Ben collapsed, the large piece of the woman’s shoulder still clamped in his jaws.
Ty stared through a haze, frozen in disbelief.
Not Ben.
He barely noticed as the woman staggered towards him, one hand holding the gun and the other clamped to her wound. Blood spouted through her fingers, and Ty forced his attention to her. She was already white, and he knew she’d be dead in minutes, maybe seconds.
“Damn . . .” she fell back against the side of the guest house, already dying. She slid down the wall, leaving a crimson swath, and Ty knelt beside her, the movement clumsy because of his back. Her blood spattered him and pooled around his knees in the dirt. He meant to ask her if he could help, but what came out was, “Ben.”
She’d removed her hand from the wound and dug into a pocket of her down vest; using two fingers, she removed a smartphone, its screen glowing. “They’re coming for me,” she said.
“Who is?”
Ty looked at her face closely, and he realized two things: First, she’d been the woman in the car who had warned the town a few days ago.
“There are a lot of them coming this way – you should all take shelter.”
He’d thought there’d been something familiar about her then, and now he saw her clearly, and could only gape in astonishment as the second realization dawned on him.
She was famous. In fact, she was probably the most famous daughter in the world. And now she was dying right in front of Ty.
“God, I’m so cold . . .” She tried to raise the gun, but her arm was too weak and it fell back to the ground. She looked up at Ty, her eyes pleading, her voice fading more with each syllable. “Please . . . you have to . . . take the gun . . .”
Ty looked from her to the gun and back – and understood.
She wanted him to kill her.
“I don’t want . . . to come . . . back . . .”
Fingers numb, Ty pried the pistol from her grip. He saw, with some bitter irony, that it was a Beretta M9A1, the same pistol he’d had in the Army. Its heft in his hand felt familiar, if not entirely welcome.
The woman below him whispered something he couldn’t make out; she uttered a garbled sound and coughed up blood. She only had seconds left, and then she’d be coming back, rising to attack, to spread the infection. Like Ben.
He put the barrel to her forehead. She closed her eyes, and he saw the slightest smile form on her lips.
Ty thought she probably died just before he pulled the trigger.
Her blood was warm on his hand and face, and he fell back in the dirt, still clutching the gun. He stared at her, overwhelmed by his feelings of grief and self-loathing. And he was tired, so goddamn tired. He thought he might just curl up right there in the dirt and wait until they found him, the ones who would feast on him and turn him. He’d finally belong to something bigger than him. It would almost be like the homecoming he hadn’t had seven years ago.
He wasn’t sure how much time passed until he heard voices, human but muffled. He opened his eyes and looked up to see strange figures moving through his yard; at first he thought they must be aliens, clad in spacesuits and helmets. Then he saw their all-too-human guns and one of them detached from the others and moved forward.
She squatted first by the dead woman, pushing hair out of her ruined face and examining the smartphone she’d dropped. She lifted the visor on her helmet, and Ty saw a middle-aged woman, her attractive features creased in disappointment.
“It’s her. We’re too late.”
The others – who Ty now realized were soldiers of some sort – sagged, weapons lowering. Ty struggled to a sitting position as the woman turned to him.
“My name is Sandra Steele, and I’m with the United States Secret Service. Are you injured?”
Ty shook his head. He was too dazed and exhausted to speak.
“No bites? Scratches?”
Again – no.
“Do you know what happened to her?”
Ty opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out. “I shot her.”
Steele’s mouth tightened slightly, then she reached out towards him. “You’ll need to come with us, sir. Can you walk?”
By way of answer, Ty rose uncertainly to his feet. Steele nodded at two of the soldiers, who ran forward and positioned themselves on either side of him. “We’ll be taking you back to Washington. You’re sure you haven’t been at any risk of infection? We’ll have to examine you thoroughly, so it’d be easier if you told us now.”
