The President’s composure continued to astonish Steele. She knew the woman had already lost her husband during the battle for Washington, most of her friends and family were gone, the country she’d spent so much of her life working to serve was in a shambles, yet she remained calm and determined. Steele’s own husband had been killed just last year – an agent for the ATF, he’d been temporarily unemployed during the government shutdown and had been shot in a coffee shop when he’d tried to stop a robbery.
Steele had taken a month off work and spent that time considering the “what ifs”: What if he’d gone to another place for coffee that morning? What if there’d been no shutdown? What if he’d died regretting that they’d never had children? What if . . .
When she’d finally returned to work, she’d been grateful for her job and had thrown herself into it with renewed dedication – a dedication to keeping herself sane, mainly.
Maybe that’s what the President was doing now. Since she had possibly the hardest job in the world, it shouldn’t be a problem to lose herself in it.
Steele had kept the other survivors – the senators and representatives, cabinet officials and lobbyists and civil servants – from the President for the first twenty-four hours; even given the woman’s remarkable self-possession, it would be counter-productive to overwhelm her. Today at 3:00 pm would be the first major meeting; that would surely be enough to test anyone’s resolve, especially given the classified report they’d reviewed that suggested they were also dealing with impossible, maybe even magical forces.
But before that were two other meetings. The first one was with Steele, just the two women. The President told Steele to take a seat, and asked her to serve as an advisor.
“Me?” Steele was both flattered by and uncomfortable with the idea – she liked operating quietly, in the background. “I’m not sure that I’m right for that . . .”
“You’re the best one for the job who’s left, frankly. And I trust your judgement.”
No more persuasion was required. “Then I accept.”
The second meeting was with Bob Delancy. When the President asked Steele to arrange the meeting at noon, she didn’t know why. She didn’t like Delancy – he was a fifth-term senator who was an old school political hack and a hard-line hawk. He still chaired the Senate’s Defense Committee, and was always the first to vote in favour of military action. During the shutdown, he’d voted with his party to refuse negotiation.
That was just his public face. Steele knew some of the private details as well: Delancy was a notorious womanizer who’d had affairs with everyone from high-priced Washington hookers to naive young interns. He’d even once suggested to Steele that he could “perform secret service” on her, and smirked when she’d declined. Steele had often wondered why his wife stayed with him; she guessed that a major alcohol and prescription pill habit helped. Last she’d heard, Delancy’s wife had fled the country and was staying with relatives in Canada. Steele guessed that hadn’t been a hard decision to make.
Trying not to imagine him ogling her ass, Steele had led Delancy to the President’s hastily decorated office – a cubicle with nothing but a metallic desk, three chairs and mounds of cardboard boxes containing folders – and tried to tell herself that Delancy shouldn’t make her skin crawl more than the zombies did.
In other words, she couldn’t have been less prepared for the President’s offer to Delancy.
“Bob, I want you to serve as my Vice President.”
Delancy, who was at least sixty pounds overweight, with silver hair still perfectly cut, puffed up like a gigantic bird. “Well, ma’am, that’s very flattering, if a little surprising, considering that you and I haven’t exactly seen eye to eye on most issues in the past.”
Steele had to agree. She remembered when the President had been a senator, with views as diametrically opposed to Delancy’s as blue is to red. And she suspected that virtually no women, except for maybe a few star-struck young interns, could stand Delancy’s undisguised leering.
“I’ve been over the list of survivors, and you’re the most qualified. Plus, I’d like to think that us working together will send a loud and clear message that we’re putting old party politics behind us and uniting against our common enemy.”
The new Vice President chuckled. “Well, I don’t know about putting all of the party politics behind us . . . but I’m sure we can come to terms.”
They shook hands, and Delancy left. He hadn’t even thanked her.
After he was gone, the President bent over papers on her desk, but spoke to Steele without looking up. “You don’t approve, do you?”
“He’ll still have to be ratified by Congress.”
The President smiled. “C’mon, you know he’ll be ratified. What’s the real problem?”
“I . . .” Steele weighed her words, and then said, “Why him?”
“What I said about the united front was true. There aren’t many of us left out there, all across the country . . . across the world. It’s more important now that they believe we can still come together and triumph than that I pick an easy partner. And for whatever it’s worth . . . I don’t like him, either. But I need him.”
“Just don’t tell him that – he’s liable to offer to lower your personal deficit right now.”
As 3:00 pm neared, Steele led the way to a conference room, where the President took a seat at the head of the table, Steele immediately to her left. Those invited began to arrive, Steele mentally cataloguing them:
Ames Parker was a four-star general who was the highest-ranking military officer left, and had been something of a hero to many other African Americans. At sixty, Parker had been preparing for retirement, but had easily stepped back into the ranks after the initial zombie attacks had decimated all branches of the military. When they’d realized no one higher was left, Parker had assumed command under the dictates of martial law, but had almost immediately made it clear that he had no intention of keeping it that way. Three days ago he’d called Steele into his office, told her who he believed their only real choice was, and asked her if she’d oversee the mission.
