End Time

by Daniel Greene

  The General nodded his head in affirmation. “Just as I thought,” he said, pointing a stubby finger at Joseph.

  “Nonsense,” Fleshy Nose yelled. He gripped paperwork as if it were Joseph’s neck.

  “You are dismissed doctor,” Green Suit commanded.

  Joseph stood trembling and collected his folder of paperwork. For the time being, he hid safe underground, but he wondered how long that would last.

  STEELE

  Washington-McCone International Airport, VA

  Another heavy steel door clanged shut behind Steele. The tall steel-girded ceilings of a giant warehouse greeted them. Boxes were stacked all the way to the ceiling resting on large metal shelving units, marked with food labels, beverages and commercial merchandise. A large section of the boxes in the middle had been cleared away, revealing a mix of air travelers, airline employees and police officers sitting in hopeless despair.

  The elder woman immediately tended to Wheeler’s wounds by checking his bandages.

  “He’s not sick, is he?” she asked with sudden seriousness, as if her natural inclinations were overshadowed by her logic. She took a step back.

  “No, ma’am,” Steele replied. “He was stabbed when we were flying in.”

  Studying him for a few moments, a sad gaze fell over her weathered face; a face that had seen too much sun in her younger years.

  “Mary’s my name. I retired from nursing about ten years ago. I was trying to go to Florida when all this madness began. I’ll do what I can,” she said with a determined voice, her hands moving with practiced efficiency.

  Steele sighed. “Thank you, Mary.”

  “He don’t look so hot, does he?” the man with the ball cap said, removing his hat and rubbing his baldpate.

  “He saved a very important man’s life,” Steele said, glaring. I hope that shaggy haired jerk was worth saving.

  “I meant no disrespect. Hope he gets better. The name’s Eddie.”

  Eddie placed a worn, callused hand in Steele’s. “I’m an aircraft mechanic,” he said, shaking his head as he spoke. “I saw a couple of the other guys huddled around one of our supervisors on the ground. Thought he’d had a heart attack or somethin’. When I got close, they came charging after me all covered in guts and moaning. I wasn’t gonna wait around to see what they were doin’. I ran as fast as I could to the nearest utility shed. Those guys pounded on the door for an hour before they moved along.”

  Steele nodded. He understood the man’s fear and unknowing.

  “I understand,” Steele said. He was eager to talk to Officer Summerdyke and take stock of their situation. “Where are the locals?”

  “Local what, son?”

  “Local police. Officer Summerdyke’s the one who contacted us.”

  “Oh, the cops. They’re over there,” Eddie said, gesturing to a side room door.

  The flight survivors quickly found places to rest and made small talk with the other people. It always amazed Steele that the presence of other people could ease the suffering of a traumatic event. He’d seen people come together in the aftermath of the Boston Marathon bombings when his team rapidly deployed to track the terrorists.

  Just being with one another helped them. They were not alone. A husband and wife sat with their heads together whispering. A gate agent hugged Crystal and they held each other with tears in their eyes. Steele was thankful he didn’t have to babysit anyone for the moment.

  As Steele walked, he thought about his people. Mauser is here safe, but what about my family? What about Gwen? She has to be safe. I will it; there are no other options. I will drive out of here tomorrow, and when I arrive she will be safe at home making no-bake cookies, like this shit had never happened. Creamy chocolate, peanut butter, oats, honey and her.

  His stomach growled loudly to remind him that it required sustenance. Apparently it had teamed up with his head to nag him into some sort of restful compliance. It was a struggle to focus on any one thing. He was far past the point where coffee could bring him back to life.

  Gwen had been working at the Red Cross Headquarters in downtown D.C. Wait, did she go in today? What day was it? He took a deep breath and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. Disorientation plagued him.

  A short, stocky police officer with a buzz cut emerged from a side room. Wearing a McCone Washington Airport Authority police uniform, he carried himself with an edge of confidence as if he erred on the side of cockiness. His thumbs were looped through his gun belt like a frontier gunslinger.