“No. I’ve been . . .” Ty uttered a small, unhappy laugh, “. . . very safe.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Two more soldiers moved in with a body bag to collect the dead woman. Steele led Ty and his escorts through the backyard, and he was surprised to see a big military ’copter in the meadow, blades revving up in readiness.
“What’s your name?” Steele asked him.
“Ty Ward.”
“Well, Mr Ward, I hope you’re ready to meet the President.”
Ty just shook his head in disbelief.
The world was still full of surprises. Perhaps eventually one of them might even be pleasant.
CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
CLASSIFIED – EYES ONLY
DATE: 06/30/13
SUBJECT: REPORT ON T. MOREBY AND NEW ZOMBIE STRAIN
Pursuant to earlier report, on June 28, NWP terminated its projects investigating “Patient Zero” (aka Thomas Moreby) at secret laboratory code-named “The Bunker”. Although their cooperation with us faded and our intelligence is sorely lacking, as a result of the report by Senior Controller (East) W. Leonard Paryder we do know that NWP sealed the entire facility in which Moreby had been kept, that they are reporting the loss of Dr. Jason Willson, his wife Marianne, Professor M.T. Déesharné and all other team members, and that they are also reporting the termination of Moreby.
We have reason to believe they are lying about the latter, and that Moreby in fact escaped from the laboratory, accompanied by a woman who matches the physical description of Marianne Willson.
This is where reports become at best problematic, and at worst completely fictitious.
First off, if Moreby is accompanied by Marianne Willson, HRV is out of the picture because Mrs Willson died on June 7 nearly a month before the first sighting of her with Moreby. Although we cannot rule out that Mrs Willson was resurrected by her late husband under purely scientific means, we should also consider the possibility that Moreby may have somehow been involved with her rebirth.
We have received reports of sightings of a zombie that matches the description of Mrs Willson, although she was described as acting alone; we have no reports thus far on Moreby. What is significant is that in areas where Mrs Willson was seen (originally near Baltimore, more recently in Annapolis), we’ve also received reports of a new kind of zombie – an intelligent one.
Zombies have been reported speaking, driving vehicles and wielding weapons. In one particularly disturbing account from an eyewitness near Annapolis, a group of approximately twenty zombies were marching in unison as an obvious military unit, led by a commander who matches the description of former Major General Harland Dawson.
Dawson served our own forces with distinction, but died during the initial wave of zombie attacks on Washington D.C.. We originally believed that Dawson had succumbed to shrapnel wounds, but if our source was correct in identifying Dawson, then he may have been merely wounded in an explosion but was actually killed by HRV (it is significant that his remains were never recovered).
The larger question, of course, is not only why Dawson is lucid, but why there are enough intelligent zombies serving under him to form the beginnings of an army. It seems unlikely to be sheer coincidence that Mrs. Willson has been seen in these areas as well, and it is possible that she is responsible for the appearance of these intelligent zombies. If so, she is undoubtedly acting per Moreby’s plan . . . wherever he is.
We will continue to track down Moreby, and to monito
r the actions and movements of these new intelligent zombies, who I think we all agree could pose a serious threat to our security.
I also recommend increased surveillance of Landen Jones. We have reason to believe that Jones possesses far more knowledge of the inner workings of NWP than he has yet revealed. He has also been observed twice to disappear into lesser-used areas of the O.C. – areas that he has perhaps rightly guessed are wired for neither cameras nor microphones.
We should not rule out the possibility that he is contacting NWP during those times; unfortunately, we can no longer access phone records, so we can’t be sure. I strongly urge you to consider interrogating Jones, employing whatever techniques are necessary to obtain information about NWP and Moreby.
I know you are personally opposed to interrogation of Jones and I agree that he has value for his medical knowledge (when we are admittedly short on trained medical personnel), but the threat posed by Moreby and Dawson surely outweighs the benefits of having Jones around.
