Here We Stand (Book 2): Divided (Surviving The Evacuation) (13 page)

A smile spread across his face. Addison was here. He wasn’t in a bunker directing the military that he’d deployed out of harm’s way. Addison was grasping at straws, seeking an end to the undead, and had wasted his few resources in pursuing Ayers and Tom. The coup had failed. Perhaps the generals and admirals had already disregarded his cabinet appointment. Perhaps the Secretary of Agriculture had taken the oath on the deck of an aircraft carrier. Perhaps a real relief effort was now under way. Perhaps. It was a pleasing fantasy that, even now, Special Forces were hunting Addison and Powell. A strike force might by winging their way to this very spot. At any moment the door would be broken down and… and, no. It might just as easily be a missile, but was more likely to be nothing. He was being kept alive for a purpose, and it wasn’t so that he could be rescued and turn witness against the cabal. There was some part of the puzzle he’d missed. Something he’d overlooked, something that gave Addison hope that his schemes were not yet ash.

Hope? What hope was there? The world was in ruins. Addison was clinging onto a fantasy of power no more realistic than Tom’s fantasy of rescue.

The door opened, a bottle of water was thrown in. Tom watched it bounce down the stairs, coming to rest on the landing.

The memory of when he’d first met Addison came back to him. It had been in Vermont, in the house Claire had inherited from her father, the day after he’d asked Max to run for the presidency. Claire had been the one who needed persuading. She’d had to put her career on hold while Max was in the governor’s mansion. She was a doctor of archaeology, and Max’s entry into politics had added a political subtext to any dig on which she went. Instead, she’d taught, written, and raised their young children on the understanding that when his term as governor finished, so would his political career. Tom still was unsure precisely what he’d said that had changed her mind. It was Claire who suggested they ask General Carpenter to join the campaign as an advisor on the military. Max had proposed Addison.

No, Addison couldn’t have been involved in the cabal before then. He would have had no worth to them. Perhaps he was wrong. He’d been wrong about Addison’s character. He’d not liked the man, but then, there were few people whose company he did enjoy. Addison was competent, and Max had trusted him. It was for that reason Tom hadn’t investigated the man’s background more thoroughly.

Who was the woman who’d been with Addison? He hadn’t seen her face and didn’t recognize the voice. He’d never know. He found he was smiling again. The cabal had fractured, and Addison had no idea how to stop the zombies. That was his ray of comfort, that the living dead tearing the nation apart would doom the conspiracy. It would doom him, too. He would die, but not in the cell. They were keeping him alive for some evil purpose, but whatever it was, it lay outside. That was when he would act. He’d kill Addison. That would be his revenge.

Revenge. It had consumed his life, and the thought of it brought forth an image of his parents. The memory was from six months before they died. His father had arrived home unexpectedly, a Chinese takeaway in his hands. His arrival had defused the fight brewing between Tom and his mother. They’d sat at the kitchen table while his father told stories about driving a delivery truck through Europe. The stories were lies. His father hadn’t been in Europe, and he wasn’t a long-haul trucker. He was a government agent. An occasional assassin and frequent thief who did jobs too unglamorous for spies, too low-reward for mercenaries.

Tom hadn’t found that out until much later, and that particular truth had set him on the path that led him here. The stories his father had told were a lie, but that didn’t mar the memory. It was one of the few happy ones he had, and so he turned his mind away from the conspirators, and to it. He let the image of his father, his mother, and his infant brother fill his mind.

The door opened. Another bottle of water was thrown in. Tom ignored it.

Chapter 12 - Confessions

March 12
th
, Location Unknown

The door opened.

“It’s time, Tom,” Addison said.

“You’re on guard duty now?” Tom asked. “Are your troops deserting you?”

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” Addison said.

Tom pushed himself to his feet and limped up the stairs, playing up how frail he felt. It wasn’t much of an act. “What day is it?” he asked as he neared the top.

Addison took a step back before he answered. “March twelfth.”

Tom nodded, but found he had no interest in the answer. The date was unimportant. There were three guards in the corridor. All had weapons drawn. It was only Addison whose hands were free. Tom held out his arms, wrists together.

“No, Tom, there’s no need to tie you,” Addison said.

“There isn’t? Then why don’t you shoot me here?” he asked.

“We’re not going to kill you, Tom,” Addison said.

Tom didn’t believe him.

“Take him. Get him cleaned up,” Addison said.

“That way,” the guard with the corporal’s stripes said. He gestured down the corridor, in a direction opposite to the room in which Tom had been questioned. The hallway was long and ominously unlit, save for a shadow of light from an open door at the far end. No, he didn’t believe Addison for one second. He cleared his mind, preparing himself. It was impossible to know when the moment would come, but when it did, he would be ready.