  “I’m Officer Summerdyke.” He gestured to a portly officer sitting with the other survivors, “And that’s Officer Jenkins.”

  Steele could only imagine how haggard he must look. “I’m Counterterrorism Agent Steele and over yonder is Agent Mauser and Agent Thorfinson. Agent Wheeler is the one who’s all banged up,” Steele said, pointing at the agents behind him in turn.

  “So where are we?”

  “This is warehouse C3, one of the many storerooms for the businesses in McCone. Piled high with enough supplies to last us through Armageddon.” He looked at Steele for approval.

  “I can see that. Not a bad place to be. Where’s the bar? I need a drink after the day we had,” Steele said with a laugh.

  “I hear ya’ brother. This whole thing’s been a shit show.”

  “Has there been no response? No attempt to clear the airport?”

  Summerdyke shook his thick neck. “Follow me. I will show you.”

  Steele obeyed. This is more than a shit show. This could be the final shitty act. He followed Summerdyke into the next room. Immediately, he became enthralled with the newscast that flashed images of vicious violence. It occupied the wall of a break room complete with a fridge and microwave.

  “This is a break room for the warehouse employees. It’s better than the closet we have for a lounge.” He laughed, but Steele ignored him.

  Videos of police fighting on the white steps leading up to the pristine columns of the Capitol building dragged across the screen. Flood spotlights shadowed the police as they locked in a deadly struggle with hundreds of infected. Steele was captivated with the footage. The video cut back to the news anchor.

  “Has it been like this for long?” Steele asked, unable to tear his eyes away.

  “About eight hours since we’ve been down here.”

  A handsome, gray-haired news anchor explained: “The images you’re about to see are so graphic they had to be cleared by the studio director to be broadcasted today. We felt that people would not believe the gravity of the situation unless we showed them these truly unspeakable acts of violence.” His lips formed a thin, grave line and the broadcast went to the footage in the field.

  The video footage was choppy, as though the cameraman was running. The camera jostled around as he scampered past bodies in the street. It was hard to tell with the shaky camera work. Somebody screamed in the background.

  The voice of the reporter sounded off. “Hurry,” he said in a muffled voice. “Are you getting this, Kyle?” he said louder.

  “I’m trying,” the cameraman said hurriedly.

  The camera straightened out. ‘Washington D.C. Violence, 1000s killed’ lined the bottom of the broadcast in bold font. The city was a war zone making Fallujah look like an amusement park. The cameraman wobbled the camera as he threw it up onto his shoulder, but managed to steady the film to show the countless bodies that lay unmoving in the streets. Panicked people sprinted in front of the camera. Others fell upon the fallen. They moved with an unnatural gait, like the infected persons on the aircraft.

  “That guy’s infected, and so is he,” Steele said, pointing at the screen.

  “I was thinking they didn’t look right. Like they’re drunk, maybe, or under the influence?” Summerdyke said.

  “Exactly. They move clumsily, but I’ll tell you something: they are strong. You have to aim for the head, not center mass. It was the only way we could take any of them down. We wasted a lot of ammo on center mass.”


  Summerdyke folded his arms across his chest. “Damn, that can be a tough shot.”

  Steele frowned. Without practice, headshots could be difficult; even more so under pressure, especially when traditional military and law enforcement principles were to shoot for center mass. His training had made it seem effortless, and over time he had forgotten about its difficulty for less experienced shooters.

  “Just hit ‘em in the head,” he said and continued to watch.

  A businessman in a suit and tie ran up to another man, who had the scraggily chaotic appearance of a homeless person, and shot him in the head. He was running again before the body hit the ground. No one stopped him or gave him a second glance; the chaos just continued to unfold.

  The camera panned to the left to show the iconic image of the White House: the green lawn, flowers out front and semi-circle drive leading to the front door. Steele half expected to see the President waving to the crowd before he entered his house, except the iron gate that surrounded the President’s home had been reinforced with razor wire. Secret Service agents stood with FN P90s in the low ready. The camera cut to the reporter.

