“I thought you were from California,” said Quantrill.
“I was there when the plague struck.”
“Put it away.”
Halverson replaced his wallet in his trouser pocket.
“Maybe we should take his fingerprints,” said Kwang-Sun.
“What good would that do if he’s an illegal?” said Quantrill. “There wouldn’t be any record of his prints.”
“You just saw my driver’s license,” said Halverson. “What more do you need?”
“A driver’s license can be faked.”
It was McLellan who said to Halverson, “The FBI may have sent you here to spy on us.”
“Not a chance,” said Halverson. “In case you haven’t heard, the government isn’t very fond of journalists.”
“I’m not very fond of the government,” said Quantrill.
“I’m not either,” said Chogan. “They just blew up New York and California. What kind of government would bomb its own people?”
Quantrill glowered at him. “Nobody asked you.”
Chogan wasn’t finished. “What’s to prevent them from bombing us next?”
Nobody said anything. The silence spoke volumes.
“I’m not through with you,” Quantrill told Halverson at length. “We’ll finish this discussion later.”
CHAPTER 47
Emma slipped off to the restroom as Quantrill and her men left the restaurant. Emma found a stall and locked herself in. She sat on the toilet.
She wasn’t feeling very well. Her bitten foot was acting up again. Why wasn’t the vaccine kicking in yet? she wondered. What was taking it so long to start working? She didn’t know what to do. She was afraid to tell the others about her bite. They might think she was turning and would try to kill her.
She couldn’t allow them to kill her. If she died, what would happen to Millie? Nobody would care for Millie. Millie would be left to her own devices and die. A baby could not fend for herself. A baby needed her mother to look after her.
Emma debated whether she should leave the others behind and take off on her own. The question was, did the others suspect she had been bitten by one of the walking dead? Emma didn’t think they did—not yet, anyway. If, in fact, they didn’t suspect, then she didn’t have to leave.
The other question was, if she was infected, would the others become aware of her ailment as the disease metastasized through her system? Would they recognize her symptoms? She figured the answer to that question was yes.
But, then again, maybe she wasn’t infected. Maybe the vaccine would eventually work and prevent her from becoming infected. Maybe this. Maybe that. The point was she didn’t know. All she knew for sure was that her wounded foot was killing her.
If she ran away on her own, what would happen to Millie if something should happen to her? Emma knew the answer to that—Millie would die without anyone to look after her.
On the other hand, if Emma stayed here in Vegas and came down with the plague, Millie would fare no better than if Emma took off on her own. The others would let Millie die. It was obvious to Emma that nobody showed the slightest concern for Millie. They totally ignored Millie. They would let her die.
It was a hard fact of life that if a mother didn’t look after her own child, the child would find her life a herculean struggle to survive—especially during a pandemic.
Emma didn’t know what to do. If she stayed here in Vegas, at least she wouldn’t have to deal with more zombies. But if she turned here on account of her wound, the others would no doubt destroy her, and, on her own hook, Millie would perish.
To top it all off, Emma’s foot was killing her. It was hurting so bad, she didn’t even want to look at it for fear of what she should see. With disgust she fancied she might see worms crawling out of the gangrenous wound. She shivered in dread just thinking about it.
If she struck off on her own, where in the world would she go? The fact was she had nowhere to go. She couldn’t go back to LA. According to Cole, it had been bombed to smithereens. Like everything else there, her home was reduced to a heap of rubble and cinders, if the president could be believed. And why would he lie about something like that? No president in his right mind would lie about deliberately bombing his own country.
She and the other survivors were caught between a rock and a hard place—between the zombies on one hand and a bomb-happy president on the other.
She was developing a murderous headache, thinking about what to do. All this thinking was getting her nowhere. She still didn’t know what to do.
She clutched her throbbing forehead as she sat on the toilet seat.