The room had been emptied. Heavy curtains covered boarded-up windows. Was that to stop the undead from seeing the lights from inside? Or to stop people? Or to stop satellite surveillance? Unless he was going to break the glass, it didn’t matter. In the middle of the room was a table. On it was a pile of clothes. Next to it was a bucket. On the table, next to the clothes, was a bar of soap.

“Wash, and change your clothes,” the sergeant said.

Tom turned around. “Seriously?”

“Wash. Change. It’s not complicated,” the man said. His rifle was held across his chest, but a private had his pointing at Tom’s head. The corporal held the stun-gun, aimed at Tom’s chest. Addison hadn’t followed them. Tom wondered why.

Waiting for the trick, he stripped off his dirt-encrusted rags. He took his time. Three guards was too many. He might manage two. One would be better. He threw water and soap on his body, getting as much on the floor as on himself. Any hope they might step nearer to hurry him along, slip on the suds, and present him with his opportunity didn’t pan out. The guards stood in the door, seemingly disinterested.

The clothes were a suit and white shirt. They weren’t his, and weren’t a great fit, but it gave him the shape of what was going to happen next.

“Don’t I get a tie?” he asked.

There was no answer from his guards.

“What about shoes? No?” He put his boots back on and pulled on the jacket. “What now?”

“Wait,” the sergeant said.

Tom sat on the edge of the desk. “Which one of you killed the president?” he asked. There was no answer, nor even any reaction from the three men. “You know this is folly,” he said. “The world’s tearing itself apart, and you’re trying to build a castle on quicksand. Addison just wants power, you know that, right?”

No answer.

“He’s killed everyone else between him and the top. All the other members of the cabal. He’s killed politicians and journalists, scientists, and anyone else who witnessed what he’s done. He’ll kill you, too.” Nothing. “But of course, you know that, don’t you?” There was a slight flicker as the corporal glanced at the sergeant. “Yes, of course you do. Addison didn’t kill them himself. It was you. You’re the assassins, aren’t you? Did you plant the bomb on Air Force Two? Did you kill the speaker? Did you kill Farley?”

“Shut up!” the corporal hissed, raising the stun-gun. Before he could fire, the sergeant grabbed the barrel, pushing it up to point at the ceiling.

“Look at the water, you fool,” the sergeant said. “He wants you to fire.” The room was sloped. The water was slowly tricking around the feet of the guards.

“So you killed them. How?” Tom asked. “It’s not as if I’ll be able to tell anyone.”

“You want to know?” the sergeant asked. He took a step forward. Another. “All right.” He moved lightning fast, slamming the butt of the rifle into Tom’s stomach. Tom doubled over.

“They need your face and mouth,” the sergeant said. “No one said anything about the rest of you.” He drew a long knife from his belt. “You don’t need your fingers. You don’t need your legs. If I were you, I’d shut up.”

Tom picked himself up, made a show of brushing an imaginary speck off the suit, and perched again on the edge of the desk. He was revising his plan of attack.

It was two hours before Addison returned.

“Is it done?” the sergeant asked.

“Everything’s in place,” Addison said. “The message has been sent. There is no turning back. In a few hours, it will be over.” There was something about the tone. Now that Tom was listening for it, he heard the slight edge of deference in Addison’s voice. The guards didn’t work for him. Presumably they worked for Powell. Tom found himself smiling again. He could guess who, after himself, would be the next person for these people to kill. Addison wasn’t long for this world. He took comfort in that.

“Good,” the sergeant said.

“Bring him,” Addison said.

“Where’s Powell?” Tom asked. “I hoped I’d get a chance to say goodbye to him. Or is he already dead?”

Addison turned around and walked down the corridor, but Tom caught the look between the corporal and the sergeant. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

He was directed out of that room, and toward the one in which he’d been so briefly interrogated. The chair was gone. In front of the heavy black curtains were a wooden desk and an office chair, with the camera facing them.

“There is a script on the desk,” Addison said. “You are going to sit at the desk and read the script into the camera.”

Tom walked over to the desk. The chair would be too heavy to throw. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

“We might, Tom,” Addison said. “When the time is right. For now you should glory in the wonder of being alive.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Powell,” Tom said. “You’re starting to sound like him. Where is he? Or have you already killed him?”

“Still trying to sow division?” Addison said. “Read the script, Tom. Learn your lines.”

There was nothing else on the desk. More to buy time, he picked up the sheet of paper, and scanned it. “I’m accepting responsibility for the bombings last month.”

“You are the chief suspect,” Addison said. “The evidence has already been gathered. Future generations will need a villain. Who better than you?”

“You want me to say I created the virus?”

“No,” Addison said. “You
hired
the scientist who did.”

“Ah, yes. You mean Ayers?”

“That is a fortuitous piece of luck,” Addison said. “We won’t name her immediately, of course. The hunt for her will be a useful distraction as we rebuild.”

