Cassie (Adrian's Undead Diary Book 8) (20 page)

“Thanks Leo. I just hope when this all pans out I’m not seen as a traitor. I’m a patriot. I want my nation to stand strong for the generations to come,” Foster said the words almost robotically. Even in the dream he felt stiff, like the words weren’t entirely his own.

“I’m proud to be your son, Dad,” Leo said without looking up.

Foster watched his son shuffle through the cards, lingering on some Baltimore Orioles cards that he remembered were his son's favorites. Something inside him felt strange. Deep down in the place where love and trust began he felt a tiny amount of suspicion and doubt. Something was wrong with Leo, and the father felt it. He asserted his feelings.

“Son, why won’t you look at me?” Foster asked, moving to sit on the bed beside the chair where his boy sat. He looked at the poster of a Tomcat F14 launching off a carrier on the wall above his son's bed. He used to tease Leo that the Tomcat was a Navy plane, and he should've had a poster of an F16 instead.
 

“No reason Dad. It’s just that since Mom died that day, my feelings have been messed up.” Leo shrugged.

Again the feeling returned. It crept up his spine like a spider under his shirt. Something was off about his son. His flesh and blood. Foster’s skin started to ripple and chill to the same temperature as the room. He felt exposed. He reached out and touched his son firmly on the shoulder. “Look at me Leo. Show me your mother’s eyes.”

Leo stopped moving entirely for moment, then reached over and set the well taken care of cards on the desk. Foster noted how cool Leo’s skin was under his hand, even in the chilled room. It seemed as if the source of the chill was his son. Leo took a deep breath and turned to Foster.

His eyes were blacked over. Not blackened from a punch, but black from corruption, black from the presence of something other. Black from something from within.

Leo's mouth moved. “Hello General Foster,” a voice that was very much not Leo’s said. The voice was invasive, insulting, and judgmental. Foster’s blood thickened and churned in his heart.

“Who the hell are you?” Foster asked the thing that was not his son. He moved away out of instinct, and immediately felt guilty for doing so. That was his son sitting there. He should never flinch away from his own.

“I am not a bad dream. I am the architect of the end. I am the solution to your problems Foster.”

“Bullshit. Where is my son? What have you done with him?” Foster’s fear was slowly being replaced by anger. He leaned in to the thing that was impersonating his baby boy.

“He is dead. I apologize for using the image of your son to get messages to you. I feared you would not be able to listen, and do the right thing without gentle coercion from someone you trusted.”

“Do the right thing? You mean bomb the cities into isolation?”
 

“Indeed. There were still hundreds of thousands of souls still in those cities. Now they have even less of a chance to survive my work. I have you to thank for a job well done.”

Foster was putting two and two together. Dream or not this was far too vivid and horrible to not be real on some level. Foster swallowed the rising bile and listened as the voice continued droning on, aggravating the very core of his being.

“You’ve done excellent work General. Your son would be proud, do not let my deception remove that fact. You know your son... you know he would approve of your plan. I have come clean to you tonight to ask of you one more thing that would make your son proud. One more task to ensure your legacy among men for all time.”

Irrationally Foster’s ego listened to the strange voice. Deep down inside he knew that the plan he’d put into action was the best plan. He knew it to his core. It was his idea. His thought. His intellect and foresight. The voice, strange and invasive as it had been, spoke to him now. He felt less ill at ease.
 

Or so he thought.

“Foster you have one more chance with your planes. They’ll be on to you by then. In fact, the one named Lancaster is already aware of your work. In three days your last chance to seal off the cities forever and ensure the survival of your nation will come to you, and you must do the right thing. This is your Thermopylae. The last stand of the patriotic.”

Foster’s mind raced back to the great Greek battle. He knew the seriousness of the association and leaned in to listen to the voice. In his ear the voice now sounded institutional. Resolute and wise like Sun Tzu, or Napoleon Bonaparte. He felt trust in the voice. He felt the need to impress it now. To show it that he was able, capable, and strong.

