Zombie Apocalypse! Washington Deceased

Book 2: Zombie Apocalypse! Spinoff

by Stephen Jones, Lisa Morton

Genres: Horror

Synopsis

A novel set within the Zombie Apocalypse! mythos created by Stephen Jones for his bestselling trilogy, Washington DC is sent during the second half of Zombie Apocalypse! Fightback, when the zombies? intelligence is increasing and they have formed themselves into a society, and an army. New York and Los Angeles have fallen to the walking dead and there has been no news out of Chicago, but Washington DC is still holding out and the South is still free. Time is running out, though, for the battalions defending Capitol Hill . . . As the most powerful symbols of American democracy begin to fall, the President and her advisors must be protected at all costs. But what if there are people in her own government who are prepared to do a deal with the living-dead invaders to retain power at any cost? Meanwhile, `Zombie King? Thomas Moreby is making his own plans to rule the United States as his control increases across the country. Moreby claims to have `foreseen? his victory, but there are emerging factions in his own ranks who are starting to question their role in the war between zombies and humans. And how does the mysterious New World Pharmaceuticals fit into the New Zombie Order?

Release date: July 17, 2014

Publisher: Robinson

Print pages: 512

Sample

“HEY, STEELE . . .”

The woman in the lightweight body armour looked up from her place on the Black Hawk’s bench. It took her a moment to figure out which of the eight other similarly outfitted passengers had spoken, then she saw D’Agostino peering at her curiously.

Of course it would be Aggy. Although she liked the former cop, D’Agostino was always the one with questions.

“What, Aggy?”

“You met her before, right?”

Steele weighed her words for a few seconds; she knew that Aggy might have been the one to ask the question, but she saw the gazes of the rest turned on her. “You mean the package? Not really.”

“But you’re Secret Service . . .”

She almost sighed. Steele had hoped that maybe a cop knew more about the Secret Service than the average civilian. Before she could answer, the man to her immediate left answered. “I believe Director Steele has served briefly in presidential protection, but the Secret Service does a lot more than that, you know.”

Steele couldn’t suppress a smile at how Agent Anderson had emphasized the word “Director”. The others assigned to this job came from a mix of backgrounds – two cops, three Army soldiers, a Navy SEAL and three Secret Service agents, including her, Anderson and tough little Chavez – but there was no question that she was in command. In the past, the mission would have been crewed only with Secret Service agents, but today they’d had to scrounge whoever they could get.

There weren’t many of them left. Not since the dead had overrun everything.

“Holy crap, look at ’em . . .” That was Petrosyan, an Army private who Steele had concerns about, but he’d been vetted as capable; he was, after all, still alive.

Right now Petrosyan was looking out the open door of the Black Hawk, down at the rural New York countryside passing beneath them. Steele didn’t need to join him to know what he was seeing – pastoral farmland, green and tan hillside, and lazy winding road, all dotted with staggering, shambling figures.

They were everywhere. Not just in the cities – like Manhattan, nuked in a fruitless effort to quell their rising numbers, or Washington, that’d been taken over by the living dead – but in the suburbs and small towns as well. No matter how many of them the survivors put down, with a shot to the head or a massive explosion that tore the brain apart, they continued to increase their numbers. A single nip, a light scratch and a survivor became one of them. Of course most of the survivors didn’t sustain only a few toothmarks or a lone red scrape; most were partially consumed, and when they died and returned the cycle continued. The dead were ever hungry.

“Petrosyan . . .” Steele called out to the young soldier, who reluctantly yanked his gaze from the passing panorama and looked up at her. “Remember your assignment today.”

Petrosyan gulped, nodded, and leaned back against the wall of the ’copter. Steele saw some of the other faces all reflect renewed intent. The other ex-cop, a thirty-ish woman named Schechter, turned away from Petrosyan, trying to distance herself, to stay focused.

