The Apocalypse Crusade Day 4: War of the Undead

by Peter Meredith

  Axelrod took the mic from Courtney’s hand and demanded, “Did you say flashlights?” He’d been to a seminar once on the power of “Eastern Medicine” which had been three wasted hours. As he had walked out of the conference room he had worn the very same look of skepticism as he was wearing just then.

  “Yes, sir. The infected are highly photosensitive,” Thuy explained. “In the early stages, they may be in denial and although they will be aware of their headaches, they may lie. I doubt very much that they will be able to hide the effect a sharp light will have on their eyes. I know it’s not much, but it’s something. If we can speed up the evacuation process, I’m sure I could come up with a better method of detection.”

  The general sat back for a moment, driving without really seeing the pleasant April scenery or the unpleasant sight of tanks and trucks that had been blown to pieces. He didn’t even see the Humvee behind him flashing its lights.

  “She’s the real deal?” Axelrod asked Courtney.

  “If her work hadn’t been sabotaged, we’d both be at the parade in her honor. She developed a cure for cancer. Is that real enough?”

  Axelrod raised an eyebrow. “Cancer? Really? That’s real enough for me. Tell her that once we get done kissing Platnik’s ass, I’ll scrounge up a helicopter.”

  Excitedly, Courtney relayed the information and asked, “Where are you? Please, tell me somewhere close and safe.”

  “Not really. We’re heading back to that place where we picked up the balloon last night. If we hadn’t gotten in touch with you, we were going to try to float across.”

  “Stay put,” Courtney told her. “We’ll get you out as soon as we can. Whatever you do, don’t try to get out by balloon.”

  Axelrod laughed. “They were going to get out by hot air balloon? I thought you said she was smart. That’s dum…” The beeping of the Humvee’s horn cut him off. “What the fuck?”

  He considered stopping only they had swung full around the town and were at the defensive lines where Massachusetts guardsman and soldiers from the 101st were slowly coming together. And he could see the Screaming Eagle banner flying a little ways down the bombed-out road.

  General Platnik would be there and he would be insufferable. He would act as though he had won some great victory when it had really been the Air Force and the dogged determination of the air assault force which had been shockingly tough to stop.

  Suddenly, General Axelrod was glad he was riding in the Corvette. He drove slowly along the road and around the craters and the dead bodies and when he stopped at the furthest point in the lines that the 101st had gotten, he gunned the engine while it was in neutral, making it roar in fury.

  He then stepped out and stood staring as Platnik made his way towards him. As Axelrod waited, the lieutenant colonel who had been in the trailing Humvee came hurrying forward and whispered into the general’s ear.

  Courtney watched with a sinking feeling in her stomach—Axelrod knew what she had done.

  There had been a chain of events that started with Sergeant Ross, who had been first to find out the Massachusetts National Guard was surrendering. He told Captain Spencer, who had told a major on Platnik’s staff. That major had sprinted to where Platnik stood pissing against the trunk of a dead oak. With his dick hanging out, Platnik had barked orders to move everyone to Webster as fast as they could. He had then called General Phillips, commander of the 7th Army who had called his boss, General Heider.

  Heider had been sweating bullets all day as the President strayed between megalomania and utter depression. At least once an hour, the President would say: “Why can’t I use the nukes? I’m the boss. I’m the man.”

  Upon hearing the news of the surrender, the President had jumped up with both fists in the air and screamed: “I am the man!” He had then called the governor of Massachusetts to gloat.

  “We have not surrendered,” Governor Clarren said to the President. He then cupped the phone to his chest and hissed, “Get me Axelrod, now!”

  Eight minutes later, the lieutenant colonel was whispering in Axelrod’s ear and one minute after that, the general ordered him to kill Courtney Shaw. When the lieutenant colonel could only splutter, an out of control Axelrod screamed, “Pull her out of that damned car and shoot her in the head. Now!”

  He was loud enough for Courtney to have heard. In a childlike manner, she reached over and locked the Corvette’s doors. It was a useless gesture and the quarter of an inch glass broke with one swing from the butt of the lieutenant colonel’s pistol.

