Z Force 1: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Infection Chronicles Book 2)

by Tripp Ellis

  The last woman that Steele had feelings for was Cassy Williams—a reporter for KXNAC news. She had been killed in a car accident. Her untimely demise was shrouded in mystery. Steele had often thought that her investigative journalism had pushed the wrong buttons. That she had gotten too close to exposing someone who had too much power. Cassy excelled at getting under people’s skin. She had certainly gotten under Steele’s, but in a good way.

  Steele grimaced. Susan was infected. A gorgeous woman with auburn hair. The thought had crossed Steele’s mind that they might share a nice evening together—when this was all over with. A candlelit dinner. A passionate exchange of affection. Maybe something more. But it seemed none of that was going to happen now.

  “I don’t want to become one of them,” Susan said. Her blue eyes flashed to Steele.

  He knew exactly what she wanted him to do. He was a tough bastard, but he didn’t want to be the one to do it. There was also a part of him that didn’t want anyone else to do it. He gave a slight nod and hit the button that opened the outer airlock door.

  Susan stepped outside, and Steele followed after her. He drew the P277 Koenig Haas pistol from its holster.

  34

  SLAM!

  A thunderous echo reverberated through the elevator shaft. The lurkers had somehow managed to open the access gate.

  SLAM!

  They were stumbling over the ledge and plummeting into the abyss, smacking into the roof of the freight elevator.

  SLAM!

  It was happening almost like clockwork. It was unnerving, to say the least. Not that it posed any real threat. The fall was enough to incapacitate the infected.

  Steele stood in the lobby with Susan. They stared at each other, listening to the clatter as bodies piled up on top of the freight elevator. She smiled at him. It was a grim smile of acceptance.

  “I really hoped that we would have gotten the chance to get to know each other little better,” she said.

  “I would have liked that,” Steele said. “But, you probably would have been disappointed. I’m generally mean and disagreeable.”

  “I don’t know. You don’t seem so disagreeable to me.” There was a slight glint in her eye. She was starting to tear up.

  Steele said nothing. His face was somber.

  “I must have gotten blood splatter in my eyes. I felt it, and I was hoping against hope. I thought it just wasn’t going to happen to me. I thought I wouldn’t turn.” Her eyes looked bloodshot—the tiny blood vessels already starting to hemorrhage. She was going to turn soon. No doubt about it.

  Susan lifted up on her tip toes and kissed Steele on the cheek. Her full lips were soft and warm. A whiff of her perfume filled his nostrils. His heartbeat elevated for a moment. She was a beautiful woman. Her soft skin felt like satin against his cheek.

  Steele wanted more than a kiss on the cheek. He imagined all the moments that they might share together. But none of that was going to happen. As far as he knew, even saliva could transfer the virus.

  Susan took a deep breath and steadied herself. Then her blue eyes pierced into Steele’s. “Do it,” she said. “I’m ready.”

  Steele’s face tightened. There was no way around this. There was no miracle cure waiting for them. And even if Brandi did hold the key, Susan would turn long before any kind of antidote was available.

  “You can’t let me become one of them.” Susan grabbed the pistol dangling in Steele’s hand. She placed the barrel against her forehead. Her eyes squeezed tight. Her body trembled.

  Steele’s finger wrapped around the trigger. But he just couldn’t bring himself to fire.

  “Do it. Before I hurt someone.”

  BANG!

  The muffled sound of a gunshot filtered through the blast door. There were dreary faces all the way around in the airlock. A few moments later Steele tapped on the blast door with the barrel of the pistol. President Johnson pressed a button, and the blast door slid open again.

  Steele looked distraught. Susan’s body lay on the concrete behind him in a pool of blood. Her face was unrecognizable.

  Johnson was crestfallen. His eyes seemed empty. He stared at Susan, almost in disbelief.

  Steele stepped inside the airlock and the blast door closed behind him.

  Johnson’s eyes met Steele’s. The two men exchanged a silent condolence. Johnson put a hand on Steele’s shoulder in sympathy. But there was no time to dwell on the loss.