If they succeeded today, the human survivors might have another chance. If this worked, what was left of the U.S. would no longer be under martial law. General Parker had done well holding them together until now, but he didn’t want the job permanently. If they were to move forward, they needed someone strong to lead them.

If . . .

The pilot’s voice barked over the receiver in Steele’s ear, “Two minutes.”

Beside her, Steele saw Chavez fidget with her body armour. “What’s the matter, Angie? You haven’t finally decided to join the rest of us and get nervous, have you?”

Chavez gave her a lopsided fuck you grin and tugged at her suit again. “Hell with that. Just never worn this stuff before. I think I’d prefer a nice padded jumpsuit and a football helmet.”

Steele smiled. “I hear that, but this is gel armour. They would’ve started outfitting our troops overseas with these suits if—”

“They hadn’t been eaten first”.

Steele laughed. Chavez could always be counted on for the mordant jibe. When she’d received news of the death of her beloved brother Manny, she’d turned her head for a moment before muttering something about hoping that the “pendejo that ate him got heartburn.”

Adjusting her own suit, Steele noted, “If this stuff can stop bullets, it should be able to withstand a bite.”

From the other side of the helicopter, the S.E.A.L. – Byrne – overheard them and said, “I’ve already done three missions in this suit. It’s the shit. We could’ve conquered the fuckin’ world if we’d had these earlier.”

Chavez and Steele exchanged a look, and Steele had to work to hold back a laugh.

From her other side, Anderson fixed Byrne with a glare and said, “And weren’t half the guys in your last squad killed even with the suits?” Before Byrne could answer, Anderson flipped his helmet visor down, concealing his face.

Steele hoped they’d survive long enough to share a beer and make jokes about this.

“One minute.”

As the pilot’s voice in her headset cut out, a beep announced an incoming call. “Go.”

It was Marissa Cheung back at HQ. “Director Steele? Just letting you know that we’ve still been unable to establish communication.”

“Copy that. We’re one minute from set-down, Cheung. I’ll get back to you after we pick up the package.”

The call ended, Steele took in a deep breath and held it, calming herself.

If there’s still anything to pick up.

They’d had communication with their target until last week. Then, yesterday, Ames Parker had made the decision, and Steele had been told to assemble a team. It wasn’t required or even approved that she lead the team, but this mission was too important.

Besides . . . it was history in the making. Steele couldn’t lie and say that didn’t appeal to her. It was one of the reasons a fourteen-year-old high schooler named Sandra Steele had first thought of joining the Secret Service – her Aunt Jen had taken her to a presidential rally, and she’d felt the intensity of the crowd, all focused on one person on the stage, and it had energized her into an instant career choice.

She didn’t want to be the person at the centre of the attention, but the idea of being in the immediate circle of that little piece of history fascinated her. She’d joined the Secret Service, worked hard, made connections, and when her male peers had nearly brought the agency down with a series of tawdry scandals, Sandra Steele had been the obvious choice to restore the Secret Service’s tarnished lustre.

It was too bad the rest of the world had fallen apart not long after her appointment. But if they succeeded today . . .

“Where the fuck are we gonna land?” Petrosyan was peering out of the open side of the Black Hawk again, and this time Steele joined him.

For a change, Petrosyan was right: the land below them was crawling with the dead. They were converging on a large country mansion, one that had been surrounded by a solid stone wall, but a stone wall that was now rubble in several places. Steele guessed that wall had probably stood for over a century, but had given way in the past twenty-four hours.

“Oh man . . .” Petrosyan looked out, his head jerking back and forth. “Anybody who was in that house has gotta be dead . . .”

“No.” As the ’copter circled the mansion, Steele nodded down. “Look at the doors and windows – all boarded up. And the dead wouldn’t all be hammering on the walls like that if they’d already found a way in.”

Behind her, Steele heard Chavez say, “Those boards aren’t gonna hold much longer, though. If they could push down the stone wall . . .”

