Invasion of the Dead (Book 1): Treasure Coast Zombies
Page 22
So far as the line of succession was concerned, quite a few political swine would need to be sacrificed before Hathaway’s man could step in. Martyrs to the cause of rebuilding America.
‘Mr. Hathaway,” an agitated young man stepped up to his side. The pathetic little minion’s name escaped Hathaway at the moment, though he promised himself he would learn it and have the young man punished. His instructions upon entering the private study had been quite clear, he wished to remain undisturbed. “Excuse me, sir, but we just received an Alpha One level alert from the Moscow quarantine zone.”
Alpha One level? That couldn't be right. An Alpha One level alert indicated impending disaster. Dmitri Zolokov was in command of the Moscow quarantine, and Dmitri was as reliable a man as ever lived. For God’s sakes, Dmitri had made a career out of Spetsnaz, when most left the elite unit when their mandatory service ended.
“Give it to me,” Hathaway demanded, all but ripping the message from his subordinate. The message, harsh and to the point, confirmed Hathaway’s worst fears. The Russian government had uncovered the truth of the Outbreak, attacked the KnightStar operatives, and allowed containment to be lost. Moscow was now, in totality, a Red Zone. Zolokov had placed a low yield device where he believed it would do the most good against the horde, but he held out little hope of extinguishing the Class One being. In Zolokov’s estimation, the Class One had taken an intelligence officer as its host. It had utilized old KGB tunnels to move undead about the city undetected. Death by ambush was the norm. The enemy had, after decades of unsuccessful attacks, evolved. “Holy Mother, protect us.”
“Mr. Hathaway,” another minion, whose name Hathaway recalled as Williams, stepped into the private study. “Alpha One alerts from Dhaka and Sydney.”
Two MORE alerts? A total of three Alpha One alerts. With trembling fingers, Hathaway took and read the messages. Dhaka, Bangladesh was a smoking ruin of a charnel house, while Sydney was described as the lowest ring of Hell brought into the warmth of the sun and Satan let loose to rain death and despair upon all he saw. Commander Thomlanson, the head of the Sydney quarantine zone, was reported to have spoken those words before he shot himself.
Three quarantine zones lost. Disbelief aside, Hathaway began running the numbers in his head and cringing at the results. Bad, very bad, but not beyond recovery and not an immediate threat to America.
The sound of running boots came as no surprise to Hathaway, who merely held out his hand or the latest messages. Montreal, Mexico City, Rio de Janeiro, Havana, Pyongyang, Beijing, Tokyo, Berlin, Cairo, and Bahrain.
All thirteen. All thirteen quarantine zones in this outbreak had lost containment. The sheer impossibility of it stunned him into immobility. The rest of the world could devour itself, but not his beloved country. Not the United States, not when they were so close. So many sacrifices in the name of Liberty, of Project Rebirth. Montreal and Mexico City. Those were the immediate threats. They would have to be dealt with.
“Get me the White House,” Hathaway commanded, his confidence returned. “I must speak to the President.”
Harold Williams, a communications technician fresh from Afghanistan, sprinted from the private room to connect POTUS. In his relatively short time with KnightStar, Williams had made this remarkable call three times, actually speaking with the President on one occasion. It was the proudest moment in Williams life, including his being awarded the Bronze Star. Sure, KnightStar worked outside the lines from time to time, but it was in the service of his country and never for personal gain. Williams keyed in the special number for the situation room in the White House, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
By purest chance Williams happened to glance at the bank of monitors. What he saw playing out on every news station froze him in place. His entire body went instantly numb, the hand set slipped from his fingers to strike the floor. Brilliant light bathed Williams face, highlighting the stream of tears rolling down his very young face. The flash faded to be replaced by the roiling black and red of a rising mushroom cloud.
Without knowledge or feeling in his fingers, Williams reached out to adjust the volume.
“…again this footage is of a nuclear explosion centered in Washington D.C., somewhere near the White House. We have no word on whether the President has escaped the blast or whether, like so many others in the city, he was caught in the surprise attack. From what little the government has said, the detonation was most likely the result of a man portable device, or suitcase nuke, long feared by security experts. At this moment no terrorist group has claimed responsibility for this unprovoked and cowardly attack…”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Williams whispered, his right hand clutched for a rosary he hadn't worn since he joined the army.
“Prayer can't possibly hurt, Mr. Williams,” Hathaway said from the young man’s side. The elder soldier offered Williams a well worried rosary, which the younger man took and began mumbling fervently. Hathaway watched in silence as the disembodied voice continued to relay what little information was known. That the White House had been incinerated was a given, but what Hathaway needed to know concerned the fate of Congress. The President would have had his entire cabinet present, along with that idiot of a Vice President. The line of succession would devolve into Congress, provided someone, anyone, was left alive to claim the Presidency. Someone needed to be appointed POTUS in order to launch nuclear strikes against Mexico City and Montreal before the situation spiraled too far out of control. Millions of zombies were on the march, with nothing between them and his country.
