Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse

by Nicholas Ryan

  He brushed the child’s matted hair away from her face, crooning tenderly, his tears splashing onto her cheeks. Little Martina opened her eyes. They were dark eyes, blind and somehow sightless, filled with malevolence and fury. She bit the old man on the neck and a gush of warm red blood splashed across her face. She bit again, and again. She began to howl. She seemed to suddenly wake from the stupor of her unconsciousness, filled with insane rage. Jürgen cried out in pain, and fell writhing to the ground. His legs thrashed, and his whole body became seized with paroxysms. Blood from his slashed throat sprayed across the floor. There was the distinct sound of his bones breaking, snapped by the violence of the convulsions.

  Little Martina crouched on the table in a pool of fresh blood and sniffed the fear-filled air. She was gathered on her haunches, her head turning, her chin and chest soaked in the old man’s blood. She hurled herself at Elsa. The old woman went down under the shock and weight of the attack. Martina bit into her grandmother’s face and then howled like a wild dog with savage delight.

  Two soldiers came rushing into the gymnasium. They threw up their weapons. Little Martina lunged for the closest soldier and bit him on the calf. A shot rang out, hugely loud in the enclosed space – but it was too late.

  The plague had crossed the Rhine.

  Europe was just hours away from total annihilation.

  Chapter 19:

  MEXICO BORDER

  After the dramatic stab of familiar theme music, the picture on people’s TV screens cut to a live broadcast of Carly Clementine surrounded by endless miles of sand and stunted trees. She was dressed in tight-fitting faded jeans, boots, and an open-necked blouse. It was a stunning image, far removed from the cultivated, manicured studio-based host people had become accustomed to.

  “I’m here in the desert, coming to you live from the Mexican border,” Carly began her program. “El Paso is about forty miles that way,” she pointed east. “Where I’m standing it’s hot, dry and dusty – but it’s also a potential battleground, if you are to believe the dire warnings from the President of the United States.”

  Carly turned slowly and the camera followed her. “Over my shoulder is Mexico,” the scene was of more uninspiring desert. “And right now, all is quiet on the southern front… but that may not last much longer. If President Austin’s worst fears are realized and the abominable NK plague reaches central America, this vast expanse of sand could soon become America’s next deadly war zone.”

  It was dramatic TV. Carly turned again and in the background the camera now revealed a vast swarm of US Army engineers in fatigues and several giant cranes. Behind the men were lorries, and all the heavy industrial equipment for constructing a wall. Dangling from the arm of one tracked crane was a section of concrete slab, hanging perilously in the air. The slab was twenty feet high and fifteen feet wide. Beneath it, a dozen soldiers were guiding the block using hand gestures and walkie-talkie radios. Carly turned to watch, and from over her shoulder millions of viewers saw the slab set neatly into place, positioned upright. More soldiers rushed in from the sides of the camera to secure the concrete section of wall.

  Finally Carly looked back at the camera. “What you just witnessed is being repeated all along the southern border of America in a dozen other places – this is a modern-day construction project to rival the Hoover Dam in its scope. The critical factor here is time. The engineers are in a race against the plague – and every single second of every day matters.”

  She strode towards the engineers, her hands in her pockets, her head down to be sure of her footing. Then suddenly she stopped and turned back to the camera. The sun was in her face, highlighting the natural earthy beauty of her features.

  “One of the men supervising this urgent construction operation is Colonel Devin Bathgate of the United States Army Corps of Engineers Southwestern Division.”

  At the mention of his name a nearby Engineers officer broke away from a group of men and stepped into frame. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He had a craggy, sun-darkened face and short greying hair. He looked to be in his forties. He towered over Carly, making her appear fragile.

  “Colonel Bathgate, I imagine this kind of construction project is something quite extraordinary for army engineers.”

  The soldier shook his head and smiled wryly. “The Army Engineers are well-prepared for any development,” the Colonel parried smoothly. “A lot of our work takes place in hostile environments and sometimes under fire. But we’re also accustomed to handling major projects that allow our frontline troops to transit into combat in all areas of the world. This wall is a challenge only in a time-critical sense.”

  “What is the greatest obstacle your men face?” Carly asked.

  “The deadline,” Colonel Bathgate said without thinking. “The men are accustomed to dealing with harsh environments. We’ve worked extensively in the Middle East war zones. But the urgency of this mission is something that every man is aware of.”

  A hundred yards ahead of the new concrete slab, excavators were digging trenches in the ground for fresh footings, belching black diesel smoke into the air, their engines revving. Nearby were huge concrete-mixer trucks and men in hard-hats.

  Carly thanked the Colonel with an enigmatic smile and the camera zoomed in on her face.

  “Last year El Paso border patrol agents apprehended more than twenty thousand people crossing the border illegally. But the festering questions over American immigration policy are no longer the motivation for security walls along our southern border. Now the motivation is fear. Naked fear. It has changed the nature of debate in this country and forced us as a nation to galvanize. Now we’re building a wall for survival.”

  When the camera went back to a wide shot, another man stood at Carly’s shoulder. He wore a uniform that looked vaguely paramilitary. He was a burly figure with close-cropped sandy hair and a sun-reddened face.