  “I am Nathan Bartholomew for WUSB and for those of you just joining us, I am embedded here with a determined line of D.C. Metropolitan Police officers and Uniformed Division Secret Service. As you can see, they are dressed in full riot gear attempting to hold back an overwhelming group of D.C. citizens.”

  The cameraman panned out to the officers, who fought with a determined ferocity, sticks swinging widely, shields to the front, as they attempted to beat the citizens of the capital back.

  Steele choked up as he watched his brothers in blue - literally a thin blue line - attempting to use riot control tactics on people who he knew felt no pain, fear or regard for human life. One officer struck an infected man in the collarbone with his long wooden riot control stick, shattering it through in a single strike, but the man kept clawing at the officer, body slumped and mangled. They slammed riot sticks into the bodies, but the people pressed forward unfazed by the police.

  “As you may have seen over the course of the day, the mass of people protesting has grown a great deal. We have not been able to find anyone to comment on why this violent demonstration has sparked. The people are attacking the officers with an unheard of blind rage. Wait, something is happening,” he said, turning holding a hand to his earpiece. The camera twisted back to the police.

  Steele knew it was coming. The crowd would outlast the officers. You’re only as strong as your weakest link, he thought. As if to echo his thoughts, an officer was driven onto his back. His stick flew from his grasp. Attempting to crawl to the safety of his fellow officers, four of the infected dragged him into the mass of people.

  The officer reached back in a struggle to save himself, his face a portrait of agony. Blood sprayed across clear shields. He disappeared; piled under countless bodies.

  The gap filled with the broken bodies of the infected and the shield wall crumbled. The riot officers were overcome one by one until the remainder broke and ran.

  “Kyle we have to run,” the reporter shouted. Battered bloodied bodies reached out for the camera. The cameraman froze stiff in fear.

  “Kyle?” the reporter squeaked. Screams permeated the television, and the camera crashed onto the ground falling on its side. The cameraman’s lifeless eyes above his bearded face stared blankly into the camera lens. Filthy feet marched passed the screen.

  An officer tried to make it over the tall iron fence, but was pulled down by a bloodied fellow officer in riot gear. Half a dozen of the infected tore him limb from limb. Gunshots went from singular to full auto within seconds before the cameraman’s eyes turned pale and he disappeared from in front of the lens. The footage cut back to the news station and a pallid news anchor.

  “Our hearts go out to Kyle McCarthy and Nathan Bartholomew’s families. Wait. We are getting something,” he said, nodding to someone off screen. His eyes widened. “I’m not sure this is correct. Frank can you confirm this?” The anchor looked past the camera at his producer shuffling his papers.

  “This is serious?”

  “It’s real. Report it.” Someone called from the back.

  “The White House has been overrun. It is our understanding that the President has been removed to a remote; secure location before this horrific event took place. Our hearts go out to the dedicated men and women who have fallen in this senseless act of violence.” The anchor gulped before he continued.

  “Congressional representatives have told us they are being moved to secure facilities until order can be restored in the nation’s capital. The President is calling this a state of emergency. I’m being reminded by the authorities to tell everyone to stay inside your homes, bolt your doors and restrain anyone who has been bitten. That is correct. I am being told that this deadly disease is transmitted through a human bite. The authorities are working hard to regain control of New York, Atlanta and Washington D.C., but cannot respond efficiently to events when the streets are congested with traffic. I repeat, avoid ‘infected persons’ at all costs.”

  Summerdyke muted the talking head. “Where’d you guys come in from?” He tossed Steele a sports drink from the fridge.

  Steele cracked it open and took a gulp, the wash of electrolytes replenishing his system, making him feel slightly better. “We were on a flight from Kinshasa. About halfway through a sick passenger began attacking everyone. It wasn’t long before most of the plane was infected. It made them extremely violent; we barely made it off the plane after we landed. We were expecting the cavalry, but I guess you guys had enough on your plate,” Steele said, screwing the cap back on the drink.