  “Let’s keep the show rolling, people,” Steele said, trying to cover his grief. But his voice was tight and choked up.

  One by one, they all went through the diagnostic process again. With everyone in the airlock clear of contamination or infection, the secondary door slid open.

  The whole point was moot. The facility had already been contaminated from the inside. The hallway was full of lurkers. Former EOC personnel that had, unfortunately, been vaccinated.

  Delroy and Parker opened fire. Muzzle flash and gun smoke filled the tiny corridor. Skulls fractured and split apart. Infected blood painted the walls. Bodies dropped, splattering on the ground. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.

  The hallway led directly into the main command center. Giant screens displaying tactical information lined the walls. There were maps of infected regions of the country, along with projections for the spread of infection. Some screens detailed tactical targets on US soil. Other screens displayed the Strategic Defense Network, which tracked incoming missiles. There were several rows of terminal stations—all of which were empty. There didn’t appear to be anyone left alive in the facility. Only shuffling lurkers remained.

  Delroy popped two more melon heads stumbling around in the command center. There were many more lingering in the various nooks and crannies of the EOC.

  The bunker was a sprawling complex and had everything necessary to continue the operation of government. Conference rooms, media rooms, administrative offices, crew quarters, and a presidential suite. There was an exercise room, a swimming pool, home theater, surgical center, sustainable food and water supply, fuel-cell power and backup generators, septic and sewage treatment center, and of course the ability to launch full-scale nuclear war.

  As a result of National Security Directive PDD-975-4328-B, the facility also housed a VXR 909 Skyhawk—just like Marine One. It sat in an underground hangar bay. It was a cylindrical shaft that rose 60 feet up to the surface. In an emergency situation, the bay doors would retract, and the president could escape.

  Judging by the look of the tactical screens, it seemed that Vice President Radcliffe had been working on a tactical strike plan of his own.

  Johnson rushed to one of the terminals and began the authentication process. The system verified his identity, but there was a problem—an oversight in the COGSOP security protocol.

  The system was designed to move down the list—Vice President, Speaker of the House, President pro tempore of the Senate, Secretary of State, and so on. But it wasn’t designed to move back in the opposite direction. Once the president had been removed from the chain of command via COGSOP emergency action, his authority could not be restored without the authentication of the person currently in charge.

  In order to regain control of the country and launch a nuclear strike, he would need Vice President Radcliffe.

  As it stood, SIDCOM was in complete control of the defense system. An attack by the Russians would be likely to provoke a full scale response.

  “We need to find the Vice President,” Johnson said. “If he’s still alive.”

  “That’s a big if,” Steele said.

  The president agreed.

  “How much time do we have?”

  The president looked at his watch. “45 minutes.”

  “Delroy… Parker,” Steele said. “Find the VP.”

  “Yes, sir,” Parker said. The two started toward one of the corridors.

  “Shit,” the president said. His tone was grave, and his face was tormented. His head fell into his hands. On the global de
fense map several areas in Russia lit up. The Strategic Defense Network had detected multiple missile launches.

  An alarm sounded. It seemed that President Petrov had jumped the gun. He didn’t wait the full two hours. Now, there were hundreds of nuclear warheads heading for American soil.

  35

  “We’ve got a problem,” Delroy said. He and Parker hadn’t gotten very far down the corridor when they found the vice president.

  Radcliffe’s eyes were blood red. His face was a pale greenish color. His teeth were menacing. And he was charging at them with a ravenous gleam in his eyes.

  Delroy couldn’t just shoot the vice president—he was the only one that could unlock the system. But Delroy was going to have to do something pretty quick. The snarling vice president was almost on top of him.

  Delroy cracked him in the face with the butt of his rifle. The vice president’s head snapped back, and he stumbled backwards off balance. Delroy hit him again, and Radcliffe tumbled to the floor. The VP rolled around onto his knees, trying to get back on his feet.