  “US Border Patrol Sector Chief, Arthur Willy, is a man who knows this region of the border better than most,” she smiled to welcome her new guest. “He’s worked this sector of New Mexico for fifteen years. Chief, I understand your role has been temporarily circumvented by the looming defense crisis.”

  Arthur Willy nodded grimly. “This is an army project and all the men and women of the Border Patrol are happy to play a support role to help the military in any way we can,” he said diplomatically. “We’ve been on hand to advise, and we’ll continue to monitor the border in conjunction with the National Guard troops currently being rushed in to face this threat of epidemic. We’ve got a mutual interest in a positive outcome. Anything my staff can do to aid the army is being done.”

  To end the live broadcast, Carly stepped away from the Border Patrol officer and went sauntering along the face of the wall, stepping into deep shadow. The camera followed her, catching a shot of miles of new concrete slabs that had already been set in place. The top of the wall undulated like a long series of rolling waves as it followed the contours of the land.

  “Regardless of your opinion on whether a wall was ever necessary to stem the tide of illegal immigration that once dominated our political debate in this country, objectors to such draconian measures as a wall have been mute since the announcement by the president. As well as a wall to defend America from the spreading plague, this,” she slapped her hand against a piece of thick concrete, “has also become a wall of silence from a segment of our society that once were deeply critical of such a barrier. Immigration is no longer a matter for debate in America. Now it’s a question of survival – and on that issue, everyone seems united.”

  NOVO-OGARYOVO

  NEAR MOSCOW

  The Spetssvyaz Major rode the elevator up from the underground bunker to personally hand-deliver the message.

  Spetssvyaz was an agency of Russia’s Federal Protective Service – a unit dedicated to the collection and analysis of communications, similar to the American NSA. Officers of the unit manned the communications bunker beneath the Presidential residen
ce around the clock.

  President Fokin received the officer in the residence’s living room where the Chief of General Staff and the Minister for Interior were anxiously pacing the floor, waiting for news from North Korea. Both men looked up expectantly when the Major appeared in the doorway.

  “News?” Fokin rose from his chair in anticipation.

  “Yes, Mr. President. Colonel Stovsky has just messaged.”

  “And…?” Fokin narrowed his eyes.

  The Spetssvyaz Major swallowed nervously. He could feel a rash of sweat break out across his brow. “The Spetsnaz attack you ordered to secure the chemical plant has failed. American Special Forces troops were already at the site. There was a fierce firefight. Our soldiers have been defeated, Mr. President.”

  The Defense Minister came back into the room, fiddling with the fly of his trousers. He saw the stunned, dead look on the President’s face and knew instinctively that during the few minutes he had spent in the bathroom, the world had changed irretrievably. He flicked a glance sideways and caught the eye of the Chief of General Staff. The old soldier’s face was set in stone, unreadable.

  President Fokin’s shoulders slumped and he became suddenly a stooped old man. The vitality seemed to leave his body like a dying breath. His face turned pale as marble, his mouth hung slack for long painful moments of disbelief. At last he blinked, suddenly frail and somehow broken.

  He nodded. His chin sank on to his chest. The Major offered him the message slip but the president shook his head. Instead, he looked at the three men standing, watching him with professional pity.

  “We must each seek to save ourselves now,” Fokin’s voice choked. Fear moved behind his eyes like the shadow of a serpent. “Russia has fallen. Nothing can save her – and only we can save ourselves.”

  Without another word the president snatched up a coat that lay draped across the back of a chair and strode out into the hallway. Guards at the front door snapped crisply to attention. Fokin strode down the front steps towards where his Mi-8 helicopter sat parked on the helipad.

  It was a walk of a hundred yards through tall trees and manicured gardens. Fokin heard brisk steps hurrying behind him. He turned.

  The Chief of General Staff stood nearby.

  “Russia has no tolerance for failure. You have repeated that many times since you rose to power,” the old soldier said. Fokin noticed the man’s changed expression. There was a ruthless steely gleam in his eyes. “You have failed the Motherland, Mr. President.”

  From the holster on his waist, the Chief of General Staff drew his pistol and aimed between Nikolay Fokin’s eyes. The range was point blank. None of the guards surrounding the president raised their weapons.

  The sound of the shot rang like a bell through the tall trees.

  THE OVAL OFFICE

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  “Okay,” President Austin slumped wearily into the deep leather folds of his chair. “We’ve captured three of the scientists that created the NK Plague. Now, what do we do with them?”

  There were three other men in the room, all of them haggard with fatigue and strain. They were slumped on the sofas like weary airline passengers after an around-the-world flight. Secretary of Defense, Jim Poe, had his head thrown back staring at the ceiling, the knot of his tie loosened, his clothes rumpled. He had a hand pressed at his temples to still a pounding headache. He groaned. He had lost track of time; one crisis had seemed to blur into the next. “We have to interrogate them, sir. It’s the only option. We need to know what the North Koreans know. These scientists captured from the chemical plant might have the formula for an antidote.”

