Zombie Apocalypse: The Chad Halverson Series

by Bryan Cassiday

“If we give them our guns, these guys can do whatever they want to us,” said Swiggum, reluctant to part with his weapon.

  “The question is, what do they want to do to us?” said Probst.

  “Nothing good, I’d say. Not with these bullyboy tactics they’re using against us.”

  “I wish I knew who the fuck they are,” said Simone, corrugating her smooth brow.

  “Maybe they’re feebs,” said Nordstrom, fiddling with his digital camera. “Did somebody here cheat on their taxes?”

  If they were the government, Halverson could be in for trouble. They could be a hit squad sent by the CIA to blow him away.

  “I’ll count to five,” said the leader. “If all of you don’t throw down your weapons by the time I reach five, we’ll open fire.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Who are these guys?” said Probst.

  Halverson heard the guy counting to five. Grudgingly, he tossed down his MP7 and removed his bandoleers from his shoulders. He reached behind his back for his FN 5.7.

  “No sudden movements!” barked the leader and leveled his M4 at Halverson.

  Halverson froze.

  Deliberately, he retrieved his FN 5.7, displayed it in front of him, and flicked it to the dirt.

  “We have no chance against them,” he told Swiggum.

  Everybody in Halverson’s group followed his lead—except Swiggum.

  “They’re gonna fuck us over,” he said through his teeth. “I know it.”

  “Better than getting shot,” said Halverson. “We may be able to escape later, if they take us captive.”

  “I’m not gonna be their prisoner.”

  “Ready,” the leader commanded his men. “Aim.”

  The soldiers raised their M4 carbines to their shoulders and drew a bead on Swiggum. At least Halverson thought they were training their carbines on Swiggum. It was difficult to tell. Their headgears had tinted face masks so Halverson could not distinguish the directions of their gazes. The carbine muzzles seemed to be aimed at Swiggum, but Halverson would not stake his life on it. Maybe the soldiers were going to take out Halverson and the rest of his companions as well.

  Halverson felt his heart jackhammering against his rib cage. He thought about lunging at Swiggum, dislodging Swiggum’s automatic, and tossing it to the ground. He tensed the muscles in his legs, fixing to pounce on Swiggum. He had to act quickly. They were running out of time.

  Swiggum flung his automatic to the dirt before the leader could say five.

  Halverson heaved a sigh of relief, as did the others in his band.

  “Lower your weapons, men,” the leader ordered his followers.

  He signaled them with his hand. Guns at the ready, they approached Halverson and company.

  “Now we’re gonna eat it,” Swiggum said under his breath.

  The soldiers produced black plastic zip ties from their uniform’s trouser pockets and pinioned Halverson’s and his companions’ wrists behind their backs. With his single arm, Swiggum presented a problem for the soldiers. One of them fastened several of the zip ties together into a chain and bound Swiggum’s arm to his waist.

  “I thought we were gonna have to shoot the bunch of you,” said the leader.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” said Swiggum.

  “We don’t want to shoot you. We just don’t want you running off. You’re contaminated with radioactive poisoning. We need to quarantine you.”

  “We’re not infected. We hid in a blast shelter when the nukes dropped.”

  “The problem is, you’re breathing this air. It still has radioactive dust in it.”

  “The air’s OK now.”

  “We’ll be the judges of that.”

  A soldier seized Swiggum’s arm and manhandled him toward the bus.

  “We’re still breathing, aren’t we?” said Swiggum, frowning, not appreciating the rough treatment.

  Soldiers snatched Halverson, Victoria, Probst, Nordstrom, and Simone and ushered them after Swiggum.

  “I wish we could see their faces through those sun visors,” Probst told Halverson. “I’d like to know who we’re dealing with.”

  “Maybe they don’t want us to know what they look like,” said Simone, trying to fight off the soldier that was frog-marching her to the bus.

  “Why not?” said Victoria.

  “That’s what’s bothering me,” said Probst.

  He tripped on a mound in the dirt as the soldier latching onto him shoved him forward. Probst pitched forward onto the ground. He spat out the dirt as his face smacked the ground.