  Chapter 19

  1– 5:21 p.m.

  —Brunswick, Maryland

  Special Agent Katherine Pennock was finding out the hard way that there was an official “by the book” formula when it came to a zombie apocalypse. In truth, the apocalypse envisioned was an “Out of Control, Mutating Virus.” As the saying went, it was close enough for government work.

  During the last few days, things had been moving far too rapidly for anyone to put the guidelines to the “Out of Control, Mutating Virus,” scenario into play, but with the capture of Anna and Eng, the FBI returned to form. After all, the joke around Quantico was that it wasn’t the Federal Bureau of Investigation, it was the Federal Bureaucracy of Investigation.

  Hundreds of agents who had been groping blindly throughout Maryland or stuck waiting in Baltimore for a ride were now racing to Brunswick, running like children after the ice cream truck. The worst, by order of rank, were the Senior Special Agents, then there were the Supervisory Special Agents, the Assistant Special Agents-in-Charge, who were so high-ranked that they were acronymed “ASACs,” and the Special Agents-in-Charge, the “SACs.”

  They came by helicopter, Humvee and personal car. One even a commandeered a fishing boat—Assistant Special Agents-in-Charge, Ron Tupa, his Humvee broken down fifty miles north of Brunswick in Hagerstown, Maryland took possession of a fishing boat belonging to an old man who only gave the name of “Red.” Tupa sat in the front, miserable and drenched by the rain, while Red sat happily in his yellow slicker and matching trousers as he drove the boat down the Potomac, illegally setting out six trolling lines and catching far above his legal limit of three different types of fish.

  These agents descended like flies and immediately started to bicker and issue contradicting orders. Things grew simultaneously stagnant and more confused when two separate Executive Assistant Directors showed up, one bringing his own news crew on a separate chopper, and both claiming jurisdiction over the scene.

  Special Agent Katherine Pennock found that the only way to restore order was to declare everything within a hundred yards of the barn a quarantine zone. Stuck in this zone were Anna and Eng, Warrant Officer Swan, PFC Jennifer Jackson and Swan’s Blackhawk.

  While the brass bickered, chatted, smoked cigarettes and drank black coffee in the driving rain, Katherine tried to interrogate her prisoners. She had them handcuffed separately, their arms looped around the steel girders that held the aluminum structure up. Eng remained steadfastly mute, while Anna built lie upon lie until she had fabricated a story of innocence, persecution and personal courage that would have made a great daytime movie on the Lifetime network.

  “And can you offer any corroborating evidence?” Katherine asked her. “Any eyewitnesses?” Anna had looked to Eng, who rolled his eyes and spat out a “Pffft!”

  “Okay, back to the cure,” Katherine said. “You need to start talking if you’re going to have any credibility.”

  Anna and Eng shared a look. They clearly hated each other, but in this they were unified. “As we explained,” Eng stated, “because of the racist and sexist persecution we’ve been through from the very beginning, we demand full immunity from prosecution before we go forward, and we want that signed by the President.”

  Jennifer Jackson, her long, brown hair molded into an odd duck’s ass from wearing her helmet so long, and her uniform sticking to her from the rain and Mark Rowden’s blood, rolled her own eyes. “Puh-lease! I have a better
idea, how ‘bout we start breaking their fingers. I have a wrench out in the ‘Hawk that weighs like ten pounds. It’ll do the trick.”

  “Mind your place, woman,” Eng said, dismissing her. “I reiterate tha…”

  Jackson was up in a flash. “Mind my place! My place! Fuck you. My place used to be in New Castle, Delaware but because of you I might not ever be able to go back. You fucked it all up!”

  Eng gazed at her. At best, his expression could be described as bland, though bored was probably closer. “How do you Americans put it? It sucks to be you. As I was saying…”

  “I’m getting my wrench,” she said, walking out of the barn with Joe Swan following after.

