The Apocalypse Crusade 2 (4 page)

Collins could see the dislike in the Governor’s eyes; he couldn’t care less. All he cared about was his men, his mission, and his country. “And if my men are attacked with some other deadly weapon? A knife, a club, what-have-you?” When the Governor paused to consider this, Collins added, “My men are not trained as law enforcement officers. You’d be endangering their lives if they aren’t allowed to fight back.”

But what about the optics?
Stimpson wanted to ask, however the general was clearly a man who didn’t understand about the bigger picture. He was too short-sighted.

“I have to look at the bigger picture, General. Remember Kent State? I won’t subject my people to another Kent State, especially not on this scale. That reminds me, you are expressly forbidden to use any planes, bombs, tanks, mortars or machine guns. Oh, and no flame throwers, either.”

A hundred miles away Janice Tate was beating on her husband’s head with all her might. Joe had gotten to her liver and the pain was so exquisite that her bladder had let go in a hot rush.

Governor Stimpson picked another piece of almost invisible lint from his suit and said, “Really, this isn’t much of an issue. By their very presence, your men will deter anyone seeking to break the quarantine. And if someone tries, then I expect your men to use proper judgment and restraint. We both know how things can get out of hand. Perhaps we should consider bodycams. So the men will…”

“Bodycams?” Collins demanded, letting out a crazed cackle. “Yeah, let’s do that, and while we’re at it maybe we should read the zombies their fucking rights!” Collins found himself on his feet with the knuckles of both hands planted firmly on the ridiculously huge desk. “You have no clue what’s going on, do you?”

Janice went stiff, immobilized by the worst pain yet. Joe had chewed his way into the hepatic artery; she could feel her pulse like thunder. She could feel it right to the tips of her ears. Her arms shot out and her fingers were splayed. Then through the pain she thought she could hear her pulse and it was a miracle! The lub-dub grew fainter with each beat. She was dying. Finally she was dying.

“What I know, General, is that there are conflicting reports from a few hysterical eye witnesses. Yes, I know something bad is happening in and around Poughkeepsie, but so far no one has proved to me that it’s bad enough for us to turn the guns of our armed forces around on the very people they were sworn to protect. Your job is to contain this, nothing more.”

Janice breathed her last, a hitching, bubbling sound that never seemed to end. It just got quieter by degrees until it disappeared beneath the sound of Joe’s lips smacking as he rooted around in her guts like a pig at a trough.

Collins kept his fists on the desk because he knew if they came off he would punch the Governor right in that smarmy smile. Through gritted teeth he said: “Containment isn’t going to be enough.”

Stimpson let out a practiced air of sadness as though he wished there was something more he could do in the situation. “Get me some hard proof, General, that I can bring to the people. Until then I want anyone caught trying to break the quarantine detained only. Think about how they must be feeling, in their minds they’ve done nothing illegal, certainly nothing that would warrant execution. They will be detained only. Is that clear?”

“Yes Sir,” Collins replied, feeling a pain in his guts. His men were going to pay with their lives. “I have one question. Why did you bother calling us up if you aren’t going to use us properly?”

Because that’s what the optics called for
, wasn’t an answer Stimpson could give to this narrow-minded general. As Governor, he had to be seen as doing something, but what he couldn’t be seen doing was killing his own people. “Like I said, you were called up to enforce a quarantine, not to kill people. Really, General, you’re embarrassing yourself with this shoot first attitude. Have you considered that this
issue
might burn out naturally? Have you stopped to think that these infected persons might just die on their own? Or get better on their own? You see? We just don’t have enough information yet to just go around killing people and until we do you will carry out your orders with the minimum amount of bloodshed.”

The general pictured the one and only zombie he had faced: it had taken three rounds to the chest and hadn’t even slowed. These things weren’t going to die on their own, of that he was certain. “You need to see for yourself what’s going on.”

