Here We Stand (Book 2): Divided (Surviving The Evacuation) (12 page)

“Not Farley, not the speaker, not General Carpenter, so who?” Tom asked. “Who else was there? What else can you remember?”

“Signing pieces of paper. I can remember maps in the situation room. Walking the corridors at night and… I think there were phone calls. At least, I remember talking into the phone I can’t be sure there was anyone at the other end. After a night in the bunker, I became aware of how abnormal I felt. That’s when I learned how close my country was to destruction. Contradictory orders had been given, apparently by me. Governors had been told to deploy the National Guard to protect the small towns while Homeland had been given control of local police units and told to deploy them around state capitals. The military was dispatched to the middle of nowhere, with orders to hold the high ground. I don’t think they had any better idea of what that meant than I did. That was the point, I think. Enough orders were given that it appeared there was a national strategy, yet in truth it just delayed any real response to the crisis.”

“Delayed it long enough for the country to tear itself apart,” Tom said. “We could have stopped it in Manhattan. It could be over by now if the police hadn’t been drafted out of the city, and if the military had been deployed.”

“I know. You don’t think I know? I have to live with that. I’m the president that destroyed the country, destroyed the world!”

“That’s not what I meant,” Tom said. “The military and police were removed so they could be kept safe and redeployed when you’d been replaced. That must have been the plan, but they’ve left it too late. I saw what it was like out there. Tens of thousands of refugees tearing towns apart in search of shelter from just as many zombies, and there were more of the living dead every day.”

Max sighed. “And all my fault. That’s not self-pity. It’s a simple statement of fact. I could have stopped this. I didn’t.”

Tom wanted to say that it wasn’t too late, that it wasn’t over, but their dark prison was no place for wishes and platitudes. “You said something about a plane that didn’t arrive,” he said instead.

“What? Oh. Yes. It’s a very strange thing, becoming president. Before the glow of victory has a chance to fade, you’re taken aside and told some very hard truths about our nation, and about the world. Things that you suspected, things you even guessed at. Being shown the files, the photographs, the intelligence reports, it made suspicions a nightmare reality. There are so many contingencies. None for zombies, but plenty for things that are just as bad. Nuclear war is only the start. You know there’s a plan for invading England? It was created during the Second World War and updated during the Soviet era. The word liberation features prominently, and it is listed as a training exercise, but it came in useful when I had to speak to their new prime minister. Did you hear that Quigley, their foreign secretary, has taken over?”

“I did. He’s a vile man.”

“Indeed. Farley told me about Archangel, about this plan to create a super-vaccine. I hadn’t worked out what to do with the information. When I went down to the bunker, and removed myself from whatever poison they were doping me with, I discovered that Quigley was promising the people of Britain a dose of this vaccine during an evacuation of their cities. Apparently it works against the undead. Not in all cases, but in enough. I threatened him with those invasion plans unless he handed it over. I told him that if he didn’t share it, I would take it. That was what was on the plane. One hundred thousand vials of vaccine. I was going to use the address to announce the vaccine’s existence. I thought knowledge of it would hold the nation together long enough for order to be restored. The plane didn’t arrive. I changed what I was going to say. Now I’m here.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered if it had arrived,” Tom said. “That zombie was infected deliberately. Your speech was sabotaged.”

“I know, and I also know it no longer matters. Not now. They plan that I should become a zombie and be filmed killing others. That’s why I’m still alive. They want the manner of my death to add legitimacy to my successor, whoever that is. I imagine you have some similar role to play.”

“That’s truly evil,” Tom said. “And I’m not going to sit here waiting for it.” He pushed himself to his feet.

Max grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. “Wait. There’s very little in this room, believe me, I’ve searched every inch of it.” He stood. There was the sound of shuffling steps, then a clink of metal. Max sat down again. “Here, this is all I found. No, don’t move your hands.” A moment later, the plastic ties were cut. “It’s a pipe,” Max said. “I’ve been sharpening the edge against the wall, but I have no intention for this particular democracy to commit suicide, not when there’s some fight still in me.”

Tom grinned. “I’m not sure that’s precisely what John Adams meant. There’s twelve vehicles out front, so at least twelve people here, plus Powell, his two guards, and the pilot of the helicopter. There’s likely to be more.”

“And we’ll deal with them one at a time. They open the door to drop in food and water. When they do, there are always two of them, and they’re cautious. At all other times, there’s only jailer on guard outside, I’m certain. Do you know what time it is?”

