Fall of Night (Dead of Night Series) (9 page)

The president paused and gave the camera a two-second beat of unblinking intensity. “But keep in mind that for folks who are not following instructions, if you are not evacuating when you’ve been asked to evacuate, you’re putting first responders in danger. We’re going to have to have search-and-rescue teams in and around multiple states all at the same time. And although we’ve got the Department of Defense all positioned, if the public is not following instructions, that makes it more dangerous for people and it means that we could have fatalities that could have been avoided.

Transportation is going to be tied up for a long time. And probably the most significant impact for a lot of people, in addition to flooding, is going to be getting power back on. We anticipate that there are going to be a lot of trees down, a lot of water. And despite the fact that the power companies are working very closely with their various state officials and local officials to make sure they are bringing in as many assets as possible and getting those ready in preparation for the storm, the fact is that a lot of these emergency crews are not going to be able to get into position to start restoring power until some of these winds have died down. And because of the nature of this storm, that may take several days. So the public should anticipate that there’s going to be a lot of power outages, and it may take time for that power to get back on.”

Blair glanced at his own copy of the prepared message. The groundwork was established, but the real game was about to begin.

Don’t fuck it up
, thought Blair, knowing the president’s tendency to go off script.

“Now we come to the second matter before us this evening,” said the president in a voice that changed from firm control to something approaching cold steel. “Many of you are already aware of reports of an outbreak of a new kind of flu virus. This outbreak was first reported in Stebbins, a small town on the border of Pennsylvania and Maryland. There has been some wild speculation in the press as to the nature and severity of this disease, and that speculation has sparked a rash of irresponsible and inaccurate posts on social media. Much of the information being shared about this outbreak is false, and some persons have posted faked videos and audio files purporting to be from reporters in that town.”

The president paused for effect, and Blair believed that everyone in the country paused with him, taking the same deep breath, holding it in their chests, waiting for the heavy punch that follows the tentative jab.

“Those reports are false,” said the president with real edge in his voice, “and they pose a serious threat to the efforts of FEMA and the Centers for Disease Control. Reports like that are the worst kind of Internet manipulation, and investigations are currently under way to determine if these posts are an attempt to deliberately disrupt our ability to provide effective emergency response. I can assure you that the substance of these posts are false and I will promise you that the persons responsible will be found and prosecuted as cyber-terrorists. It is abhorrent when a misguided or malicious few attempt to exploit a catastrophic event in order to further their own agendas, especially if that goal is at the expense of the American people. We will not allow them to succeed, and we will protect the people of this great nation.”

Good—nailed it, word for fucking word
, thought Blair, and he wanted to fist-pump, but didn’t.

The president almost glared at the camera. “Last point I’ll make, though—this is going to be a difficult storm, but the great thing about America is when we go through tough times like this we all pull together. We look out for our friends. We look out for our neighbors. And we set aside whatever issues we may have otherwise to make sure that we respond appropriately and with swiftness. And that’s exactly what I anticipate is going to happen here.

“So I want to thank all the federal teams, state and local teams that are in place. I’m confident that we’re ready. But I think the public needs to prepare for the fact that this is going to take a long time for us to clean up. The good news is we will clean up and we will get through this. Thank you. God bless you and God bless the United States of America.”

The camera lingered on the president’s face for a moment, then cut to a place card of the presidential seal.

“And we’re out,” said the cameraman.

The president sagged back and closed his eyes. He looked as exhausted as Blair felt. It was nearly an hour into a new day and they’d been at this since early yesterday. Blair knew that there was little chance any of them would get a moment’s rest any time soon. They were all wired with caffeine and whatever prescription stimulants they each had in pockets or handbags.

Even so, Blair smiled and nodded to himself, well pleased with the statement that had just gone out. He leaned toward Sylvia Ruddy. “That was letter perfect.”

The chief of staff swiveled her head like a praying mantis and glared at him with absolute hatred in her eyes.

“We’re all going to hell for this,” she said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

OVER STEBBINS COUNTY

Sergeant Hap Rollins crouched over the minigun and peered through the slanting rain at the endless rows of stalked corn eddying like waves beneath the rotor wash.

“Anything?”

The voice in his headphones was the pilot, Sully. It was maybe the fortieth time he’d asked the question since they’d come out to the farm country. Rollins wished Sully would shut the hell up. If he saw something he’d say so, and Rollins didn’t see shit. Nothing human, anyway. Bunch of cows lying down to try and get out of the wind and a few horses running free from an overrun farm. The farmhouse and outbuildings had already been destroyed by rockets. Thirty or forty times they flew over dead bodies lying on the road or on lawns or in the middle of fields. Dead bodies. Not walking dead.

Rollins was still processing that distinction.

The officers wanted them to use the word “infected,” but most of the guys were calling them zombies. A word from old Bela Lugosi movies. A word from comic books and horror novels.

Zombies.

Rollins didn’t like the word, didn’t like the way the word fit inside his head. It had too many sharp edges. It nicked the walls of his worldview. And it didn’t do anything good for his faith. Rollins was a Catholic and the only dead that were supposed to be walking around were the ones Jesus raised, like that little girl he said was only sleeping. Lazarus, too. And JC himself.

Only saints and saviors were supposed to be walking around if they were dead. Those were the rules, and Rollins didn’t remember reading anything about infected ordinary dead people getting up and walking around biting people.

That wasn’t death, no matter what the mission intel said.

That was something else. Something bad, sure, but dead people don’t do what these people were doing.

Even though Rollins believed in Jesus and God, he wasn’t as sure about the concept of the Devil. He knew he was supposed to believe that, and even though he could imagine a place where sinners went—his ex-wife and her boyfriend came to mind—a guy with hooves and horns directing traffic for lost souls was hard for a grown man to accept.

