Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse

by Nicholas Ryan

  “Yes!” Angie peeled off her shirt and stood topless. She bundled the garment into a ball and tossed it into the corner then lunged for the table where the knives were laid out.

  “No!” Ju screamed. “I will tell you everything! I will tell you all I know.”

  “We already have everything from Bahk!” Angie screamed. Her eyes were wild, her hair hanging down over her face in tangled disarray. Her cheeks were bright red and a blooming flush of color started to spread across her chest and up her throat.

  “Bahk was just a functionary!” Ju croaked. “The weapon was my design. The pathogenic elements were my creation.”

  “You just don’t want Bahk to be the hero,” she challenged.

  “I am the hero!” Ju Young-sik screamed. “I am the only one who knows everything about the weapon. Bahk is an imposter!”

  “You lie! Bahk deserves the credit and the worldwide acclaim.”

  “No! I can prove it!”

  Angie dropped the knife. The sound of the steel clattering on the cold concrete floor tolled like a bell.

  “Alright,” she said. She was panting, bringing herself back under control, but her eyes still glinted dangerously. She stared down at him, spitting venom. “Alright, Ju. You get one chance to prove you are the world’s hero. But I swear… if you’re fucking lying I will cut out your heart and eat it.”

  She turned and reached for her blouse, and then pulled Black aside. “Go and let the agent know our work is done,” she whispered. “It’s time to bring in the CDC guy.”

  EL PASO

  NEW MEXICO

  It began as a moment of spontaneous gang violence in the narrow dark alleys of Ciudad Juarez. Within an hour the streets of the border city were filled with rioters.

  The protagonists were mainly young Mexican men. They rampaged through Ciudad Juarez, setting fire to buildings. Huge pyres of black smoke billowed into the sunsetting sky. Gangs roamed the streets carrying burning torches aloft. Gunshots rang out. People were beaten. Cars were destroyed. The downtown district became a war zone. Terrified women and children fled to the famous Our Lady of Guadalupe cathedral for sanctuary.

  As darkness fell, the brutal turf war between rival drug cartels escalated. Six gang members were gunned down in front of a convenience store. Four innocent women and a man were killed when they got caught in the crossfire. Police and ambulance sirens wailed through the night.

  Across the border in El Paso, thousands of National Guard troops posted to defend the sector went to high alert. Reserve troops were called from their makeshift barracks and formed up into phalanxes. DHS agents in black paramilitary riot gear and wearing ski masks to obscure their faces assembled at Paso del Norte, the port of entry separating El Paso from Juarez.

  The bristling American presence incensed the warring drug gangs. The civil unrest took on a dangerous new focus. The violence that had begun as a turf war between rival gangs became a fear-fuelled attempt to storm the border.

  “We demand to be vaccinated! Don’t leave us to die! We demand you share your plague antidote!”

  The violence spread like a wildfire until there were thousands of Mexicans massed at the eighteen foot high steel fence that divided the two countries. Fear ignited and was fed on the kindling of frustration. Panic fanned the flames. The scene became a tense tinderbox waiting for a flashpoint moment.

  Then the American National Guard troops fired tear gas canisters over the border into the screaming crowds, and a new wave of panic and outrage erupted.

  Mexican gang members brazenly fired guns through the steel fence bars at the tensed American troops. People hurled rocks. Some ran to the wall under the burden of ladders. Swirling grey gas drifted on the wind. People choked and gasped for breath. The American troops fired warning shots into the air. Mexicans tried to climb the steel fence, screaming in desperation for vaccination against the NK Plague.

  The night became a battlefield filled with dark dangerous shapes. Arc lights on the American side of the border gave the Mexican gangs new targets. A flaming torch flew through the air and landed amongst the National Guard troops.

  Mexican men covered their mouths with bandanas against the effects of the CS gas and rushed the wall, hurling rocks as they charged. Two American soldiers were struck in the attack before the rioters could be driven back.

  “Return to your homes!” the DHS commander barked into a megaphone. “Or we will be forced to shoot. Return to your homes!”