  Delroy kicked Radcliffe in the ribs, keeping him on the ground, for the moment. Then he dropped down, putting a knee in Radcliffe’s back. The VP flattened against the floor. Delroy grabbed Radcliffe’s wrist and wrenched it behind his back. Then he did the same with the other wrist.

  Parker unlatched her paracord bracelet and unwound it. She tossed the cord to Delroy and he tied the vice president’s wrists. Then she and Delroy hefted Radcliffe from the ground and drug him back into the control room.

  Johnson grimaced at the sight. This was going to make things difficult, if not impossible.

  Steele gagged the vice president with a strip of fabric he cut from the shirt of a fallen lurker. It made it almost impossible for the VP to bite anyone. Then Steele rummaged through Radcliffe’s suit jacket and found his code card. But the codes alone wouldn’t be enough. Radcliffe would have to pass fingerprint, retinal, and voice print scans.

  Parker and Delroy had a firm grip on the VP by his arms. Steele untied his wrists, and forced Radcliffe’s hand onto the biometric scanner at one of the terminals.

  Fingerprint confirmed, the computer said. Vice President Radcliffe.

  Steele grabbed a wad of Radcliffe’s hair and forced his head down to the retinal scanner. His eyes were blood red and demonic. But the structure of the retina shouldn’t have changed much. At least, Steele hoped that was the case.

  Retinal scan confirmed.

  Johnson sighed with relief.

  Begin voiceprint identification.

  Johnson’s relief faded. There was no way Radcliffe could speak. He was only capable of grunts and groans.

  The vice president had a slight southern drawl to his voice, and a specific cadence. His voice was dry, and he always sounded a little hoarse.

  Johnson cleared his throat and tried to imitate the vice president as best he could. He pressed the mic button on the terminal. “Vice President Radcliffe. Whiskey, alpha, kilo, bravo, delta, x-ray, quebec, romeo, foxtrot, hotel, yankee.” He did a pretty good job.

  The room was silent.

  The computer took an exceedingly long time to respond.

  Earl was blasting lurkers that straggled into the control room.

  The computer finally blurted a response. Authentication failed. Please try again.

  A mist of sweat formed on the president’s forehead.

  “A little deeper, sir,” Steele suggested.

  Johnson readjusted his body position. He expanded his ribs, trying to make his chest cavity wider. He hunkered down, and spoke more from the diaphragm. The pitch of his voice lowered. “Vice President Radcliffe. Whiskey, alpha, kilo, bravo, delta, x-ray, quebec, romeo, foxtrot, hotel, yankee.”

  Steele gave him a nod. This time Johnson’s impression was spot on.

  The computer responded quicker this time. Authentication failed. Please try again. Please note: three failed attempts will result in system lockdown. No access will be granted for one hour.

  Johnson deflated. “Can anybody else do a good impression?”

  “Delroy, you get past voiceprint recognition systems all the time,” Steele said.

  “Yeah, but that’s for stealing cars. Not accessing defense networks.”

  “At this point, we’ve got nothing to lose,” Johnson said.

  Delroy took out his mobile device and accessed the network. He began searching the pirate sites for vice president Radcliffe’s biometric data. The problem with modern biometric security systems was that individual data was stored in a multitude of networked servers. If you owned a car with keyless entry and voiceprint automation, your data was in the car manufacturer’s servers. Biometric identity theft was big business, and those corporate servers were hacked all the time.

  Pirates traded and resold that data. Retinal simulators could be loaded with fake profiles. Synthetic hands with nano skin could reproduce fingerprints. Text to speech software could simulate anyone’s voice, as long as you had the original profile.

  The first two dark-net sites Delroy searched came up empty. But a third site claimed to have an authentic voice profile for Vice President Radcliffe. Delroy’s eyes went wide.

  “You find something?” Steele asked.

  Delroy nodded. “It’s expensive.”

  Steele scowled at him.