Steele exchanged a look with her agent and realized the younger woman thought this mission was pointless. That she’d stayed committed was why she’d always been one of Steele’s favourites.

Anderson joined them, peeking out. “In all seriousness . . . where are we going to land?”

The ’copter had circled around to the back of the mansion, revealing an unbroken ring of zombies. They were packed in around the house at least six deep, with more spread out farther away. As the Black Hawk passed overhead, they looked up, some even raising partial, half-eaten limbs.

Steele leaned farther out of the bird and spotted something a short distance to her left. Squinting, she made out a wooden outbuilding, a simple post fence . . .

“The corral.” She adjusted her mike, addressing the pilot. “What do you think about that corral to the north?”

A short distance behind the main house was a barn, a stable and a fenced-in corral. The corral was empty; obviously the zombies had been uninterested in an empty corral and had trudged around it, leaving the wooden fence miraculously in place.

The pilot’s voice came back. “That’ll work, although it’ll put you a good two hundred yards from the house. And they’ll come for us as soon as we set down.”

“Well, unless you see anything better—”

“I don’t. Okay, Director, get ready.”

As the Black Hawk headed for the corral, Steele felt the adrenaline begin to pump. She turned to address her team, starting with Myers and Allmon, the two Army sharpshooters she’d recruited.

“Okay, we’re about to do this. Myers, Allmon, you’re with the ’copter keeping the way clear for us.” The two snipers nodded; they were experienced and cool, and Steele knew she wouldn’t have to worry about them. “The rest of us are the main team. We make for the house, we find the package, we get out – all of us. Any questions?”

Steele shot Aggy a look, and he didn’t disappoint her. “Yeah, I got one: What if we don’t find her?”

“Then we pack up and get out fast in one piece.”

D’Agostino gulped and pulled his helmet visor down. Next to him, Schechter gave Steele a quick look before sliding her visor closed. Petrosyan, Byrne and Chavez did the same. Steele didn’t like the way Petrosyan nervously hugged his assault rifle, but she kept quiet.

As the Black Hawk touched down, Steele pulled her own visor into place, grabbed a backpack at her feet and shrugged into the straps. She leapt out, crouched and ran twenty feet, then stopped to look for the best way to the house.

There was no best way. The space between the house and the corral was packed with the dead. And now they were turning towards Steele and her team. She felt their glassy eyes on her and shivered beneath her gel suit.

Chavez and Anderson moved up beside her, their presence reassuring, and she heard somebody behind her mutter, “Jesus Christ . . .”

She forced her mind to work, to focus on her job. “Chavez, Anderson – we need a distraction . . .”

Chavez grinned. “I can do that.” The small Latina broke to the left, running and waving her arms while shouting, “Hey, douchebags, c’mon, got some nice meat on these bones for ya, this way . . .”

Anderson picked up on the routine and ran with her. “This way, you fuckers, come and get some prime USDA choice . . .”

It was working: The dead on the other side of the corral fence were turning, staggering after the two loud targets . . . but not all of the dead. A few remained behind – they’d reached the fence now, their hands were scrabbling at the wood.

Small red holes blossomed on their foreheads and they fell. Steele glanced back at the ’copter and saw Myers and Allmon crouched in the Black Hawk’s belly, picking off zombies with M40 sniper rifles. She threw them a thumbs-up, drew her Glock 21, and waved her team forward.

She raised the Glock – and froze. It was impossible; despite how many of the zombies had been drawn away by Chavez and Anderson and how many more were falling to sniper rounds, she was still faced with a wall of un-humanity. They had reached the corral fence now, mouths open and moaning, tattered fingers reaching . . .

We can’t do this.

Steele had only faced a horde like this once before, when DC had first been overrun. She’d tried to storm the White House in the hope of saving the President; she knew her agents were already dead, and she’d hoped against hope that she might still find the Commander-in-Chief.

