Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse

by Nicholas Ryan

  “The impact signatures from two missiles that struck the Seoul shopping district are markedly different from the typical damage inflicted by a conventional warhead,” the General said.

  “So are you saying that as many as two biological warheads detonated?”

  “Sir, that’s possible…” the General was stiff and flustered. He was a man who dealt with cold hard facts in a world of black and white. He was decidedly uncomfortable being forced to speculate. “At this time, we’re still unsure.”

  President Austin curbed his frustration. It was typical of any developing crisis; conjecture, panic, and chaos were hallmarks of an initial reaction before solid information emerged and the ramifications could then be more clearly understood. The world was still reeling with breaking news of the initial strike. As yet, only America knew that the North Korean attack was much more than just another reckless and desperate missile strike. Kim Jong-un had initiated a biological war.

  “How did so many missiles get through the shield?” the President asked.

  General Knight drew a deep breath. “The Patriot Missile Air Defense System around Seoul was largely effective. Some thirty-five incoming missiles from across North Korea were successfully targeted and destroyed. But it’s too early for speculation about the effectiveness of the Patriot system, sir. I know there has been hearsay about the system in the past, both from our own troops and from foreign governments. That data is hard to keep in context because the Patriot system is always evolving to meet with new threats.”

  President Austin was an experienced politician. He knew double-talk when he heard it. But instead of drilling down with further awkward questions he let the matter slide. It would be an issue that would keep the Defense Department’s Monday-morning quarterbacks bickering for months to come. Now wasn’t the time.

  “Okay,” the President said grudgingly. He blew out his cheeks and loosened the knot of his tie. At the table beside him, Walter Ford looked ashen faced.

  “Walt? Any news from your sources?”

  Ford came out of a nightmare-like daze and blinked his eyes. He felt numb.

  “Only rumors and wild guesses, Mr. President,” the Secretary of State roused himself. He felt listless. “We’re monitoring the South Korean TV news channels and all the radio stations for incidental updates. We’ve heard that something like martial law has been declared by the government – but at this time no one knows exactly where the President is, so we’ve been unable to get clarification. I’ve heard death tolls from the strike that range from less than a hundred, right up to several thousand.”

  The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency had sent his Deputy across from Langley for the briefing. The President turned to the far end of the table.

  “Gabe?”

  Gabriel Gallon was a tall spare man with a desiccated, fussy voice. His skin was pale and dry, his shoulders stooped with the posture of a person who had spent his career behind a desk. He snatched off his glasses and polished the lenses furiously with a handkerchief before finally answering.

  “Mr. President, we have no prescient information that might be useful at this time,” he said so softly that his words barely carried. “Most of our useful assets on the Peninsula were dislocated by the outbreak of war three weeks ago. We had the North Korean dictator located in an underground bunker below Pyongyang, but there have been no confirmed sightings since. As for the missile attack? Well the Agency – as I am sure you are aware – has contended for some time that Kim Jong-un’s regime had been working to develop biological weapons…”

  President Austin made a sour, bitter face and the DD/CIA flinched.

  “Gabe, there will be time for ‘I told you so’ later on. Right now I’m looking to fill in some of the blanks about what’s happening real time in Seoul. Is there anything that you guys know that I don’t?”

  “No, Mr. President,” Gallon said.

  “What about our troops?” the focus of the President’s attention swung back to General Knight. He was the only one in the room standing.

  “We’re trying to establish clear communication with USFK Command right now, sir. Traditionally in this situation, they would have been on high alert. I wouldn’t be surprised if some 8th Army elements were already on their way to the site of the attack to aid South Korean first responders and to help the local police and military secure the area.”

  “But we don’t know that for sure yet?”

  “Sir, the picture is very confused.”

  President Austin leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingertips on the table. It was clear that there was nothing yet to be learned about the situation in Seoul, or any possible side-effects of the North Korean biological weapons. He realized the people around him would be more use at their work stations and on their phones than sitting here blowing smoke up his ass. He dismissed them all and thanked the General with a handshake.

