Here We Stand (Book 1): Infected (Surviving The Evacuation) (10 page)

He called Charles Addison first. The chief of staff’s private line was busy. He tried the other number. Busy. He called the presidential switchboard. Busy. Almost in desperation he dialed the number used by the public. Busy. He tried Addison again. Still engaged. There was no other choice. He called Nate.

Nate Cooper was his backup plan, a way of getting word to the president without having to go through anyone else. Through the office of the First Lady, Tom had arranged for Nate and three other students from Notre Dame to be tasked with recording footage for a documentary on Max’s first hundred days in office. Ostensibly to be used as part of a campaign to encourage the youth vote during the re-election, he was really there because Tom had wanted a camera crew inside the White House. That had been before he had been framed for murder, back when he thought the honest reactions to the conspiracy’s exposure would help persuade the world of Max’s innocence. Giving Nate the phone had been an afterthought. He’d put it down to a paranoid desire to have a fallback to his backup plan in case the impossible happened. On this day, when the impossible had become real, it was his last chance. He dialed the number.

“Yes?” a voice at the other end asked, quietly and with an edge of confusion.

“Nate, this is Professor Finn,” Tom said, giving the name he’d used on the three occasions he’d met the kid.

“Professor? How did you… how are you calling me? My cell phone won’t work. I… I forgot I even had this one.”

“Are you still in the White House?” Tom asked.

“Yeah. Trying not to get in anyone’s way. How
did
this call get through? I’ve been trying to reach my parents all night, but the landlines have been engaged.”

“All of them? All night?”

“Most of them. Or the ones here in the West Wing. No one’s been able to call anyone. Someone said the lines are overloaded. I… well, everyone’s busy.”

“What about the president? Is he still there?”

“I… I think so. I saw him last night, at about three. He was in the mess.”

“Not in the bunker?”

“No. His motorcade’s still in the drive, and Marine One is on the lawn. I think he’s still here. There are soldiers everywhere. You know there are tanks out front? There’s a huge cordon around the White House.”

“Nate, listen. Is Charles Addison there?”

“I… I don’t know. Mr Gregson is.”

“Gregson? Good.” The communications director would do. “I need to get a message to him.”

“Right. Sure. Why? Where are you?”

“That’s why I’m calling. I was in Manhattan, I’ve—”

“They said the city’s been cut off,” Nate interrupted. “I saw it on the news, well, until the TV stopped working. They said it was quarantined. No one knew who’d ordered that.”

“There’s no television signal? What about the internet?”

“It’s really slow. Anna said that it was probably the military tying up the bandwidth.”

Tom didn’t know much about the White House communication systems, but he knew that wasn’t how it worked. “Listen, Nate. I need you to speak to Gregson. Tell him I was in New York. In Manhattan. I got out before they destroyed the George Washington Bridge.”

“They did
what
?”

“There are National Guard units here, off-duty soldiers, civilians, people doing what they can, but there’s no sign of the police, the CDC, or FEMA. There’s no military or federal support. Everyone here is pulling back to their homes, and that’s what’s got to happen nationwide. Everyone should stay in their homes.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“No, I need you tell to that to Gregson, and tell him to tell the president. The police were pulled out of Manhattan. They were taken off the island. I don’t know where they are, or who ordered it, but someone is either—” He stopped. Nate was just a kid, and though the White House might be safe from the zombies, that didn’t mean he was safe from the conspirators. “Nate, tell Gregson that Max needs to know that the police were withdrawn from Manhattan. Whatever orders he’s giving, there’s no sign of them here on the ground. Okay?”

“Okay. Sure.”

“And tell him that it was Tom Clemens who told you that.”

“Tom Clemens? Who’s that?”

“Remember the name. I’ll call back in a couple of hours.”

He hung up and closed his eyes. Farley. It had to be. Somehow, the man had interfered with the White House communication’s network. He’d jammed the phone lines, and the internet. Or was that paranoia? No. It was the only way that—

“Who’s Nate?”

Tom jumped. He’d not heard Helena approach. She was standing behind him.

“I thought you were getting a bus,” he said.

“It had gone,” she said with a shrug. “The only ones left were all local. I don’t know anyone. I…” She gave another shrug. “The rabbi says he’s taking people in. He said there’s a space for me. The bus will leave in two hours. And he said if you were still here, I was to make sure you came with me. Nate works in the White House?”

How much had she heard? “He’s a student at Notre Dame. There’s a group of them there, recording a documentary on the first hundred days in office. It’s going to be used for the next election. Or it was. Our latest attempt to increase the youth vote.”

“Oh.” She gave another of those little shrugs, as if whatever momentary interest she’d had in the call was now gone. “What’s going on, Tom? Where are the military? Where are the helicopters? Where are the fighter planes?”

