MZS- North East Read online

  There are two more parked auto chicanes in the half-mile before Pennsylvania Avenue. I am able to navigate them without contact, but our speed is down to twenty miles an hour when we get to the off-ramp.

  It’s okay though, because we don’t have any choices to make. Two-ninety-five is blocked off. There is an eighteen-wheeler across the road and two rows of cars in front of it. I would be willing to bet that there are another two rows of cars behind it as well. A tank would choose to turn off the highway if faced with this obstacle.

  At the bottom of the ramp, the car is headed back away from D.C., which confuses me and gives me a little hope. Whoever set this up may be trying to keep us from hordes or other types of danger.

  My optimism is quickly crushed. Another roadblock forces us into a U-turn. When the rig comes around, the U.S. Capitol building is straight ahead of us.

  Back under the highway we see a small horde of zombies off to our right. There are maybe fifteen to twenty of them and they all appear to be dressed in business attire. Is it possible that the zombie disease hit D.C. on Friday and worked its way up the coast to Boston on Saturday? Does this mean it could have been a terrorist attack with a biological weapon?

  “Terri, you gotta find us a way out of this mess,” I say quietly. I’m barely able to keep my cool.

  “Over the bridge, stay to the right. It should take us back down to two-ninety-five,” she answers. She sounds more compassionate now.

  Pitched… no sale! Another roadblock.

  “Screw it. We’re just going to see where this leads,” I say and keep driving, trying to act as if it was a decision I could make.

  I weave the Humvee through several sets of alternating roadblocks. The navigation is easy but the pace is slow. The setup allows the right people to come and go as they please, but also gives them the time they need to see a threat coming.

  Sixth Street is the first road that is not blocked, but that is only true for the northbound side. Further progress on Pennsylvania Avenue is impeded, but I’d be willing to bet that I could force the Humvee through the obstructions on the street. After our experience in Philly and the apprehension this street is giving me, I’m a little frustrated with the entire state of Pennsylvania, even though we’re in Washington D. C.

  The final roadblock forces me to turn the Humvee toward an office park that looks relatively secure. There is a guardhouse and a token barricade across the entrance to the parking lot.

  It feels kind of weird, but I pull up and press the button on the intercom.

  “Name, nationality and health status,” a voice says. The response is quick and stern.

  “Um, Patrick, American and a little overweight,” I reply. I’m not sure how honest these people will expect us to be.

  The intercom crackles back: “Infected, exposed or clean?”

  “Clean, I guess?” I’m still not sure what they are looking for.

  “How many are in the Humvee with you?” The voice is formal and a little frightening.

  I do a quick check in the rear view mirror and a mental count.

  “Five,” I lie, not really sure why. Something in my gut tells me acting stupid might be to my advantage.

  “Okay. Pull into the lot and get out of the car. If you have weapons, leave them inside,” the voice orders before the thin wooden barricade is raised.

  In one of the windows of the office building behind the parking lot I can see a woman. A small child clings to her leg and they look out at us hopefully. Checking a few of the other windows shows that she is not alone. There are a number of women in this building. My guess is that it’s safe.

  “We don’t like getting out of the vehicle without weapons. It’s a little bit…. risky,” I say to the intercom.

  “Then turn around and leave,” the voice from the intercom says. "We don’t need you, but my guess is if you’re here, you need us.” The logic is emotionless.

  Something is off. This is the worst feeling in the world. I want to scream at them to just tell me what to do. The flip side is that I won’t believe them no matter what they say.

  “Whadda ya think guys?” I query the rig.

  “There are women and children in there. This is outside the quarantine line; the government took care of their own. We stay,” Terri says, full of liquid courage.

  “I’d rather fight it out in the woods. An office building on some street corner in D.C. would be a shitty place to die,” Todd injects.

  “Stay,” McLean says, keeping it brief.

  “I’m tired of running,” Cupcake adds from the second row.

  “Cupcake’s rig, Cupcake’s rules. I’m with the big guy, baby!” Tucker says. He’s too excited about everything.

  “I could go for getting out and stretching,” Parker finally answers from the back.

  McLean

  Chapter 37

  The consensus is to get out of the Humvee and stay here. It’s obvious, but I can understand why Patrick is hesitant. I wish he would spell out the concerns we all must feel. Every time I think that someone is stepping up to act like a leader they disappoint me.

  Sure, we’re a team and a group and we all have valuable data points to be weighed when making a decision. Sometimes though, you just need to own a choice. If Patrick feels so nervous about this that he wants to leave, he should have told us why before he asked for our input.

  At this point, if he says we’re leaving there may be a revolt. If he tells us we’re staying, I’m going to read a thousand things into his tone and word choice. Instead of instilling confidence, he is brewing confusion and frustration.

  “Here’s the deal,” he says, issuing orders confidently. “Todd, you and Terri are staying in the rig. Terri, you scan the building roof, windows, and ground entrances. Look for armed men or anyone who looks scary. Todd, stay behind the seat. If Terri sees anything bad, you’re in the nest. Let that machine gun rip until we can make it back.”.

  “Got it.” Todd is all business.