“I plan on it,” the Governor replied. He would tour the front, eventually…but only when the camera crews arrived and the situation was more controlled. Going without the cameras would be like not going at all. “Until then, you have your orders. Oh, and General, find out who did this. We need to bring them to justice.” By this he meant he needed to be able to point a finger somewhere else just in case fingers started pointing at him.

At that moment, the zombie, Joe Tate, lost interest in the corpse of his wife. The body was growing cold and the maddeningly erotic thump of its heart had ceased. In somewhat of a lethargic stupor, it left the house and stumbled uncertainly for a few hundred yards. His hunger had been satiated, however it came roaring back an instant later. He’d heard the scream of another human and that was all it took.

At exactly half past six, the President’s Chief of Staff, Marty Aleman, received the daily security briefing, just as he had for the previous six months and, as always, he marked the President as “in attendance” though the old man was still snoozing away. It was a little white lie that hurt no one. Hearing the endlessly dire reports straight from the mouth of the experts about the Russians and the Chinese and Iranians and the seemingly endless number of terrorists, had given the President an ulcer in his first year in office. That was another little secret no one talked about; no one could know that the great man had any weaknesses. He felt he had to appear perfect from his shining, helmet-like hair down to his perfectly manicured toenails.

Marty would normally give him a watered down version of the threats facing the country right after the President ate breakfast. A servant would bring tea and coffee, the official photographer would snap pictures of the him nodding sagely, and they would be interrupted a dozen times, but in the end, the President would get the knowledge he would need to face the reporters and he would get the advice he would need to get re-elected.

The advice was always the same: do nothing.

Who really cared if the Russians were gobbling up chunks of the Ukraine? What business was it of ours if the Chinese took over the South Pacific? And who were we to tell the Mullahs in Iran that they couldn’t have a nuclear bomb? Sure, these were issues that would have to be dealt with, but that didn’t mean it had to be dealt with now. The American people had spoken in three straight elections: they weren’t going to put out any effort to nip things in the bud if it didn’t affect them right at that moment. 

This morning was different.

With his mirror-shined shoes snap-snapping urgently across the glossy, wood floors, Marty hurried from the West Wing to the Executive Residence. Normally, he gave the security briefing in the Yellow Oval Room, a spacious open room that was also used as a reception area prior to state dinners. That morning he bypassed it, heading through the West Sitting Hall and right to the President’s Bedroom.

A pair of Secret Service agents gave him a quizzical look, but said nothing as Marty began tapping on the door, lightly—the President didn’t care for loud, incessant knocking, even if it was an emergency. It made him high-strung and snappish.

Emanuel Geometti, the President’s butler, answered, again with little more than an inquisitive look—the President also didn’t care for whispering, it made him paranoid and he didn’t like it when people within earshot spoke to each other in a normal tone either—it interfered with his concentration, even if he was just picking out socks.

“It’s important,” was all Marty said as way of explanation to the butler.

“What’s important?” the President asked. He was seated on the end of the bed holding two pairs of socks: red for a touch of whimsy, black for a serious day. He had been thinking about going for the red, but the early knock had him thinking otherwise.

“Emanuel, can you give us a minute?” Marty asked. When the butler stepped out into the hall, Marty explained the situation, and then when the President just stood there with his mouth hanging open, he went over it again. The word “zombie” hadn’t been uttered by Governor Stimpson and yet the concept was right there front and center. Marty did his best to downplay that side of the situation occurring in New York, but the President wasn’t a complete fool.

“What you’re describing is a zombie outbreak,” he said.

Marty nodded and shook his head, simultaneously so that he just sort of bobbled from the neck up. “Yes, but there is no way we can use that word. We’re going with
infected persons
.”

“Do we have proof of any of this? I mean real proof? A video or something?”

“We have a bunch of eye-witness accounts, including a National Guard general who did a personal reconnaissance in Poughkeepsie, but we don’t have a video beyond a few grainy and fleeting ATM camera shots that we can’t use. I’ve seen the pictures. They look somewhat like that
Bigfoot
hoax from a few years back.”

