I’ve always wanted to write a great spy novel, especially since my grandfather, LtCol. John Irving, was one during the Cold War. I grew up hearing rumors about his exploits in East Germany after World War 2. He also served as an “adviser” in Vietnam in the 60′s which we now know is Pentagon slang for Commie Killing Jungle Warrior. He was unquestionably the most badass person I have ever known, not to mention a brilliant man. I could go on and on about him, but this short story is a pretty good representation of him. Anyway I wrote this one a few years ago at Christmas time and thought both of my readers would like it. Below is John, enjoy!

John
A Short Story by: Jason Winn

It wouldn’t take long for someone to find the two dead East German agents John left between the cars on the third deck of the parking garage.  Time was short and Gustav Falco was trying to make his exit.

“Never a fucking ashtray when you need one,” John silently grumbled as he expelled a cloud of smoke.  He gave up after two turns of the head, dropping the butt on what was usually the mirror finish floor of Union Station.

The ambient Christmas music stopped. “Now boarding Amtrak 312 at Gate 9,” echoed the PA system.  Off to the right a scurry of feet clamored towards the far side of the terminal and Perry Como’s voice returned to the world.

John brushed his fingers over the silenced Colt .22 parked in the small of his back, under his tweed jacket. In the same motion he brought out his pack of Marlboro 100s. His narrowed blue eyes never stopped scanning the holiday travel crowd as his Zippo sparked.

Falco might be disguised, but all the fake hair and makeup can’t hide the panicked look of a man desperate to get out of Dodge when the hounds are on his heals.

He rechecked the note on his wrist next to his Timex – “5542 Bmore.” The infernal arrival and departure board hadn’t changed in three minutes and forty-two seconds.

Just as Perry started up about Frosty, John’s patience was rewarded with the flutter of metal numbers and letters updating the arrivals and departures. Train 5542 was on time – arriving in less than twenty minutes. Gustav would then step over to Harold’s Newsstand next to John who, as instructed, would be holding a copy of today’s Chicago Tribune. The front page noted that Ronnie and Nancy had just lit the National Christmas Tree.

John staked out his post right under the green and white Harold’s sign, with the Tribune visible under his right arm.  He stood like a bored husband waiting for his wife’s tardy train.

To his left, a collective groan welled up from the anxious passengers by Gate 5. The infernal board had clicked away, revealing their train to Philly would be late by an hour.  The blizzard outside was savaging travel plans all over the East Coast.

“Sir, do you know the score of the Bears’ game?” asked a pale American accent.

“20 to 14, Seahawks,” replied John.

“Too bad, I don’t think Ditka will amount to much.”

John smiled and flipped his paper towards the exit leading to the third deck of the parking garage. Gustav’s eyes betrayed the relief of reaching the last leg of his American egress.

“Pünktlich zu Weihnachten in Berlin, ja?” joked John over his shoulder once they were out of the terminal.

“Ja,” sighed Gustav with a smile.

Just as the two were between two parked vans John pulled out his Marlboros.  Gustav heard the metallic sound of keys hitting the concrete.  He stopped and knelt down to pick them up for his savior.

“Danke,” muttered John as he put the barrel of his Colt to the back of Gustav’s head.

2013 WILL be the year that I find an agent and ultimately a publisher. In the meantime I am doing something that I probably should have done a few months back, posting all my stories for free on JasonWinn.com.

You can start reading The G Crisis here.

Fortress Pentagon, my bestselling title on Amazon, is here.

In the coming months I will put up my vampire novel, which is yet to have a title.

Closure

The captain of the Reagan, Admiral Wallace, made me sit in quarantine for two weeks before I was able to move about the ship. I had insisted they bury Lewis at sea like a real Marine. I stripped him of his ID and threw it out the window before I landed. They asked where his dog tags were and I made up some BS about a zombie grabbing them and having to cut them. He died as a Marine. He wanted that, I guess. That’s what he got.

The crew on the carrier hadn’t seen any of the outbreak aside from news and military briefs. I was their only first-hand source of the nightmare. I must have told the story about President Kline a hundred times. Some people thought it was cool that I was there when the nukes were launched. Some just gawked at me like I was an ugly, yet rare animal at the zoo. I guess it was hard for them to imagine I was real.

The Internet was invented by the DARPA labs to withstand a nuclear attack from the Russians. I can now tell you that if you nuke every major U.S. city, the internet no longer works. In fact, no communications work. Guess the engineers forgot that you need sustainable power to run all that shit.

The nukes obliterated the government’s communication networks. If anyone still existed in some remote operations center, they were more concerned about staying alive and eating than making sure that one surviving general was able to talk to another surviving general. Human nature was funny like that; it all comes down to basic survival first.