Something her mom used to say popped into her head, unbidden. When in doubt, do nothing. That was one of her mom’s favorite sayings. If only her mom was alive today. Tragically, the plague had claimed her as one of its first victims. Whoever said life was fair?
Emma would just have to get used to the fact that she was quite alone—except for Millie. It was Millie and her against the world.
Emma was digging herself into a rut with these depressing thoughts.
She needed to keep believing that the vaccine would sooner or later kick in.
She needed to keep believing that somehow some way she would get out of this mess.
“We’ll be OK,” she told Millie. “We’ll be OK. The president knows what he’s doing and he’ll save us. You’ll see.”
CHAPTER 48
Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center
“Which state should we liberate next?” asked Cole, seated at the conference table in the Situation Room with General Byrd, Dr. Laslo, Sheila Klauss, FBI Director Paris, DNI Molson, Ernest Slocum, and Scot Mellors.
“Florida is heavily populated and overrun by the plague,” answered Paris.
“What about Pennsylvania?” said Byrd. “The plague is running rampant there, and it’s close to New York. Why not focus on the Northeast, where most of the nation’s population is located?”
Cole nodded. “The disease is spreading the fastest in the Northeast.”
“I can’t believe we’re seriously discussing this,” said Dr. Laslo. “How much of the country do we have to blow up before we stop the bombing?”
“Till we’ve stopped the plague from spreading and liberated the country.”
“The problem is, if we keep using thermite bombs, we may run out of bombs,” said Byrd.
“What do you suggest?” asked Cole.
“I suggest we go nuclear. We have enough nuclear warheads to blow up our entire country and then some.”
“This is insanity!” said Dr. Laslo, leaning back from the table and flinging his hands up.
“I believe we’ve had this discussion before,” said Slocum.
“It’s still madness.”
“All options are on the table,” said Cole.
“The option of self-annihilation is an option?” said Dr. Laslo, his voice acerbic.
“We must liberate the country from the tyranny of the plague,” said Byrd.
“From time to time the tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of tyrants,” said Cole. “I’m quoting Jefferson.”
“We’re not talking about the blood of tyrants here,” said Dr. Laslo. “We’re talking about the blood of innocent civilians.”
“If they’re infected, they’re not innocent anymore,” said Byrd. “They’re cold-blooded cannibals that have to be stopped at any cost.”
“Including self-annihilation?” said Dr. Laslo, eyes bugging out of his head.
“The bunker here in Mount Weather was built to resist nuclear blasts. We’ll be safe here.”
“That’s a relief to hear. The rest of the country will be reduced to a nuclear wasteland, but we’ll be safe.”
Bristling, Byrd turned on Dr. Laslo. “I don’t like your tone, Doctor.”
“Let’s settle down,” said Cole. “We have tough decisions to make. The future of our great nation lies in the balance.”
“Mr. Presid
ent?” said Slocum.
“Yes, Ernest.”
“I don’t believe it’s time to go nuclear yet.”
“It’s never the time to go nuclear,” said Dr. Laslo. “Instead of coming down with the plague, the population will end up with radiation poisoning or worse.”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” said Cole.
Dr. Laslo bolted to his feet. For a man pushing seventy he moved quickly. He whipped a pistol out of his waistband and held the muzzle to his temple.
“What the hell are you doing, Doctor?” demanded Byrd.
“If we start dropping A-bombs, I’m blowing my brains out,” said Dr. Laslo.
“Put that gun away, Doctor. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Sit down, Doctor,” said Cole. “I haven’t made my decision yet.”
Mellors wondered whether Laslo would really shoot himself. Laslo did indeed look overwrought. The stress was getting to everybody. Everybody in the room was at the breaking point. Mellors could see Laslo’s arm trembling as it held the gun pointed to Laslo’s head. Not a good sign, decided Mellors. Laslo might pull the trigger by accident in a nervous reaction.
Mellors thought about lunging at Laslo and disarming him, but Laslo’s shaky hand might pull the trigger in the ensuing scuffle and discharge the weapon. His face working, Laslo showed no signs of lowering his gun.