  The President glanced at General Knight. The CJCS was sitting on a chair with his elbows resting on his knees, his head down, staring at the floor. His shoulders were hunched, his back still ramrod straight, his uniform bunched under his armpits. Exhaustion had frayed the elasticity of his features so that his face seemed to sag in pouches.

  “I agree, Mr. President,” the Chairman of the Joint Chief’s voice sounded like a handful of gravel thrown into a cement mixer. His throat was scratchy and hoarse. “These scientists are our first big breakthrough to understanding the NK Plague – how it was created, and perhaps how it can be countered. We need to wring every piece of vital information from them, through whatever means necessary.”

  “Now hold on,” Walter Ford sat slouched on the sofa across from the SecDef. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. His eyes were red and his mouth felt stuffed with cotton wool. “That sounds like something we did back in the bleak days after Nine-Eleven. You’re talking about torture, General.”

  “Yes,” General Knight said bluntly. “If that’s what is required, then that is what’s necessary.”

  “America doesn’t work that way any more.”

  The General gave the National Security Advisor the sort of condescending sympathetic look that parents give to a dim-witted child, but he said nothing.

  President Austin scraped his hands down his face as if trying to massage his features back to life. He sat up straight. It was an effort. What he wanted right now more than anything else was sleep.

  “Walt, I’m inclined to agree with Jim and the General on this one,” Patrick Austin said in a careful, measured tone. “This situation is extraordinary, and the implications are far reaching. We’re not talking about some Arab terrorist with information about gun-running. We’re talking about scientists that have created a weapon so evil that it is threatening mankind’s very survival. Somewhere along the line there must be a point where the need for vital information outweighs the individual rights of those who withhold the information, and if this isn’t such a circumstance, well I don’t know what is.”

  “Sir, you’re condoning torture.”

  “Yes,” the President said. “If methods of persuasion are required to compel the cooperation of these scientists, then I have no other choice – because the information they have is so vital to the future of mankind, it transcends the current laws.”

  “But they are the laws that apply,” Walter Ford continued to advocate for caution. “They’re the only laws we have. The law is what protects us from descending into anarchy.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” SecDef suddenly exploded. “Take a fucking look around, Walter! This is what fucking anarchy looks like. Half the world is already infected with the plague, and the other half is waiting for death with no hope of surviving this thing. The time for playing by the rules went out the window when Kim Jong-un detonated his fucking weapon over Seoul. Since then all bets have been off. We’re fighting for our survival.”

  It was an impassioned speech that stunned the room. Even Walter Ford blanched. The President held up his hands like he was calming a fractious horse.

  “Okay… okay,” he said. Tempers were becoming frayed, brought about by the intense strain and the magnitude of the crisis. “Walter, the ideological debate will have to wait for another time, and so will the legal one. I’ve made my decision. I want those captured North Korean scientists transported to a black-site and interrogated with all known means of coercion until we get the answers we want.”

  The President’s words put an abrupt end to the discussion, but a new one sprang up almost immediately – one with just as many prickly legal and practical problems.

  “Where do we take them? What facility do we have available to conduct the interrogation?”

  General Knight cleared his throat. “We still have facilities in the Middle East; specifically in Afghanistan and in Iraq. They have been mothballed, but the infrastructure is still in place. We could have one of those camps up and running within twelve hours of your order, Mr. President.”

  “No,” Jim Poe cut across the conversation. “We don’t know what’s going on in the Middle East. Kuwait and Saudi Arabia were reporting suspicious cases of plague-like sickness just a few hours ago. Even if they turn out to be something else entirely, there’s no way that region of the world is going to remai
n untouched by the plague for long.”

  Walter Ford shrugged his shoulders. “What about Guantanamo Bay?”

  “It needs to be somewhere entirely isolated,” the President mulled the problem over, frowning. “And it needs to be somewhere that American troops have absolute control over.”

  The room turned stony silent until Jim Poe spoke out suddenly.

  “How about Guam?”

  “Guam?”

  “Yeah. It’s isolated so there’s no risk of infection reaching it, and if these scientists are somehow carrying traces of the infection, any outbreak could be contained and confined. It would be the perfect place.”

  General Knight joined in, seizing upon the idea enthusiastically. “We could use the facilities at the naval base, or at Anderson AFB. These are both big installations, sir, and we’re not talking about a full-blown internment camp. The interrogators would just need a few cells in some isolated corner away from regular military activity.”

  “Whoa!” Walter Ford once again leapt to his feet. “Guam is US soil. It’s as American as Washington or Chicago. We can’t interrogate foreign combatants on US soil. It wouldn’t only be illegal, it would be fucking criminal!” the National Security Advisor lost his temper. His face flushed with outrage.

  President Austin said nothing for a long time. To his mind, Guam made practical sense. He closed his eyes like perhaps he was praying for some divine message. The rest of the men in the room waited, their gazes fixed.

  Typically Patrick Austin was a decisive man, rarely prone to vacillation or second guesses. His White House staff appreciated the trait. The President was a decision-maker, and that made everyone’s jobs easier because they worked in an environment of clarity and purpose. But now he hesitated.

  “General, how long do these kinds of interrogations usually take?”