  “On your feet!” ordered the soldier.

  Spitting more dirt out of his mouth, Probst struggled to his feet with difficulty on account of his fettered wrists. Unable to use his arms to lever himself up, he was forced to stand up using only his protesting, aching knees and his thigh muscles. Groaning, he cursed with the effort of straightening up.

  “Shut up,” said the soldier.

  He snagged Probst’s arm and shepherded him toward the bus.

  Probst yearned to knee the guy in the groin, but the hazmat uniform would probably deflect the blow, he decided and reined in his urge. Probst had to satisfy himself with consigning the guy to hell in his mind’s eye.

  Halverson, Victoria, Probst, Swiggum, Nordstrom, and Simone piled into the bus, escorted by their guards.

  Even inside the bus, the soldiers did not remove their uniforms or their headgears.

  “They’ve got an obsession about keeping on their uniforms,” Probst told Halverson as they sat down in the same seat on the bus. “Those things can’t be comfortable.”

  “At least they have A/C in here,” said Simone, settling down with Victoria in the seat behind Halverson.

  “We’re still prisoners,” said Swiggum, sharing a seat with Nordstrom.

  “And you’re dying from radiation poisoning,” said the leader, standing at the front of the bus, facing the passengers. “Not much to cheer about, is there?”

  “We’re not dying from anything. I feel fine.”

  The driver fired the ignition. The bus rumbled forward.

  “It’s only a matter of time with you guys,” said the leader and took a seat.

  CHAPTER 23

  Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center

  Sitting at his desk in his office, Mellors heard a commotion in the hallway beyond his closed door. He heard a gaggle of feet pounding down the corridor amidst fitful shouts.

  He tore himself away from Coogan’s laptop that he had been poring over at his desk and darted to his door. Opening his door he burst into the corridor to witness a couple dozen agitated figures swarming around DNI Hilda Molson’s office.

  Mellors knew something was up. He stormed over to the hub of activity.

  “What happened?” he said, clawing his way through the crowd of rubberneckers that extended out of Molson’s office into the hallway.

  Jostling through the mob into the office interior, Mellors picked up on a blonde slumped over Molson’s desktop.

  FBI Director Harold Paris was standing at her side, staring down at her in dismay.

  “What happened?” asked Mellors, stumbling through the throng to Molson’s desk.

  Overcome with grief, Paris did not reply.

  It was Mellors’s CIA boss DCI Slocum who answered, “It looks like the DNI killed herself.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Paris managed to say at last through a stress-constricted throat.

  “How?” asked Mellors.

  “With a gunshot to the head,” answered Slocum. “Didn’t you hear it?”

  Mellors had been so absorbed in his researching of the documents stored in Coogan’s laptop that he must not have heard the shot.

  “We all heard it,” mumbled Paris.

  Mellors heard Molson’s pet bulldog whine as it sat on its bowlegged haunches in a corner of the room, drooling, its pink tongue lolling out of its mouth like a slab of ham.

  “Why would she do such a thing?” asked Mello
rs.

  “She must have been depressed,” answered Slocum.

  “Who can blame her?” said Homeland Security Director Sheila Klauss, who was standing near Molson’s desk. “It’s a wonder we’re all not suicidal the way things are going in this country.”

  “She didn’t sound depressed to me,” said Paris. “I don’t get it.”

  “What the hell happened?” said General Byrd, wending his way from the hallway through the crowd into the room, his outsized head bobbing like a horse’s above the persons surrounding him.

  “Director Molson killed herself, apparently,” said Mellors.

  “Oh no! No matter how bad it gets, there’s no reason to commit suicide,” said Byrd, commencing to windmill his arms like he was swimming through the spectators that packed the office on his way to Molson’s desk.

  Studying Molson’s slumped figure and the blood-splattered desktop in front of him, Mellors could not get his head around it. He had just questioned her about Orchid and the apocalypse equation no longer than a few hours ago and she had exhibited no signs of depression then.

  How could she have become suicidal so quickly? he wondered.