“Rebuild?” Tom laughed. “And it says I killed Max and General Carpenter, and others in the line of succession. You don’t want me to name them? No, wait, let me guess, you’re not sure that they’re all dead. That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t want me claiming responsibility for the death of someone who might be alive.” That small flame of hope flickered back into life. Not for him, but that there still might be some group who could organize a recovery. There might still be a chance for people like Helena, Kaitlin, and the children.

“You have the script. You’ll say what’s on it,” Addison said. The nervousness was clear in his voice now. Tom decided to amplify it.

“Max was your friend,” he said. “You’ve known him since high school. How could you do this to him?”

“Politicians don’t have friends, just favors they haven’t called in.” It was another uncharacteristic line, something rehearsed.

“How long have you planned this?” Tom asked. “Since Max won in November, right? You’re the reason the plans were brought forward, or to be more accurate, you’re the one who brought them forward. You knew that when Max went down his chief of staff would go down with him. They might have offered you power, but you knew that you would die. So you acted first. You came up with your own plan. That’s why I wasn’t killed. You wanted me alive because someone close to Max has to be blamed. If it’s not you, then it had to be me. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Addison sighed. “Answers only lead to more questions. Politics is a play acted out on the world stage. We are but players doing our part. Yours is to accept responsibility. Do you deny you have none?”

“So it should be you standing here, making this confession?” Tom put the script down. “And if I don’t want to say any of this?”

Addison smiled, as if he’d been waiting for those very words. “I said that this is being enacted on a world stage, Tom. Is there no one, anywhere in the world, for whom you would not sacrifice yourself? Now. Next month. Next year. You see, that was always your problem. You never took the long-term view. Even as we speak, the crisis is coming to a head. In a few short hours, our enemies will be destroyed. The military, currently deployed to stand guard over remote rail and road links, will begin the battle for our towns and cities. To retake the nation will require sacrifice. To ensure that it is made willingly, the people will need a purpose. What better one is there than hunting the man who destroyed the world? When the dust has settled, when these creatures have died, their bodies burned, hatred of you will unite us. It truly is a higher calling, Tom.”

“I’d say you’re insane, but you’re not,” Tom said. “You’re just desperate. Your plans have fallen apart. None of that will come to pass.”

“Read the script, and you will live, for now. If you do not, then the only person on this planet you care about will die.”

They would kill him anyway, that was obvious. There were too many in the room for him to make his move. He should have struck earlier. Now, he might have left it too late. He picked up the script again. “You’ll release all of this gradually?” he asked, thinking furiously, trying to spot the escape route he’d missed, the angle he’d overlooked.

“Precisely,” Addison said. “A few million are dead. A few million more Americans will die in the days to come, but the world will belong to the survivors. There will be no foe. America will rise, higher and further than before. We shall be a beacon in the wilderness. The beginning of a new history. Read the script. We both know you will. Your protest has been noted, but you have no choice.”

Tom let his shoulders slump. “Do you have a pen?”

“What?”

“I’d like to make a few changes.”

“You’ll read it as it is.”

“Look, Chuck, I get how you want this to play out. You want to keep me alive just long enough for my death to bring a nation together. You’ve not seen what I have. The country is tearing itself apart. I don’t think it can be saved, but this twisted ruse of yours might actually work. You won’t be the one to lead the country, even if you won’t accept it, but the people will need a villain, so let it be me. But it needs to be done properly. This?” He waved the piece of paper. “No one will believe it. Let me make a few changes.”

“Like what?”

“Like saying I made two unsuccessful attempts on Max’s life before I killed him,” Tom said.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t want to create any conspiracy theories that he was in league with me. You want him to be an unwitting dupe. The unwilling pawn that had kingship thrust upon him. What you’ve written will give rise to doubt, which will lead to insurrection and war. That will prevent a crop being planted, and starvation will bring an end to civilization before the year is out.”

“Here.” Addison pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket and threw it to Tom. “You understand that it’s a recording. It’s not going out live. Go too far off script, and we’ll start again.”

Tom shrugged. “I’ll be dead. I don’t care what people think of me. I do care that there are people left to think something.” He made a few random notes on the piece of paper. The pen wasn’t a great weapon. He’d only get one shot, one thrust at Addison’s throat.

“And here,” he began, gesturing at the paper, hoping Addison would take another step nearer, but before he could continue the door opened. A man with a beard too scraggly for the uniform came in.

“What?” Addison asked.

The bearded man held out a handset. “You have to take this.”

Addison took the receiver and held it up to his ear. “What?” he exclaimed. He stepped out into the corridor.

“So,” Tom said to the guards that remained. “What do you think the odds are that he’ll kill you before you have a chance to kill him?”

They didn’t reply. One was watching him, the other two were glancing at the door, just as curious as he was as to who that call was from, and what Addison was being told.

“So who are you, really?” Tom asked. “You’re not military. Mercenaries, is that it?” They didn’t give a response. “It’s a funny thing, truth. It always has a way of getting out. The more elaborate the lies, the more easily they fall apart.”