“What cities do I need to hit? Do I need to bomb more west coast cities? I’ve been thinking that I should hit some of the tertiary target cities. Places like—“

The thing that wasn’t his son cut him off, “Foster when you wake up you will have written down what you need to do. What is most important to remember is that there are many cities that cannot be sealed off. Many cities that have no bridges to bomb, or that have too many exits. These cities require different weapons. Longer lasting weapons.”

“Nuclear?”

“Even you do not have access to those weapons General. What other weapons could your planes drop that would have an effect months and years later?”

Foster thought long and hard about his munitions options. He thought about what weapons were stored at what bases and what he could get loaded without requiring anyone else’s approval. His mind checked down a memorized list of ordnance as if it were a menu at a restaurant. An idea came to him quickly, “What about cluster bombs? We could drop anti-personnel munitions all over those cities. When the dead walk they’ll trip them. That might buy us months in the cities. That’s genius. We don’t need to deal with clearing the munitions for years either. Why didn’t I think of that already?”

“It wasn’t time. Other things needed to be done first. Foster, when this bombing run is completed, you must know that there are some that will come for you. They will accuse you of being a traitor, and worse. Your legacy will be tarnished if they are allowed to slander you. I already have a plan ready for you. Trust in me. Trust in your plan. Trust that you will make Leo and your wife proud. You are a hero. Never forget that.”

Foster nodded, feeling a strange sense of comfort and safety from the blackness in his son’s eyes. The voice was sweet to him. He could feel an odd form of affection growing in him for the thing that he conversed with. He considered that he was perhaps speaking to God. It would explain the good advice, and the gentle trust that he was feeling now. Maybe he was finally finding God at the end of it all?

“I’ll do my best. Hopefully everything works out.”

His son leaned in, a flare of color appearing deep inside the black orbs that had washed over his son’s baby blue eyes. The same eyes his wife had. Leo’s body leaned in and placed a cool, flat palm on Foster’s chest. The palm flared with unnatural warmth and Foster’s heart leapt a few beats. He felt strangely energized by the surreal moment, and the contact with something so powerful. When Leo sat back in his desk chair Foster knew he had been given the strength to persevere. Strength from his son, and strength from the Almighty.

“Be strong Foster. You must do the right thing. For the sake of your nation. For the souls of your son and wife.”

Foster was awake before the words finished processing in his mind. He was sitting up in his bunk, his small tattered notebook in one hand, his dying pen in the other. He’d written down fifteen target cities and the words ‘cluster munitions.’ He smiled.
 

Foster sat the notebook down and put his hand over the spot on his chest his son had just had his. He took a deep breath, filled himself with conviction, and began to plot how he would follow through on his resolution.
 

Foster had always wanted his name to go down in history as one of the world’s greatest, and this was his moment.
 

*****

It took considerable effort on his part to conceal his research over the next few days from the few staff still in the bunker as well as to avoid Lancaster. Foster did some digging into Lancaster to try and squash his paranoia, but found nothing. The man simply didn’t exist. That didn't help his growing anxiety over having the old spook wandering about. When nothing could be found on his perceived nemesis, Foster opted for subterfuge.

A few more people were let out of the facility over the next few days, and the day to day affairs of the facility became increasingly disorganized with each tearful, frightened departure. The two a day meals dropped to one a day, then it was MREs delivered, and then it was nothing unless you went to get it yourself out of a darkened closet. Rooms were left unlit, trash began to overflow, and dust began to accumulate. Foster heard word that Lancaster finally left to go to his wife and family. When that news reached him, he knew his final preparations would be enough.

Foster knew enough about the communications gear in the building to be dangerous. He limited the emails, faxes, and calls going in and out of certain offices and sent faux messages to the men and women across the country at the bases still under his control. He explained the new plan to the people he could trust the morning of the first bombing runs after Lancaster's exodus, and sat back in the main control center to orchestrate everything. It was perfect.