Admiral Wallace and I had several long talks about the remaining government in Cheyenne Mountain and NORAD. With no way to reach them and no aircraft with the range to physically fly there, the men and woman in that mountain were effectively non-existent. Wallace had a tough call. Where to go? The North American continent and parts of Europe would be wrapped in nuclear winter for at least a few years. Maybe New Zealand would be good. It wasn’t my decision though so I kept my mouth shut at the officers’ meetings. The admiral had close to six thousand people to worry about. Eventually the galley’s food would run out and they would still need to eat. The ship has unlimited range via nuclear power, but not unlimited food.

As for me, I stayed busy flying patrols when they needed me and helping the ship’s XO document everything I went through. We agreed that we should have a formal record of the events if the American government was ever resurrected. That is, if it managed to rise from the dead.

Get to the Helo

I smelled smoke at the security doors leading back the way we came.

“You all smell that?” I asked.

“I do.” Tom replied.

“Lewis, we need another route.” I said.

“The fastest way back to the courtyard is up that stairwell.” Lewis pointed up to stairs that probably hadn’t been used since the place was built. Rusted steel steps zigzagged upward, disappearing behind a concrete floor.

We started climbing. A door several flights up slammed open and a man screamed, “No, no, nooo!”

Lewis stopped. I pushed him. “He’s done, keep moving.” Lewis didn’t move. The man was screaming the sounds of the tortured. “Ahhh, help me! Help! Get off me!”

I could hear him trying to fight off his attackers. Heavy, rapid thuds echoed through the stairwell. I couldn’t see him in the darkness. I didn’t want to look up. His attackers growled and snarled.

“Steve! Steve, noooo! Oh God no! Get off of him,” a second voice shouted, a woman. God isn’t here lady. Hell’s eighty-eight minutes away, though.

“Go, Lewis, or you’re staying here!” I gave him one more push and he opened the door in front of us into a utility room.

“Down there! You down there. Can you help us?” the woman shrieked. I wished my hearing was all the way gone. The rest of the group ignored her. Lewis stammered again, but a third, harder push told him I was done fucking around.

Lewis picked up speed again, and we ran through a boiler room. Pipes and catwalks carried off in all directions. Lewis threw open another door and we were back in the main halls. “Down there and to the right and we’re in the courtyard.”

We broke into a full sprint. We blew past people huddled, screaming in offices and meeting areas. We jumped over wounded and people trying to treat them. My ears picked up gunfire again. The last holdouts, I thought. I recalled Long John Silver’s warning to Captain Smollett—“Them that die will be the lucky ones.”

A door exploded to my right. Smoke billowed out into the hallway. “Don’t stop!” I shouted.

We hit the turn before the courtyard exit and ran right into a group of infected. I opened fire. Two dropped. I elbowed, kicked and pushed. I felt the hot breath on my shoulder. Hot liquid splattered on my arm. Lewis fell down. The hallway exploded with gunfire. Bullets whizzed past my ears. Holtz and Conner lunged forward, using their rifles like billy clubs to push back the infected monsters. They kicked and punched. Holtz went down screaming. I stepped back and emptied the clip of my MP5. Four more bodies dropped to the floor. I could see the door to the courtyard.

“Watch it, Major,” Tom shouted. He fired his pistol. A body slumped to the floor, brushing across my back.

The building rocked with a big explosion. Dust fell into my eyes. Ceiling tiles flopped to the floor between us and the courtyard doors.

“Lewis!” I shouted. I saw movement under blood-soaked bodies. Some tried to crawl away. Some hissed. Not good, I thought.

I reached down and pulled him up by the elbow. “You bit? You bleeding?” I scanned his uniform.

“No sir, they just knocked me down.”

“Shit!” Shawn and Sheldon started firing. They stood back at the corner, rifles booming. Tom stood between them and me.

“Ahhh!” Screamed Holtz. I looked down. He battered a screeching woman. She clutched his wounded ankle and tried to bite him. He rained blows on her head with the butt of his M16. Conner dove on the woman. He wrapped his arms around her head. She bit hard into his bicep. He winded and squeezed her with all the strength he could summon. Conner lay on top of her. I couldn’t shoot or I’d hit Conner.

“Just go sir!” Conner growled. “We got your back.” Blood shot from the fresh wound in his arm. He let a primal shout and rolled the woman away from Holtz like a gator in a death roll. I heard the dull cracking of her jaw breaking.

“Sheldon! Shawn! Time to go!” The two Pentagon policemen side-stepped toward us, looking backwards every other step. Their guns pointed in all directions.

I stepped over the putrid pile of infected and galloped to the door. Feet pounded behind me. I didn’t look back to see who it was. I hit the door so hard it felt like I was going to smash through the glass. Lewis sprinted past me. Not so hurt after all, good. Shadows moved everywhere. Up and to my right flames exploded out of several windows, glass cascading down like raindrops.

I willed myself to look back. Automatic gunfire sparked behind us. Sheldon and Shawn huffed and puffed trying to keep up with the group. Tom kept stride with me. Lewis fired at something to my left. I took up station by the main passenger hatch and opened it. The stairs popped down.

