Authors: Adam Sifre
When a technician tried to remove the mike from inside his suit lapel Dobbs swatted the hand away. "I can do it my goddamned self, goddamn it. Al, find out who fucked up the Teleprompt and feed his ass to the zombies."
Chief-of-staff Alfred Flint smiled, and fell into step beside the President. The opposite of Dobbs in almost every way, Flint was tall with an athletic build, youthful good looks, thick black hair with just a touch of gray at the temples, and a quiet demeanor. Dobbs hated him worse than poison. But when it came to making shit stick to his opponents, Al made Karl Rove look like Martha Stewart.
"Excellent speech, sir."
Dobbs scowled.
"Don't be an ass. It shouldn't surprise me that the people of this great country fear increased taxes more than the apocalypse, but it does."
"These are strange and uncertain times, Mr. President." Flint brushed a nonexistent piece of lint off Dobb's shoulder as they walked. "And in uncertain times people are desperate to cling to something that is familiar, even if it's taxes."
"We can debate the psychology of the masses some other time. What's next?"
"A briefing in the situation room. Homeland Security forwarded some video to NSA and Tom thinks you need to see it. He's waiting for us in a secure conference room down the hall."
"Jesus," Dobbs groused. "More video of zombies eating humans or humans killing zombies? Why the fuck do I need to see more of that shit?" He didn't expect an answer, and Flint didn't disappoint him. "Thank Christ this disaster will be over soon."
It had taken a while for the army to get its shit together but things were finally starting to break their way. The zombie virus, if it was a virus, had spread through North America like wildfire, surprising the shit out of the world, except maybe for Haiti.
Flint interrupted the President's thoughts with a rhetorical question of his own. "Should I have the VP there?"
"Fuck that. The less I see of that waste of space the better. Send him to the U.N. and let him blame this mess on global warming."
The 'secure' conference room looked like a conference room, except for the gaudy presidential seal weaved into the carpet and curtains. Samuel Stone, Deputy Director of the National Security Agency, stood as they entered.
"Sir."
Dobbs waved him to sit. Sam was a big man, at least three hundred pounds. His bald head was always covered in a sheen of sweat despite air-conditioning, and his iron-gray mustache was so thick that Dobbs swore it moved every time Sam exhaled.
He reminded Dobbs of a cross between Daddy Warbucks and Chumley the Walrus.
"So what put a fire under your ass so early in the morning, Sam?"
Sam remained standing until Dobbs was seated, and then squeezed himself into a seat across from the President. "I think it might be best for you to see for yourself, Sir. The video is less than two minutes."
Dobbs sighed. "Very well."
Sam nodded to a technician, who discharged his duties in accordance with the highest government standards by pressing a button on a remote. The panel at the back of the room slid back, revealing a fancy shmancy viewing screen. The video started a moment later, showing what looked to Dobbs like an empty street intersection.
Not exactly a rare picture these days
.
"This was taken from a traffic camera yesterday in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. There's no audio."
Dobbs looked at Sam. "So what are we looking at here?"
Sam removed a laser pointer from his pocket. "Notice the baby carriage here."
A small red dot appeared on screen, right of center. The carriage, parked in front of a newspaper kiosk, faced away from the camera.
A moment later three soldiers dressed in combat fatigues and riot head gear entered the scene, assault rifles at the ready.
Sam continued. "This is a hunter squad attached to 2nd Division. Their mission was a standard s&c."
Dobbs turned to Sam and raised his eyebrow in exasperation.
"Sweep and clean, sir. Sorry, sir. As I'm sure you know, Mr. President, these operations have been highly successful. Against an organized, well-armed assault, a zombie is about as dangerous as a rabid dog. Until today, these types of operations had a hundred percent success rate."
On the screen the three soldiers approached the stroller, one in the lead, the other two back a few feet and flanking. The man out front tilted his head toward his right shoulder and spoke something into a radio mike.