  “What’s the hubbub?” said President Cole from the crowded corridor.

  When the mob heard his voice, they parted to let him pass into Molson’s office. Untouched, he strode up to Byrd.

  “Director Molson killed herself, Mr. President,” said Byrd.

  Cole’s face froze in astonishment.

  “That’s inconceivable,” he said at length. “She’s one of my best directors.”

  “See for yourself, sir.”

  Penetrating deeper into the office, Cole could now see Molson’s motionless body slouched over her desk.

  “I’m surprised there aren’t more of us like her,” said Klauss.

  Cole stood transfixed, eyeing the corpse with awe.

  Mellors was equally as stunned.

  Could her suicide have anything to do with the questions he had asked her about Orchid? Mellors wondered. That made no sense. She had not seemed upset in any way by them. Yet his interrogation of her had happened so recently. The proximity in time between his questioning her and her death could indicate a connection. He shrugged, unconvinced. It was all hypothetical.

  He was gazing at her corpse when he realized something did not look right. The pistol, a Glock, was in her right hand.

  “I can’t believe she would do this,” said Paris and raised his hand to the crown of his head with a combination of bemusement and moroseness.

  “Maybe she didn’t,” said Mellors.

  Slocum wheeled toward Mellors. “What are you talking about, Scot?”

  “It’s as clear as day what happened to her,” said Byrd. “She put the gun to her head. The poor woman.” He bowed his head in grief.

  Mellors was convinced Molson was left-handed. He had distinctly recalled her signing a document with her left hand when he had visited her earlier in her office.

  “Why would she shoot herself with her right hand when she’s left-handed?” he said.

  Cole eyed the gun gripped in Molson’s right hand. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Somebody may have killed her and staged it to make it look like suicide.”

  “That’s crazy,” said Klauss. “Why would somebody do such a thing? You’ve been watching too many movies.”

  “Are we certain she was left-handed?” asked Cole.

  “I am,” answered Mellors. “I saw her sign a document with her left hand.”

  He rummaged through the papers scattered on Molson’s desktop. He snagged one and examined the signature on it.

  “Don’t touch anything,” said Paris, springing to life. “This is a crime scene, even if it was a suicide. We need to secure the area to prepare for our investigation.”

  Mellors stopped pawing through the papers, but he continued to hold one sheet in his hand, inspecting it.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Cole.

  “Look how her signature is slanted to the left,” said Mellors, displaying the signed document to Cole. “Only a lefty slants their signature to the left.”

  Cole scanned Molson’s signature.

  “A lot of unsupported speculation,” cut in Slocum.

  “No kidding,” said Byrd. “How do we know she wasn’t ambidextrous? Then she could have used either hand to pull the trigger.”

  “Even if she was left-handed, she still could have used her right hand to pull the trigger,” said Slocum. “She must’ve been very cut up to shoot herself. Who’s to say what you’ll do when you’re that emotionally racked?”

  “It doesn’t track,” said Mellors. “A lefty’s gonna reach for a gun with their left hand. It’s a reflex action. It’s not something you think about.”

  Mellors could not help but think that Molson’s death might have had something to do with his questioning her about Orchid. Could somebody have murdered her because she had told Mellors too much and then covered the murder up by making it look like a suicide? All Mellors knew for certain was that Molson’s so-called suicide made no sense.

  “You guys are making a mountain out of a molehill,” said Klauss. “Did you ever hear of Occam’s razor?”

  “The simplest theory is usually the correct one,” said Slocum.

  “We’re all college educated,” said Cole. “We’re familiar with the term. What’s your point, Sheila?”

  “Exactly. Hilda was depressed because of both the plague and the nukes that annihilated our country. She couldn’t stand it anymore. She cracked and killed herself. That’s why there’s a bullet in her temple and a gun in her hand. It is what it looks like.”

  “I’m with you,” said Byrd. “None of this conspiracy theory bullshit. We can dream up any scenario we want, if we put our minds to it.”

  “Except she wasn’t depressed,” said Mellors. “And why would she shoot herself with her right hand when she was left-handed?”