  Eng muttered something that sounded like, “hysterical women,” and gazed placidly at Katherine. The FBI agent folded her hands in her lap and stared back, a little smile on her face. “It looks like we have two options,” she said, “the wrench or the letter. Or perhaps it’s the wrench and the letter. I do have two of you, after all.”

  Anna Holloway set her chin just so and said, “You wouldn’t dare. The fate of the country rests on this cure and we are the only ones who can create it. Eng worked with Dr. Lee and I worked with Dr. Riggs. Our knowledge of the Com-cell only overlaps in certain areas. To do this right, you need both of us and all our fingers.”

  Katherine wiped the smug look from her face, saying, “You’re probably right. A scientist needs her fingers, but you don’t need your toes, however.” She stood tall over Anna, thinking that it would be so easy to kick the woman in the face. She deserved it, there was no question about that. “I am going to get the truth about what really happened in the Walton Facility and if you don’t think I’ll use the big-ass wrench to get it, you’re mistaken.”

  While Anna went pale and subconsciously pulled in her toes, Eng only made that annoying sound again, “Pfft.”

  The sound of yet another Blackhawk landing interrupted Katherine just as she was about to call for Jennifer Jackson and her wrench. She went to the open bay doors of the barn and saw more men in dark suits and blue surgical masks coming toward the yellow tape that marked the edge of the quarantined area.

  She was sure she looked a mess, but could do little besides running both hands through her hair to slick it back. Katherine didn’t go straight towards the men. She detoured to “her” Blackhawk where Swan and Jackson were sitting in the cabin, next to the body of Sergeant Rowden.

  Katherine gave them a little wave, saying to Joe Swan: “I need you to watch the prisoners. Don’t talk to them at all and especially don’t threaten them. It’ll be best if we let Anna stew by herself for a while, so move her to the other end of the barn.”

  Jennifer, who held a huge wrench in her hands, looked disappointed. Katherine patted her shoulder. “You’re doing great. Keep that fire going, you might need it still.” Katherine was glad to see Jennifer’s grim smile. She turned and began to make her way towards the men in the suits, one of whom stood beneath a huge golf umbrella that was being held by another agent. “Shit,” Katherine whispered as she recognized the man beneath the umbrella despite the blue mask covering his face.

  It was The Deputy Director of the FBI, Matthew Bradbury. The Director was a political position and could be held by a congressman or a governor, or some Joe from off the street if he could get the votes in the Senate. The Deputy Director position is different, altogether. It’s the highest position attainable within the FBI without being appointed by the President.

  Every Executive Assistant Director of every branch within the FBI works for the Deputy, as does every SAC appointed to every investigation. Within the FBI, the Deputy was “The Man.” It was literal as there had never been a woman as either Deputy Director or Director.

  “Hello, sir,” Katherine said, dipping her head slightly and feeling immediately foolish for doing so. As powerful as he was, he was a man, not a king and a head dip was not far from a bow in her book. She forced her eyes to lock onto his.

  “So, you managed to snatch up both one and two on the Hit Parade,” Bradbury said. “Very impressive, Katherine.”

  She was taken back that not only did he know her name, he had used it as if they were old friends. She knew his name, but there was no way she was going to call him Matthew or even Matt, except by invitation, and even then she figured it would feel awkward.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Very impressive indeed and couldn’t have come at a better time. You saw the President; the man’s on the edge of, well, we’ll just leave it at that. I wish you weren’t stuck behind this tape. I was hoping that you would give the briefing on the capture.”

  Katherine had been hoping for that as well. Earlier that day, she had been disgusted at the idea of being the pretty girl who “massaged” the information being disseminated to the President. This was different. This had been an actual accomplishment that had gone a long way to making the country safe again. As things went, someone was going to get credit and reap the rewards, it should be her.

  “That would have been nice,” she said, hoping her disappointment didn’t show. “Maybe next time.”

  “Maybe,” he agreed, touching the tape. He wore latex gloves and after touching the tape, he looked at his finger, as if he’d be able to see the Com-cells. “They mentioned a cure. What do you think? Are they jerking us around?”