As Foster watched the dwindling number of satellite feeds still available to him, his excitement caused his heart to beat heavy. He was sweaty with nervousness, and his breath escaped him every so often. He knew today was the day as he drank from a stale bottle of water, trying to moisten his parched mouth. He didn't even notice that his own body gaunter than ever, and that his veins were raised, and throbbing. He himself had become cancerous in his own way.

“How many planes are in the air today?” A leathery voice that shouldn't have been there asked him. Foster’s heart thumped in response.

Foster rotated quickly in his chair, spinning back to see his enemy Lancaster, his trademark white button down shirt still stained from too many long days and nights in the facility. Foster noticed the spook held a small automatic pistol pointed at the floor casually. The gun reminded him of a James Bond movie. He wondered if Lancaster had a license to kill. If Foster moved, he’d be shot. He steadied the spinning chair with his feet on the floor. "You should be gone. You shouldn't be here. I— I thought you went home to be with your wife and children?"

Lancaster shook his head, clucking his tongue softly. "I'm not the kind of man who can keep a wife General Foster. Nor would I be suited to take care of a child. You could say I'm married to my job."

All Foster could manage in reply was an unhappy grunt. A streak of pain moved up his spine, and over the top of his head. He twitched.

“Cluster bombs Foster? What’s the game here?” Lancaster asked.

The old man knew a lot if he was already aware that the planes were armed with the special bombs. Foster swallowed, finding no moisture in his mouth. “Lancaster if you read my plan, you’d know that the cities are lost. Dropping these munitions now simply allows us to have a long-term effect on the undead in the cities, disrupting them while still allowing us to task resources to securing the rest of the country and the resources we need to survive.”

“Interesting theory. You realize that there are hundreds of thousands of people still in the cities that won’t be able to leave if you drop these bombs? Maybe millions of people? Are you aware of the amount of damage you could still do? How many people will be left for dead?”

Foster had a pang of guilt as his heart fluttered. He felt stabbing pains shoot up and down his arms like pins and needles from heat suddenly restored to a cold limb. In the headset he wore he heard the first of the pilots call out the release of their bombs. Somewhere on the east coast. The new ringing in his ears kept the words garbled. Foster pulled the headset off with an increasingly weak hand. He noticed for the first time that his arm was emaciated, and withered. He dropped the headset on the keyboard beside him.

“Lancaster you wouldn’t understand. I’ve been contacted by greater powers. I’ve been dreaming of all of this. I’m on a miss—… I’m on a mission…” Foster’s voice failed.
 

Lancaster walked into the room and past Foster. His eyes never left the officer, watching the sweat stream down his sickly face. Lancaster picked up the headset and donned it.

“Foster you think you’re the only person who is having dreams? I hate to break it to you, but there are a lot of folks nowadays that are seeing some particularly strange things at night. The trick is figuring out where your dreams are coming from.” Lancaster tabbed some switches on the controls and sent out curt radio communications to the bombers that had yet to drop their payloads. The pilots took their instructions without argument and turned away, heading home.

As Lancaster did this Foster’s body continued to fail. He'd been abandoned. The sweat ran down his face in streams and his voice was gone. He struggled to keep his eyes lifted. Foster’s face was twisted into an expression of extreme pain. Lancaster had seen this all before.

“You’re having a heart attack Foster.”

Foster looked up at Lancaster’s face, scared and in pain.

“You have no history of heart problems. You’re good enough, drinking plenty of fluids, and yet you’re showing extreme signs of advanced sickness. Cancer probably. Something very aggressive is eating you from within. Do you find it strange that you’re suddenly dropping dead? Leaving a corpse behind inside a government facility just a few moments after issuing orders that you claim to have received in a dream from God. Sounds like a perfect way to disrupt one of the last places that still has some semblance of control over the country.”

Foster’s eyes were rolling up and into the back of his head as his body continued to fail on him. Lancaster sighed and reached into his pants pocket, producing a short, thick suppressor for the pistol he held. A few seconds later it was threaded onto the barrel.

“Sorry Foster, but I think you’re playing for the wrong team, and I won’t let you die and run around turning folks here. You aren't the only one having informative dreams you know. Nice try bad guy.”