Government officials operated under the premise that since there were no more reports of unusual behavior in the areas initially affected by SR-7, the chemical was dissipating. Military storm trackers continued to track the cloud cover via Doppler radar and positioned troops and meteorologists in the field ahead of it.
“Gentlemen, this had all the makings of a first-class disaster,” The President said. “Several hours ago I ordered the Secretary of State Duncan to Moscow to speak with their government officials. We’ll offer money and will leak a story that our accusation was based on faulty intelligence.”
“The Russians are greedy. They’ll want more,” Benton warned.
“Indeed. I’ve been told that they want a summit regarding concessions in the use of chemicals and our planned missile defense shield in Eastern Europe. Their argument is that if we used such a chemical on our own people, what would keep us from using it on them.”
“Are you going to give it to them?”
The President smiled confidently. “Of course not. We will deny that such a chemical exists.”
“What happened to trust but verify?”
“It only goes one-way.”
“Thank our lucky stars that Al-Qaeda or some other Jihad-waging entity didn’t take credit for this,” Crossfield added. “Imagine the panic that would have sparked.”
“What about environmental?” Benton asked.
“The hardest hit area was the flashpoint,” Vice-President Keats said. “Delta contamination is now nearly undetectable. Several thousand fish were killed, mostly smelt and crappie. We are testing other fish to make sure that they, A—are not genetically compromised and capable of passing on the trait, and B—more aggressive than the fish in the control group.”
“The Canadian Prime Minister still got his shorts in a wad?” Crossfield asked.
“He’s been placated. We agreed not to renegotiate the NAFTA.”
After Benson took a sip of brandy, he started to wiggle his foot. ”Has there been any news on Greenbaum yet?”
“Dropped in the forests of French New Guinea, drugged and naked.”
Crossfield bolstered the President’s sentiments. “In case you’re not familiar with the wooded areas of French New Guinea, rest assured that she’ll never make it out of there alive.”
Keats, an avid environmentalist, added, “There is the danger of exposure to unusual viruses and bacteria; the laughing frog, wild boars and deadly insects.”
“To hell with her,” Crossfield snapped. “Let’s focus our attention on the flashpoint.”
“We are sending in more Haz-Mat units and investigators from the CDC, Environmental Protection, Department of Agriculture and Department of the Interior to all affected regions, just to make sure there is no chance of a new outbreak,” said the President. “We also hired several top Madison Avenue ad men to work with our government psychologists to devise a means of convincing the general public that zombie sightings and reported battles with them are no more valid than claims of UFO sightings and alien abductions.”
“Those involuntarily committed individuals in California have been released, but many of them have vehicular license holds on them,” Keats added. “They were, shall we say ‘mentally reconditioned’ so as to deprive them of all memories regarding what they saw at the Concord transit station.”
Keats held up his hand for pause, poured himself two fingers of bourbon and then went on. “All persons who’ve been killed in any of these unnatural encounters…” He used his fingers to indicate quotation marks, “Have simply been listed as missing.”
Crossfield asked, “The SR-Seven program as a whole is jettisoned, I presume?”
“The research continues.” The President’s words caught everyone except Benton off-guard, who unbeknownst to the others, had been apprised of the situation. He smiled and nodded at Benton. “According to a trusted source, the research is now a joint-venture between our military and the British. Furthermore, the additional research is being conducted at Diego Garcia.”
“Any knowledge of another government working on something similar?” Crossfield asked.
“Only the American mind can think so far into the future,” The President boasted. “We try to stay twenty to thirty years ahead of our adversaries.”
“If SR-Seven is successful, we will be light years ahead,” Keats intoned. “America will rule the world for as long as we wish.”
T H I R T Y
Saturday, 12:44 a.m.
Management of the Alamo Motel found it strange when two taxicabs pulled up and Cash and his group bailed out. The motel was in dire need of painting and looked to have but 12 units, most of which were vacant even as several prostitutes plied their trade within a half-block of the venue.
Grace tapped Cash on the elbow. “You and I will go inside.”
They walked into the lobby, which looked as shabby as the outside. The paint on the walls was peeling and the room reeked of houseatosis. They were greeted by a red-eyed desk clerk whose body odor was comprised of sweat and cheap liquor and whose manner of dress was as drab as his workplace.
“You folks looking for how many rooms?”
“Three. We’ll need them for…” Grace looked at Cash.
“Three days.”
The man pushed a sign-in card toward her and a pen. “That’ll be a hundred and ninety-five a night, times three,” he said, reaching for a calculator.
Grace pulled out her credit card and as she went to hand it to the man, Cash pushed her hand down.
“We’re not giving you no more than four hundred dollars, and that’s for all three days.”
“I’d be taking a near fifteen-hundred dollar loss.”
“How much you making with ‘em empty?” Cash asked. “These places are shit holes and from the looks of things, they’re a playground for hookers who rent by the hour. Anyone who would give you more than fifty bucks to spend a night in this dump would be considered insane.”
“You don’t like the price, leave.”