The President looked down at his socks, unable to come to a decision on which to wear. He needed his butler, just like he needed Marty. “So, what do we do?” That was the usual question he would ask after Marty’s daily briefing. The usual answer was “nothing.” The President was always “looking into it” or “conferring with world leaders” or “waiting on a comprehensive study.” And the people were always reassured that the President was ready to “tackle” the issue, whatever it might be, just as soon as he could.

Doing nothing would not work, not this time. The President had punted on Social Security reform, and welfare reform, and tax reform and pretty much everything of importance, but this wasn’t something he could leave for the next administration to clean up.

“We jump on it early,” Marty suggested. “We contain the situation and we find those responsible and hold them accountable.”

A pinched look collapsed the President’s face. The situation, if true, was unnerving, however the idea of “jumping on it” was even more so. There were so many consequences to actual action that it was mindboggling, especially to someone who couldn’t make up his mind which socks to wear.

“Do you mean we should send in the Army?” the President asked. “Because I-I don’t know about that. Is it even legal?”

Marty smiled in that benign way he had when speaking to the President, or to his four-year-old granddaughter. “Well, Sir, the Posse Comitatus Act basically keeps the military from performing any duties domestically that are normally assigned to local law enforcement. As an example, our armed forced wouldn’t be able to arrest any citizen attempting to break the quarantine. However, the National Guard can, as long as it’s not under the command of the regular Army.”

“So…so what does that mean? Do we use the army or not?”

“We should, but not yet. We can’t be too eager, especially since this is still New York’s problem.” Marty paused as he saw the President’s blank look. “It’s their problem because of the Stafford Act? You know, the act that authorizes the use of the military for disaster relief operations but only at the request of the state governor, which, as of yet, we have not been given. That being said, we should prepare for that contingency. With your permission, I would like to ready FEMA crews.”

“FEMA?” the President asked with some hesitation. The Federal Emergency Management Agency was still a bit of a bugaboo around the capitol. After the fiasco of hurricane Katrina everyone was wary to invoke the agency beyond the occasional tornado or flood. It was true that FEMA’s emergency plans had been updated and the training that its members received was more thorough and detailed, but there was a specter of failure hanging over the agency.

“Yes, FEMA,” Marty said. “It’s our best tool at the moment.”

“But what if…” the President couldn’t finish the question.

“What if they screw up again? This is an entirely different situation. For one, the press is on your side and for two, we’ll put them under the jurisdiction of General Collins of the 42
nd
. That was one of the issues in New Orleans; too many agencies going in too many directions. In this way, you are seen acting confidently, like a true leader but you won’t be on the hook for any issues that might arise. It’ll be on Collins or Governor Stimpson.”

“I like that.”

Marty knew he would. The President’s inability to make decisions had been well established. Even as a state senator he had voted “present” on almost every vote that didn’t concern naming a bridge. It had always been up to Marty to steer him to the proper conclusions. In some ways the President was like a talking doll; you had to pull his string to get him to dance. This was why Marty always made sure to get to him first thing in the morning before anyone else could get to him and muddle up his thinking.

The Chief of Staff went on pulling the string: “Now, we should call a full cabinet meeting on this, of course, but don’t let the Sec-Def drag you into this. If he brings up the Insurrection Act you just tell him that any authority the office of the President has was nullified by the 2008 repeal.”

“2008 repeal, got it.”

“And don’t be surprised if Milt in Homeland Security gets his panties in a bunch. FEMA is technically under his jurisdiction. Just remind him that
everything
is under your jurisdiction.”

“I never liked that guy,” the President muttered. And that too was Marty’s doing. He was personally repelled by the idea of an entire department dedicated to “Homeland Security.” That was what the FBI and the CIA were for, not that he cared for those agencies either.