“Get on!” I shouted to Tom and the policemen. The three stumbled up the stairs. I watched gunfire through the glass doors lit up the hallway. All around me the Pentagon’s windows flashed and flickered. Flames and gunfire dotted the walls.

“Stay down here, and cover us while I get her started!” I shouted to Lewis.

“Yes sir!” He shouted. I didn’t know what he saw to shoot at, but I didn’t care.

I jumped into the cockpit, ignoring the passengers. They could figure out seatbelts on their own. Tom knelt and kept firing out of the hatch.

I said the world’s shortest, silent prayer and started her up. The engines hummed and I sensed the rotors spinning. I pushed the throttle. The helicopter vibrated with power. Communication systems blinked on. Navigation came to life. It wasn’t a by-the-book startup sequence, but I thought the Marine Corp would give me a pass on this one.

“Tom, get him inside!” I shouted.

Tom gave a thumb’s up and ducked out of the hatch. Lewis backed up the stairs on his ass, still shooting. Tom did a clumsy jump right after him. Good enough. I thumbed the button to close the catch as I saw a hand claw at the stairs after Tom’s leg. Sheldon and Shawn stared wide-eyed at Tom. His ankle bled.

I pulled back on the stick and we lifted off. I looked at my watch. Seventy-five minutes to go. Tom moaned behind me. “Officers, secure him!” They didn’t move, just stared at him. “Lewis!”

Lewis stuck his head next to mine. “Check Tom’s wound. See if it looks like bite marks.”

Lewis disappeared and reappeared in seconds. He looked down and nodded his head.

“Get those doughnut bags to secure Tom. He’s going to change into one of those things. You copy?”

“Yes sir.”

I couldn’t hear Lewis shouting, but I could tell he was chewing ass—good man. Earn those stripes, kid. I stole another glance behind me and saw the big twins cuffing Tom. About time.

“Lewis!”

“Yes sir.”

“Get your helmet back on so I don’t have to shout so much!”

Lewis reappeared a second later with a flight helmet. “Can you hear me better now?” I asked.

“Good. Now open the hatch and throw Tom out.”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me again, Devil Dog! You want to be a Leatherneck, start fucking following the hard orders. Open the hatch and get the twins back there to toss his ass out of my helo. Do it now!”

“Yes sir.”

“Hey, you two!” He shouted. I could hear him through his radio. “Pick him up and out he goes.”

I felt the whoosh of air from the hatch opening. “Come on! Now! Get this dude out of here!”

“Tell them you’ll shoot them if they don’t help you,” I shouted.

“Sir, they won’t budge.”

“Shoot one in the knee then! That man has to get off this aircraft now.”

“Get up!” Lewis shouted. “Okay, fine then.” I heard a pop from the back. Bullets won’t harm this old girl. A tank would have to fire at us to put a dent in the armor. The president gets the good stuff. “They’re moving now, sir.”

I heard the same struggle as with the secret service. Not again. Lewis screamed into the headset. I flicked the autopilot and looked back. No one was in the passenger area.

Up Next…The Rockets Red Glare

The Battle for Fortress Pentagon

The approach to the Pentagon made me shiver. Half the perimeter lights were out. Muzzle flashes sparked everywhere. My night vision showed a small group crashing the barricades from the north.

“Oh, shit,” Lewis shouted.

We descended. The altimeter counted down, a thousand feet, eight hundred feet, five hundred feet. The parking lots sprawled out in all directions as we came in. Adrenaline shot through me.

This is it, I get to see the end of the world. I get to die with my boots on, emptying a clip into people I swore to protect.

“Pentagon, come in. This is Chuck Wagon, over.”

“Chuck Wagon, this is Pentagon, go ahead.”

“Can I get a sit rep? I see lights out in the LZ.” Four hundred feet.

“Affirmative Chuck Wagon. We lost two more generators.”

“Pentagon, you’ve got a hoard of infected headed north on the interstate, over.”

“Copy that, Chuck Wagon.”

“Let me be real clear. The infected force is massive, estimate a hundred thousand plus. You’ll need air support to take them out.” Two hundred feet.

Sparks from metal scraping against asphalt danced everywhere in the north lot. The muzzle flashes started to move south, away from the sparks.

“Lewis, the perimeter is about to be breeched! Lock and load, we’re coming in hot! Grab one of those safety harnesses and open the starboard hatch.”

“Yes sir. Uh, which side is that?”

“Right side, come on!”

The open-hatch indicator light blinked red. One hundred feet. Fresh, smoky air filled the dirty aircraft. I switched on my landing lights to help the men who were falling back see a little better. Fifty cals mounted on Hummers were barking away. Flames danced from barrels that glowed red.

I shot a look back at Lewis. He had the harness on backwards, but it would probably hold him if he fell out. “Hook onto that grommet on the door!”

Lewis managed to get that right. “Shoot anything that isn’t ours.” He raised an MP-5 and opened fire. Fifty feet. Night vision showed the infected advancing slowing, but they had breeched the north barricade. The group was a colony of ants compared to what was marching toward us to the south. We’re in the shit now.

“Chuck Wagon, this is the Pentagon, come in.”

“Go ahead, Pentagon.”

“The president wants you to land in the center court yard and await his evac.” Let’s not go two for two. “Get on the deck as soon as you can. A-10s are entering your area of operation to deal with the threats to the south.”

“Copy that, we’ll be on the ground in one minute.” My radar showed two blips at five thousand feet coming out of the northwest, headed south, doing about three hundred knots. Go get em, boys. “Pentagon, aren’t there trees in the courtyard?”

“Negative, Chuck Wagon, they have been removed.”

“Roger that,” I said. “Lewis, load up and sit down.” Lewis emptied his clip, reloaded, and sat down in a chair normally reserved for the president.

“Aw, man, what is all this on the walls?”

“Don’t ask,” I said.

Light sticks waved on the ground in the middle of the courtyard. We touched down.

“Pentagon, we’re on the ground. Give me a sit rep.” I heard the southbound A-10s scream overhead. “Is the president ready for evac? I’m starting to run low on fuel.”

“Go ahead and kill your engines, Chuck Wagon. They’re coming out with the last of the chopper fuel now. The president is wrapping something up now. He’ll be out shortly.” Hurry up and wait.

I killed the engine and got out of my chair. “Lewis, hand me one of those MP-5s and a few clips.” He did as he was told. I stuffed three heavy, thirty-round clips into my jumpsuit and slung the MP-5 over my shoulder. The onboard communication system still worked, so I grabbed a unit linked to the radio and snapped it to my belt.

“No one gets on this bird unless I okay it. You understand?” He nodded and stood up. We both exited the helo and stood by the folding passenger steps.

Gunfire echoed off the fortress-like walls. A handful of windows facing the courtyard glowed. I could make out people hanging out of some, trying to cool off or get some fresh air.

Shadowy figures lumbered across the courtyard, rolling fifty-five gallon drums. I popped the fuel hatch and watched them start pumping with a Vietnam-era fuel pump someone probably stole out of a museum case. The thing had a little one-horsepower motor to move fuel from the drums into my tanks.

“Where’s that fuel truck from the Belvoir?” I asked the closest fuel pumper. He wiped long hair out of his eyes and shrugged. Great.

From the looks of things, they had enough fuel to top me off. But if this was the last of the local reserves, I was going to be the last bird out of here. If the survivors inside were lucky, the A-10s would slow the mob. But what waited out there? Where the hell would we go?

I could tell the fuel team finished up when I smelled kerosene spilling onto the ground. “All right, that’s good, gentlemen.” They stopped and proceeded to roll the empty drums away. They vanished into the building.

“Pentagon, come in.”

Ordinance rumbled in the distance. Hope those A-10s are shooting straight today, I thought. The gunfire from the parking lots intensified. More explosions, and these were closer.

“Pentagon, come in. This is Chuck Wagon.”

“Lewis, that radio guy have any other duties?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.” His narrow eyes scanned the doors leading into the courtyard.

“Pentagon, come in,” silence. Fuck.

“Lewis, get the rest of the ammo. There’s an open pack back in there some where. Put the ammo and a few extra weapons in there. We’re gonna have to go back in there and pull the president out.”

“Yes sir.”

Thirty seconds later Lewis pointed to the door closest to the SOC. This time we had flashlights. Screams and gunfire echoed through the halls. I won’t lie to you, I felt my legs shaking. Haunted houses are only fun when you know they’re fake. We were in the horror for real now. It takes no more than seven minutes to walk between two points in the Pentagon. If the infected had made it inside, it wouldn’t take them long to be right on top of us.

“How do I tell friend from foe?” Lewis asked.

“Time to think for yourself, Marine.”

“This way.” He pointed down an empty hallway. “Sir?”

“Yeah?” My eyes strained in the darkness. I pointed my pistol at doorways, flagpoles, and freestanding signs.

“I should tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not a Marine.”

“Huh?” I can’t say I was that shocked. The man couldn’t even put on a safety harness, but he handled a weapon well enough. A month ago, if some kid wearing a dead marine’s uniform had told me this, I would have grabbed him by the ear and drug him to the nearest MP. I would have recited every speech I‘d ever heard about how sacred the eagle, globe, and anchor were. How it was an honor to wear the uniform and serve my country; and how his violation is disgraceful. When I handed the punk over to the MP I would have asked that he be given the most severe punishment allowed for impersonating one of America’s heroes.

“Up these stairs. I just work here.” We hiked up two flights of stairs. “When everyone started dying I put on a uniform. They gave me stuff to do instead of just shuffling me off to the side like the other civilians.” Taking initiative, that’s commendable.

I stopped. “So you actually volunteered for this detail?”

“Yeah, I mean, yes sir. Please don’t tell anyone.” Gun fire roared from a hallway. People shouted. He didn’t flinch at that gunfire, he’s got some grit.

“Staff Sergeant, there may not be anyone left to tell. Is your name at least Lewis?”

“Yes.” He might be honest.

“Lead the way, Lewis. We’re checking the SOC and that’s it. If they aren’t there, we’re getting the hell out of here.” I grabbed his arm and locked my eyes onto his, “you disobey me just once, and I’ll either turn you in or put a bullet in you. You read me?”

Lewis gulped, “Yes sir.”

“You pull your weight and you’re secret’s safe with me.” I let him go and we kept walking.

Two more hallways and we hit a locked door. “It’s about twenty yards on the other side of this door.”

I kicked it. Nothing. “Hey, open up. This is Major Brielander!” I kept kicking. The door opened. A gun barrel poked out. “Hold your fire, soldier!” A scared kid poked his face around the corner. “Open up, I’m here for the president’s evac.”

He opened the door slowly and Lewis gasped when we saw the nightmare on the other side.

Up Next… Get to the Bunker.

Fortress Pentagon

“Chuck Wagon, helo fuel is being convoyed from Fort Belvoir,” the Pentagon’s radioman said. “There’s food and a bed here if you need it. Over.” I turned the radios back on when the fuel gauges hit the half way point.

A drone picked me up on radar after I dropped the secret service team off at Andrews last night. I couldn’t see it up there, circling at 20,000 feet, but I knew it was there. The operator must have been glad he scored such a cherry MOS after everything went to shit. “Who’s a glorified videogame player now?” He must have thought.

“Chuck Wagon copies all. What’s the ETA on the fuel convoy? Over.”

“Eight hours.” The radio man paused to talk to someone on his end. “Chuck Wagon, Command is requesting you proceed to the secure LZ here in the west parking lot. You’ll see three other choppers parked there.”

“Copy that, Pentagon. See you in a few. Chuck Wagon out.”

The Pentagon, the last stronghold in the metro area, was my next port of call. Andrews Air Force Base was a mess. Three planes had gone down while trying to land. Tower said that the only air traffic possible now was helicopters and surface roads. There might have been other pockets of survivors in the area, but they didn’t have radios or didn’t know how to use them.

I wove through plumes of smoke curling into the air. The rotor blades pushed away black clouds from unattended fires raging through the suburbs. The scene made the L.A. riot footage from the ’90s look tame. Small packs of zombies roamed the streets. Some were on fire.

Boats choked the Potomac, trying to sail around floating debris. From my altitude the river looked like a child’s bathtub filled with muddy water, toy cars, and stiff action figures. A huge yacht listed to one side and burned.

Approaching the Pentagon LZ, I saw a school bus barreling down I-395. It swerved and dodged wrecked vehicles. Every pothole jolted it higher into the air.

“The wheels on the bus go up and down, up and down.”

An overturned armored car cut the bus’s trip short. It struck the armored car’s bumper. The bus fishtailed and flipped over on its side. It rolled like a Twinkie, flinging off pieces of its delicious pound-cake casing in all directions. The cream-filling people inside had to have perished. Damn.

“Pentagon, you’ve got a yellow bus out here with fresh casualties. About two clicks south of the 14th Street Bridge.”

“Copy that, Chuck Wagon. We’ll add them to the list.”

I came to rest in the parking lot next to two Black Hawks and a news helicopter. The latter’s hull looked like it had gone ten rounds with Godzilla. The paint was scorched off, the metal bent and curled from small-arms fire. Desperate survivors had a funny way of trying to get our attention. So far I’ve been lucky.

Machine-gun fire replaced the drone of my rotor blades. Utility uniforms from all branches lined a perimeter made of overturned vehicles, security barricades, and furniture. Shouts mingled with gunfire. Tired soldiers jogged with ammo cans to the front line in the afternoon sun.

“Contact ten o’clock!”

“I got him!”

“Grenade out!”

The pop of a grenade’s concussion rolled over the parking lot. Hoots and gasps followed.

“Major! Major! Over here.” A marine staff sergeant ran over and saluted. He looked winded, stressed. “Staff Sergeant Lewis. I’m your escort. Command needs a debrief on the president.”

“Your name tag says Eldridge,” I said.

“We’ve had to improvise, adapt, and…”

“Overcome. That’s for sure,” I said. “Understandable given our situation. Lewis, lead the way. How bad do they think this is?”

“I don’t ask those questions, sir.” He turned and grinned, tapping the rank insignia on his shoulder. “Above my pay grade.” I wondered if his rank had been improvised as well. Who gives a shit.

We double-timed it through the lot. Men walking on the roof caught my attention. They chatted, pointed, and looked through binoculars. Laundry fluttered like streamers under open windows. Tents marked “aid station” and “field command” dotted the wide expanse of asphalt. I didn’t want to know why they were burning a big pile of clothes to the north. I hope those are clothes.

“Sir, you’re going to have to get cleared by medical. Anyone coming in from the infected zones has to get checked out.”

“Fine.”

After a quick trip to the old doctor’s tent under the Metro station shelter, I was given a clean bill of health. “Try to get some rest, Major,” is all he told me after his battery of tests, which consisted of taking my temperature and listening to my chest with his cold stethoscope. He nodded to Lewis and I was allowed to leave.

The armed men at the doors nodded to me, and we went inside the Pentagon. The dim halls stank like garbage left out in the sun.

“Woof!” I said. The stench bored into my nostrils. It seemed to coat everything from the floor to the glass-case-lined walls to the ceiling tiles. The military trophies inside each case got to breathe clean air. Lucky plaques and photos.

“The smell, right, sir?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re working on policing up the trash, but they think a few of the infected may have died in locked rooms. Security is going door to door trying to find them.”

“I guess the generators are out too, huh?”

“Correct sir, the remaining juice has been allocated to the secure operations control, the SOC.”

The hustle of feet told me that the building was crammed with people, civilians sleeping against the walls, government administrators and emergency responders doing what they could to manage chaos. I think I’ll sleep in my zombie-blood-soaked helo, thank you very much. On a normal day the place comfortably housed around 25,000 people. Take away the lights and AC, the place turns into a dark funk factory. Afghanistan smelled a little better, but not by much.

We walked through peculiar corridors. The thumping of combat outside faded away the deeper we cut into the building. Voices echoed from shadows. Flashlights bobbed and glared through the darkness. Lots of doors were closed. Some had hand written “do not enter” signs taped to them. I heard a repeating dull thud on the other side of one of those doors.

“Here you are,” Lewis said. Men with M16s flanked the double oak doors. They stiffened at the sight of an officer in a flight suit.

“They’re in the middle of a briefing, Major. You’re as safe as you’re going to get here, sir.” He looked down at my right hand, which was anchored to my Beretta M9. I hadn’t noticed.

“You can sit in if you like,” Lewis said. He pointed into the bright room that looked like a small mission control. Flags drooped in the corners. Flat screens lined the back wall. Some had aerial images of cities slowly turning below. Some were blank. A thin, white haired man in a football T-shirt stood in front of the flat screens. He waved a ruler at different screens as he spoke to a motley group of people wearing everything from uniforms to jogging suits. The room hummed with temporary lights and fans.

“Thank you, Staff Sergeant. I think I’ll be fine from here,” I said quietly.

Lewis turned on a heel and walked off into the smelly darkness.

“Drones,” the white haired man said, “over New York are about out of fuel. We’re estimating a virus infection rate of over ninety percent. Bombers out of Mitchel Air Force base have just destroyed all bridges connecting Manhattan to the mainland.

“I’ll remind you all, the infection is preceded by a very high fever, and then neurological functions deteriorate into a basic, predator-like state. No one so far has been able to detect a transmission vector. Body heat signature readings from the UAVs indicate the infection is reaching saturation levels in densely populated areas.”

The hum of the equipment stopped and the room went dark. My heart skipped. A few laptop screens glowed. The woosh of power coming back on filled the room. The screens flickered and returned to the views of slowly spinning cities.

I looked to the man’s right where a whiteboard had an alphabet soup of government agencies, CIA, FBI, DEA, FEMA, et al. Most had red lines though them. We’re fucked, so very fucked.

“What about waiting until winter and just let all these things freeze?” a man asked.

“It’s May, Roger.” The white-haired man said, sounding annoyed. “Waiting for them to freeze in winter isn’t an option. They’ll be no one around to celebrate your brilliant plan.”

“Was that Major Brielander from HMX 1 in the back there?” someone asked.

“Yes sir,” I said. The man at the front of the room stopped talking.

“Major, would you join the acting president up there and tell us what happened to President Kline while aboard your aircraft?”

The “acting” president? I guess word got back here that Kline had to be put down. I walked around desks until I stood next to the new president.

He turned and offered a handshake. “I’m sure you don’t recognize me, Major. I used to be Secretary of Interior. Frank Dayton.” We shook hands.

“Major, you’re standing in front of half the U.S. government right now. The other half has been sworn in at Cheyenne Mountain under the care of NORAD. They are the last contingency should this place fall.”

“Wow,” I said in a whisper.

“What happened to President Kline?” An old pudgy man in navy whites asked.

“Right. About thirty-six hours ago, General Bates from Whiteside command ordered me to halt civilian evacuations and pick up President Kline on the South Lawn at Whiskey Hotel. I was then to proceed to Camp David, where the president’s physician was waiting for him.”

“I reached the White House at approximately 06:30 local time. The president and his security detail fought through resistance to get to the helicopter.”

“Charlie, pull up the last known images of the White House. Sorry, go on, Major.”

“The president appeared very ill and the security detail was covered in blood.” A screen behind me lit up with a view of the White House grounds. I thought it best to spare the room the details of the first lady’s son eating her.