  “What are we supposed to do if we see something?” I ask. I want to know why he’s sending us outside if he thinks there will be scary things.

  “Parker and Cupcake, put the guns in your waist around back. Make sure your shirt covers them. Leave the other weapons here,” Patrick says.

  Stupid ass. He’s going to use me as bait. Stick the pretty girl outside with no weapons and if it’s a trap I can trust that the others will take care of me.

  “What. About. Me?” I probe.

  “We’re diplomats,” he says. “Kind words and no weapons. If shit gets crazy, stay behind me and get to the rig as fast as you can. Actually, get in the driver’s seat and make sure you’re ready to roll. If any of us go down, just leave and make sure everyone else is safe.” Patrick will at least physically stay in front of the group.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Terri slurs at Patrick.

  “Umm?” He’s not even sure how to answer her.

  “There’s women and children in like ten windows. Nothing bad is going to happen here.” She caps off her comments with a long pull on her flask.

  Before Patrick can answer, his head whips around to the front.

  I half expect to hear the eruption of gunfire based on his movement. From my obscured view seat there is nothing to warrant his reaction.

  Leaning forward over the seat and pushing Todd off to the side, I can see through the front window. There is a man in a suit, no tie, flanked by two other well-dressed men, entering the parking lot from underneath the building. The man in the middle appears unarmed; the two on the outside are both cradling long black guns.

  “You guys ready?” Patrick doesn’t wait for the answer; he opens the door and steps out onto the pavement.

  No, we’re not ready. This is no plan. He told us what he wants us to do, but not when or what we’re supposed to react to.

  “You follow Cupcake,” Parker whispers in my ear. “Tucker and I will use Todd’s door.”

  Before I can object or question, C
upcake is out the door and standing on the pavement. Parker has slipped past Todd and somehow managed to gracefully land feet-first out the door. Tucker is not far behind him.

  Confused and angry, I make my way out Cupcake’s door and place my feet as confidently as I can on the ground. I am a strong, intelligent young woman, I remind myself—it’s just hard to show that or feel it in these circumstances.

  As the men get closer I begin to worry that our appearance leaves us at a disadvantage.

  One of my early lessons in business was to look the part. To sell high-end art you need to have a high-end look. If I was going to wear a watch, it had to be a Rolex or better. Jewelry had to be solid; gold, silver, or platinum. Clothes could not have any tags or labels, nothing “off the rack” was allowed in the gallery.

  It was kind of a depressing lesson for an art lover who thought the work should speak for itself. Who cares what I’m wearing if the piece I’m selling is absolutely brilliant? Sadly, the answer was virtually everyone.

  The jeans and canvas jacket I put on yesterday morning are far from designer. I suspect we all smell bad enough that the guys with guns can smell us from here. Last night we drank like fishes, slept in our clothes and did not shower. The cardboard-and-duct-tape armor is custom, I suppose, but not what you would call fashion. We are a long way from high-end art.

  Still, we are negotiating and that’s what worries me. Patrick does not seem like a closer. He has the first eighty percent of initiative to engage and entice, but no killer instinct to seal the deal. Yet here he is taking point across from a smartly dressed older gentleman.

  Individually we look like a mess and collectively we look even worse. Cupcake and I are on one side of the Humvee. Tucker and Parker are on the other, and Patrick has walked to the front. Not what you would call a formation.

  The men approaching us are in a clear formation: leader and two bodyguards. Do we really live in a world that requires bodyguards in an average Washington, D.C., parking lot?

  I suppose bodyguards were pretty popular in our nation’s capital. Again, it’s more about looking the part than needing the protection. This guy definitely looks the part. In fact, I think that I’ve seen his face before: maybe TV, a magazine or on the internet.

  When I finally look away from the familiar but unknown face, I check the building. Now I can see the women that Terri mentioned standing in the windows. They look scared and stand more like downtrodden prisoners than strong survivors.

  Patrick separates himself from the Humvee and walks toward the approaching men. Cupcake steps up to join him and Parker does the same. Tucker and I meet in front of the Humvee. Tucker leans back against the truck like we’re just hanging out by the beach.

  “Don’t lean on the truck, it makes you look weak,” I tell him.

  I wish I knew what was giving me such a bad feeling about this. Not wanting to look back at the women in the windows, I look to the edges of the building. Along the roof I spot two men holding what appear to be rifles. In the ground level entrance is another man with a black gun that looks similar to the ones held by the bodyguards.

  Suddenly my apprehension is obvious, and I know why: the women in windows are prisoners and the guards are on the outside. These men aren’t protecting; they are controlling.

  “That’s far enough,” the warden tells Patrick.

  “If you didn’t want visitors, you could have told us over the intercom,” Patrick says. Opening on the defensive, not good negotiating.

  “Of course we welcome all visitors. After all, this is the current seat of the United States government. That makes this the property of all citizens.” The man smiles a false politician smile.

  He is not even looking at Patrick. He’s staring at me. His eyes are hungry, and while I have never been assaulted, I imagine his is the face of a sexual predator.