  “Keep me informed,” he said as the rest of the assembled staff filed out of the room. “I want to know everything you discover about what’s just been dropped into our lap. As soon as you get word from ground zero about the possible effects of these biological warheads, call me. In the meantime, try to get word to USFK Command. Tell them to exercise extreme caution.”

  WQZT-TV TELEVISION STUDIOS

  WASHINGTON D.C.

  Carly Clementine came through the doors of the television station’s newsroom like a whirlwind of restless energy, coat draped over her arm and her phone clutched to her ear. She breezed past her assistant’s desk with a harried, frustrated look of greeting, then dashed into her office.

  The receptionist followed, holding a handful of messages.

  Carly hung up her phone and snagged her coat on the back of a chair. She looked up at her assistant hopefully.

  “Did the Secretary of Defense call back?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Damn it!” Carly propped her hands on her slim hips and seethed for a quiet moment. The missile attack on Seoul was breaking across the world’s news services.

  “What about the Secretary of State?”

  “She hasn’t returned your call,” the assistant looked apologetic.

  “The White House Press Secretary?”

  “Rita was on another line, but she promised to call back as soon as she could.”

  Carly frowned, irritated.

  She was thirty-four years old and at the pinnacle of her career after spending her formative years at network affiliates in Cincinnati and Houston as a researcher and occasional presenter. Now she was the host of one of the nation’s top-rated nightly news programs, cultivating a formidable reputation within the corridors of Washington power by asking politicians confronting questions that other journalists cringed and squirmed away from – yet always remaining too poised, polite and charming to ever be reviled. Viewers had flocked to the show in record numbers, and politicians had quickly developed a healthy fear and respect.

  Carly had first made a reputation for herself two years earlier during a fiery one-on-one interview with a Midwest Governor. In the midst of the clash, broadcast live into millions of homes around the country, Carly had produced irrefutable evidence that embroiled the high-profiled official in a sordid sex scandal and a slew of campaign finance irregularities.

  Clementine had been fearless, asking a battery of confronting questions with dispassionate frankness and curiosity, until the outraged Governor had finally snatched off his lapel mic and stormed out of the studio. The following morning he had stood outside the gates of his Governor’s mansion to announce his resignation before the humiliating glare of the nation’s assembled media.

  Washington power brokers on both sides of the political fence had dubbed Carly Clementine ‘The Perfumed Bulldozer’ and her delighted executive producer had ordered a glass perfume bottle shaped to resemble a road roller in celebration of the TV coup. The ornament sat on her desk, alongside two industry awards for journalism excellence, and a framed photo of her eastern European immigra
nt parents who had brought their baby daughter to America to live three decades earlier.

  “Try Rita again,” Carly said to her assistant. “Oh, and call that defense analyst we had on the show last week. See if he wants to comment on the North Korean situation.”

  The assistant left in a rush just as a young man from the wardrobe department knocked politely on the door. He swept into the room holding a blouse and skirt for Carly to wear during the evening broadcast. Carly gave the man a polite smile. Her eyes were smoldering and smoky, her hair tawny brown, drawn back from her face to emphasize the classical planes of her features and the strong independent line of her jaw.

  “Thanks, John,” Carly said, her voice pitched low and husky. The wardrobe man seemed to melt with unfeigned adoration.

  “You’re welcome,” he smiled shyly – and beat a blushing retreat.

  Carly’s mind jagged back to work. She was remarkably immune to the hungry looks of men, yet not so naïve as to be unaware of their attention. But while some other women inside the industry had flaunted their sexuality for favors, Carly Clementine had stayed aloof and professional. She had earned every accolade through dedication and determination. Her ambition made her ruthless.

  She sat down at her desk and went through a sheaf of notes her producer had left for that evening’s program.

  “No,” she spoke aloud in the empty office and furrowed her brow. She snatched up a pencil and wrote a message in the margin, noting an alternative line of interview questions. Her assistant leaned in through the door, grinning with triumph.