REPORT PREPARED BY:
Marissa Cheung, C.I.A. Analyst
Chapter Seven
“LANDEN,” THE PRESIDENT said, and Steele heard distaste just in the way she spat the name out, “what the hell’s going on? Intelligent zombies now?”
Jones shrugged. “I can only guess that this is the second strain the British doctors thought Moreby was carrying.”
“So you’re telling me that New World Pharmaceuticals is in the business of guesswork?”
Irritation flickered across Jones’ features, but his smile never faltered. “No, ma’am. I’m telling you I’m not in communication with NWP enough to know . . . provided they know anything more.”
Steele asked, “So you haven’t been calling NWP lately, Mr Jones?”
Landen laughed. “Wow, this feels like the good ol’ days, when we stuck our noses into everyone’s phone records.”
“Landen,” the President added, her voice cool and firm, “answer the question.”
“Look, I’ve got a phone. In fact, here it is.” He removed a phone from his pocket and handed it to Steele. “Have it. The Seattle number is my sister, if that’s any help.”
Steele glanced at the phone, but handed it back. “I’m not interested in this one. You own a satellite phone as well, don’t you?”
Jones’ eyes narrowed as he answered, “Yes, but it doesn’t work with our Wi-Fi, so it’s useless down here.”
“It wouldn’t be,” Steele said, picking up a sheet of paper, “if you went topside. In fact, I’ve got a list here of times you’ve done just that. Seems you do it about three times a day.”
As Jones gaped, the President added, “Landen, for God’s sakes – we’re not accusing you of anything. I’m sure you can understand that we would be concerned if, for example, we thought that NWP was withholding information on Thomas Moreby.”
“Well, you can rest easier, then, because we’re not. In fact, we think we’re close to having a vaccine for HRV.”
Now it was the President’s turn to stare silently for a few beats, before responding, “A vaccine? One that could be made widely available?”
“Absolutely.”
The look the President shot at Steele was clear as ice: I’d love to believe that, but I don’t.
“How close?”
“Weeks. Maybe days. All the tests are very promising.”
“Have you shared any of this information with our CDC teams at Johns Hopkins?”
Jones spread his hands mea culpa-style. “Look, we’re still a business and allowed to make a profit, right? Obviously the interests of the American people come first, and we’ll share when we’re in a better position to do so.”
“Thank you, Landen.”
The interview was over. Jones left, and Steele resisted the urge to slam the door behind him. Instead she closed it quietly and turned back to the President. “Do you really believe that they have a vaccine?”
“I’d like to, and I have no doubt they’ve been working on it, but . . . well, who knows. Right now I’m more concerned with the threat of intelligent zombies. Look at this.” She tossed a report to Steele.
Curious, Steele picked it up and scanned it. As she did so, the President muttered, “There was a time when I might have used the phrase ‘intelligent zombies’ to refer to most of Congress.”
Steele put the report back down. “‘Intelligent’ might be giving them a little more credit than they deserved.”
The President returned her wry expression, and asked, “What do you know about this analyst, Marissa Cheung? Why haven’t I met her yet?”
“I can certainly arrange that, if you think it’s—”
The President interrupted, “I’m just wondering . . . she’s reliable, right? Not someone who’s basically all that’s left?”
“I checked her out. She’s been a targeting analyst in the Directorate of Intelligence for six years. From what I can tell, she was considered to be among the best. She was one of the first to identify and warn us about HRV when it appeared in Britain. Since she arrived here, she’s basically become Aaron Gillespie’s right hand.”
“Have you spent any time with her?”
“No. Do you want me to?”
The President considered for a few beats. “Just be aware. I saw her yesterday with Delancy, and the idea of him being chummy with the CIA’s second-in-command just made me a little . . . curious.”
“You got it.” Steele shared that curiosity; she knew that Delancy had ties into the intelligence community, but the idea of reforging those links here, in an underground bunker while the world above fell further into ruin, left her uneasy.
Abruptly remembering why she was here, Steele added, “Do you want to see Ty Ward now? He’s waiting.”