Out of reflex, Tom’s hand went to his pocket to retrieve his phone. “No, but it was about an hour from sunset when they brought me in here.”

“We’ll wait six hours. I’ll hammer at the door. You stand behind it. When it opens, we’ll make our move. Take the jailor’s weapons and see how far we get.”

The rush of enthusiasm that came from having planned an attack began to wane. Time dragged and was hard to keep track of.

“I’d say it’s been about an hour,” Tom said.

“About that,” Max agreed.

“I think
I
should apologize to
you
.”

“I agree, but was there a particular transgression that came to your mind?” Max asked.

“I won’t apologize for asking you to run for office, nor for helping you win the election,” Tom said. “There might have been a time when we could have debated the relative merits of that, but after all that’s happened, I’m certain I was in the right.”

“So what do you want to apologize for?”

“I should have told you everything right from the beginning,” Tom said.

“That might have been best,” Max said. “If you had, I’m not sure I’d have believed you. When did you know?”

“About the depth of the conspiracy? I still don’t know it all, but it was shortly before I asked you to stand for the presidency. I’d discovered hints of it before then, and that confirmed I’d been chasing these people, or running from them, for my entire adult life.”

“Hm. So when you asked me to stand for the governorship, that wasn’t connected?”

“Honestly, and if this isn’t a time for honesty, when is? Honestly, no. I wanted you in the governor’s mansion partly because I thought it would be useful, partly because I saw the race as a challenge, but mostly because I despised your opponent.”

“Not because you thought I’d be a good leader?”

“Sorry,’ Tom said. “You did a good job, though. And when I was looking for a presidential candidate, yours was the only name on the list.”

“You won’t be insulted if I say I wish it wasn’t?”

Tom smiled. “Hey, it could be worse. Even if you count your address as the end of your presidency, you ruled the country for nearly nine hours longer than William Henry Harrison.”

“So mine wasn’t the shortest presidency in history, even if it might be the last. Another bittersweet victory. Were you really born in Britain?”

“I was. They told you that?” Tom asked.

“They showed me a very large file. The contents were not pleasant.”

“Like what?”

“No, I won’t say. Most of it will be false. Some might not be, and I don’t want you to have to lie. I certainly don’t want you to admit any of it is true. I will assume it was all a fabrication. And I’ll accept your apology, but there’s one thing. Claire, and the children. If you get out of here and I don’t, go to Vermont. She took Rick and Jane there after I… Just go there, and if she’s alive, tell her I’m sorry.”

“Of course.”

“I think it’s time,” Max said.

“Let me knock,” Tom said. “They threw me down here expecting us to fight. I’ll say you’re dead.”

“No. It’s my duty to do that. You stand behind the door. Ready?”

“Here we stand,” Tom said.

“No, Tom,” Max said. “Here we fight.”

Tom went up first, the metal bar gripped tightly in his right hand, his left feeling for the steps in front. He reached the door, extending his hand and moving his feet, searching out how much space he had. Before he’d finished, Max hammered on the door.

“He’s dead,” the president yelled. “He’s dead.”

“What?” the jailer called out.

“I said he’s dead,” Max said. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? I killed him. So what now? What next?”

“You killed him?” the jailer asked. There was a brief silence that stretched long enough for Tom to think they’d made a mistake. There was no reason for the guard to unlock the door. Max would be told to wait until morning, or—

There was the sound of a key in a lock, a metallic click as the padlock was removed, and another as the bolt thrown back.

“Stand back!” the jailer barked. The door opened. The corridor was so brightly lit in comparison to the pitch-dark cell that Tom was nearly blinded. He swung the metal pipe at the guard’s shadow. He missed the man’s head, but the pipe crunched into his collarbone. The man screamed. Tom swung again, slamming the metal bar down on the man’s skull. The screaming stopped.

“I’ve got his rifle, get his sidearm. Quick,” Max said.

Blinking, trying to bring the shifting, pulsating shapes into focus, Tom pawed at the man’s clothing until he found the belt, the holster, the pistol. He drew it. “Got it.”

“Now!” Max ran out into the blinding light of the corridor. Tom followed, blinking in the harsh white light that surrounded them. It was too bright. Far too bright.

“Oh, well done,” Powell called out. Max staggered to a halt. Tom did the same, trying to see the man. There were two walls of light, twenty feet from the door, on either side. The lights were dimmed. Behind the lamps, on both sides of the corridor, were five guards, all armed with assault rifles, which were pointing at him and Max. Powell stood, arms folded, to the left.

“Quite a show,” Powell said. “Thoroughly entertaining, though I did hope you’d be a little more inventive.”

“I guess you were right, Tom,” Max said. “This where we stand.” He raised the rifle. Tom spun around, not aiming, just pointing the pistol in the guards’ direction. He pulled the trigger as Max pulled his. Nothing happened.

“Is there anything else you’d like to try?” Powell asked in that same self-satisfied simper. “As I say, it was an entertaining show, but as it’s at an end, it’s time for the next to begin.”

“There are cameras in there?” Max asked, gesturing at the cell.

“Of course,” Powell said.

“You let us kill that man,” Tom said.

“Is he dead?” Powell asked. “Well, his blood is on your hands. The circumstances that put him into them were on his. Within our cause, dedication must be absolute. Now.”

Something hit Tom in the chest. He vaguely registered the wires snaking back to the guard’s weapon before the pain began.

When he came to, he was back in the cell. The dead guard was gone. So was Max. He could be absolutely certain because the lights were on. They didn’t go out.

Chapter 11 - Questions

Time Unknown, Location Unknown

Tom sat on the bottom step, his eyes closed, his mind on the past. The lights hadn’t been turned off since the ill-fated escape attempt. There was a blanket in the room, though the harsh lighting emitted so much heat that it was unnecessary. Following what Max had said, he’d ignored the half-empty bottle of water until thirst forced him to take a sip. Fear and exhaustion joined paranoia, making him certain the water was drugged, and that he shouldn’t drink any more. Thirst crept up on him, a tidal force that couldn’t be denied. He took another sip and regretted it immediately. The cycle continued until the bottle was empty. Other than his growing thirst, it was hard to tell how much time had passed. He wasn’t hungry, so guessed it was less than a day, but he was tired of guesses. Assumptions, theories, and one plan after another had led him here. Plans were for the living, and his life was over. As he waited for the end, all he had for company were regrets.

As he was beginning to think they would let him die of thirst, the door opened. Powell stood framed in the doorway, almost as if he was posing.

“Mr Clemens,” he said. “I’d like a word, if you please.”

Seeing no advantage to rebellion, Tom pushed himself to his feet and climbed the stairs. Before he reached the doorway, Powell backed into the corridor.

The table and chair were gone. There were two guards. One wore a corporal’s chevrons and carried an assault rifle. The other had sergeant’s stripes and a stun-gun.

“Please place your hands behind your back,” Powell said, again with that tone of mock civility.

“Where’s Max?” Tom asked.

“Like yourself, he is a late addition to our drama,” Powell said. “Both of you are desperately miscast, yet we must each play our part. Opening night approaches, and there’s no one else to stand in front of the curtain.”

There was a trace of the south in Powell’s accent. Not much, but enough to suggest he’d been born there but raised somewhere else. Tom found himself smiling. Details like that were useless. Even if he were to escape, and somehow find out where the conspirator had been born, what good would it do?

“You’re smiling,” Powell said. “That’s good. An audience always appreciates confidence.”

Tom’s hands were cuffed, and he was prodded along the corridor to a room beyond the fire doors. Twenty feet deep by thirty long, windows lined the exterior wall, but each was covered in thick black sheets. As in the corridor, light came from the freestanding electric lamps dotting the room. In the middle was a solitary wooden chair, facing the windows.

“Sit down,” Powell said.

Tom did. His hands were cuffed to the chair’s leg. Powell walked back out into the corridor and returned a moment later with a video camera already attached to a tripod. He positioned it in front of Tom.

“I’ve wanted to talk to you for some time, Mr Clemens,” Powell said. “Of course, my interest is merely the curiosity of one professional with the work of another. My superiors, however, have some more pressing questions, and those must come first.” He turned the camera on. “And the first regards your interest in Dr Ayers?”

Tom blinked. Of all the possible questions, he hadn’t been expecting that one. “Who?”

Powell gave a jerk of his head. A fist slammed into Tom’s side, doubling him forward.

“What aroused your interest in Dr Ayers?” Powell asked.

“Never heard of her,” Tom spat.

Powell gave another jerk of his head. A fist punched into Tom’s chest. It hurt, but he tried not to let it show.

“You really aren’t as smart as you think you are, Mr Clemens,” Powell said. “Perhaps there isn’t that much I can learn from you. You’ve never heard of her?
Her
? How do you know the good doctor is a woman? Answer the question. Why were you interested in her?”

“Who said I was?”

“That won’t do,” Powell said.

This time the blow came before Tom could open his mouth. It hurt, but he’d been beaten before. He could take the pain, and he knew he’d have to. This was just a warm-up.

“You sound like you’re from the south,” Tom said. “Tennessee? No, it’s further north. Virginia?”

A fist slammed into Tom’s jaw.

“Not the face!” Powell snapped at the guard, and this time there was genuine fury in his voice.

Tom spat blood onto the floor. “Why not in the face?” he asked. “Why am I still alive?”

“Did Farley ever confess anything to you?” Powell asked.

“Farley’s dead, isn’t he?” Tom asked.

“Answer the question.”

“Or what?” Tom asked. “You’ll kill me?”

“There are worse things than death, Mr Clemens,” Powell said. “And you are about to find out what they are.”

“Well, get on with it, then. What are you waiting for?”

Powell smiled. “Tell us about Dr Ayers.”

“Tell me about Farley.”

Powell sighed and turned off the camera. “One hour,” he said. “And remember what I said about the face.”

The guards took it in turns. Left, then right, chest, stomach, legs. Tom told himself not to scream. The pain went on, growing, until he had to give it vent. He began singing the national anthem. He made it almost to the end of the first verse before one of the guards changed aim and punched him in the face.

“Not the face,” the other one hissed. “You heard what he said.”

Tom spat a gobbet of blood onto the floor and grinned. He sang more loudly. The beating didn’t start again. Instead, he was taken back to his cell.

Time passed. The door opened. A bottle of water was thrown in. The door was closed. More time passed. He tried to keep track of how much, but it was impossible. The lights never went out. He couldn’t even find where the camera was hidden. The door opened. A pouch of un-hydrated rations was dropped on the landing. The door closed. More time passed. Another bottle of water. Some time later, another pouch of food.

In total, six bottles of water and three packets of rations were dropped inside before the door opened, and a guard barked, “Outside.” It wasn’t Powell.

Stiffly, Tom pushed himself to his feet. The guard was the one with the sergeant’s stripes. Tom didn’t recognize the man standing behind him. He couldn’t remember how many faces he’d seen. It no longer mattered.

“More questions, is it?” Tom asked.

“Out,” the sergeant barked.

Again, his hands were cuffed, but he wasn’t going to fight. Not yet. At best, he’d be able to take one of them with him, and that one was going to be Powell. He’d have to get through the coming torture, and this time he was sure it would be more thorough than an inexpert beating. Water boarding, stress positions, worse. He’d have to take it, and be ready when the chance came.

He was taken to the interrogation room and tied to the same chair. He couldn’t quite say why, but something made him think that there were fewer people on site than before. He heard footsteps outside. The door was behind him, and he had to force down the impulse to turn to see who approached.

“This is him?” a woman asked.

“It is,” a familiar voice said.

A chill shot down Tom’s spine. He knew that second voice. He knew it well. The figure stepped around the chair, and Tom saw him properly.

“Hello, Tom,” Charles Addison said.

Tom said nothing, just stared up at Max’s chief of staff.

“Well?” Addison asked. “Don’t you have something to say?”

“Life is full of myriad possibilities, yet none so strange as this,” Tom replied.

Addison frowned. Tom forced his lips into a smile.

“Shouldn’t we get on with it?” the woman asked.

“Yes. Of course,” Addison said. “Why were you interested in Dr Ayers?”

“Why were you?” Tom replied.

“We don’t have time for this,” the woman said.

“No,” Addison said. “We have time enough. Go on, Tom. You have questions, so ask them.”

“Your presence gives me most of the answers I need,” Tom said. “There’s one thing I’d like to know. Who’s in charge? Who are you working for? You’re not in the line of succession, so you can’t take the presidency.”

“Actually, that’s not true,” Addison said. “Before he died, President Maxwell appointed me to his cabinet. It’s all very official.”

“You got him to sign something when he was drugged?” Tom asked. “That won’t stand up. The Senate can’t have approved it.”

“Senate? Stand up?” Addison laughed. “In what court do you think it will be challenged? There is no Senate to ask for confirmation, let alone give it. Now, Dr Ayers. Why did you trek three hundred miles to see her after the outbreak?”

“I thought she might have answers,” Tom said. The pieces were starting to slot into place. “Wait. Before he died? You’ve killed Max?”

“No,
you
killed the president, Tom. It was rather tragic, and the manner of his death was somewhat theatrical. I believe you were trying to make a statement of some kind. Knowing that your plan had failed, you took this final revenge on the cat’s-paw you manipulated into office.”

“He’s dead?” Tom asked again.

“You should know,” Addison said. “You killed him. That is what the history books will record.”

“You think there will be history books?” Tom asked. “There won’t.”

“Enough,” the woman said. “Why did you go to Ayers’s home?”

“How did you know I went there?” Tom asked. “Satellites? Cameras? That has to be it. You were keeping watch on the property? Why? You’d already taken her.”

“Just tell us, Tom,” Addison said. “We asked her, and she has no idea why someone like you would want to speak to her.”

Tom frowned. “You asked her why I went there? Why did you go? Wait.” He laughed. “No. Tell me it isn’t true.” He laughed again.

The woman gave a frustrated growl. A fist slammed into Tom’s side. The laugh turned to a coughing rasp.

“How can she help us, Tom?” Addison asked. “She doesn’t seem to think she can. What does she know that will stop the outbreak?”

“You found the laptop,” Tom said. “The one I left in my apartment. The one I used to look up her address. I didn’t wipe the memory. That’s why you went there. That’s why you took Ayers. I was following you, but you were following me. Oh, come on, Charles, you have to laugh at that.”

“But why did you go there?” Addison asked, desperation clear in his voice.

“Because I thought she might know how to stop it,” Tom said. “I take it that she doesn’t?”

“It’s as I told you,” the woman said. “He has nothing useful to say.”

“So she doesn’t know anything?” Tom asked. “No one does, do they? This thing that’s been unleashed, you can’t stop it. Whatever your plans were, they’re in ruins. It’s over. It’s done. You betrayed Max for nothing. You betrayed your country. Your species. You destroyed us, Chuck. There won’t be any history books. Not anymore.”

Addison opened his mouth to reply, but left before saying anything. The woman followed. Tom tensed, waiting for the torture to start. It didn’t. He was taken back to his cell.

He’d read somewhere that a beard grew at some fraction of an inch per day. He rubbed his chin’s bristly growth, trying to remember what that number was, but his mind began to drift. Where had he read that? It was a magazine. Was it in a waiting room? A dentist’s, perhaps. Or a barber’s? He always enjoyed haircuts. Not the actual cutting of his hair, but there was something tranquil about sitting in a chair, unable to do anything except think for twenty minutes.

Now he had nothing to do but think, and he’d been in the cell for longer than twenty minutes. Twenty days? No. It couldn’t have been that long. Perhaps five days. Probably less than seven. There were now twenty empty bottles of water, but he was sure that they were bringing them at uneven intervals. They’d delivered the unheated ration packs five times since Addison had questioned him. That was where he’d gotten the idea that it had been five days.

“Addison,” he hissed.

With hindsight, it seemed almost obvious. Almost. The chief of staff could relay orders on behalf of the president. Legitimacy would be provided by whatever documents Addison persuaded the drugged Max to sign. There was nowhere to which Addison didn’t have access. However, had the outbreak not occurred, his association with Max would have tainted any chance Addison had of seizing power. There had to be someone else involved, someone far higher up the chain of succession than an emergency cabinet appointment. Similarly, if Farley had decided to confess all to Max, then he would have warned the president about Addison. Unless Farley didn’t know. Addison had to be a recent recruit to the conspiracy, and one that Farley wasn’t aware of. Again, that confirmed there was someone else, someone high up. Or more than one.

What Powell had said came back to him. His talk of parts and plays had been more than a verbose brag. It contained the key. The pieces fell into place, and he understood the events as they’d happened, and what they meant, and how they no longer mattered. The cabal had splintered. Addison
was
a recent recruit to the cabal, but was using the chaotic nightmare to seize power for himself. Hadn’t Max said the speaker of the house had gone missing? Farley had been murdered. Addison and Powell had killed the other members of the cabal. The tenuous legality of an emergency cabinet appointment wouldn’t stand up under any normal circumstances, but under these, with a fragmented nation, they might. There had to be more to it, something else he was missing, but it didn’t matter. The crucial piece of information was that Addison was doing what Tom had wanted. He was destroying the cabal.