But as she’d seen the Oval Office at the end of the corridor, a familiar figure had come lurching out; his suit might have been shredded, his eyes limned in blood, but it had been him, the President, and she’d been too late. With only a few rounds left in her last magazine, she’d turned and fled.

But this, today, was different. There were more zombies – but also more firepower. And she wasn’t alone.

We have to do this.

The wooden crossbeams of the fence were creaking, and Steele knew they’d give way any second. She raised the Glock with both hands, sighted and fired. She told herself these things weren’t human: the handsome young man with chiselled biceps was a monster, the elderly woman with a kind face was no longer kind, the little boy in cartoon-print pyjamas was nobody’s son.

Her action spurred her team, and shots sounded from either side of her. Then came the rapid-fire rat-a-tat of an automatic weapon, spraying wildly. “No!” Steele whirled, even though she knew what she’d find.

Petrosyan was firing his M16 into the zombie mass, not even aiming. Steele had to shout his name twice to get him to stop. “What the hell are you doing, Petrosyan? Semi-automatic only, remember?”

Petrosyan’s eyes were wide, his face sweat-sheened. “That isn’t gonna work. Look at ’em—”

“We can’t risk hitting the house. And you’re not even stopping them. Look.”

The ex-cop followed her gesture and saw the dead he’d just shot at still coming, the bullet holes in their chests and limbs having done nothing to halt their progress. “Shit . . .”

As Petrosyan stared, Steele reached down to his M16 and flipped it to semi-automatic. “Now aim before you fire.” She waited until Petrosyan gulped and nodded before turning away.

They’d made a good hole in the zombie mass, though, and she strode forward. The fence was splintering under the weight of dead flesh, so Steele kicked at the beams until they split. She waved the Glock towards the immobile corpses. “Petrosyan, D’Agostino, Schechter – pull those bodies away so we’ll have a clear path. We’ll need it coming back. Byrne and I will cover until you’re done.”

Petrosyan made a face, but when D’Agostino and Schechter got to work, he reluctantly slung his rifle back and joined them. Steele glanced at Byrne, and saw him grinning. “You look like you’re enjoying this.”

Byrne chuckled and said, “Not yet. But just wait . . .”

Steele heard shots off to her left, and saw Anderson and Chavez backing away – the zombies at the far end of the corral had breached the fence and were spilling in. Steele shouted and waved. “Back here!”

Anderson and Chavez didn’t hear. They were popping off shots, dancing back. In the Black Hawk, Myers and Allmon were concentrating on the dead around Steele’s group.

Steele felt her gut clench. She reached under her visor and grabbed her mike. “Chavez, Anderson, do you read?”

Angie’s voice came through, although it sounded as if she spoke through gritted teeth. “We got it here, ma’am. Just keep working on your part.”

“We’re through.” That was Schechter, motioning at the path they’d created through the fence. For an instant, she was split: help her agents, or head for the house while they had the chance?

There was no choice. Anderson and Chavez were on their own. She turned to the house.

She emptied the Glock’s magazine on two zombies – teenagers, both of them, one still wearing the remnants of a Marilyn Manson T-shirt – and popped it out. She was just slamming a full magazine back into the gun when she felt something tug at the backpack she bore.

Byrne moved up beside her. “Allow me.” She saw that Byrne was carrying a three-foot-long length of metal pipe. With both hands wrapped around it, he swung at something behind Steele and she felt the pull on the backpack ease. Excited by the first kill, Byrne waded in.

As Steele and the others watched in disbelief, Byrne transformed into a human fury, whirling the length of pipe in every direction, battering skulls and kicking corpses out of the way. Steele had to appreciate the pipe as a weapon: it worked better in close quarters than a gun, didn’t need to be reloaded and rarely required multiple hits. Byrne did have to pause once to wipe his visor free of gore, but then he laid into the zombies again.