“No problem.” Cash made quick eye contact with Grace, whom he was certain had caught his cue. “You keep renting to hoes for ten bucks an hour, you won’t make four hundred dollars in a week.”
“We do all right,” the man lied.
Cash sensed the desperation in the man’s eyes and tremulous voice. “Sure had me fooled, because it looks like all but one of your rooms is occupied.”
“A thousand,” the man said, with a downturned lip and a white-hot gaze.
“Fuck you. Four’s my final offer, Regis. Take it or leave it.”
“Eight hundred.”
“Muthafucka, you hard of hearing or hard of head? Four hundred.”
“Okay, dammit. Four hundred.” The man spit the words out as if they were steaming hot corn kernels.
“You won’t regret it, kemo sabe. I’m paying cash.”
***
Not wanting to play the role of cockblocker, Roy opted for a room that he shared with his nephews. He and Cash agreed that he would hold onto the money. Grace, Tanisha and Sherry had their own room as did Cash and Valerie.
“Sure you don’t want a gun, sis?” Roy asked.
“I got you and Cash watching my back,” Grace said, irritated at the fact that Roy would ask her such a question. “I’m cool with a hatchet.”
“I’ma put the boys down and then say we meet in your room in ten minutes,” Roy said. “We need to discuss tomorrow’s agenda.”
True to his word, Roy arrived back at his sister’s room on time and minutes later Cash and Valerie stepped in. They left the door cracked so they could keep an eye on Roy’s room, where the boys were asleep.
Grace got things started with a depressing analysis. “We were lucky to get out of Pittsburg. Getting into another city with Pittsburg splattered all over our ID is to dream the impossible dream.”
“That’s only if someone asks,” Roy countered. “We’ll get a spot in the ‘burbs that’s close to a freeway.”
Tanisha let out a hippopotamus-like yawn and then offered her opinion. “I don’t care where we go. I’m just glad to be out of The Low.”
“We might as well head south and lay down in Perris,” Grace said.
Valerie bit her lower lip. “If you don’t mind my asking, why Perris?”
“My boss, Mister McCoy, does business with another attorney in that city,” Grace explained. “I could get a job with his firm. I’m sure Cash and Roy can find something, even if it means working at Mickey D’s.”
“The only Paris I ever heard about was in France,” Tanisha said.
“I can assure you this place is nowhere near France,” Grace said with a chuckle. “Nor as romantic. According to McCoy, the town’s half the size of Pittsburg and has a similar percentage of blacks.”
“Thing is, how are we going to get there?” Valerie asked.
Cash provided the answer. “We’ll need to get an RV.”
“Why an RV and not an SUV?” Roy asked.
“If this zombie thing spreads, Californians might have to head for the hills. We could be on the road for days on end and have to sleep in our vehicle. We’ll need space and comfort.”
“We can work on that tomorrow,” Grace said, sounding exhausted. “I just wish we had some facts to work with, such as how this all started.”
Cash asked her, “What do you think happened?”
“I wonder if this is some sort of Satanic thing, that maybe the devil is in the last minutes of his reign and has pulled out all the stops.” She kept a straight face, as did all those who were listening. “I think with California being shut off from the rest of the country, this is going to lead to people having to have ID to travel, do business and buy necessities.”
Valerie’s eyebrows arched. “Are you referring to the mark of the beast?”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean to sound so dramatic.”
“Who knows?” Tanisha said. “Whose to say our government isn’t influenced by Satan?”
“I think we’re getting carried away,” Cash said.
“No shit,” Roy said taking a peek out the door.
“I didn’t plan to paint a doomsday scenario,” Grace began. “But admittedly, I tend to assume the worst, so that when some crazy shit jumps off, I’m not running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”
Roy stood and headed for the door. “I don’t know about you all, but I heard enough for one night. I’m beat.”
“That’s a good idea,” Grace said. “I’m going to shower and then zonk out my damn self.”
Valerie came over to Cash and took his hand, and with that, everyone went to their rooms.
***
1:16 a.m.
Two men sitting in an old school Galaxy 500 looked on and the man on the passenger side bobbed his head with certainty. His name was Abbas, and he was a petty thief and burglar. His vision focused on Roy as he strolled along the sidewalk to his room.
“Hank, I know that cat.”
“So what?” Hank was a muscular man with a bald head and a scar that ran along the lower part of his cheek from his ear nearly to his chin.
“That’s Roy Owens. I was out at the honor farm with him.”
“He from the set?”
“Naw, he’s from Pittsburg. I suspect his friends are, too.”
“Fuck him and his friends. We’re supposed to be waiting on your girl to finish with her trick and then getting the hell outta here.”
“You ain’t feeling me, bro. Pittsburg is shut down. How do you think they got outta there?” Before Hank could answer, Abbas offered his guess. “They bought their way out.”
“So?”
“So? That cat ain’t rich and I doubt if he knows anybody who is.” Abbas reached into his shirt pocket, shook a cigarette from a flattened pack of Kool, then fired it up. “Roy’s a shady one. In order for him to have that kinda cash he had to hit a lick.”
“Again, what does it matter?” Hank said sounding frustrated.