“I was wondering that myself.”

“But they should be here, right? Flying overhead? We should be in some cage right now. You know, quarantined, not free to roam around like this.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought would happen.”

“So what’s going on? You know people at the White House. You’re with the CIA or something, aren’t you? I mean, you said you were an analyst. That’s what you meant, right?”

“Something like that.”

“So what’s happening?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“Oh.” She sighed. “What are you going to do now? Do you have to report in or something?”

“Not really. I think I’m going to sleep for a few hours. It’s been a long night.”

“Right. Okay.” She looked as if she was going to say something more, but changed her mind. “I’m going to… going to…” She shook her head and walked off.

Tom didn’t try to stop her. He knew what he had to do; find Dr Ayers and get some answers for Max. Put like that, it seemed straightforward. He tried not to think of all that might go wrong. It was three hundred and fifty miles to her house on the edge of the Allegheny National Forest. Considering how long it had taken them to get a few miles into New Jersey, there was no telling when he might get there.

He walked over to a discarded backpack near the tent’s entrance. It was full of children’s clothes. He emptied them, carefully, into a neat pile. Then he crossed to an almost empty pallet of water bottles. Eight bottles fitted into the pack.

Was there an alternative? Yes, he could disappear. Now was the perfect time. Wherever he went, he would have to steal a car, so why not drive straight to the airfield? Or, if Julio had already departed, why not the coast? He could call Sophia, and press her into taking him away, just as he’d planned. Except anywhere that was safe now wouldn’t be for long. When he’d renounced revenge, he’d set out to save the world. Over the years since, it had seemed almost like a game, and that was often how he’d treated it. Now that the stakes were terrifyingly real, he couldn’t give up.

Whatever had crippled the White House communications system, he knew who was behind it. Farley wouldn’t give up, and that meant he couldn’t either.

“Find Dr Ayers.” He spoke out loud in the hope that would reinforce the decision. Instead, it brought up another question. Someone was behind the virus. He’d thought it was Russia or China, but that was a guess. He could be wrong. All of this could be Ayers’s revenge for being cut off from the work that had become her life. Maybe. Or maybe it was just another theory born from the need to make sense of this nightmare.

He grabbed a discarded coat, shook off the mud, and made his way to a cot in one of the partially collapsed tents. He’d sleep for a few hours, call Nate, hopefully speak to Max, and then find Dr Ayers. He’d get some answers, and then…

And then he fell asleep.

Chapter 9 - Collapse

Overpeck County Park, New Jersey

Screams tore Tom awake. Reflexively, he rolled over. The cot folded up on itself, and he collapsed to the floor. He scrabbled to his feet, trying to remember where he was and what was happening. A tent. The ramshackle refugee center in Overpeck Park. Zombies. There was a rhythmic rat-a-tat from a heavy machine gun that was over too quickly. Another scream. The gunfire returned, but this time it was the sharper retort of small arms.

Tom dragged himself out of the tent’s open doors. The sun was high, the sky clear, and the park was full of blood and death.

“What’s going on?” Helena asked. Tom turned around. He’d not noticed her in the tent. A scream answered her question.

“Zombies,” Tom said. “I thought you were going to the synagogue.”

“The rabbi said he’d come and get me when it was time.”

There was a triumphant yell, more primal than anything that had come before, abruptly cut short in a gargling rasp.

“It’s coming from where those buses are,” Tom said. “No one’s getting out that way.” He ran back to the collapsed cot and grabbed the rucksack. He checked to be sure the sat-phone and tablet were in his pocket and took out the revolver. There were only three rounds. He ran outside.
The gunfire was most frequent from the vehicle park to the east. Between him and it was the hospital tent, and it was from there the screaming was loudest.

A soldier ran toward the tent. She slowed and fired a burst from the hip. Stopped, raised the rifle, and fired off two single shots. She took a step back, fired, took another step, and half-turned as if she was going to run. Tom could see the effort it took for the soldier to force herself to stand her ground, firing shot after shot into the tent, pausing only when she had to reload. That was when the zombie staggered out of the tent. The soldier fumbled the magazine. The zombie got nearer. Tom raised the revolver. Fired. Missed, but the shot passed close enough that its passage caused the zombie to pivot as if it was trying to catch sight of the bullet. That gave the soldier time to slide the magazine home, and open fire.

The soldier’s training had taken over. She was aiming at the center mass. Bullets riddled the creature’s chest. The zombie staggered back, righted itself, and lurched forward again. More creatures tumbled out of the tent. Some were bandaged. Some wore uniforms. All were now undead, pouring from the tent as if the very gates of Hell lay inside.