Dobbs glanced at the Deputy Director. "What do you mean, until today ...?"
"Holy shit!" Al Flint was on his feet looking at the screen, mouth open in shock.
Dobbs turned back to the screen. Four zombies ran out from behind the kiosk and quickly closed in on the three soldiers. One immediately locked its mouth on the lead soldier's arm. Dobbs couldn't tell if the man wore body armor. Many soldiers were provided with Kevlar vests, but plenty had to go without. The soldier flanking the right raised his assault rifle and fired multiple shots at one zombie. Its head burst like an overripe melon.
"Jesus," President Dobbs gasped. "They fucking RAN. How the hell did they do that?" Something else gnawed at his funny bone. All four of the zombies were children. Small children.
Stone spoke quietly. "There's more, sir."
On screen, seven adult-sized zombies appeared from behind the newsstand. These were slower, but they were fast enough. The solders, still entangled with the remaining three undead children, were slow to recognize the new threat. In a matter of moments the zombies overwhelmed the soldiers. The video was grainy, but not grainy enough. He turned away from the screen in disgust.
"They can run now? They
ambushed
a squad of armed soldiers?"
"Yes, sir. It would appear so, sir." Stone was still looking at the screen. "I'm afraid there's more."
Dobbs forced his attention back to the screen. The undead dragged what was left of the soldiers back behind the newsstand and off camera. For a few moments the street remained blessedly empty.
Then another zombie shambled into view. It entered from the bottom of the screen, opposite the newsstand. With its back to the camera it shambled to the stroller, bent down and reached inside. After a moment, it lifted what was clearly a live baby up into the air. It struggled and squirmed in the zombie's hand. The zombie turned, and unless Dobbs was imagining things the fucker purposely stared right at the camera. With the baby still squirming in its one hand, the zombie raised its other hand toward the camera. It looked like some sort of fucked-up referee announcing that the field goal was good.
Dobbs noticed a patch over the thing's right eye. Five minutes ago, Dobbs would have found that very weird. But a zombie holding a baby in the air with one hand and knowingly staring at the traffic cam with its one good eye raised the weirdness bar. Dobbs watched in horrified silence, eyes glued on the poor infant.
"My God," President Dobbs breathed, still staring at the screen. "They just committed an organized ambush on armed soldiers and won. How is that possible?"
"Sir, we have reports of six similar ambushes in the area. We have no information at this time of similar incidents happening anywhere else."
"Thank God for small fucking favors," Dobbs muttered.
Back on the screen, he watched the zombie take a few steps toward the camera. And then …
Dobbs' eyes widened in shock. "Is that zombie ...?"
"Yes, sir."
On the screen, the zombie with the ruined face and bum leg extended its free hand toward the camera and gave it the finger. After a few moments it placed the infant back in the stroller. Another zombie appeared and pushed the stroller off camera.
The monitor went blank.
Chapter 16
Paradise
Circa. 2012, found in 32 Magnolia Way, Newark, NJ; Kitchen wall. Medium: blue crayon
You taste like chicken,
Raw, rancid, putrid chicken.
Finger licking good.
Back in the day Paradise Buffet was THE place for Wayne Township's elderly and unemployed, one could enjoy from eleven in the morning until three in the afternoon platter after platter of salty Chinese food and shrimp with cocktail sauce. They even had unlimited 'pigs in blankets' which were somehow always in good supply. Aside from eventual triple bypass surgery, all this would cost you only $8.98,
including tax
. There are people who have an easier time believing in flesh-eating zombies than they do in believing the tales told about the Paradise Buffet. Lo mein and dumplings living side-by-side with mashed potatoes and pot roast. Truly one of the seven wonders of the tri-state area.
Of course any senior citizen or unemployed person that decided to visit Paradise today would be treated to a very different kind of buffet. For the foreseeable future it was 'all-the-customers-you-can-eat' day.