“Well, if things go to pot, he’ll be the first we hang out to dry,” Marty said. At first the President smiled at this but then a frown of worry swept his face like a rain cloud threatening to darken a picnic. Marty patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Sir, this will not get out of hand, I promise you that. The 42
nd
is being called up even as we speak. It’s a ten-thousand man force, equipped with the finest weapons money can buy. We have to start looking at this as an opportunity. Remember what that old Chicago guy from the last administration said: never let a crisis go to waste.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning we let our enemies on the other side of the aisle hang themselves on their rhetoric. They’re always going on about de-regulating everything under the sun. They have even wanted fewer regulations on big pharmaceutical companies and this was an R &K screw up.”

“Did they break the law in some way? You said it was an accident.”

Marty was within a whisker of rolling his eyes. “Sure. Probably. But it doesn’t matter, either way. Now’s our chance to rein in
Big Pharma
. They’ve made their last penny of profit off the sick.”

“Good,” the President said, with little enthusiasm. In the last election, he had raked in a ton of dough from R & K—perfectly legal campaign contributions, of course, all except a few hundred thousand that had been funneled back door into an overseas account that not even the First Lady knew about.

He wanted to mention something concerning the legit campaign donations, but Marty was already out the door with his cell phone kissing his ear. He wasn’t calling about the state of readiness of the 42
nd
, nor was he talking to Milt Grodin who headed up FEMA, no, he was on the phone with the FBI. There were culprits involved in this disaster and he wanted to make sure the right people were blamed.

“Emanuel!” the President bellowed. “I need you, immediately. You have to help me choose.” In the right hand was the whimsical red and in the left was the serious black. The butler knew all about job security and thus made a show out of deliberating the choices, as if this was to be the hardest decision facing the leader of the free world that morning.

Red was chosen, while eight hundred miles north, within the slowly expanding quarantine zone, terror built on terror and the stench of fear grew to become a physical thing that coated people like crusts of ice, causing them to shiver in their hiding places. They trembled beneath their beds like children, or in closets beneath piles of clothes or in the back seats of cars in garages, slumped down low beneath the edges of the windows.

One little six-year-old, named Helena, frightened by the screams coming from her parent’s room, climbed up into her chimney where the soot turned her into shadow and the ash covered her scent. She was safe for three hours until she couldn’t hold her pee-pee for a second longer. She squirmed down and left little black footprints in the beige carpet. Helena shouldn’t have flushed the toilet when she was done, but out of habit she did. Her mother ate her minutes later.

For the most part, hiding was pointless, the zombies could sniff people out easily. Only those who were armed and who turned their homes into fortresses and, most importantly, fought back, had a chance at survival. Even then, the odds weren’t good. Few people were equipped with enough ammo to fight off the growing hordes or they were using weapons unsuited for the killing of zombies.

Knives put a person in arm’s reach of death; bats and axes spread the deadly Com-cells around, infecting everyone. Fire was clumsy and tended to kill friend and foe alike. Sometimes even guns were practically useless. With the dark, people found themselves shooting scoped rifles from distances of ten feet or less. In these cases, the scope made the rifle
less
accurate. Others found out the hard way that although shotguns could blast the heads right off a zombie, they also filled the air with deadly spores.

A family might survive an attack, only to
turn
a couple of hours later.

Interestingly, the best weapon of the night was the .38 Smith &Wesson. In the dark, it was as accurate as any other gun and because of its manageable recoil, it remained a steady weapon to fire even by smaller individuals; women and children used it as effectively as men did. Its greatest asset was the fact that it was considerably under-powered compared to most of the weapons in the quarantine zone. There were a mere handful of weapons of a smaller caliber, simply because men liked guns more than women did and men liked them big.

Excessive stopping power was a useless characteristic against zombies, as they simply did not stop no matter what sized weapon was used against them. Only a head shot had any chance at killing them and the .38 was the least likely round to cause an exit wound.