The Apocalypse Crusade 3: War of the Undead Day 3 by Peter Meredith

Author:Peter Meredith [Meredith, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Black Market Publishing
Published: 2016-09-09T04:00:00+00:00

2—Washington DC

Three hundred and fifty miles southwest of Jerome’s stolen Ford Ranger, Lieutenant General Phillips watched the little truck “flip a u-ey" and tear out of there. He sat in a high-backed leather chair, with a cup of tea at his elbow and a scone sitting on a hundred year old bone-china plate two inches from the cup.

The room—the Situation Room, beneath the west wing of the White House, was agreeably comfortable and warm without being hot. There was every amenity he could think of available with a snap of his fingers. He had access to technology that few people could ever dream of. Best of all, the air was scrubbed and filtered. It was unlikely that anyone had ever caught a cold from being in the Situation Room.

Despite all of this, Phillips wanted out of there as fast as he could. He belonged in the field with his men, not sipping tea with the president.

“They won’t kill those people in that truck, will they?” the president asked his chief of staff.

Across from Phillips, his boss, General Heider rolled his eyes. Marty Aleman glared at the general before restoring his face to its near-constant state of bland pleasantness. “Of course not, sir. The original use of force orders still apply. The men can’t shoot unless they are attacked.”

“Good, good. I wouldn’t want murder broadcast on live television. We’ve had enough bad press to last a lifetime.”

Heider sat back and drummed his fingers on the table as he tried to control his temper. It was becoming more and more evident in his eyes that the president was a moron and an utter empty suit. He was leader of the free world simply because he had good hair and could read from a teleprompter in a convincing enough manner that people actually believed the words he was reading were his own.

“This is a secure feed,” Heider eventually said, speaking to Marty. “We’re the only ones who can see it.”

Marty grinned at him—the mechanical movement of his lips never touched his eyes, which were dead cold. “Good. I think the time for pageantry is passed. Thanks to the president’s quick action, we have given the news stations enough footage to keep them busy for a few days. Hopefully long enough for you to fix this situation.”

“What is the situation, exactly,” the president asked, pointing at the wall screen. “That map is for Connecticut and those markers say 101. I just got done telling the press that the 101st was going to reinforce the southern line in New York. What the hell are they doing in Connecticut? Don’t we already have men in Connecticut? That was a real parachute jump this morning, wasn’t it? That wasn’t a fake, right?”

Heider leaned back in his chair so that the front legs came off the ground. He stared at the ceiling. Clearly, he wasn’t going to answer. Marty said: “Those were real sir, but remember there was an outbreak in Hartford.”

“Yes, but we have the 82nd in Connecticut already.

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