  “Gobbledygook,” said Byrd. “You got no proof. Diddly-squat.”

  “Ask yourself this, Scot,” said Slocum. “Why would somebody want to murder Molson? There’s no motivation.”

  Unless they wanted to prevent her from talking about the Orchid Organization, thought Mellors. Had he opened a can of worms with his questions that somebody in Area B didn’t want answered? If that was the case, he had better be careful about choosing the next person he questioned. His life might depend on it.

  Eyes closed, Mellors brought his hand down his face. Then again, maybe his imagination was working overtime, he decided. Maybe Klauss was right. If it looked like a suicide, it was a suicide. Molson could have been ambidextrous and used either hand to shoot herself.

  Except—

  Except Mellors did not buy it. There was something fishy here. And it wasn’t just this “suicide.” It was the Orchid Organization, to boot. But how everything dovetailed together, he had no idea. Could it indeed have been some kind of conspiracy?

  Or was he turning into one of those paranoid wackos in the black-helicopter crowd with his flights of fancy? After all, he had no smoking gun. Nothing that incriminated anybody. Not yet, anyway.

  He kept his thoughts to himself. He did not know whom he could trust at this point. He would have to tread warily if he was going to continue to investigate the Orchid Organization.

  “Everybody out,” said Paris, taking charge as FBI director. “We have to secure this office as a crime scene.”

  “It’s a crying shame,” said Byrd, heading toward the crowd at the door, who were beginning to retreat and disperse down the hallway, grumbling as they went. “Suicide is never the answer.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Mellors repaired to his office, sat behind his desk, and returned to combing through the trove of documents stored in Coogan’s laptop.

  A title in the document section on the screen caught his eye. “Death Pact.”

  He clicked open the document. Mellors was not surprised to find that it was encrypted. N
evertheless, the instructions at its beginning were not. In fact, Coogan had wanted people to be able to read them. Of that Mellors was sure. Coogan’s death pact was a means of life insurance. Except it hadn’t worked, in his case.

  Coogan had created a death pact with certain organizations he had chosen. If anything dire, like a violent mishap or death, should befall Coogan, this “Death Pact” document would be automatically e-mailed to a select group of recipients, including the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the Guardian.

  If Coogan did not access the death pact every twenty-four hours via his laptop, according to the instructions at the beginning of the pact, he had programmed his computer to e-mail the document, along with the code to decrypt it, to the aforesaid newspapers.

  Mellors had killed Coogan well over twenty-four hours ago and figured the document had been sent but nobody had accessed it, since all of the newspaper organizations, and everything else for that matter, had been annihilated by the nuclear explosions Cole had rained down on the world.

  Where was the code? wondered Mellors. It had to be with the document, since both the document and the code were to be e-mailed together. No, he decided. It would be moronic to store the code in plain sight on the same document. Then anybody could decrypt the clandestine intel on the death pact. It would make more sense for Coogan to have stored the code elsewhere and to have programmed his laptop to e-mail the code simultaneously with the death pact to the same addresses.

  Mellors shrugged in futility. There were literally thousands of documents on Coogan’s laptop. Finding the code would be like finding a needle in a haystack. In the interests of security, Coogan wouldn’t have entitled the document containing the code “Secret Code for the Death Pact.” To keep the document private, Coogan would have used an innocuous title that signified nothing about the true nature of the document.

  Mellors pounded his desktop with his fist, frustrated to know that the intel about both the Orchid Organization and the apocalypse equation was sitting right in front of him if only he could decrypt it. The open laptop vibrated as Mellors’s fist crashed beside it.

  He slumped back in his chair in a heap, all out of ideas on how to open the death pact. Touching his temple with his fingers, he massaged it and tried to dope out his next move in his windowless office. It was a good thing he wasn’t claustrophobic, he decided, staring up at the cement ceiling. Even so, this molelike lifestyle could drive you bonkers. He didn’t think men were cut out for living in burrows like rodents. It was a far cry from the Yale campus in New Haven, Connecticut, or his CIA office at Langley.