The other woman tensed. Steele dreaded this meeting, and couldn’t imagine why the President had insisted on it. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“I think I have to. Bring him in.”
Steele started to turn away, but was called back. “Oh, and Steele – thank you. I know you took a big risk going out there, and I deeply appreciate what you did.”
“It’s just . . .” Steele almost added . . . too bad I failed, but instead she turned and walked out of the office.
A few yards down the hall, she entered a briefing room. Ty Ward was seated there, with guards on either side of him. Steele nodded at them. “I’ll take it from here.” Steele knew that the broken veteran before her posed no threat.
She waited until the soldiers had left before she leaned over towards Ty. “She wants to see you now.”
Ty’s eyes were haunted as he looked up at Steele. “Why? I mean, what the fuck am I going to say to her? ‘Gee, sorry I killed your kid?’”
“Don’t say anything unless she asks you a question.”
Ty offered her a mocking salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
The man rose to his feet, and Steele saw how difficult the movement was for him; she’d already scanned his file, and knew he carried shrapnel from a tour of duty in Iraq. Softening her tone, she said, “If it helps . . . I don’t think she’s angry.”
“Well, that makes one of us.”
Steele led the way to the office, knocked again and took Ty in. Even though she felt the man presented no danger, she stationed herself behind him, where she could easily restrain him if necessary.
The President gestured at a chair. “Have a seat, Mr Ward.” She nodded at Steele, indicating that she should stay.
Ty lowered himself painfully into the metal chair. He stared at his hands, folded in his lap.
“Tell me what happened. Please.”
Ty’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice before he spoke. “I was holed up in my place. I heard shouting outside – a woman. I opened my door and looked out. She was running, or trying to – looked like she’d already twisted an ankle. I tried to call her in, but when she turned, my—” Ty’s voice choked, and he had to correct himself, “—one of them grabbed her and bit into her. She
had a gun and shot the zombie, but it didn’t matter – it’d taken a pretty big piece of her. She just kind of . . . slid down the wall, and then she asked me to shoot her.”
“And you did?”
Steele forced herself not to look away. She couldn’t imagine a more difficult conversation than this one, and she saw how the other woman’s jaw was clenched rock-hard to hold all the emotion in . . . but she betrayed no more than that.
“Yes, ma’am.” Ty rubbed at one eye, looking towards a far corner of the room.
There was a long silence before the President said, “Thank you, Mr Ward.”
Ty looked up in surprise, his eyes still wet. “For what?”
“First, you risked your own safety to save my daughter. Then you did what she asked of you. I know she’d be very grateful.”
The President studied Ty for a silent few seconds, and Steele knew something was coming, but she had no idea what. They’d already privately discussed Ty’s history as a decorated war vet and Landen Jones’ autopsy confirmation that the President’s daughter had indeed carried HRV before she’d been shot, but Steele had no idea what the measuring look in the President’s eyes meant. And so she was possibly even more shocked than Ty when the President finally said, “Mr Ward, would you like a job here?”
“As what?”
“My Chief of Staff.”
Ty gaped before blurting out, “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. I’ve gone over your file. I know that you enlisted because you wanted financial aid to obtain a degree in computer science. I know that you were being considered for promotion before your injury ended your Army career. I know that your former commanders all spoke highly of you. And I know that we’re seriously understaffed here, and I really don’t have anyone else I can ask.”
“What . . .” Ty sputtered and finally got out, “. . . what would I be doing?”
“You’d help me stay organized. You might take meetings when I can’t. Basically, Mr Ward, you’d help me put this country back together.”
Ty’s bitter laugh surprised Steele; she hadn’t expected him to easily accept, but the vehemence in his voice took her aback even more. “‘Put this country back together’? I’m sorry, ma’am, but you must have been down here too long, because this country is dead. And I’m not talking about HRV and all that shit going on right now – that’s just the final nail in the coffin.”
Washington Deceased Page 7