Paradise was basically one large dining area. The center of the room was trisected by three long troughs, originally meant to hold steaming platters of MSG-laden food. Scattered haphazardly about were Fred's new friends, most of who were staring at the ceiling.
In his book, yesterday's ambush amounted to a loss. Three of the four soldiers had turned; the fourth had been overeaten and wouldn't be coming back. None of the new soldier zombies displayed any special talent. Fred had hoped one of them would remember their military training, but they couldn't shamble and chew gums at the same time unless they were following his orders. While they'd lost just one zombie in the ambush, it had been a runner and runners were hard to come by. The zombie in him had no qualms about killing children to fill out the ranks, but the father in him burned with shame at the idea. The thought that his own Tommy -
Timmy
? - would be the perfect age, made him uneasy.
He glanced up at the front entrance as two more zombies made their way inside.
What does that make? Eighty, I think
. After grabbing the runner in the park and enjoying the sight of Niki's demise, Fred had gone looking for Aleta, intending to try his new Zedi mind trick on her. Trouble was he couldn't find the brownstone. He knew it was close to the park. He'd cased the place for days - weeks - before approaching Aleta, but no matter how hard he thought, he drew a blank as to exactly where she lived. Instead he had to be content with going up and down the main streets in the area, part of him silently praying that he didn't stumble upon any armed and vengeful breathers. The other part sent out a general recruitment call.
'Come to the Paradise Buffet ... Come to the Paradise Buffet.'
Most ignored the call, either because they didn't hear it, or because they were able to resist Fred when not in his direct line of sight - he wasn't sure which. In Willowbrook Mall alone, he knew there were more than twice the number of undead than those here at 'HQ'. Still, his instruction had some positive results, and zombies dribbled into the Paradise by ones and twos throughout the day. From what he could tell so far, all the new recruits were brain dead with no talent, but that could change.
Besides, every army needs cannon fodder, and nothing foddered cannon better than the average zombie.
The first of the two new zombies stopped at the front of the door, apparently satisfied that she had carried out Fred's instructions to the letter. He watched in amusement as the zombie behind her, a stick thin male corpse that reminded him of Shaggy from the old 'Scooby Doo' cartoons, kept bumping into her back, unable to get inside until she moved. Shaggy even wore a green T-shirt like in the cartoon, except his had PETA SUPPORTER in bright orange letters across the front. Fred started to tell the first zombie to keep moving - and suddenly stopped.
It couldn't be, could it? He shambled closer to the door. Her hair was short and matted with blood and gore. A few of her teeth were broken in the front, but they were still so white. The eyes were rimmed with blood, but there were still two of them.
Aleta.
"Braaiinns," he moaned.
* * *
Fred instructed Aleta to go into the back room, now functioning as his office. While he wasn't much for paperwork, he needed a place where he could get away from the incessant moaning and unpleasant smell that was part and parcel of all undead armies. He didn't follow her in at the moment. He needed to think.
He had loved Aleta, the breather. An undead, Aleta was a different animal altogether. She was apparently brain dead, although like all starry eyed lovers he tried to convince himself that he had seen
something
behind those two
beautiful
eyes.
Let's be honest. She's a walking corpse
. No different from almost all the other undead here. No different from a vegetable really, a vegetable that hungered for human flesh and brains, but a vegetable. He could think of no reason why he should give her a second thought or treat her any differently from the rest of the cannon fodder.
That wasn't entirely true, was it? After all, she still had that white smile, more or less, and those two eyes. And now she wouldn't run away from him. She
couldn't
run away from him. She had to do whatever he told her to do.
Fred couldn't blush with shame, but he wanted to. He had no right to be thinking this way. This isn't what he wanted for her. What kind of monster equated love with absolute control over the thing that it loved?
Absolute control.
He'd have to be a monster to even consider it. It was one thing to be corrupt in the flesh and another to be corrupt in the soul. Besides, having an undead sex slave had its own drawbacks; the cold, hard truth was that when a male zombie had sex, he tended to leave with less than he came with.