“I think he was in on that Pittsburg bank robbery yesterday. He then used some of the money to grease some palms, probably National Guard.”
“So what does that have to do with us? We got our own thing going.”
“You just finished saying you wish we had enough money to cross the border into Mexico, so why not rob them?”
“There are three rooms of people. Assuming they got some money, how do we know which one the money’s in?”
“Oh, they got some money all right. And we use the power of elimination. We get the room with the bitches in it and threaten to kill ‘em if they don’t kick down.”
Hank tapped his thigh, something he often did when in deep thought. “You know, I would like to get to Mexico. In Tijuana we could live large.”
“Hell, nothing beats a wish but a try.”
“What about your girl?”
“Fuck that forty-dollar-a-night bitch,” Abbas said, taking his gun from the glove compartment.
***
Washington, D.C.
1:18 a.m. (4:18 EST)
The stretch limousine pulled out of the confines of the White House with Benton and Crossfield comfortable in the plush, leather seats. Their eyes were red from the alcohol, not the least bit from weariness. Despite the late hour both men felt relieved and rejuvenated. The car rolled slowly through the dark streets. D.C. was quiet except for the occasional car passing in the opposite direction.
“Our President certainly knows how to cover his ass,” Benton said dryly.
“He spun a good bullshit story to both the Russians and the Canucks.”
“He’s a bleeding heart liberal, who is placing our country in great jeopardy.” Benton turned to look at a puzzled Crossfield. “That is why SR-Seven was a secret in the first place. Ever heard of Geo-Pol?”
“An alleged right-wing think tank hell-bent on establishing U.S. world domination by waging war on several fronts.”
“In 2005, Geo-Pol brought the idea for SR-Seven to then-President Winston. That liberal jack-off denounced the plan as insane and unethical. Nonetheless, those in the know went on with the plan, feeling the gains outweighed the objections of the administration.”
“That much I understand, though I don’t know what Geo-Pol has to do with this.”
“They were the ones who hired the scientists and secured the funding.”
“How’d they raise the money?”
“From private citizens and shall we say, ‘trustworthy governments. Nevertheless, now we find ourselves covering up the truth. Our President doesn’t really support the plan. He is merely ashamed to admit he was kept in the dark, and he knows there is nothing he can do to stop it.”
“So what other governments are involved?”
“Israel, Spain. Of course, we told them it was for funding missile shield research.”
“Odd bedfellows,” Crossfield mumbled. “What did we tell the Brits?”
“Why tell them anything?”
“Wait, you mentioned something about SR-Seven being a joint venture between us and the Brits in Diego Garcia?”
“It was all bullshit.”
Crossfield raised an eyebrow. “You lied to the President?”
“No big deal.”
“No big deal? Some nosy journalist or Congressman looking to make a name for him or herself might be what sinks this ship. The President could be impeached and forced to resign!”
“Not a worry.” Benton looked at him with such intensity, that Crossfield believed the CIA head might at any moment, strike him. “I will not let this program fail. I will give my life to insure its success and the President will come out smelling like a rose.”
“What if our allies are discovered?”
“No one knows about my ace in the hole.”
Crossfield’s arched an eyebrow. “So all along it was you and not Pederson who was running the show?”
“Exactly, and what he didn’t know was that I have an arrangement with the Chinese.”
“Did you plan
to kill him all along?”
“Yes.” Benton’s tone was casual, as if he’d done no more than rattle off the starting lineup of his favorite baseball team. “The U.S., as always, must remain top dog.”
He patted Crossfield’s hand, and the smirk Benton wore infuriated the older man. Crossfield couldn’t have been more offended if Benton had smashed a pie in his face.
Benton let out an easy laugh. “There’s nothing to worry about. We will be the lone Superpower, as well we should be.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“We and the Chinese both want to be the last man standing, but to try and destroy one another is too great a risk. Second, we have SR-7, but if they get the information, as with any other weapon, they’ll be playing catch-up.”
“So we agree to look hostile toward one another while holding hands all the while.”
“Exactly. I call it mutually assured survival.”
“This could blow up in your face, especially if the Chinese manage to perfect SR-Seven faster than we anticipate.”
“They won’t. Second, working with the Chinese will assure the world that there will be no rise of a third super power, for any sort of truce with the one or the other tilts the balance of power. This is where we blew it with the Russians, because when they collapsed, China was ready to fill their funny looking, curly-toed shoes.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“All I have to do is give them the information contained on a computer file at my house, and I am not only a kingmaker in the biggest theater of all, but I am also fifty million dollars richer.”
Crossfield balled his fist. “You mean, you would put the security of the United States in jeopardy for fifty-million dollars?”
“Lower your voice, Bertrand, and don’t turn into a drama queen on me.” Benton’s lips were coated with a sheath of saliva. “All men are for sale, some at a higher rate than others. My price was fifty million dollars and if push comes to shove, a Villa in the Province of Jiangsu.”
Crossfield grabbed Benton by his lapel and jerked him forward. “It wasn’t Greenbaum and Pederson who should have died! It should have been you!”
Zombie Factor Page 22
