Dead Again (13 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The old shelter was sprawling. Dim lights and cement beams casted shadows which fooled the eye. Sharon lead Peterson and Cash further away from the civilians and into the guts of the shelter. It grew darker. The place was much bigger than it first appeared, probably the size of two football fields.

“Where are we going?” Peterson didn’t like the silence. Sharon didn’t usually withhold information. It was out of character for her.

But Sharon didn’t need to answer. Nearby was the sound of a television set. She turned left, and walked directly to an open door.

There was a hidden little alcove, easily missed in this massive shelter. The sound was coming from inside the room.

An image from a small TV illuminated Peterson’s face. He was amazed and stepped closer.

Text scrolled on the bottom third of the screen. It read “emergency broadcasting system.” A male voice, shaky and tired, was speaking: “Reports are coming in that the President and his entourage may have taken to a classified bunker. However, this information cannot be confirmed. There has been no word from the White House, or the President, senate or congress in over 36 hours. The silence has caused some to speculate that the President may in fact be dead. In addition, there has been no relay from the Department of Defense, the Joint Chiefs, or any other official body of the federal government since 10am yesterday.”

Another broadcaster interrupted. His voice was too composed and collected, a logical sounding man, like a scientist—or an atheist. “This is not legitimate news that you are reporting. You are reporting rumors from extremely limited resources. There is a clear and logical reason for the lack of communication. I must state the obvious: all communications have been bottlenecked. We have only been on the air for two hours. We can predict that there has been a drastic decrease in the use of cell phones computers and other such devices which I believe taxed our systems--”

The first voice interrupted, “If we can relay now, why can’t our government for God’s sake? It just doesn’t make any sense. . .”

As the voices droned on, Sharon walked over to the TV cable box and took hold of the Ethernet wire attached to it. She grabbed the line which attached the wall, and followed it with their eyes. It snaked its way across the entire ceiling. “This is satellite TV. They must have a receiver on the roof.”

Cash stated the painfully obvious, a bit of hope in his voice. “We’re getting a signal.”

Peterson didn’t waste a second. He removed the cable form the television, which then went blank. He took his two way radio--sophisticated, with 256 channels, various scanning methods and phone system integration capability—and connected the cable into the side of his phone. Watching the LCD carefully, he saw connectivity bars appear.

“We got a signal!” Peterson was half amazed. He punched a code on the keypad. Encryption numbers scrolled, and there was an unusual dial tone. The phone rang.

There was a loud click on the other end of the line. Silence, then a beep, and another beep. The beeping was in an unusual pattern.

“Morse code,” Sharon was urgent.

The group crowded around the phone, listening.

“What is it saying?” asked Cash.

“Shut up,” Sharon growled.

 
Peterson spoke slowly, along with the rhythm of the beeping code, “Base abandoned,” he looked up and caught Sharon’s eyes. They exchanged a glance.

Base abandoned. Holy shit.

There was silence as they continued to listen to the ominous beeps.

 
“Incoming coordinates,” stated Peterson. Sharon needed no further instructions. She took a pen out of her pocket.

“Coordinates. . . sixty nine latitude by thirty nine longitude.”

Sharon wrote the numbers on the palm of her hand, “Got it.”

The beeping stopped for a moment, and then began again.

“It’s a loop. The code is repeating itself.” Peterson said, letting go of a deep breath. “That’s all there is.”

“That’s fucking it?” Cash said. “What the hell does it mean?”

There came a deep, baritone voice, “It means that home base has been overrun.” Armstrong had entered the room and had been standing there for some time. “It means that nobody is left.”

“It means we have new drop-off coordinates.” Peterson corrected. “After we’re finished on Palm island, we move to these new coordinates.”

“You don’t know that, Commander. Those coordinates could mean anything,” Armstrong stepped toward Peterson.

“They could mean a regrouping point,” Sharon abruptly stated. “They’re not necessarily new drop off points, Commander.”

“No,” Peterson walked toward Armstrong, and stood face to face with him. “That was our designated channel. Nobody else has access to it. General Moore left us that message.”

“You’re working on a hunch,” Armstrong spat his words, his tone surprisingly confrontational. “And you heard the TV. Even the President hasn’t been heard from. All departments of the federal government are down. Even if we do by some amazing feat get to Plum Island, then what? There’s nobody fucking left.”

Johnny-Boy appeared from the shadows and without warning attacked Armstrong, grabbing his collar, flipping him around and slamming him on the table. Armstrong countered, and kicked Johnny-Boy in the chest which propelled his body away, smacking against the wall.

Sharon raised her rifle and warned with a deadly serious tone, “STOP! Or so help me I will put your asses down.”

Cash raised his rifle and pointed it at Sharon, “You won’t do no so such thing.”

In return, Sharon points her gun at Cash. “Try me motherfucker.”

Peterson moved quickly, and stood between them all. He was directly in the line of fire now. “The penalty for disobeying my command is death, and so help me god I will kill you all with my own hands. I order you to lower your weapons and CHILL THE FUCK OUT!”

Johnny-Boy’s eyes were locked on Armstrong, who seemed damn surprised by the kid’s attack--as was everybody else is the room. But Armstrong made no further attempt to fight. Cash and Sharon looked at each other with murder in their eyes. Slowly, they lowered their weapons.

Johnny-Boy took a ferocious, out-of-character stance. “Remember what you told me back at the base, Armstrong? Huh? You told me that the next time I hesitate in battle you were going to shoot me dead. Now look at who’s hesitating and disobeying command. I looked up to you once. I thought you were invincible. Now you’re just a weak-ass spineless bastard who doesn’t have the guts to carry out this mission.”

Peterson was damn surprised by Johnny-Boy. In fact, he was impressed, especially by his loyalty.

Armstrong took a deep, self-satisfying breath, “Congratulations,
Johhny
-Boy, you finally grew a set of balls.” Then, he turned to the group as a whole. “How many of us have to die for this Dr. Winthrop? We are puppets on a string, following orders blindly without even having asked the question: what is really going on in that lab? How can one man be so important? Our whole lives, we’ve been nothing but disposable assets. Our lives mean nothing to our leaders, and for all we have done for our country, our lives never have.
 
You’ve always told me, Commander, that we either take orders, or we give them. Well, those days are through for me.”

Peterson’s head was down as he sadly listened. His voice wasn’t angry anymore. He was just doing his best to hold on to his dear friend, “I don’t like leaving these people alone any more than you, but how about others just like these people? Still alive, hiding away, hoping for a miracle. Maybe what’s in that lab will make a difference, maybe it won’t, but I have to try. We all have to try.

“And I need you all. I can’t do this alone. I need you to keep your emotions in check, to keep your heads together, and most of all I need you to have faith in me. It may be the last chance our nation, maybe even our world, has to win this war.”

Sharon, for the first time, had a kinder, softer voice. “Then why did we stop to help these people?”

“Because we had to. We’ve done our jobs here. Now let us take this lesson with us and move along.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The television had been set up in front of the civilians, who were crowded around it.
 

The anchorman continued, “At least a little good news to broadcast. It appears that some of our uplinks are returning to operational status. We can guess that if this is so with us, it will be with many others. We can only hope to hear from high command. In the meantime, we are about to try and broadcast video which was captured some time ago. Please stand by...” As if trying to come back to life, the TV screen flickered.

And then video footage appeared. A shaky news camera captured the Manhattan Bridge in New York City.
 
The image was shaky and grainy. It showed countless news vans and cameramen, capturing the scene from every angle.
 
The bridge had been locked down by authorities. A formation of NYPD cops stood at the ready, riot shields and nightsticks in hand, and blocked the mouth of the bridge.

A camera zoomed-in, showing a high wall of sandbags and a regiment of National Guard soldiers, wearing tear-gas masks and bearing assault rifles. The image cut to another camera, showing four tanks, placed to stop any vehicles which might attempt to break the line. And, as the last line of defense, perched on each tank was a soldier manning a 50 caliber machine gun.

A frantic mob of civilians stood at the mouth of the bridge: husbands and wives holding their children, elderly folks, teenagers, and just everyday New Yorkers. They were jam-packed, shoulder to shoulder, with barely enough room to breathe. They clearly wanted out of York City--at any cost.

As the viewed the broadcast, a murmur of shock and awe swept through the civilians. They hadn’t yet seen anything of this nature.

Peterson and Sharon stood and watched. “We’ve already seen this type of shit, Commander,” Sharon says. “Turn it off. We know what’s going on out there.”

“Maybe we can learn something new,” he shot back.

“This broadcast is two days old. We got a signal now, let’s see what else we can do with it,” Sharon sounded pissed, impatient.

“We will, but some people need to see this.” Peterson turned and faced Sharon. She was as beautiful as always. Even when angered. “They need to know what is happening, so when we leave, they have a chance of fending for themselves.” Peterson looked back at the television.

A camera snapped around and captured a portion of Manhattan. There were fires blazing, Army forces running, ambulances and police vehicles racing, panicked people filling the streets.

Another camera focused on a petite, blond news reporter with nice tits and red lipstick, the famous Patricia Surefire. She was standing outside, in the crowd. Publicly, she was known for following hurricanes, and all other natural disasters. The crowd elbowed and shoved her, and she was caught in its sway.
 

Surefire hollered over the noise of the crowd, “This is Patricia Surefire reporting for CNN live from the scene of the Manhattan Bridge.
 
As the final bridges, tunnels, and transit have been shut down, effectively quarantining New York City and barricading all exits, the public has grown outraged. The tension is reaching a breaking point as residents and visitors alike are attempting to flee the city for safer grounds, or to return home, or to connect with loved ones. As you can see all around me, a terrible situation may just be turning worse. . .”

The broadcast cut to another camera angle which zoomed-in, and focused on a line of National Guard soldiers; they were wide eyed and afraid. They were besieged.
 
A Colonel could be seen standing amongst them, his posture and expression odd, like that of a roman conqueror. He raised a bullhorn.

It looked like the Colonel greatly enjoyed his power, and it sang in his voice.
 
“Any individual violating the quarantined will be shot. Disperse now.”

A NYPD officer approach the Colonel.

The video footage was incredible, just like a horrifying reality TV show.

“You are NOT going to fire live rounds upon these civilians. They are just scared. And mouthing-off into your bullhorn is not making the situation any better!” The NYPD officer shouted.

The Colonel shot a venomous look at the cop, “like hell I’m not. We defend this quarantine, and therefore this bridge, at any cost. I have my orders, and in case you’re not up to date, this is military jurisdiction now. First person to step over the line gets shot.” The Colonel looked away, his eyes teary with excitement.
 
There was a scary lunacy in the Colonels’ face.

“Sir, you are in power here,” The NYPD officer reasoned. “I know this. Please consider there are woman and children in the crowd.”

“Return to your post, cop,” The Colonel spat, entirely disregarded the authority of the NYPD.

 
Unable to control himself, the officer burst into a rage “This infection has already spread throughout our entire damn nation, and you know this, you son-of-a-bitch! This is not a quarantine, it’s a firing line. I’m pulling my men out!”

 
Another camera captured a National Guard soldier, a young Private, manned a 50 caliber machine gun atop a tank. He swiveled the machine gun torrent out of nervousness.
 
This kid was the very last line of defense. At his back was just the empty bridge.
 

The image caught something moving behind him.
 
A silhouette appeared, limping and swaying without balance. Step by step the figure advanced closer. It was a horrid sight: an elderly man missing the left half of his skull.
 
His sticky whitish and pruned face was otherworldly. Any person with such wounds would be dead, but not this person.

A shout from the cameraman, “Behind you!”

The zombie opened its mouth and let out a hair-raising groan.

The young Private was startled and swung his machine gun one hundred and eighty degrees. There, point blank in the private’s crosshairs, was the infected. The kid seemed to freeze.

“Shoot it soldier. SHOOT IT!” came the cameraman’s voice.

The private squeezed the trigger.

The 50 caliber machine gun exploded bullet rounds at the rate of 300 rounds per second, and practically sliced the infected man in half, from the bottom up. For a split second, the infected remained standing. Its head still intact, the look in its eyes was somewhat startled.
 
Then it collapsed, and hit the ground with a wet slap.
 

“Holyshit,” came the voice of the cameraman. “It’s still fucking alive!”

The Private gasped, aimed at the infected man’s head, and squeezed the trigger again. The violent flow of bullets was so powerful that the infected man’s head simply blew up, bone and brain matter popped in all directions. The zombie stopped moving, but this time, for good.

The crackling sound of the 50 caliber gun was like a starter pistol, and it set off the crowd into a panic.

 
Hundreds of wide-eyed people, parents grasping the hands of their children, elderly couples fighting to stay afoot, just everyday folks, suddenly shrieked in unison, charging the Manhattan Bridge barricade. The screen went blank for a moment, and then the broadcast cut to another angle: the NYPD riot police raised their shields, like Roman soldiers, waiting for the swarm of civilians to strike them. The impact of the crowded was much greater than they could have anticipated.
 
The panic and terror had turned the crowed into a tidal wave, which slammed the NYPD riot shields with such incredible force that the cops were simply smothered and crushed, drowned in an ocean’s under
toe
.

Having trampled the riot police, the wave of civilians slammed into the wall of sandbags, which swayed with the massive impact.
 
The Colonel stepped forward and screamed: “Fire! Fire! Fire!”

The NYPD commanding officer let out a futile scream. “NO!”

The formation of National Guard soldiers squeezed their triggers. Assault machine guns exploded, the flashes of barrels spitting bullets without mercy.
 
A wave of shrieks burst from the crowd—the people targets, trapped in a kill zone.
 

Patricia Surefire was fighting hard not to get swept away by the crowd, and was still fighting. Her blouse was suddenly ripped open. A large caliber bullet hit the back of
Surefire’s
head, and exited through her face, and ripped it off.
 
There was a gutted red hole where her face once was and the once pretty blonde reporter’s body dropped like a sandbag.

 
The TV screen flickered to black. Soon after, the emergency broadcast signal appeared again.

The broadcast ended, and the crowd of civilians were shocked. Some of them started to cry again, others stood with their hands over their mouths.

“Learn anything new commander?” Sharon asked, sarcastic. “Or did you just want to scare the hell out of these people?”

“Yes,” Peterson says gently, “both.”

Johnny-Boy arrived beside them. He stroked the barrel of his rifle, as if it brought him comfort, “What did you learn, sir?”

Peterson turned to Johnny-Boy. He was really coming to like this kid, “We’re killing each other, son.” Peterson turned to Sharon, “You know what that means?”
 

“That people panicked.” Armstrong appeared, throwing in his two-cents.

“No, Armstrong. It means were not being beaten by the zombies. We’re beating ourselves..”