  Another ragged fusillade of small arms fire peppered the night. One of the bright arc lights shattered.

  “We demand to be vaccinated! Don’t leave us to die! We demand you share your plague antidote!”

  “You must disperse immediately!” the crowds were warned.

  The sound of low-flying helicopters filled the night. Black Hawks criss- crossed the sky. The National Guard troops retreated fifty yards as the gunfire from across the border intensified. A second wave of tear gas canisters flew through the sky and for long moments the entire section of border wall was engulfed in billowing grey clouds. When the gas cleared, the rioters had fled, leaving behind dozens of sobbing injured – and simmering unresolved tension.

  JAMES S. BRADY BRIEFING ROOM

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Rita May stepped to the lectern and began speaking immediately – even before the assembled media had time to take their seats. Cameras clicked and whirred. Rita read from prepared notes, only looking up briefly. In the wings, clutching a sheaf of papers and flanked by serious men in somber suits, stood the Homeland Security Secretary, Travis Dellahunty.

  “As you are all aware, there have been incidents of violence along our southern border with Mexico. President Austin has been deeply saddened by the injuries to Mexican civilians caught in the middle of these attacks on our border, and equally incensed that the lives of our DHS agents and our National Guard troops have been placed at risk,” the Press Secretary said.

  “To discuss the developing situation along the southern border, I would like to introduce the Secretary for Homeland Security to the podium. Mr. Dellahunty has further announcements.”

  Rita gathered up her papers and stepped aside. Travis Dellahunty took center stage.

  He was a grey-haired man in his sixties with a downturned mouth and a face that looked most comfortable when frowning. His eyes were dark, set deep in their sockets and surrounded by a fine web of wrinkles. He seemed uncomfortable in the spotlight. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and tugged at the knot of his tie.

  “I have just come from a meeting with President Austin,” the Secretary stared out into the sea of assembled media. “In that meeting the President and I were briefed on the incident that occurred at the Ciudad Juarez – El Paso section of the border wall, as well as the progress of several caravans of people marching north from locations in Mexico and Honduras. Most recent updates estimate the numbers currently converging on the US border to be upwards of a million people.

  “The President and I were also briefed about several other minor incidents along the border in recent days. As a result, President Austin has now authorized the use of lethal force by our National Guard troops and all DHS agents defending the southern border.”

  There was an audible gasp around the room. For long seconds the flash of cameras and the buzzing of media voices made further comment impossible. Dellahunty cleared his throat and kept his hands tightly gripping the sides of the lectern. Finally he continued.

  “Throughout the Ciudad Juarez incident, American DHS agents and our National Guard forces showed commendable restraint in the face of violent attacks. Shots were fired from the rioters. Rocks were thrown. Sixteen soldiers were injured during the exchange. In response, canisters of tear gas were fired into the crowds to disperse them. An unknown number of Mexican civilians were injured in the melee. No American soldier discharged their weapons.

  “However, effective immediately, the order will be relayed to all troops currently active on the southern border th
at lethal force has been authorized by the government as a last resort.”

  Dellahunty paused. His mouth was dry. He had more comments to make but the media seized on the moment to fire a barrage of questions.

  “Do you have a message for the thousands of people who are surging towards our border, Mr. Secretary?”

  “Yes,” Travis Dellahunty said. “Return to your homes. You will not be permitted to cross the border. There is no vaccination for the NK Plague. There is no antidote. America has remained free of contagion because of this government’s strict and stern measures to protect our borders. Countries to our north and south should do the same, before it’s too late.”

  “What about the Mexican government, Mr. Secretary?”

  “What about it?”

  “Has the President spoken to the Mexican leadership about the caravans?”

  “The US government has always enjoyed a cordial and constructive relationship with our Mexican neighbors. The lines of communication are always open,” he sidestepped the question.

  “Has the President taken steps to suspend Posse Comitatus?”