  “Rita May from the White House is on line three for you.”

  Carly smiled, a predatory sparkle in her green eyes, as she reached for the phone. “Thanks. Hold all my calls.”

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON D.C.

  The President had existed on snatches of broken sleep for the past three weeks. He groped for the ringing phone beside the bed with his eyes still closed.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. President, this is Major Vellance, Marine Corps, sir.”

  “Yes.” Patrick Austin forced open his eyes. He had fallen asleep in his clothes. His tie hung round his neck like a noose and his shirt was rumpled. He rubbed away the traces of sleep, feeling the rasp of new stubble under his palm. He glanced at the clock. He had been asleep for barely an hour. “Yes?” he said again.

  “Sir, I’m the White House Signals watch officer on duty. We have a report from the NSA detailing the preliminary ramifications of the missile attacks across Seoul.”

  “Okay. Bring it up.”

  The President swung his feet off the bed and found his shoes. He crossed quickly to the bathroom. He spent sixty seconds washing his face, combing his hair and straightening his tie. The strain of the last days had wearied him to the edge of physical endurance. In his reflection he saw a greyish, sickly face, and a thickening of silver threads woven into the dark hair at his temples. He stepped out into the corridor and was met by one of his Secret Service team.

  Another Special Agent stood waiting at the elevator. A serious-faced young Marine arrived in the corridor. He presented the report to the President.

  NSA officers at Fort Meade had compiled the information. It consisted of a three-page typed narrative, a selection of images, and highly sensitive SIGINT intercept material, including transcripts of frantic telephone conversations between the South Korean President, the South Korean Prime Minister and the Presidential Secretariat.

  President Austin scanned the contents of the report, resolving to read through in greater detail when he reached the Oval Office. But one thing seemed certain, he judged; the missile attacks on Seoul had pushed the South Korean Government to the brink of collapse – the Korean peninsula was about to go to hell in a hand basket.

  MYEONG-DONG SHOPPING DISTRICT

  SEOUL

  “Gae-sae-ggi!” the South Korean ambulance driver swore softly as he gaped in awe at the devastation. The tree-lined pedestrian plaza was littered with rubble, the pavement torn up and gouged by the impact of a nearby missile hit. Billboards had been flung down from overhanging buildings, and the ground was littered with twisted tortured metal. The plate-glass façade of a jewelry store had been blown in, and the sound of wailing alarms drowned out even the groans of the dying.

  The driver stared at his partner, both the men’s faces overwrought. There was so much destruction they didn’t know where to begin. Dozens of other ambulances were responding to the emergency; they could hear the sirens coming closer. Dust and smoke swirled thick in the air. To their left, the ground floor of a clothing store was on fire, and to their right the roof of a restaurant had collapsed.

  They went left, towards the flames. Lying on the ground amidst the rubble were two bodies, covered in a gentle powder of grey dust. The figures were two men, curled up as if sleeping. Neither of the ambulance paramedics could see any blood, or visible injuries.

  Near one of the men lay a discarded television camera.

  The paramedics each stooped over a body and felt for pulses. They exchanged quick, grim glances and shook their heads.

  “Bring a stretcher,” the driver spoke to his partner through his face-mask. The smoke from the burning building roiled in a black billowing cloud, making his eyes water.

  While his partner ran back to the parked ambulance, the driver bent over the body at his feet and felt a second time for a pulse. The victim was a young man wearing a bright red shirt. Around his neck, hanging from a long cord, was a plastic identity credential. The paramedic studied the photo on the ID and read the name:

  Sa Jae-hyouk

  WXI Broadcasting Corporation

  The paramedic crouched down on his haunches and put his arm around the body to roll it onto its back. The corpse felt unusually warm. The paramedic frowned. The dead man’s face wore an agonized, tortured expression, mouth hanging open and face twisted into a grimace as if he had died in great pain.