He wiped raindrops from his goggles and leaned out to look down the rows of corn.

Nothing.

“We’re good,” he said into his mike, and he had to repeat it over the constant crackle of interference. Some of the guys said the communications team was operating jammers in the area. Collins could believe it. He’d tried to call home to check on his parents, who lived in Pittsburgh, but there was no signal on his cell. That had been a couple of hours ago. So, jammers? Sure, he could buy that. “Let’s go check out the other field,” he yelled into the mike. “Looks like a pear grove. Come in low on the west side and we’ll see if there’s anything under the trees.”

“Roger that,” confirmed the pilot, his voice fuzzy and distorted.

The Black Hawk lifted away from the waving corn and began a shallow climbing circle. They were working with nineteen other helos, quartering and searching the vast farmlands that filled this corner of the county. It was a crazy job and Rollins, like everyone else, knew that it was pretty damn close to a fool’s errand. There were three hundred farms here, ranging from little postage-stamp herb gardens to the fruit and vegetable groves that stretched for miles. There were fifty teams in various ground vehicles and a couple of hundred two-man patrols. And with all of that it seemed like an absurdly impossible task to Rollins.

Even so, there was plenty of radio chatter from the ground and the other Black Hawks saying that they were finding spots to clean out. Infected trapped inside locked cars. A whole bunch of them trapped inside the Weis supermarket after downed trees knocked out the power. Some strays wandering through fields.

Like that.

The infection was out there, and the Q-zone seemed to be holding, but Rollins had his doubts.

His buddy Dave, who was a lot more Catholic than Rollins was, had confided to him that he was really scared by all this. Religious scared, not just regular scared. Dave couldn’t understand why God allowed something like this. The dead to rise.

Rollins told him, “This ain’t God, man, it’s science. This is weird science shit.”

“It’s the dead rising, man…”

“Nah. Just sick people acting dead. Like in that old movie, the one in London—
Twenty-eight Days Later
. It’s only a disease.”

“No, man,” said Dave, lapsing into a confidential whisper, “I think this is what they talked about in the Book of Revelation. The End Times.”

Rollins started to grin at that, but the look on Dave’s face killed that expression before it was born.

“C’mon man,” Rollins said mildly, “it’s just like that anthrax thing. It’s a disease and that’s all it is. Don’t mess your head up by thinking bad thoughts.”

But Dave wasn’t convinced and Rollins didn’t at all like the look in Dave’s eyes. No, sir, he did not like that look at all. Kind of wild. Maybe a little crazy.

He wondered how Dave was getting along. He was out working a checkpoint with their drinking buddy Tito Rodriguez. Out on the Q-zone line.

The pilot came out of his turn and slowed as he dropped down almost to the level of the road. The rotor wash blew into the field and raised the skirts on the pear trees. Muddy water swirled upward, but Rollins had a clear-enough view under the front four or five rows. He saw slender tree trunks and between those …

“Shit,” he said suddenly. “Got one.”

There was a man there. Dressed in farmer’s clothes that hung in torn rags from his burly shoulders. His eyes and mouth were black, and as the helo edged sideways toward him, the man snarled and reached for a man crouched in the open doorway.

Rollins took a small breath, let it out wrapped around a small prayer to Mary, and pulled the trigger. The captain said to go for a headshot, but that didn’t much matter when you fired a minigun. The heavy-caliber bullets tore the infected apart, splattering him to the wind. The parts that fell no longer seemed to belong to something that had once been human, and the rain pressed the red detritus down into the mud.

“Got the sumbitch,” said the pilot, sounding happy about it.

The feelings within Rollins were far less certain.

“Anything else?” asked the pilot.

“No,” said Rollins, though he wasn’t as sure as he sounded.

The helicopter drifted along the farm road, blowing back the boughs of the trees, tearing half-grown pears from the branches, looking for more things to kill.

As it flew, Rollins remembered the look in Dave’s eyes when he said that he thought this was maybe the End Times. Rollins mouthed the words of the prayer to Mary.

Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.

Hoping that he was just being ridiculous.

Hoping.

And praying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

OPERATIONAL COMMAND POST

INSIDE STEBBINS COUNTY

A young lieutenant knocked and entered the general’s trailer just as Colonel Dietrich left.

“Sir,” said the young office to Zetter, “we’re still getting reports,” he said, holding out a clipboard wrapped in plastic.

Zetter took it, shook off the raindrops, and studied the data. Six patrol helicopters had encountered infected, two of them within a mile of the Q-zone. Sixteen ground patrols had also located and eliminated the walking dead. In all cases the infected were eliminated without any of his people taking injury. No additional loss of life was reported.

“And there’s this,” added the aide, handing over a second report. The general took it, and as he read he felt his heart sink. He turned away in case his feelings showed on his face.

Zetter stood there, considering the information in the second report. He sighed, read the rest of it, sighed again.

“Damn,” he said to himself.

During the ground search, his teams had encountered twenty-three people who displayed no signs of bites or other injuries, and who did not appear to be in any way infected. Five men, seven women, eleven children. Two of the children were babes in arms.

The report was written in the way that such reports had to be written.

All potential risks were removed with dispatch.

Removed with dispatch.

They didn’t even use the word “eliminated.”

Removed.

“Is there a reply, sir?” asked the aide.

“Just … proceed with the operation as directed,” said Zetter.

“Yes, sir.”

The aide left.

General Zetter sat heavily in his chair and stared bleakly at the report.

“Goddamn it,” he breathed.

He considered calling this in to the White House.

In the end, he did not. There was nothing new to report except that the cleanup was proceeding as anticipated. Proceeding, in fact, at something close to the best-case scenario outlined in the National Biodefense Analysis and Countermeasures Center protocols.

“We’re winning this,” he told himself. “We’re winning.”