  “Yes, he has – although whether that measure is strictly necessary or not is subject to debate,” Dellahunty said defiantly. “However, the President has sought the urgent action of Congress to approve his decision.”

  The 19th-century Posse Comitatus Act forbade the military from active involvement in civilian law enforcement. However, the Act had a problematic history and was difficult to invoke.

  “Is this a declaration of war?” someone shouted.

  Dellahunty arched his eyebrows. “No,” he said adamantly. “This is a warning to all those people who might be willing to risk their lives in a futile thousand mile march, pleading for salvation that doesn’t exist. America will protect and defend herself. We will take all measures necessary against all threats to our survival. That includes any ship that approaches our shore, any aircraft that threatens our air space and any rioters who try to cross our borders.”

  BLACK SITE ECHO-59

  GUAM

  Ju Young-sik was cleaned up and dressed in freshly laundered clothes. The bandages binding the mutilated stumps of his missing fingers were replaced, and his arm hung in a sling. Black and White hooded the North Korean before making the short march to the office building where the Angel of Death and Nathan Power waited.

  The grimy office windows had been painted black, casting the room in shadows and concealing any view of the distant Naval Base buildings. When the hood was snatched off Ju Young-sik’s head, he blinked.

  “Sit down, Ju,” Angie said. The prisoner flinched at the sight of his torturer. He sat meekly and stared at the man across the desk.

  Angie came from out of the gloom to stand behind the uniformed officer. Her arms were folded, her face a scowl of menace. Ju could not look at her. His eyes were furtive and frightened.

  “This is Mr. X,” Angie introduced Nathan Power. “He is going to ask you a lot of questions. You will answer them in full and honestly. If I even suspect you are lying, Ju, I’ll take you back to your cell and we will continue where we left off,” she threatened. “Do you understand?”

  Ju jerked is head. Angie was incensed. She slammed her hand on the desktop and the North Korean shrieked with fright and cowered in his chair. “Do you understand?” she screamed.

  “Yes!” Ju squeaked.

  Angie glanced at Nathan Power and nodded. He fixed his eyes on the North Korean scientist. The prisoner’s face was gaunt, ravaged and racked by pain. There were dark plum-colored bruises beneath his eyes as evidence of the ordeal he had endured. Power kept his own expression stern.

  “You are Ju Young-sik?”

  “Yes,” the scientist answered with a soft voice.

  “And you worked at the Aoji-ri Chemical Complex?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was your position?”

  “I was the lead scientist of the 5th Machine Industry Bureau.”

  “Who did you answer to?”

  “I was directly responsible to the Minister controlling the Sixth Bureau of the General Staff Department.”

  “As the lead scientist at Aoji-ri, what was your mission?”

  “To develop a biological weapon capable of spreading a contagion that would destroy South Korea.”

  “Who gave you this order?”

  “The Minister.”

  “Did you ever meet Kim Jong-un?”

  “No. But I wrote a report about the progress and development of the weapon which was presented to the Dear Leader by my senior chemist.”

  “Why didn’t you present the report yourself?”

  “I was conducting experimental tests,” Ju Young-sik said.

  “What kind of tests?”

  “Experiments with the formulation of the contagion.”

  “How were these experiments conducted?”

  “The contagion was administered to human subjects.”

  “How?”

  “In gas form and through injections.”

  “You used prisoners?”

  “Yes. They were subjects condemned to death by the government who were being held at a nearby camp.”

  “You proposed these tests?” Nathan Power narrowed his eyes. Behind his stony expression he was horrified by the callous concept.

  “I obeyed orders,” Ju said stiffly. “I am a scientist. I served the Dear Leader loyally, as did all of his subjects. He was our father.”

  Nathan Power leaned back in his seat and regarded the man on the opposite side of the desk coldly. He found it almost impossible to conceive that such a mildly-spoken, placid-mannered man could be responsible for the abominable weapon that had killed billions.

  “Do you understand what will be expected of you during this interrogation process?”

  “Yes,” Ju said. “You want me to explain how the weapon was developed and how my team and I engineered the contagion.”