“Everything’s riding on this, which is why you’re the only one I can ask,” he’d said, in his clear, soft voice. Steele had agreed, of course, and started assembling her team. She liked Parker a great deal, and had been relieved when she’d heard earlier today that he’d already accepted the position of Secretary of Defense.
She was less sure of Aaron Gillespie, the CIA Director. When the Secret Service had been involved in a scandal two years ago, Gillespie had been open in his crude, taunting remarks about being caught with their pants down. After Steele had been named to replace the then-current Secret Service Director, she’d tried to make peace with the man, but had found him dismissive and close to insulting. He was also a friend of Bob Delancy, and Steele couldn’t help but wonder how many times Gillespie might have used his agency to cover up Delancy’s indiscretions.
But Gillespie was still a cut above Landen Jones, a Capitol Hill lobbyist whose medical degree unfortunately put him in line for the role of Surgeon General. Jones prided himself on always being the best-dressed man in any gathering; with his perfect hair and expensive suits, he reminded Steele of a strutting rooster. Before moving to Washington, Jones had headed Research and Development at New World Pharmaceuticals Group, the biggest drug company on the planet, and Steele had heard uncomfortable rumours (“some of his projects are even offensive to the rest of the New World eggheads”) about why Landen Jones had traded his R&D job for lobbyist. Steele thought the man would probably happily lie for a sandwich or stab a friend in the back for a promotion, and she trusted him even less than Delancy.
Delancy himself was also present, but the remaining chairs around the table were left empty; they’d talk to other survivors later about agriculture and commerce and education. Right now they had more important things to discuss.
Once they’d all been seated, the President gestured at her tablet comp
uter. “I’ve been over everything—”
Gillespie cut her off. “Everything? My office alone sent you at least a hundred reports—”
The President returned his interruption. “Aaron, I’ve been over everything. I’m a fast reader.”
Gillespie settled back with an arched eyebrow, but kept his mouth shut. Delancy chuckled.
“I want to make retaking the White House a priority.”
The four men shifted in their seats, and Steele knew they hadn’t expected this. After a few seconds, Gillespie and Jones fixed on Parker, who ignored them, addressing the President. “Madame President, you know that will present considerable difficulties . . .”
“I do, General, but I have full confidence in you and I know you can pull it off. We need first and foremost to send a message; we need to let all of our citizens who are left out there – no, we need to let the world know – that we are in charge, and order is being re-established. The White House is a traditional seat of power, and we must be the ones to occupy it.
“I’ve heard a few of you jokingly refer to this place—” the President waved a hand around, indicating the entire underground complex, “—as the ‘OC’, which I understand stands for ‘Occupied Caves’. Well, I have no intention of overseeing a government that operates in fear from caves, no matter how high-tech and secure those caves are. It makes us sound like terrorists. That is not the image I want the world to have of us.”
Steele admired Parker’s calm, even as she knew he was weighing the possibilities and seeing the word “defeat” at the end of every equation. “Madame President, just getting you out of a rural farmhouse was almost too much for us. I’m not sure we’ve got the troops necessary to take back the White House. Have you looked at the security cameras still functioning up there lately? There must be ten thousand infected just on the South Lawn.”
The President looked Parker in the eye, not with challenge but determination. “I know how many troops we’ve got, but what I don’t have in all these reports is an inventory of what arms we have left. How many of those special protective suits do we have, for instance?”
Parker shrugged. “Not enough to protect a force of the size we’d need to take the White House.”
“Then we’ll look at other options.”
There was a second of silence before Delancy barked out, “Drones.”
Steele looked at the President, who she suspected was struggling to keep from showing contempt. When the President had been a senator, she’d been part of a sub-committee that had investigated the use of drones in overseas operations; although the sub-committee’s findings had done little to change the use of the unmanned weapons, rumours around Washington had suggested that at least one member of the sub-committee had been unhappy with the number of civilian deaths and still believed the use of drones in warfare needed more oversight. However, the President didn’t override Delancy’s suggestion, and instead asked, “What about drones?”
Parker nodded slowly, his mind working. “That’s one option. Hancock Field in New York’s got drones – MQ-9 Reapers with Hellfire missiles. If we could fly a few in first around the White House, cut ourselves a path—”
“I don’t want any structural damage,” the President said.
Parker answered, “We’ll just use the Hellfires on the lawn area. We bring in tanks and ground troops then to clean the rest of it out.”
“Good. I want the inventories and a strategic analysis on my desk by noon tomorrow.”
The General nodded. The President turned her attention to Gillespie and Jones. “Now, gentlemen, let’s talk about this man outlined in these reports: How central is this Thomas Moreby to HRV?”
Jones answered. “There’s no question, from the reports we’ve got out of Britain, that it started with him – that’s why he’s referred to as ‘Patient Zero’. Are you asking if he’s somehow steering the course of the disease now?”
“Essentially, yes.”
When Jones hesitated in answering, Gillespie stepped in. “It’s a plague or a virus; I don’t believe it would be possible for one man to have any control over it at this point. However . . .” Gillespie broke off, took a deep breath, and continued, “. . . if you believe the British reports, then we’re not really dealing with a man.”