“…both houses of Congress were in session, debating the legality of the President’s declaration of martial law and the indefinite suspension of the Constitution. It is currently believed no one in Congress survived the explosion…”
Michael Hathaway’s vision began to white out as the enormity of the damage became all too clear. Though he was completely ignorant of the fact, Michael Hathaway had just suffered an aneurism and was mere moments from the end of his treacherous life. Just before the end it occurred to Hathaway the reason all thirteen zones lost containment was because he personally redirected so many personnel to the creation of the quarantine wall in Florida. Had he not done so, the containment teams would have been at full strength.
“It's my fault,” Hathaway choked out, then dropped dead on the spot. Standing over the fallen man, Harold Williams said a prayer for his newly deceased superior, though in truth the words were more for the living than for the dead.
The undead were roaming freely over the earth, Washington D.C.had just been nuked, and the only people who the authority to employ the ultimate weapon against the enemy were all dead.
Dr. Cynthia Zhao reviewed the footage from the Florida test for the umpteenth time. She watched impassively as her agent observed the initial contact between a morbidly obese man whose age was indeterminate, and the delivery pod. The cruelly curved, claw like appendage lanced into the first subject, injecting the seventh known iteration of the virus. The change began immediately. On screen, the agent noted the time of injection and prepared the first of twelve serum filled darts.
Full conversion from human to motive eating machine took five minutes. Direct exposure to the virus always ensured a speedy, and complete, conversion. After so many years studying the virus, as well as the numerous outbreaks, had led Dr. Zhao to the conclusion that one in fifty thousand failed to convert completely, resulting in an exquisitely painful half life, and that one in ten million was functionally immune to the base virus. Not that such immunity helped prevent the infected from simply devouring the immune.
As her thoughts drifted over infection statistics Dr. Zhao observed the entrance of two men who stalked the freshly converted subject. Disappointingly, the larger of the two subjects rendered patient zero non extant. Although the pod itself rendered the action pointless by infecting the shorter of the two new subjects. Before the larger subject, she tho
ught of him as subject Beta, could interact with the smaller man, she assigned the name subject Gamma, her agent fired a dart into subject Beta’s neck. In the ensuing chaos, subject Beta remained immobile as the serum worked to alter the invading virus into something which would benefit Beta rather than convert him into another mindless soldier of the enemy. Subject Gamma, however, converted within the expected time frame, yet seemed unaware of the presence of subject Beta. She theorized the ongoing injection by the pod rendered subject Beta an immunity to attack by the converted, at least so long as the process was working. Failure to convert would likely result in that immunity evaporating. At this point, events took an unexpected turn for the agent on site, though Dr. Zhao had calculated a ninety-three percent probability of this actin transpiring.
Subject Gamma underwent a secondary conversion as proteins in the virus located a series of genetic markers, activating a seldom implemented intellectual conversion. As she watched, Dr. Zhao noted the exact moment when subject Gamma became a Class One entity capable of independent thought, action, and control over other infected subjects. Critically slow to realize the danger, the agent fired a dart into the Class One. The serum, naturally, had no effect on the freshly elevated subject. The sound of the dart being fired, unfortunately, drew the subjects attention to her agent. The obscene smile which slowly spread across the subjects suddenly pale face told Dr. Zhao everything about what was about to happen. Rending and tearing and the liquid slurp of crushed flesh being drawn through parted lips filled the small office. After that, Dr. Zhao had lost interest in the off kilter images, right up till the moment subject Beta became active once more. Active, and still human, or at least human enough for her work.
The serum had worked.
Subject Beta had not only failed to convert, but telemetry transmitted from the dart indicated the serum had successfully rewritten the virus to benefit the subject. Ecstasy had filled Cynthia Zhao in the moment of discovery more fully than at any point of her life. Serum number 7717, had succeeded where all others had utterly and completely failed.
In desperate need of repeating her success, Dr. Zhao had injected a test subject with serum 7717, and exposing them to the virus. The results had been…disappointing. The more she considered the problem the more she was certain subject Beta held the key to perfecting serum 7717. Whether genetic, environmental, or diegetic, subject Beta was the key. She would need him if her work were to continue in the correct direction. Utilizing her contacts within KnightStar Solutions, Dr. Zhao identified subject Beta, whom she learned went by the unfortunate name of Angus Finnegan. She also learned the company had instituted a kill order on him and all around him.
“Fools!” She had shouted. “This man is the key to stopping the spread of the virus. He must be captured at all costs. Whatever it takes, bring me Angus Finnegan.”
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen