Apocalypse Atlanta (27 page)

“Now, I know there are questions, but I’ll warn you now we simply don’t have answers for all of them.  And I would further ask that you remember that while I am the President, I am not a doctor.  I have several doctors here to attempt to address those types of questions.  So, I’ll take a few and do my best, then turn you over to the people I’ve brought with me so they can give you the best information we have available.”

He pointed at someone sitting almost directly between himself and the cameras focused on him from the back of the room.  “Jennifer?”

“Mr. President, there are a lot of rumors and speculations flying around right now.  There’s one word that keeps coming up repeatedly.  What do you say to the description of the victims as ‘zombies’?”

Jessica gasped, and as she did she expected to hear . . . something from the room full of reporters and government officials.  What, she wasn’t sure; scorn, laughter, disdain?  But whatever she was expecting to the simply incredible question, the room in Washington remained silent, awaiting the answer.

The President didn’t seem surprised or dismayed by the question.  He didn’t even blink.  “I would say this is real life, not a story.  Those stricken by this disease are our family and friends, our sons and daughters, our husbands and wives.  They are citizens of America who need our help, and we will help them.”  He pointed again.  “Caren?”

“Mr. President, to the best of my knowledge, medical centers all over the country are completely overwhelmed by the number of victims they’re struggling to receive and treat; disease victims as well as injuries related to the events of today.  What is being done to help relieve that burden on their available space and personnel?”

“One of the many things our nation’s military is being mobilized to do is address that very problem.” The President said.  “Field hospitals and military medical personnel are deploying across the nation.  I’m told the first of the mobile hospital units should be active within the hour, and by midnight there should be more than a hundred in place, each one with the capability to triage and treat even the most severe injuries.”  He pointed again.

“Sir, most of us are focusing on our own cities and communities, and to a lesser extent the United States as a whole; but this problem is striking all around the world.  Have you been in contact with other world leaders, and what can you tell us about what’s happening beyond our own borders?”

“I’ve talked to the leaders of over two dozen countries in the past few hours, and the State Department and our Secretary of State and our Ambassadors have been in contact with dozens upon dozens more.  I can tell you we are not the only country, the only people, who are dealing with this.  Apart from offering the assistance of any American assets that are local to the country in question, I don’t really have anything to say about what’s happening elsewhere.”

The President started to point again, but the same reporter spoke again, his voice insistent and slightly louder.  “Mr. President, follow up.  Have any of those leaders indicated they’ll be offering assistance to the US?”

“Don, I really have nothing else to say about what’s happening elsewhere at this time.” The President said firmly, pointing at someone else.  “Peter.”

“There are over four dozen cities across the nation that are experiencing particularly heavy outbreaks, and some of those city centers and areas of greatest population density are in chaos.  Is there a plan for restoring order to those cities?”

“That’s a question General Dempsey is the best one to answer, so I’d ask him to address that in a minute.” The President said, glancing at someone to his left that wasn’t in frame.  “Okay?”  He seemed to be listening to an answer the camera couldn’t pick up, then nodded and turned back to the room, pointing again.  “Yes, Brianna?”

“Are there any plans for some form of martial law to help control the spread of the outbreaks?”

The President frowned.  “At the federal level, not at this time.  I know most the nation’s state governors have declared states of emergencies, and we are doing our best to assist them in response to those declarations.  But no, I’m not aware of any of those governors having declared martial law.”

“Mr. President–”

Whatever the next man had been about to ask was lost as number of things happened in rapid succession.  Jessica saw a pair of arms reach in from the left side of the camera’s shot, green sleeved with gold embroidery on the cuffs.  The President’s head was only just starting to turn, reacting to the touch as the hands seized upon his upper arm, when there was a lot of shouting.  Then a balding, gray haired man in a uniform leaned into the picture and bit the President on the side of the neck.

“Oh my God!” Sharon exclaimed, sitting forward.

“What the hell?” William was shifting up as well, eyes wide as he stared at the television.

Jessica just sat there, too shocked and numbed to react.  There was blood on the President’s neck.  His face was contorted in pain.  The man who was biting him was almost expressionless as his teeth tore through the President’s flesh.  Two more men appeared in frame, one from either side.  Both grabbed whoever was on their side – the left the biter while the right put hands on the President – and both tugged to try and separate the Commander-in-Chief from his assailant.

They strained, and the President yelled in agony as the attempt to pull the soldier of him increased the tearing action of the bite.  Jessica realized the two additional men must be Secret Service when they abruptly had guns in their hands.  The level of sound coming from the television was immense now, like watching an action movie.  William had turned the volume up so they could easily hear the news, and now was too stunned to think about lowering it.

As the shouting in the White House press room spiraled past merely chaos, the Secret Service agents’ guns started going off.  The one on the left jammed his pistol in between the bodies of President and assailant and pumped about half a dozen shots into his chest.  The gray haired biter rocked some under the impact of the bullets but otherwise stayed fastened on the President’s neck.

The President started collapsing, and the agent on the right caught and supported him.  Reaching around behind the President with his gun, he laid the barrel of the weapon right up against the attacker’s head.

“Oh Jesus!” Jessica blurted, just as the agent fired.

The soldier’s head just sort of exploded.  One instant he had a head, in the next two thirds of it seemed to have been converted into bits of flesh and bone that left the space they had formerly occupied in a rapidly widening spray of gore.

The President sagged against the agent on his right, as the other one was finally able to pull the attacker away.  Four more agents appeared in frame, closing in around the President in a tight formation.  Physically manhandling their charge, they lifted and held the President between them and propelled him out of the room nearly at a run.