The soldier emptied the magazine, and then she ran. The zombies stumbled after her, tripping on each other, their clothing, and the detritus littering the park. Two of the fallen creatures staggered to their feet and were looking toward their tent. The soldier would escape, and now they had to do the same. Helena had already reached that conclusion and was sprinting across the park. Tom followed.

“Slow down,” he said. He had to pull her to a halt before she heard.

“We have to get out of here!” she screamed.

“Yes. But they can’t run. Have you seen one run? I haven’t. They don’t run. That’s our advantage. That’s what’ll keep us alive. We have to save our energy until we need it. Over there.” He pointed at the buildings jutting up above the park to the west. “Get out of the park, find a car, drive.”

“That’s it? That’s the extent of your plan? Can’t you call for an extraction or something?”

For a moment, he couldn’t think what to say. “No.”

They weren’t the only ones fleeing the camp, but they were the only ones walking. He tried to steer a path away from the thick clusters of people sprinting this way and that. He’d not realized so many were still in the park. There were hundreds. To his left, a group of twenty were running toward a stand of trees. A person at the back collapsed. The others didn’t notice. They didn’t stop.

Helena changed direction, angling toward the fallen figure.

“No.” Tom grabbed her arm.

“We’re not going to help?” she asked.

“We can’t, and we can’t help everyone. We’ll be lucky to get out of here alive.” Before he could say any more, the prone figure pushed itself to its feet. Hunched over, its left arm pin-wheeled forward, and then its right. The head jerked from side to side as it clawed at the air between it and the fleeing group. As those people reached the trees, there was a scream. They turned round, sprinting back the way they’d come. They saw their former friend, slouching toward them. The group splintered, each of them sprinting off in a different direction.

Helena started running again. This time, Tom didn’t stop her. They steered a path across the muddy grass, keeping as far from the zombies as they could, but those staggering, lurching figures were everywhere. When they reached the fence marking the edge of the park, they were nowhere near the point Tom had planned.

The road beyond was empty, though he could hear the sound of doors slamming and vehicles disappearing off into the distance. People were taking shelter. The hair salon on the corner was a case in point.

“Over there,” Tom said, pointing to the road heading away from the park. The people in the salon watched them walk past. Their expressions were mostly blank, tempered with relief that they were safely ensconced inside. The glass didn’t look thick, and the store didn’t look well-provisioned. Safety was relative, and theirs would seem a flimsy refuge when the undead started pushing their way out of the park.

“This way,” he said, pointing at the first turning they came to.

“Why? You know somewhere?”

“No. But I don’t reckon zombies can think. They’ll head in a straight line, so we shouldn’t.”

With a grid system of roads, they’d meet zombies coming from elsewhere, but he felt better acting rather than just reacting.

Two stores from the next junction was a pizza delivery joint. Outside was a car painted in the chain’s colors, with a logo and website on the side, and sign on the roof. Next to it were three motorized dirt bikes and two people.

“Do you see the bikes?” Helena asked.

“Do you see the gun in that guy’s hand?” Tom replied. As they drew nearer, he could see the figure more clearly. He was young, late teens, and his head moved nervously back and forth. The automatic pistol, clutched awkwardly in both hands, moved with him, though the barrel stayed pointing at the ground. The girl standing next to him was about the same age, but looked unarmed.

“Two of them,” Helena said. “Three bikes.”

“Yeah.” Tom said. He slowed again, moving the revolver behind his back. Whether the engines were powered by gasoline or electricity, the bikes
were
the answer. They’d be able to ride away, put some distance between them and the park. He raised his left hand in greeting and hoped he looked friendly. From the way the two teenagers stepped back, Tom guessed he didn’t.

Before he took another step, the door to the pizza parlor opened. A young man came out, a sack under one arm. He carried it to the car, opened the trunk, and dumped it in. Another figure came out as the man ran back into the store. This one carried a cardboard box. It went into the car.

“They must work there,” Tom said. “They’re taking the flour and whatever else they can eat.”

“Maybe we can get a ride,” Helena said.

“Maybe.”

He took another step toward them. The young man came out, a trio of bags in his hands. He saw them, hissed something to the sentry who’d been watching them with terrified curiosity. The kid raised a shaking hand, pointing the pistol at them.

“Keep walking,” Tom said.

“And then what?” Helena asked.

Tom wasn’t sure. Unless they were going to take a couple of the dirt bikes by force, their only hope of getting a ride was for the zombies to appear, and that a common foe might create a sense of camaraderie. That notion was dispelled two paces later when there was a booming gunshot from inside the restaurant. Three people tumbled out through the door. The young man carried bags. Another had his hands free. The last, a woman, held a shotgun, pointing straight at the closing door.