Somehow, the writhing mass of walking dead didn’t seem to thin out, and they were still ten yards from the house when Byrne’s stamina started to flag. He panted and had to lower the pipe after every swing, and the zombies were closing in.

“Fuck!” That was D’Agostino, just behind Steele. She whirled and saw that a fat middle-aged man in crimson-splattered overalls had grabbed Aggy from behind and was trying to sink his teeth into the cop’s upper arm. The gel suit held, and the zombie’s teeth shattered on the tough material; but Aggy couldn’t pull his arm free from the zombie’s grip. Steele raised the Glock, fired on two other zombies that were about to reach Aggy, but couldn’t get a clear sight on the one holding his arm.

“Aggy, duck!”

D’Agostino dropped – and came face to face with a legless woman clawing at his feet. He screamed and fell back just as Steele shot the zombie that held him. The zombie fell – but so did Aggy, pinned beneath the bulk of the flabby corpse. “Get it off me, get it off me!”

More zombies circled in. Steele and Schechter shot them while Petrosyan covered Byrne. When Steele could finally get back to Aggy, she looked down just in time to see the crawling woman yanking Aggy’s left boot off and sinking her teeth through his sock into the foot.

D’Agostino screamed again. Steele shouted.

But she couldn’t get to him. The dead were between her and the downed man. As three of them descended on him, she knew his agonized scream was his last and she forced her focus away from him.

Aggy was done.

Schechter kept firing as Steele finished off another magazine and slammed a new one in. “Byrne, get us to that house!”

“Working on it!”

Something fell against Steele and she tensed, but saw that it was a real corpse, its head barely recognizable as a result of having met Byrne’s pipe. She side-stepped the falling body, watched as Byrne brought the bar around in a side swing and sent another zombie to its final rest, and she could see the house now, just a few feet away.

She heard Byrne grunting with the effort of the last few blows, but then they’d reached the house, with Petrosyan, Schechter and Steele covering the sides and rear of their trail. Steele shot a zombie to her right as she edged that way to a back door, its inset window boarded over. She pounded on it with a fist as she called out, “Hello! Anyone alive in there? Hello!”

There was no answer.

“What now?” Petrosyan asked, as he sighted along his rifle barrel and took out another zombie shambling towards them.

“We go in. Everybody stand back.” Steele pointed her pistol at the doorknob and fired. When she aimed at the deadbolt lock, one of the bullets ricocheted off and struck a zombie in the chest, staggering it.

“Good shot, Director,” Schechter said, as she pumped a round into the thing’s head to finish it off.

Steele pulled the door back only to see the backboard of a large cabinet blocking the way. She waved Byrne and Petrosyan up. “Can you push that out of the way?”

They put their shoulders against the heavy furniture and grunted with effort as Steele and Schechter guarded the rear. Steele heard wood scrape on tile and knew they’d managed to slide the cabinet aside. She didn’t wait, but stepped into the house. She was in the kitchen, which was large and modern, with a centre island and chrome fixtures. “Hello?” Again, there was no answer.

“We blew it. Nobody home,” Petrosyan muttered.

The power was out, so Steele pulled a small maglite from a pocket of the gel suit and swung it around the dim interior. “No, look – this place is sealed tight from the inside. And everything’s clean . . . no sign of struggle.”

A cry sounded from outside, and Steele turned to see a grey hand pulling Schechter away by the left shoulder. The ex-cop struggled to raise her gun, but another zombie yanked her right arm and from Schechter’s scream Steele knew the arm had been broken.

“Petrosyan, Byrne—!”

Steele lifted the Glock, trying to get a shot, but Schechter was in the way. She could only watch helplessly as a zombie tore at Schechter’s helmet visor, flipped it up and bit into her face.

Byrne rained blows on Schechter’s attackers, but it was too late – Schechter’s face was a bloodied ruin, her eyes closed, body sagging.

“Byrne, let her go.” It was one of the hardest commands Steele had ever given, but she couldn’t afford to lose Byrne as well, not when they were so close . . .