  And yet the medic saw no visible explanation for death…

  Urgent pounding footsteps caught the paramedic’s attention. He glanced up and saw his partner running towards him carrying the stretcher, his silhouette washed in the red and green flashing lights of the ambulance. At the far end of the street more ambulances began arriving.

  The paramedics set the stretcher down on the broken ground, and the driver hooked his hands under the corpse’s armpits. His partner grasped the dead man’s ankles. There was no need for care.

  Between them they placed the body on the stretcher and carried the dead man back to the open doors of the ambulance. Other arriving emergency crews ran past, shouting urgent orders as they dashed into the nightmare of debris and destruction. A helicopter sounded overhead, adding its clattering noise to the chaos. Police cars and fire trucks arrived on the scene.

  The driver set the handgrips of the stretcher down in the back of the ambulance and clambered up inside the vehicle.

  “Push.”

  The stretcher slid on steel tracks. The dead body rocked gently. The driver unfolded a thin white sheet and covered the corpse. It was a simple act of respect for the dead.

  Suddenly something beneath the shroud shifted. The driver caught the movement in the corner of his eye, and his head snapped around. One of the dead man’s arms dangled from beneath the sheet. The hand moved. The fingers slowly flexed.

  “Shi bal!” the driver swore with incredulous shock.

  The paramedic by the open ambulance doors gaped in wide-eyed astonishment. The driver cringed away, overcome with a sudden chill of superstitious horror. He had worked as a paramedic for seven years and had heard his share of macabre mortuary tales – but nothing like this.

  The fingers at the end of the dead journalist’s hand slowly curled into a claw – and then lashed out from beneath the sheet, digging into the paramedic driver’s leg. The man squealed in fear and pain. He thrashed his foot, desperate to kick himself free. Over the high-pitched wail of his shriek came another menacing soun
d; a coarse guttural growl.

  “Shi bal! Fuck!” the paramedic by the doors swore. He leaped into the back of the ambulance. The body under the sheet began to make jerking movements. The paramedic reached for the belt sash restraints they had not bothered to use to secure the corpse for removal. Now it was suddenly too late.

  The dead journalist jerked upright. The sheet fell down around the corpse’s waist. The dead face was gruesome; evil bloodshot eyes that smoldered with malevolence, and a demented expression of brutal insanity twisting its features. The corpse snarled like a wild dog, then sprang to its feet.

  The paramedic driver cringed, cowering in the corner of the ambulance. His leg was bleeding. He could feel sharp spasms of nerve pain shooting up into his groin. His face became a mask of blubbering terror as the undead corpse lunged. The paramedic tried to cover his face but the ghoul swatted the paramedic’s hands away and latched its fingers into the man’s throat. The paramedic gasped and choked. The undead figure snarled again in a breathy rasp of foul fetid breath, then lunged like a striking cobra. Its jaws locked onto the paramedic’s nose and bit it from the man’s face. Flesh tore and blood sprayed the walls of the ambulance. The paramedic made a high reedy sound of excruciating pain – a sound like a dying breath. The undead ghoul lunged a second time. Its gaping mouth was awash with fresh blood, spilling down its chin and spattering the floor of the ambulance. The ghoul hooked its jaws into the wailing man’s cheek, worrying at the soft bleeding flesh until it tore like a tissue.

  The paramedic fell kicking and twitching to the ground. The undead ghoul turned and glared. It saw the second man standing in the open doorway of the ambulance and it lunged. The impact knocked the paramedic clean out through the back of the ambulance. He hit the ground on his back with the snarling undead journalist snapping at his throat. The paramedic thrashed like a landed fish, kicking his legs and screaming at the top of his lungs for help. The ghoul raked its clawed fingers down the paramedic’s chest, tearing through his uniform and gouging open the flesh. Bright red blood began to soak through the clothing. The paramedic turned his face away and screwed his eyes tightly shut. He felt the breath being crushed out of him. He smelt the over-ripe stench of corrupting dead flesh. The hands around his throat were cold and clammy.