  Officer Summerdyke grimaced, leaning against a table folding thick forearms across his chest. “You could say that. Officer Jenkins and I were patrolling the A-C terminal train when things got bad in the airport. Someone must have had it coming off of some flight. We led the people from our train car onto the tracks here. I know all the nooks and crannies of the airport. Actually, from the tracks we can access multiple storage areas, including the loading dock.”

  The situation sounded bad to Steele, but things could be worse. They could be trapped on the surface. He surveyed the surroundings. “This is a pretty secure setup.”

  Summerdyke shrugged. “Even if those things got onto the tracks it’s like a big fatal funnel, and there’s no way they could beat down one of these doors.”

  Steele nodded. “Remember, forget center mass, aim for the head. You have any extra ammo, and maybe some food? I could use some. Me and my guys are running low.”

  “We got plenty of food, but to get more ammo we would have to make it all the way to our armory in the main terminal. It’s possible, but we haven’t done it yet. We also haven’t heard anything from our supervisors, so our plan is to sit tight until this blows over.”

  Steele hadn’t heard from any of his supervisors either. Not having a clear direction or report station was the first problem in any disaster response.

  “We appreciate your help. We’ll spend the night and head out tomorrow. There are the plane survivors and the injured man who we can’t take with us.”

  Officer Summerdyke held up his hand, “Say no more. Leave them with us, and we’ll take care of them the best we can.”

  Steele extended his hand in gratitude. He had found a kindred spirit in the fellow officer. “Thank you. Wheeler’s a tough old bastard, but I think if we take him with us he’ll die.”

  Summerdyke led him back outside.

  “You can crash anywhere you like. We’ve got some extra blankets over there. Brand new with the presidential seal right on them. They’re souvenirs, but they’ll keep you warm. I’ll keep you posted on any important events.”

  Steele took a seat next to Mauser in front of a stack of boxes that read ‘Washington Monument T-shirts.’ They sat without saying a word, enjoying the relative silence and peace of the underground warehouse. Steele felt all of the fatigue and heavin
ess from the past couple of days weighing down on him. He was sore. His body felt as though he had run three marathons without stopping, combined with being hit by a car.

  Steele broke the silence. “Remember when we deployed to Berlin and met those hot Russian chicks?”

  Mauser smiled, staring off into space. “Of course, we were out all night. Could hardly stay awake the next day. Wheeler was so pissed I could practically see the steam coming out of his ears.”

  “Man, that was fun,” Steele said.

  Mauser’s smile turned downward, “Well, it ain’t over yet.”

  Steele sat in silence, lost in his own thoughts. Uncertain of what the future held for the men.

  “You got any of that chew left?” Steele asked.

  “Here you go. Last one.”

  Steele smiled faintly and placed the chew in his lip. “Thanks,” he said. Enjoying the burning sensation, he spat some into his empty drink bottle.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll understand if you want to stay. It’s safe here.”

  Mauser glared at him from the side angrily. “You think I’d miss the ride of a lifetime during the zombie apocalypse?” He shook his head.

  “I guess they are, aren’t they? Zombies. I always envisioned it differently. Unlimited ammo, taking on the hordes from an elevated position. Rifle in one hand, hot chick clinging to the other.”

  Mauser laughed. “Don’t matter. I’m with you to the end, brother. Besides, maybe you can still have your unlimited ammo shootout against a bunch of undead cannibals. We just have to make it back to the house.”

  Steele grinned. “So you are telling me there is a chance.” He had never doubted that Mauser would come with him, but he had to give him the option. For a logical person, it would have made sense to stay in the underground warehouse, but Mauser didn’t see things that way. Mauser saw sticking with his pals, regardless of safety, as more important than self-preservation.

  “Tomorrow, we go.” Steele leaned his head back, hoping the realm of sleep held less horror than the realm of the walking dead.