“I can’t let this go on,” said Dr. Laslo, his face breaking into a sweat as he held the gun to his head.
“Pull yourself together, Doctor, and sit down,” said Cole.
“Yeah,” said Byrd. “We don’t have time for histrionics. We gotta get down to brass tacks. Your stunt isn’t working.”
“This isn’t a stunt,” said Dr. Laslo.
“Then pull the trigger. You’re a drag on our conference.”
“No, don’t pull the trigger,” said Cole evenly. He shot a cursory glare of admonishment at General Byrd. “Put the gun away, Doctor, and sit down. Let’s discuss this like adults.”
“No adult in his right mind would even consider nuking America,” said Dr. Laslo, gnashing his teeth.
“I haven’t decided to nuke anything. All I said is, all options are on the table.”
“Nuking America is not an option, the way I see it.”
“OK, Doctor. Your opinion is welcome here, as is everyone else’s.” Cole swept his eyes around the table. “However, I will not allow myself to be strong-armed by your threatening tactics into caving into your advice.” Cole faced his other advisors. “And that goes for all of you.”
“Stop making a fool out of yourself, Doctor, and put the gun away,” said Byrd.
“For the record, I agree with your view about the use of nuclear weapons, Doctor, but your methods are out of order,” said DHS director Sheila Klauss. “We all need to take deep breaths and then tackle this problem together.”
“You make it sound like I’m staging a show for you,” said Dr. Laslo. “I’m dead serious.”
“I know you’re serious,” said Cole, “but put the gun away so we can get some business accomplished. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the future of civilization is at stake. My decisions here will affect humanity for centuries to come.”
Mellors picked up on Dr. Laslo’s hand wobbling with the pistol in it. Mellors hoped the trembling meant Dr. Laslo was giving in. In any case, Mellors seized his opportunity. He sprang out of his chair and wrestled the gun out of Dr. Laslo’s hand before Dr. Laslo could get a shot off.
Cole breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed his tensed body.
Dr. Laslo slumped in his seat and held his head in his hands, looking beaten.
Mellors returned to his chair with Dr. Laslo’s gun.
“Quick thinking,” Slocum told Mellors.
“My black ops training kicked in,” said Mellors, inspecting the Glock 19 as he fingered it in his hand.
“Just in time, I’d say.”
Mellors laid the gun on the tabletop.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, where were we?” said Cole.
Nobody said anything. Nobody even wanted to think about the unthinkable. Nothing had changed. The plague and the flesh eaters were still besieging the country.
CHAPTER 49
Las Vegas
Halverson found himself strapped with plastic zip ties to a large vertical Wheel of Fortune in a cathedral-sized Mirage gaming room that was chock-full of hundreds of slot machines. He was spinning around as Kwang-Sun stood next to the wheel. Halverson half expected TV emcees Pat Sayjak and Vanna White to prance out from behind a curtain any moment.
“Who are you?” Quantrill was asking.
She was standing beside a blackjack table with McLellan at her side.
“Chad Halverson,” answered Halverson, disoriented, his head dizzy as he spun around.
He could feel blood sloshing around in his head as he rotated. When the wheel slowed down, Kwang-Sun gave it another shove.
As a CIA agent, Halverson was familiar with this type of interrogation technique. The whole point was to disorient the prisoner in order to elicit the truth from him. The way the Agency employed the technique, it usually entailed sleep deprivation, the blaring of rock-and-roll in the victim’s interrogation cell, and, in extreme cases, waterboarding.
Halverson felt like he was spinning around in space. This must have been Quantrill’s version of waterboarding. His stomach churning, Halverson thought he might retch. He wondered what had brought this on. Why was Quantrill pumping him with the third degree? For some reason, she wasn’t satisfied with his answers. Why did she suspect him?
“Who do you work for?” demanded Quantrill, strutting back and forth in front of the revolving wheel.