“In. Go. Get in! Go!” the woman said. She looked a little older than the others. The two young men with her jumped in the car. It drove off as the woman waved her shotgun in Tom and Helena’s direction. Tom stopped. The kid with the automatic pistol was trembling so much he’d probably shoot the ground if he aimed in the air. The woman was different. There was a stern resolve in her stance. She’d done a lot and was prepared to do more to keep herself and these others alive. They backed toward the motorized dirt bikes. The shotgun tracked between Tom and the restaurant door. They got on. They drove off.

“Do something,” Helena said.

“Like what? Shoot them? There’re only two rounds left.”

“We need those bikes,” Helena said. “We need to get out of here.”

“So do they,” Tom said. It was academic. The car was turning right at the next junction, the dirt bikes close behind. From inside the restaurant came the sound of bolts being slid home. The people inside would have food. They had electricity. Tom looked again at the door.

“No, it wouldn’t be safe,” he said. “We need to get away from the zombies.”

“If we’d gotten the bikes—” Helena began. Her irate reply was cut short by an almighty crash from the west. There was a shot. Another.

Tom wasn’t sure whether he ran to help or to steal the bikes. The decision was made when they reached the junction. There was no sign of the car. Two of the bikes had crashed thirty yards from the junction. In front of each was a cluster of the undead. The woman with the shotgun still sat on her bike, the weapon raised. She fired. Tom couldn’t see the other two. They must have run… no. They’d fallen from their bikes. The zombies were crouched over the bodies, ripping and tearing at flesh.

The woman fired again. She missed, swore, and dismounted. She fired again. A zombie flew back. The others slowly stood and turned toward the woman.

He had two shots, and that was all. He should have found another weapon earlier. It was too late now. He raised the revolver, trying to get a bead on one of the zombies. The woman was in the way.

“Get to that bike,” Tom said to Helena. “And ride away.”

“No.”

“They’ll follow you,” Tom said. “That’ll give me and her enough time to get those other bikes.” He wasn’t sure if that was true, but you couldn’t fight these creatures with fist and foot.

The woman fired again. A zombie folded in on itself, but that still left seven snarling apparitions slouching toward them.

“Get that bike,” Tom repeated. He sidestepped away from her, crossing to the edge of the road, measuring his aim. The woman fired. Another zombie collapsed. There was something wrong about the shots. She was aiming at the chests. The impact was knocking the zombies down. It wasn’t killing them.

He had a clear shot. He fired. The bullet smacked into the creature’s temple just as it turned its head. It fell. The woman stopped. She looked back. She saw them. Her expression of grim anger froze, turning into confused recognition.

“Watch out!” Tom yelled. The woman turned back to the creatures. They were only ten feet away. She fired again. The shot was hasty. The slug hit a zombie in the side. It spun across the street, but managed to keep its feet. She racked another round. Fired. Hit a zombie in the head. Raised the gun. Nothing happened. She was out of ammo. Tom fired. A zombie collapsed, but there were still three left, and one of those on the ground was slowly pulling itself to its feet.

“Run!” Tom yelled at the woman. And she did, but not away. Swinging the shotgun like a club she charged at the zombies. The first blow knocked one from its feet, but that took the impetus out of her swing. The next staggered back a pace, its arms flailing erratically. The woman stepped forward, and into the clawing arms of a third. Its hands caught in her clothing. Her demonic yell turned to a scream of fear. Tom ran, but he was already too late. A jet of arterial blood sprayed from her throat as the zombie bit down.

He clubbed the butt of the revolver onto the zombie’s head. It released its grip on the dying woman and turned its bloody mouth toward him. Tom smashed the revolver into its face again, and then lashed out, kicking at its knee. The zombie stumbled as its leg gave way. Hands pawed at Tom’s jacket. Cloth tore. He punched. He kicked. A snarling, snapping mouth got closer. From nowhere, the butt of the shotgun slammed into the zombie’s face. It fell sideways.

Helena screamed as she swung the shotgun at the other creature’s legs. It fell.

“Get that bike,” Tom yelled, pushing her toward it. He ran to the other, nearest bike, pulling it to its wheels.

Helena was on hers, fumbling with the ignition. She got the engine started, wheeled it around, and drove off, the bike wobbling across the road. Tom started his. He glanced behind. He saw two things: the woman to whose aid they’d come slowly sitting up, and in a house across the street two faces were watching them, just as they must have watched the entire bloody fight. He drove away.

His clothing was torn, his hands were bruised, and one still clutched the revolver. He thrust the gun into his pocket, almost losing his balance. He was mobile and heading west. That was something, but there was no sense of victory in it.

Helena was already accelerating away from him. He didn’t try to catch up. They’d fallen into traveling together by accident, and though there was safety in numbers, he didn’t know if he wanted companionship. Then Helena slowed and came to a stop. Tom came to a halt next to her.