“I lifted off, headed southwest. Right as we got over the Potomac, it happened.” I paused, going over the events in my head—the sound of a brawl in the passenger compartment, shouting. I didn’t see anything except the very end. When they cut his hand off and pushed him out the hatch.

“Major, major!”

“Huh? Sorry,” I said.

“Why were you headed southwest? Camp David is north of the city,” the pudgy sailor probed me again.

“Sir, I had to circle around the city, following the beltway north. There’s too much smoke to navigate the city at night. I had to consider the safety of my passengers.”

That shut him up.

“I flipped on the autopilot hover and went back to the passenger compartment. I witnessed Agent Peterson being strangled by the president. Her face was blue. They were fighting with the president, trying to get him off of her. He looked to have incredible strength.

“Agent Javier, I think was his name, freed her by cutting off the president’s hand with what looked like a butcher’s knife. Black blood went everywhere. A third agent opened the port side hatch and shouted to ‘get him out of here!’” I closed my eyes as I said those words.

The SOC was silent, save for the fans. “She kicked upward. He flew backward. Another agent hit him with a shoulder and the president flew backward through the hatch. I tried to raise General Bates to report the situation, but no one answered up on that frequency.”

There was a long pause in the room as people started breathing again. “Then where did you go?” President Dayton asked quietly.

“Andrews was the only place to roger up. I dropped the agents off there, refueled and decided to go see if I could find anyone else.” I looked each person in the eye. There weren’t but twenty people in the room. “But I didn’t see any more survivors. Your radio man contacted me after a drone saw me.”

“Did any of the agents exhibit symptoms after being exposed to the president’s blood?” An Asian man with fight surgeon insignia on his chest asked.

“No sir.” I replied. “For what its worth, the only people I’ve seen who have become infected did so right after they received wounds where they bled.

The man nodded, sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling.

People started to grumble and whisper.

“…Christ…”

“…we’re it, people…”

“…no more options…”

“…fight to the last man and for what?”

“Gentlemen, nuclear may be our only option,” Dayton said. Nuclear? “Communications with allies have deteriorated to random chatter. Whatever this thing is, it has gone global. National infrastructure is failing by the hour. We do not have the ordinance or manpower to launch a conventional attack on the infected. The current containment protocol for the major metropolitan areas is a stopgap at best.”

“How do you propose we do that, Mr. President?” A man with a very think southern accent asked. “The football is lost. Did he have it with him, Major?”

“I didn’t see it,” I said. “It looks like a suitcase right?”

“Somewhat, yes.” He turned back to the room. “So that’s out, people.” He stood up. A patchy beard clung to his oily complexion. “The authentication system installed last year is biometrically secured, so even if we did have the codes in the football, you can’t launch. We have the keys still, but the president needs to be physically here to launch, using the keys. The last person who had administrative override died and had to be incinerated two days ago.” He pointed to where I think those clothes were burning in the parking lot.

“We still have contact with the carriers Reagan, Stennis, and Truman. I recommend we do what we can to form a secure corridor to the Chesapeake Bay. We evacuate as many people to the carriers as possible. At sea we’d be able to better defend and feed ourselves. The carriers are nuclear, so we’d have all the power we’d need.”

Heads nodded up and down. Getting to the Bay, thirty miles east as the crow flies, would be near impossible, I thought. The roads were impassable with burned out hulks of vehicles. Thirty thousand people weren’t going to fit comfortably in four helos parked in the lot out front.

Somebody shouted that that was a stupid idea. The room erupted into a shouting match. No one saw me leave. I needed to check my aircraft in case I needed to bug out. Following orders is my job, but the situation was deteriorating faster than a rabbit gets fucked. The SOC guards were kind enough to show me a shortcut back outside.

Up next…The 100,000 Horsemen of the Apocalypse

Get to the Chopper!

“Get to the chopper! Get to the chopper!” That’s what they kept screaming. Marines, like me, call helicopters helos. Army pukes call ’em choppers. Civilians don’t care to know the difference, especially when they’re being chased.

They all needed Major Charles “Chuck Wagon” Brielander to get them to safety. My Sea King helo sports the presidential color scheme.. It’s an amazing aircraft—leather interior, onboard encrypted communications, extended fuel capacity, defensive systems, and enough weapons in the back locker to invade Panama.

After things really got bad, I spent a week lifting survivors out of D.C., taking them to what’s left of the FEMA aid stations. It’s was incredible how fast things went to shit. I saw survivors running from a few hundred yards away, shooting, swinging bats, screaming. Sometimes they’re dragging someone. who’d been injured. Sometimes they limped. Sometimes they crawled. For some stupid reason I always thought I’d see a smile when they got onboard, that never happened.

“…there it is!”

“…keep moving, run…”

“…don’t stop, get up, get up…”

“…she’s dead, leave her!”