  Biometric data on high profile individuals always traded at a premium. But money didn’t really matter now. Delroy traded some crypto currency for it, and downloaded the profile. Then he typed the phrase in his text to speech app. The device read the words back flawlessly. Same southern drawl. Same cadence to the voice. Delroy had a sly grin on his face. He knew this was going to work.

  After a few moments, the computer responded. Authentication failed. System lockout initiated.

  Everyone in the room sulked. Steele gritted his teeth.

  “I don’t understand, Delroy said, bewildered. “That should have worked.”

  “It’s the frequency response of the device’s speaker,” Earl said. “It doesn’t have the bass response of the human voice.”

  They all gave Earl a sideways glance, wondering where the hell that came from? He didn’t look like the kind of guy who knew anything about frequency responses and audio wavelengths.

  “I’ve been saving up for a really nice stereo,” said Earl.

  “What happens now?” Steele asked.

  “From here on out, SIDCOM will make a judgement call. I’m afraid she’ll respond with a full scale retaliation. I don’t think that’s the best option for the survival of mankind.”

  “So, a computer is going to decide whether or not to engage in global thermonuclear war?” Steele said.

  The president nodded.

  “How long until the first detonation stateside?”

  “Maybe 30 minutes, tops.”

  36

  The flow of lurkers staggering into the control room was growing. It was a 60,000 square foot facility with hundreds of workers. They were all roaming around the various compartments, looking for their next meal.

  Three hallways converged upon the control room. Delroy, Parker, and Earl were fending off the streams of infected.

  “This bunker is hardened against a nuclear attack,” the president said. “There’s more than enough supplies here for us to survive for months, if not years.”

  “Then what?” Steele asked.

  The president shrugged.

  “Oh, hell no,” Brandi said. “I can’t do months in this place. I’ll lose my tan.”

  Suddenly, an alarm sounded. Airborne pathogen detected in sector C-21. Initiating emergency protocol.

  The air conditioning shut down. The overhead lighting dimmed, and the alert lighting kicked on, bathing the facility in a red glow. The central computer sealed off the compromised sections.

  “What kind of airborne pathogen?” the president asked.

  Steele clenched his jaw. He pulled out a bio-mask from his side pocket and placed it on Chloe’s face. “Parke
r. Delroy. Mask up,” he commanded.

  “What about us?” Brandi asked.

  There weren’t enough masks to go around.

  “Don’t worry,” the president said. “This facility is designed to identify and contain all potential threats.”

  The moment he said that, another alert sounded. Airborne pathogen detected in sector B-11. Red lights flashed on the map of the facility. Airborne pathogen detected in sector C-22. Another red light flashed. Airborne pathogen detected in sector C-23. Airborne pathogen detected in sector B-9. The display lit up like a Christmas tree. The red lights were growing closer and closer to the control room.

  “I think it’s time to evacuate the facility,” Steele said.

  The president nodded. “The hanger bay is that way.” He pointed to the sector B hallway. They would have to go right through an infected area to get to the Skyhawk.

  Steele’s eyes surveyed the map, looking for an alternate route. But there wasn’t one. Then something clicked in his brain. “Were moving out,” he shouted. “Follow me.”

  Steele unsheathed his sword, took Chloe by the hand, and trotted to the sector A hallway. Parker was blasting away at a herd of lurkers that packed the sector A corridor.

  Steele lowered his tactical goggles and began hacking and slashing alongside her. He could hear the central computer rattling off the names of infected zones with airborne pathogens.

  “I don’t understand, sir,” Parker said. “What’s going on?”

  “Maybe all that talk of the infection mutating, and becoming airborne, wasn’t just talk?” Steele said. He severed heads with his razor sharp blade. Skulls tumbled to the ground and bodies crumpled. Craniums burst in crimson clouds from Parker’s bullets. The team scurried down the hallway, climbing over corpses as Steele and Parker cleared the way.

  Steele sliced and slashed his way through the maze of hallways. He led them to the media relations room in sector A-31. It was easy to lose your sense of direction in the vast underground network of connecting passageways. It seemed like he had led them in the complete opposite direction from the hangar bay.