“I’m a journalist,” answered Halverson, the blood rushing to his head as he spun upside down.
“Who do you work for?”
“My editors.”
“Do you work for the government?”
“No.” Why did she keep harping on that notion? wondered Halverson.
“Which government organization do you work for?”
“None.”
“Why are you lying to me?”
“I’m not.”
Quantrill nodded to Kwang-Sun, who gave the wheel a particularly violent spin, using both of his hands and throwing his entire weight into it.
The Agency had trained Halverson to withstand extreme interrogation techniques lest he be captured on a mission inside enemy territory. The Agency had never spun him around on his head, though, he had to admit. Nauseated and dizzy, he was having trouble focusing his thoughts.
“Do you work for Homeland Security?” demanded Quantrill.
“No,” answered Halverson.
“The FBI?”
“No.”
“The CIA?”
“No.”
“Do you believe that the people have the right to bear arms and defend themselves against the government?”
“Yes.”
“Do you work for the government?”
“No.”
“Stop the wheel,” Quantrill told Kwang-Sun. “Cut him down and bring him over here.”
Once free of his bonds, unable to maintain his equilibrium, Halverson staggered on his feet, unable to stand up straight. Kwang-Sun grabbed him and propped him up.
Kwang-Sun followed Quantrill’s orders and frog-marched Halverson to Quantrill, who was standing, arms akimbo, next to the blackjack table.
“Strap him down in a chair,” said Quantrill.
Kwang-Sun plonked Halverson down unceremoniously into a chair at the blackjack table and fastened Halverson’s wrists to its steel arms with the same black plastic zip ties he had used to strap Halverson to the wheel.
Still muddleheaded, Halverson could not sit up straight. His head kept lolling down on his chest.
Kwang-Sun snickered. “He’s had too many.”
“Grab his hair,” said Quantrill.
Kwang-Sun clutched a handful of Halverson’s hair and wrenc
hed Halverson’s head up straight.
Quantrill got into Halverson’s face. “Do you work for the government?”
“No, I don’t,” said Halverson, slurring his words.
Frowning, Quantrill caught Kwang-Sun’s eye and nodded toward the blackjack tabletop.
Kwang-Sun understood.
He slammed Halverson’s forehead into the tabletop.
In agony, Halverson felt his forehead and nose crash into the tabletop’s wood. Warm blood spurted out of his nose and smeared his face.
“Do you work for the government?” demanded Quantrill.
“No,” said Halverson.
Quantrill nodded at Kwang-Sun.
Kwang-Sun slammed Halverson’s head into the table again.
Pain shot through Halverson’s face. He wondered if his nose was broken.
Kwang-Sun jerked Halverson’s head up straight. Blood dripped from Halverson’s nose down the front of his polo shirt.
“Why did you have a satellite phone?” said Quantrill, jutting her face into Halverson’s.
How did she know that? wondered Halverson as pain screamed through his head.
“I needed it for my job,” he said.
“Only special forces’ personnel and undercover agents use satphones.”
“And reporters.”
“Bullshit. I want a signed confession from you that you’re a government agent.”
Halverson said nothing.
“Do you agree to sign?” said Quantrill.
“No.”
“Break a finger on his left hand,” Quantrill told Kwang-Sun.
“Why not his right?” said Kwang-Sun.
“I want him to be able to sign his confession.” Quantrill turned to Halverson. “You are right-handed, aren’t you?”
Halverson nodded.
Kwang-Sun stabbed his hand toward Halverson’s left pink. Halverson struggled to free his hand from his bonds to no avail. Kwang-Sun grabbed Halverson’s pinky and bent it back till it snapped at the bottom knuckle.
Halverson groaned as burning pain shot through his broken knuckle. Writhing in his chair, he cursed.
Quantrill snicked open her purse and fished out a folded sheet of white foolscap with text printed on it. She placed the paper on the table in front of Halverson and dredged a pen from her purse.
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