  It was a strange question to Katherine, because it didn’t matter. The world was desperate for a cure and would do anything and pay any amount to get it. “I’d say fifty-fifty. They want a Presidential pardon for all crimes real or imagined, and they want it before they say a thing.”

  “That was to be expected. Tell them we want the locations of all the people they infected on Long Island, first. Tell them it’ll be tit for tat. They give us the zombies, we give them the pardon. They give us the cure and only then do we let them go.” There was something in his eyes that suggested the second part of that was a big fat lie.

  She didn’t care. Anna and Eng didn’t even deserve an unmarked grave as far as she was concerned. They should be strung up and the family of all the people who died should be allowed to come by with a switch and give them three whacks. It would be a slow, horrible death, and that was just fine.

  “I’ll tell them,” she said. He gave her a nod and turned. Before he could get too far, she asked, “Are we winning?” She had hoped that the question would come out in a somewhat breezy manner, as if she were just curious and nothing more, but she heard the soft fear in her voice the same as he had.

  Instead of answering, Bradbury jerked his head to the umbrella carrying agent to leave. When they were alone, he said, “It’s hard to know what’s what for certain. The 101st was able to get across the border. We had a big win there, but other than that I don’t know. General Phillips is doing everything he can, but he’s got cities burning and cities overrun with zombies, and he’s battling militias in Massachusetts, Delaware and even here in Maryland. Despite all that, he is still telling the President he’s got everything under control. And I thank God that he has.”

  Despite the rain soaking them, Katherine lowered her voice and asked, “Are the use of nuclear weapons off the table, then?”

  “For now. What you did here was more important than I think we will ever know. But we have to keep on top of this.” He snuck a quick look behind him before adding, “It may be that you have to find a cure. Do you understand me?”

  Bradbury was asking her to lie to a President who, by all accounts was slipping into paranoia…a man who had already condoned torture and summary executions. There was a strong possibility that if she got caught lying to him, the penalty would be a lot stiffer than just losing her job or spending time in federal penitentiary, she could be facing a firing squad.

  2—5:46 p.m.

  Wilmington Delaware,

  The stratosphere between 1,000 feet and 2,500 feet above the northern suburbs of Wilmington was crowded with aircraft going in every direction. Turning long slow circles were two E-2D
advanced Hawkeyes; shooting across the city, one after another, were five F-18 Super Hornets setting up bombing runs; four Apache gunships were coming back from a mission, light on everything; they would meet up south of the city at the Wilmington Airport with a flight of Blackhawks carrying ammo, who were even then crossing west to east.

  Lastly, six General Atomics MQ-1 Predators, UAVs—unmanned aerial vehicles—buzzed about, their operators sitting safely in comfy chairs hundreds of miles away.

  The Predators were divided up evenly between the Air Force, who needed to keep a constant eye on the shape of the battle, and The Department of Homeland Security, who needed to please the President. The big man was far from pleased. He knew he had been lied to. The evidence was right there on the screen.

  “Someone pull up Google Earth,” he demanded, thumping the gleaming table. “I want to verify this myself.”

  He didn’t even fully trust Homeland Security. They wore uniforms, after all. To him they fairly stank of the military. Someone, another man in uniform, brought up Google Earth on one of the screens.

  “You can zoom in and out using the mou…”

  “I know how to work a damned computer,” the President snapped. He centered the screen just south of Philadelphia, where the battle wasn’t supposed to be happening, and zoomed in, closer and closer, getting more and more red in the face. He was on the “map” view and he wanted the “other one.”

  “The satellite view is that box right there,” the same officer who had just been snapped at said. “Just click on it.”

  When the view changed, the President grinned like a madman and began comparing the Google Earth shot to the feeds generated by the Predators. “Yep. Look right there, that building is the same in both pictures.” He squinted in at the screen. “It’s the Monroe Refinery and look how close it is to the Delaware border. Son of a bitch! You see that, Marty, he lied.”