It tears a man up to see them with dead kids or old people. I understand. I’m a human being, not some action movie hero. Back then I still believed I was going to see my family again. It’s impossible to let your kids go. I would probably try to save the little ones and grandma too, even if I knew they’d been infected. I read once that the same sort of thing happened during the Black Plague. Mothers getting infected from children they tried to comfort.

The corpses that were healthy adults before death aren’t so bad. They reminded me of war dead. They had a fighting chance. That’s what I told myself, anyway. The forty-year-old gentleman with a gut, blood pouring out of his shoulder—he’s not going to make it. Sorry sir, you should have been a little faster, maybe paid attention to the news when they said wash your hands and stay away from other people with that flu.

Sometimes they held wounds. I stopped letting those people on. This shit will change your picture of humanity. That’s the new ticket to ride: make sure all of your blood is still in you. Before the outbreak, the only way you got on my bird was if you had the proper clearance. Otherwise, please see the friendly, trained killers at the security fence for a full interrogation and beat down.

After a while I had to say, “if you’re wounded, you’re on your own. I can’t have you turning on me while we’re in the air.” I had to shoot one woman with bite marks on her leg as she charged the door. Her husband didn’t seem to mind. He pushed her body out of the way to make room for the others.

Flying a Sea King is hard enough under normal circumstances. Having a goddamn infected maniac trying to bite you or the other survivors at three thousand feet is a little more than the Corp trained me for.

The last injured person I took on went by the title of Commander and Chief. Christ, yesterday was fucked up. Who do you shoot when the President of the United States jumps up and starts trying to attack his security detail? That’s not a scenario they prepare one for at the James J. Rowley Training Center: “Today, cadets, we’re going to go over the myriad scenarios in which you will have to cut the zombie president’s hand off and throw him out the door of his own helicopter. Pay attention, there will be a quiz later.”

Fourteen hours ago, the big man was just lying there on the floor of my helo, call-sign Marine One. Bandages clung to exposed wounds on his arms. The gauze sagged, soaked with blood and sweat. He gasped for air, surrounded by exhausted, blood-covered agents. He’s the same man who, three weeks ago, shook hands with the Chinese president on television and joked about who was better at golf.

I landed on the South Lawn at 6:22am. Floodlights, powered by generators, cast ghastly shadows across the grass. President Kline and his Secret Service detail limped across the South Lawn, firing weapons in all directions at the wave of charging monsters. I think a few of the rear guard gave their lives for their country as marauding bands of the infected attacked the ones that ran out of ammo. They loaded the president into the chopper. It was probably the first time a sitting president boarded his helicopter without a salute.

One agent shouted something about the first lady and pointed back to a door with an awning. I couldn’t hear everything they were talking about. Another agent tapped me on the helmet and shouted, “We can’t wait for the other group! Take off now Major.”

Metal from the White House fence parted in several places. Anyone could see that Whiskey Hotel had been overrun. Corpses lined the manicured lawns where press conferences and Easter egg rolls once took place. The newly infected stumbled over piles of rotting humanity. Makeshift bunkers and barbwire-wrapped barricades slowed their ghoulish advance. I could only liken the scene to aftermath pictures of D-Day.

I looked back at the White House as I powered up the rotors. There she was, the first lady, two steps out of the same door the president appeared from.  Her face shrouded in agony, eyes still framed by those black designer frames she always wore. Her arms outstretched as if she just reach the helicopter forty yards away. A person flew out of the door and tackled her. The thing ripped away flesh from her neck as a lion would eat a gazelle. Blood shot across the grass. Her legs kicked.  The assailant looked up at me. It was Josh Kline, the first kid, her son.

“We’re in! Go! Go!” someone shouted. We took off. The last agent aboard looked back and sprayed three blood-covered people with his MP5 submachine gun as they ran across the lawn toward the helicopter. They jerked backward and fell to the ground, twitching. I hope they were sick and not just people looking for help. I didn’t give them a second glance. That agent’s sure to have nightmares for the rest of his life. Then again, I guess we all will if we live long enough to go to sleep again.

It felt good to have the president aboard one more time. Right over the Potomac, that feeling changed. I guess he just sprang up off the floor and went batshit. I didn’t see it. The security detail described it later. He grabbed a female agent. Everyone was yelling. Someone produced a knife and hacked the president’s hand off.

Black blood shot all over the leather chairs and the windows. The smell never went away. Better to wait for it to dry and flake away than waste water cleaning it up I thought. He had a grip on that big female agent that almost killed her. His Texas A&M graduation ring had turned inward and left an imprint on her neck.

The poor bastards had no choice but to kick his snarling corpse out the port-side hatch. The ragged protection detail looked like a wedding party forced to watch the groom murder the bride. It’s only fitting that we were over Arlington Cemetery at the time. Rest in peace, Mr. President. It was an honor to serve you. I voted for you.

In a few days D.C. would join the ranks of New York, Baltimore, Richmond, and Philadelphia—all property of the living dead. I turned off the wide-scan radio after that. I didn’t want to hear about any more cities being overrun.

Up next – Fortress Pentagon