The President asked him directly, “So do you really think we’re fighting some 18th-century magician? Is that the right term?”
Jones spoke up. “Well, actually, Moreby claims to be even older—”
“Landen, I can claim to be seventeen, but unfortunately for my aching joints that doesn’t make it so.”
Gillespie cleared his throat and said, “Yes, I believe it. Last month I put a bullet through my secretary’s head before she could eat me; why should believing in a possibly centuries-old man be any harder?”
“So this Moreby is . . .”
Jones filled in the blank, “. . . the Zombie King. That’s what our British friends were calling him, anyway. Although he has referred to himself as ‘King of the Dead’.”
“And we believe that he created and started the spread of HRV?”
Jones nodded. “Essentially, yes. Although there were also unconfirmed reports of an outbreak at a south London hospital . . .” Jones trailed off as he looked down at the table.
There was a pause, and Steele stepped in. “May I ask, Mr Jones, are you still on the Board of Directors at New World Pharmaceuticals Group?”
“You know I am, Sandra.” Jones was the only one around who persisted in using her first name, and Steele suspected he did it because he knew it grated on her.
“Then you must know why they were so anxious to obtain Moreby from the British.”
Jones looked at Steele as if she was a child who must be patronized. “We hoped he would provide some clues to finding a cure for HRV, obviously.”
“So what happened?”
“You know what happened – the project didn’t pan out and was shut down.”
The President stepped in. “So where is Moreby now?”
Jones pretended to look down again at some papers on the table in front of him. “There was a . . . security breach. Moreby was terminated with the rest of it. Look, you know all this; why ask me now?”
The President tapped her tablet computer. “Landen, this report from a Professor Déesharné – if I’m reading it correctly – suggests that Moreby may have produced intelligent zombies. Is that true?”
“I’m not familiar with all the methodology employed . . .”
Steele opened her mouth to snap at Jones, but the President stepped in. “What do you know? What exactly did happen with Moreby and NWP?”
“Really, I’m only a lobbyist. The Bunker was in the Midwest, for God’s sakes. I don’t know.”
He was lying. The obviousness of the lie was irritating, but Steele knew there was no point in prodding him further. Not yet, at least. Not here, in this room with everyone else watching. Steele had training in interrogation techniques, and would be only too happy to put the training to practical use in a small room alone with Jones.
Later, she told herself.
“All right, then,” the President said, and for the first time Steele heard fatigue in her voice, “I want to know exactly what happened with Moreby. If he’s really dead, I want details.”
“Here, here,” Delancy said as he slapped the table.
The President declared the meeting over, and the men filed out. Steele was wondering if she should leave, too, when she heard, “Steele, I need to ask a favour.” She turned, and saw the other woman slouched over the table, as if her head had suddenly become too heavy to hold up. “Find my daughter.”
“We’ve got teams out looking—”
“No, I mean you personally. I know you can do it.”
“But, ma’am . . . I’d have to leave you alone . . .”
“That’s fine.” The President let her head drop all the way. “I’ll be safe here. Just bring her back.”
As the other w
oman slept, Steele stepped quietly out of the conference room and considered her options.
Chapter Five
THE HUMMER’S GAS gauge still showed a quarter-tank remaining, but Kevin didn’t want to wait until he entered Oklahoma City proper to fill up. And the sun was going down.
No it would have to be here, in a village called Erick.
The Hummer idled at the top of the ramp leading down from Interstate 40. Kevin used the binoculars he’d acquired at a sporting goods store in Kingman, Arizona, to survey the town below. It looked like an average Midwestern settlement: he saw a motel and a truck stop near the freeway, with houses and flat farmland beyond. Overhead, the sky was slate-coloured and striped with clouds.
The zombies were here, too, just as they’d been in every other town Kevin had stopped at along the way, whether for gas or food or other supplies. The dead had been bad in metropolitan Southern California, but the small towns were often even worse. Zombies in stained jeans and baseball caps stumbled past white clapboard houses and churches, jaws gaping, hands reaching out as if for the American Dream they’d never found.
Erick was no different. The dead staggered along past the houses in the distance, but they were spread out and less concentrated near the interstate.
The truck stop offered the obvious first choice, but Kevin had stopped at two along the way and found out that both had been drained dry, as had virtually all the gas stations. Instead, he’d learned to refill his tank from other cars. The ones with their doors still hanging open made the best sources, because they usually hadn’t gotten far and still had mostly full tanks.
Kevin was careful when opening the driver’s side door to reach in for the lever that popped the gas tank cover; once, a zombie had sprung at him from the rear seat, and he’d banged his head badly as he’d leaped back.
He assessed his needs before leaving the comparative safety of the freeway: in Kingman he’d collected sodas and candy bars from the same convenience store where he’d found an ancient Cadillac with a full tank, and he’d taken a moth-eaten car blanket from the Caddy’s rear seat that he’d used to bed down last night in the rear of the Hummer, parked right on the 40. He’d woken up shivering and sore, and realized he’d neglected to pick up water.
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