  “I do,” Nathan Power said. “And I also want to know what assistance you had from other governments.”

  Ju Young-sik’s expression changed subtly. A shadow passed across his eyes. He became suddenly guarded.

  “We know the biological weapon was not entirely your own work, Ju,” Nathan Power kept a poker face as he lied. “We know you had help from the Chinese.”

  “Ha!” Ju Young-sik snorted scornfully. “The Chinese scientists were of no assistance. I travelled to consult with their leading experts many years ago. They refused cooperation.”

  “So you went to the Russians, right?” Power rolled with the setback smoothly, letting it seem like he was leading Ju through intelligence already in his possession.

  Ju hesitated. He worried that an admission of Russian help would diminish his own stature.

  “The final strain of contagion used for the weapon was my work,” he insisted hotly.

  “But the Russians helped with your preliminary development.”

  “No,” Ju said. “Not at an official level. It is wrong to attribute any credit to Russian government scientists. Two disaffected scientists I met in Kazakhstan were of some small amount of help. They had worked on parallel projects for the old Soviet Union government. They came to Aoji-ri and inspected my research.”

  “Kim Jong-un paid them?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were the names of these scientists?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Ju…” the Angel of Death cast her shadow over him and the North Korean flinched, as though expecting to be struck.

  “I do not know!” Ju blurted, desperate to be believed. “They never told me their names and I never asked them. They drank alcohol in great quantities and smoked many cigarettes. I know nothing else about them.”

  Angie stood behind the North Korean and put her hand on his shoulder, digging her fingers into the tender traumatized muscle. Ju Young-sik began to weep, grimacing in excruciating pain.

  “I do not know their names!” he wailed.

  Power flicked
Angie a hot, irritated glare. She released her grip. Nathan Power watched the scientist slowly compose himself. He cuffed at his red-rimmed eyes with his good hand.

  “We’ll take a break,” Power decided. “And in an hour from now we’ll start going through all the documentation we seized from your laboratory.”

  INTERSTATE 805

  SAN DIEGO

  Karl King gave a deep weary sigh and scratched the side of his face. The dark unshaven stubble across his jaws crackled. He yawned and tasted the foul stench of his own stale breath. He hadn’t washed for three days. The stink of sweat hung thick in the cabin, and not even the Chevy’s air conditioning could shift the smell.

  They were almost at journey’s end; the realization made him anxious. The man in the passenger seat was sleeping, snoring loudly. King steered for a pothole and the sudden jounce of the truck’s weary suspension made the man beside him jerk awake.

  “San Diego,” King said. “We’ve made it.”

  The passenger sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Thank fuck for that,” he said with feeling. The journey from Texas had been a grueling nightmare of delays, dust and breakdowns. The vigilantes had slept rough and eaten on the road.

  King’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror.

  The back of every truck in the convoy was piled with camping gear. On top of the equipment were perched dozing recruits. The guy called Haystack was stretched out in the back of King’s truck, alongside his girlfriend, burrowed deep in a nest of bundled bedding.

  King reached up and adjusted the mirror until the reflection was centered on the girl. She lay on her back, her hips twisted slightly, with her head resting on her boyfriend’s shoulder. Each time the vehicle hit a bump in the road, the girl’s head rolled and one of her dangling legs swayed open. She wore a short skirt and a t-shirt. King caught a glimpse of smooth young thigh and heard his breath catch in his throat. His desire for her irritated like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

  He had tried to seduce the girl at their campsite the night before, drawing her away from the rest of the group as they sat gathered around the fire. He had seen something calculating and flirtatious in her eyes. He had figured his title had impressed her; she had the look of a gold-digger. But while the vigilantes he had recruited for the mission called him ‘Major’, King had, in fact, only ever served as a cook in the US Army. The medals he had proudly shown off had all been bought from pawn shops – and despite the daring tales of brutal fighting in the Middle East that he told each night, he had never fired a weapon in anger; never seen action armed with anything more dangerous than a potato peeler.