  “We heard that the president was alive: is he inside?” Patrick asks. He’s distracted, which is probably what the man wanted.

  “Rumors are dangerous and we cannot make decisions without proof. It is my understanding and assumption that the president did not survive the initial outbreak,” the suit responds, a hint of joy in his voice.

  “I guess I understand that. Is there anyway we could talk about this inside? We’ve been on the run for a while and could really use some hot showers and real food,” Patrick says. He’s offering too much information without making the guy work.

  “You told me there were five people with you: I only count four,” the government suit says

  “My navigator,” Patrick replies. He turns and looks past us toward the Humvee. “She isn’t so mobile, and I thought it would be okay for her to stay in the truck until we knew what was going on.”

  “We can allow that. For now,” the politician answers, like he’s giving us a gift.

  This guy is creepy.

  “Do you have any guns besides the one on top of the Humvee?” the man asks.

  “What? Oh no. We don’t even know how to use that one,” Patrick lies and I think he must be getting the same vibe that I am.

  “Good. You see, while we are still operating as the United States, I have declared martial law. The Constitution has been suspended.” A broad smile crosses the older man’s face.

  “So, my name is Patrick and I feel like we got off on a weird foot. Maybe we should do introductions and then we can all go inside and finish this conversation?” Patrick says awkwardly. He can’t stand still and I suddenly feel naked without a weapon.

  “Nice to meet you, Patrick. I’m Senator—or Acting President—Williams, and this is Mr. White and Mr. Black. It’s interesting that you need something, because I need something, too,” the man claiming to be president replies.

  “Um, what do we need?” Patrick asks. He never saw this as a negotiation; he was bound to fail from the start.

  “You need food and a safe place to rest, of course, you said so yourself,” Senator Williams explains.

  “Right. And what do you need?” Patrick appears to have just realized that a trade is about to be proposed.

  “Ahhhh, I’m glad you asked,” the senator says. “A willingness to negotiate and compromise are important survival skills in these uncertain times.” His silver hair is probably the same color as his tongue.

  This is a classic power and control tactic. He’s dictated our needs and is withholding the details of his own. My guess is he’s hoping we offer up a blank check to do “whatever he wants” just to get something to eat.

  “Well, we can’t do either without knowing what you need,” Patrick says, still unsteady.

  “Not that much really. In exchange for your safety, dare I say your lives, all I request is a simple blow job.” The early smile is now a smirk.

  “Dude, even I know now is not the time.” Tucker calls out to the suit.

  “I’m sorry, what’s that?” Patrick acts as though he didn’t hear what the slimeball said.

  “You need somewhere to rest and I need someone to suck my dick. A simple trade.” The smile and smirk are gone.

  “Fuck you,” Patrick says, and turns to leave.

  “Suit yourselves. Our computer models put the survival chances at lower than five percent for non-trained civilians. You may have a military vehicle, but you hardly seem trained in survival tactics. I’m sure the young lady has performed the act in exchange for a nice dinner or some other token. Six lives in exchange for something that could be at worst unpleasant is unfairly in your favor and hardly a token.” The Acting President is also acting like he’s being generous.

  “Let me say it again because you didn’t hear me. FUCK YOU!” Patrick’s voice trembles slightly.

  This is almost worse than shooting people from a distance like the guys in Philadelphia. They were detached and not affected by the proximity of human contact. This monster is up close and personal, like he’s getting high from watching us squirm.

  “Patrick, wait,” I say, stopping him at the hood of the Humvee.

 
The guys crowd in around me and form a protective wall. None of them speak, but I can see rage in the eyes of Patrick and Cupcake.

  I’m not sure I’m ready to drop to my knees and take this guy in my mouth, but am I ready to let my friends die because I’m a prude?

  Wait, that’s not fair to me; not wanting to be raped at gunpoint does not make me a prude.

  “This is bad news. Even if they let us inside, do you think a parking lot BJ will be the end of it? They have the guns and all the power,” Cupcake whispers emphatically.

  “I don’t see any men in the windows. This isn’t a shelter; it’s a prison or a work camp. Not the kind where men do the hard work either,” Parker says. He’s not interested in staying.

  “So we leave these women to suffer and do nothing about it?” I ask.

  Being the group that saves people during the zombie apocalypse wouldn’t be the worst way to be remembered.

  Why is it that perverts and psychopaths are the ones who survived the end of the world? With our little group of good guys being the obvious exception, of course. Do we get to keep the title of good guys if we abandon these women here with this lunatic?

  Patrick

  Chapter 38

  What the hell is she thinking? There’s really no discussion to have. This isn’t about sex or release; it’s about power and control. If getting him off was a one and done type of deal, I’d do it myself.

  “Get in the rig. We’re leaving,” I order my crew.

  “Wait. What about the women in there? Are we just going to leave them?” McLean asks incredulously.

  I turn and look at the building. In the windows are several women looking down at us. The child I saw earlier has disappeared.

  But we are not rescuers.

  The scumbag was right that we have no training. Surviving out there against the zombies will be tough enough. Starting a fight against trained and armed humans holding a fortified building probably has even lower chances of survival.