As the two agents who’d been first to the podium stood over the body of the headless man on the floor, the sound abruptly lowered dramatically.  The news anchor’s voice came on, the normally trained and confident tones sounding hushed and shaken.

“Shocking images from the White House.  A unprovoked and frankly insane attack upon the President of the United States –”

On screen more people were flooding into the camera’s shot.  Lots more Secret Service agents, identifiable because they wore suits and had guns visible in their hands, starting to form a line across the front of the room.  A number of the others wore Navy uniforms, and at least one was probably a doctor, by the way he didn’t seem upset by the brains and blood at his feet and how he seemed to be giving orders to the others who weren’t armed.

“We’re obviously going to keep all of our White House resources on this story.  At this time we don’t know–”

Jessica heard feet on the stairs, and looked away from the television immediately to her father.  William stared back at her almost blankly for a moment, then seemed to remember he had the remote.  Just as he muted the sound, Candice appeared in the living room.  Her hair was wet, and she now wore pink pajamas with tiny flowers printed on them.  Jessica forced a smile, hoping it came out naturally, and held out her arms.  Candice came over and slid into her lap.

“All clean?”

“Yes.” Candice said.

Jessica hugged her and took the opportunity to take a quick sniff, but she smelled soap and shampoo, and decided the bath probably had been taken.  “And you brushed your teeth?”

“I did.” Candice said, with the faintest hint of exasperation that was normally irritating to Jessica.  Now though, she welcomed anything that indicated Candice was acting normally and not stuck in a funk, or worse, over the day’s events.

“That’s my girl.” Jessica said.  “Ready for bed then?”

“I want to sleep in your bed tonight.” Candice said cautiously after a moment, sounding hesitant.

Jessica smiled and gave her a squeeze.  “Sure you can.  You can keep it warm for me, for when I lay down.  How’s that?”

“Okay.”

“Okay then.  Hugs and kisses.” Jessica said, and Candice twisted in her grasp to fit her arms around her mother.  The girl hugged Jessica tightly, then leaned her head back to brush her nose across Jessica’s a few times.  “Love you Candy Bear.”

“Love you mom.” Candice said, wiggling off her lap and starting for the hallway.

“Hey, no hugs and kisses for grandpa and grandma?” William asked with a smile, as Sharon patted the sofa.  Candice smiled back and jumped onto the sofa, landing between them and stretching out her arms.  Jessica’s parents hugged the little girl in unison, and then accepted kisses in turn as Candice turned from one to the other.

“Good night sweetie.” Sharon said.

“Sleep tight.” William told her.

Candice went back upstairs, and Jessica smiled at her back as the girl departed.  William waited until they heard Candice had gone back upstairs, then unmated the television.  The picture still showed the White House press room, which now looked anything but orderly and stately.  People were on their feet, milling about, shouting soundlessly as the news producers kept the audio from that room muted.  Cameras were now against the line of agents, angled up and over to get pictures of what was happening.

Jessica listened to the voice over, which was recounting what she’d just witnessed, and sighed.  “I don’t suppose we can fix any of this with pizza and cookies?” she ventured, hoping with all her heart it might just be that simple.

Sharon barked a small laugh, and Jessica looked at her mother in time to see her shaking her head.  “No dear, I think that stops working about the time you quit believing in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.”

“Pity.” Jessica said as she returned her attention to the television.

* * * * *

“Just move it!” Peter yelled.  The Guardsman at the wheel of the car shrugged, and Peter saw him do something to the gearshift of the minivan.  The vehicle started forward, its engine still making that chugging, whining sound that foretold of damaged belts and probably deeper problems as well, but it only had to move about thirty feet to be on the shoulder.

“Gunny!”

Peter turned at the shout, and saw Captain Foreman waving at him from next to the command humvee.  He had a radio headset on, and as Peter jogged over, he saw the captain looked worried.  As he stopped next to the humvee, Foreman took off the headset, handing it back to the driver and gesturing for Peter to follow him.

They walked away from the humvee, past its rear, and away from the bustle of activity as the guardsmen swarmed over the accident site on I-75.  The Guard vehicles’ headlights cast the interstate into patterns of bright and shadow that made it hard to see sometimes.  They were learning, at cost, that things lurked in the shadows tonight.  Things that were hungry.

“Sir?” Peter asked when they stopped, and Foreman gave him the same worried eyes.

“That was Captain Philmore.” Foreman said.  “His people are south of here.  He wants us to join him downtown.”

Peter took off his floppy cap and scratched at his bald spot for a moment.  “Where are they?”

“They’re trying to clear the Connector at Tenth Street.”

“So what’s the problem sir?  Did their ARV break?”  Peter asked, wondering if maybe there was something that might need the services of a second 984.  Then, as that thought crossed his mind, he found himself trying to estimate what could have happened at a civilian accident site that a single 984 couldn’t deal with.  He really hoped some semi-trucks hadn’t performed one of the mating dances he was dreading.

Foreman shook his head.  “He says they’re . . . meeting resistance.”

Peter considered that for a moment.  The Guard unit had cleared four other blockages, two of them on 285 before backtracking west to I-75 and starting to work their way south down that artery.  This was their fifth stop, and while it had been hard work, the worst part hadn’t been the physical labor of pushing vehicles or preparing them for pulls or tows.  No, the worst had been the zombies.

Peter had used that word a few times, and he wasn’t the only one, though the majority of the Guardsmen continued to employ the euphemisms that were starting to wear thin.  Peter was sure some of the objectors to the Z word knew someone, or had heard of someone they knew, who might be one.  It didn’t matter.  Whatever you called them –the sick, the diseased, victims, the zombies – they were showing up everywhere.