She heard Byrne utter a curse as he stepped back into the house. “You better make this quick, because we can’t hold them much longer.”

Steele called, “Copy that. Just give me a minute.”

She slid out of the backpack, dropped it and ran from the kitchen. It took her less than a minute to check out the rest of the two-storey house, and she was panting by the time she returned to the kitchen. Petrosyan and Byrne were sweating it at the door. “We gotta go,” Petrosyan shouted back, “they’re bunching up again outside.”

“Not yet,” Steele said. Her gut told her their quarry was still here, somewhere . . .

“C’mon, ma’am, the place is empty,” Byrne said. Even his resolve was fraying into panic.

Steele whirled. “The basement.”

Byrne glanced back at her. “What?”

“The basement. It’s where I’d hole up if the house I was in was surrounded.”

There – a door at the other side of the kitchen that could only go down. Steele ran to it, turned the knob and pulled. The door didn’t move; it was somehow secured from the inside.

“Hello? Anybody down there?” Steele called through the heavy wood.

She was rewarded with a response from the other side: “Who are you?”

Relief washed through Steele, so intense she had to put a hand on the door for a second to steady herself. “We’re from Washington, ma’am. We’re here to get you to safety. We’ve got transport just outside.”

Steele waited anxiously, listening. It seemed like hours passed before she made out the sound of stairs creaking on the other side, and then something metallic being moved. Finally the door opened and a woman stood on the steps just inside, a heavy chain still held in one hand.

As she stepped up into the kitchen, they all stared for a moment. Petrosyan and Byrne forgot the murderous hordes outside. The blonde woman in her sixties smiled at them in gratitude. “Am I glad to see you. It was getting boring down there.”

Steele held out a supporting hand. “Are you okay to move?”

The other woman nodded. Steele reached down to her backpack; she unzipped it and drew out a gel armour jacket and pants and a helmet, which she handed to her charge. “Put these on.”

The woman eyed the armour; then, as she drew on the jacket she said, “Gel armour. I knew it was in the development stage, but I had no idea it was a done deal. How many suits were completed?”

Steele gestured briefly around the kitchen. “Pretty much what you see here.” Then, speaking into her headset, Steele said, “We’ve got the package ready for delivery.”

On the other end, Cheung answered, “Holy shit. I can’t believe you actually found her.”

“Well, we’ve still got to get back to the bird. I’ll call again once we’re airborne.”

“Copy. Good luck.”

Steele gestured the woman to the door. “Let’s get you back where you belong . . . Madame President.”

The woman arched her eyebrows. “When did that happen?”

Petrosyan popped off three shots, a grim reminder of the difficulties that still lay before them. “We’ll have to save the explanations. Let’s go.”

Petrosyan shot twice, and then Byrne leapt out, the pipe already swinging. Steele ushered the other woman out. “Petrosyan, behind us.”

The zombies were still thinned out slightly, but closing in on their path back to the Black Hawk. “Keep up the speed, Byrne!”

“Right.”

Behind them, Steele heard Petrosyan scream; his rifle threw out a series of shots, and something slammed into Steele’s back with enough force to throw her forward. She caught herself before she went down; pain exploded in her back, and she knew she’d taken one of Petrosyan’s bullets at close range, but the gel suit had kept it from doing more than just slamming into her.

“You okay?”

Steele didn’t take the time to nod or to look back at Petrosyan. “Just keep moving,” she called.

She fired off six more shots from the Glock, taking down three zombies; she was getting tired and sloppy. An obese middle-aged man with one black eye socket and a missing ear lunged at her from the right. She raised the Glock, pulled the trigger – and the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. She dug a hand into a pouch on the gel suit, looking for a replacement magazine, and realized: there were no more magazines. She was out.

Byrne jumped back, putting himself between her and the huge dead thing. “Go!” he called. . . .