil entities that comprise the government, military, and commercial complex. This unholy trinity can’t be killed—it can only be restrained. Like the arsonist firefighter, the government perpetuates its own purpose. It exists to exist.
“It is no different than the zombie hordes who will soon be consuming their way through your cities. The government will continue moving forward, eternally consuming, exponentially increasing in size and hunger. The government cannot innovate, it can only replicate.
“We, the Blades of GRASS, have given you the gift of opportunity.
“For too long, Americans have ignored the world. America is a country founded on racism, oppression, colonialism, and greed. For too long we have meddled in the world’s affairs, imposing our will. This time, the Blades of Grass will cut you down to size.
“What you are seeing on the screen right now are live feeds from the slaughter houses set up by your government, through their proxy Post Conflict Restoration Corp. Soon, they will not need their hired guns. Soon they will have their own undead army. An army created of VINNI’s”
The screens on thousands—possibly millions—of televisions, computers, and phones displayed footage of Skells going through de-pop. They struggled against the rising tide of foam, shrieking and clawing at each other.
The GRASShole resumed his speech. “PCRC unleashed the virus and now is paid to clean it up. And who is the surrogate son of the founder and CEO of PCRC? None other than our newly installed President Patrick Callahan. How convenient.
“And who gave birth to the virus that was unleashed? None other than our President’s childhood friend: author, health guru, and father of the apocalypse, Dr. Woodrow Coleman. Here are the emails he had written explaining his actions.”
On the screen, copies of Woodrow’s emails appeared. He had written them, but never sent a single one. Some were still in his draft folder and some had been deleted long ago.
“Tsk tsk, Dr. Coleman,” the voice scolded. “Don’t you know better than to use a private server to share emails with sensitive information? That is just dumb!
“Now, I am not one to bring up a lot of problems without having at least one solution. New Jersey has become a cancer. Usually a cancer is treated with chemicals and radiation. The chemicals have had no effect, so now we will try radiation.
“We have taken control of the missile silos at FE Warren Air Force Base. We will be launching those missiles directly into the heart of New Jersey.”
Back at the Congress Hotel, staffers watched in disbelief.
“What? What did he just say?!” President Callahan yelled at the advisors who had gathered in his office to watch the broadcast. “Our own nuclear weapons are about to be launched? Is that fucking possible?”
“Is this possible?” Spencer pointed to the screens displaying the pirate broadcast. “If they can hijack our communications system, there’s no telling what else they can do.”
“Well, we need to stop it. Get the base on the phone, shut the missiles down,” Patrick ordered.
“We can try, but if the system has been hacked, we won’t get control of it.” Spencer’s hands shook. He was losing it. Fear took hold.
Maxwell Gold walked into the room. “What the hell is happening?”
Spencer spoke up again. “It could have been a virus that was inserted as a software update when this idiot started broadcasting.”
“A software update, how the hell does our nucle
ar arsenal get a virus?” Maxwell demanded.
“It’s software, it acts like any other software. It has updates just like every other application. They found a back door, a vulnerability, either this guy broadcasting knew about it, or they tricked him into giving them access.”
Maxwell yelled at the room. “Christ almighty. Shut the entire system down!”
Two large PCRC Security Team members ran in. They flanked Patrick. “Sir, you are the leader of this country, we need to get you to a secure location right now.”
“Okay,” Patrick and Maxwell said in unison, each assuming he was the leader being referenced. They then awkwardly looked at each other, as did the security men.
The two men grabbed Patrick’s arms and began leading him out of the office with Maxwell and Spencer jogging close behind.
“We have no bomb shelter here, but there is a large walk-in freezer in the basement. It’s the best bet. Keep moving,” said the contractor holding Patrick’s right arm.
Patrick was brought down the hallway, and then down a flight of steps to the basement. His feet barely touched the ground.
Another said to Maxwell Gold, “Sir, we need to keep up!”
Maxwell cocked his eye at the merc. “No shit.”
The group of men made it to the large freezer. The door was open. The cooling portion had been turned off, but the large steel door and walls were satisfactory for a temporary bunker.
All of the men’s phones began to beep together.
Dr. Reynolds ran down the stairs. “Sir, people are fleeing their homes, trying to get out of the state. It’s bedlam out there.”
“If they can launch a missile at us, how much time do we have?” Patrick demanded.
“Dr. Reynolds?” Spencer asked.
Dr. Reynolds opened her binder and pulled out a calculator. “The Minuteman III missile has an advertised velocity of about 28,000 kilometers per hour, or roughly 300 miles per minute. Warren AFB, where this missile has been launched from, is about 1,800 miles from us. As these missiles are designed to fly halfway around a curved earth, a flat-earth parabolic trajectory calculation would require a low launch. Warren is at an altitude of 6,129 feet above sea level while New Jersey is basically at sea level.
Exit Zero (Book 2): Nuke Jersey Page 15
