Zombies versus Aliens versus Vampires versus Dinosaurs Page 7

  There was a knock at the door. She put the photo back on the nightstand, sniffled as she grabbed some tissues and quickly wiped away her tears. Only once she felt her old self did she respond.

  “Yes? Come in.”

  Secret Service Agent Denison entered. “Anything I can get you, ma’am?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine,” she answered unconvincingly. “Thank you.”

  “Very good, ma’am,” he said as he started back out.

  But she needed someone to talk to, and she had known Denison for such a very long time. “He wouldn’t have won without me, you know.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Forget the presidency. He wouldn’t have made it through the primaries without me.”

  “That’s what the papers and blogs said, yes.”

  “So I killed him.”

  Denison sighed. “Don’t do this to yourself, ma’am.”

  “The aliens wanted the president dead,” she explained. “If he wasn’t the president, he’d be alive. If I hadn’t been so damn charming, he’d be alive.”

  “You weren’t that charming, ma’am.”

  “Flatterer,” she said with just a hint of a laugh.

  Denison knew that warmth had never been his forte, but his job was to support the slayer any way he could. He had never let her down before, and he wasn’t about to start now. He walked to the edge of the bed and sat down on the floor next to her as he took her hand.

  “He was a beloved governor with a solid record and a determined mind,” said the Guide with as much gentleness as he could muster. “You helped him, true. But make no mistake. He was the one who won.”

  She took this in, then felt the need to change the subject.

  “You still planning to reenlist?”

  “I was a US Marine Corps major. Under the circumstances, I think I have to.”

  “You do,” she said with a sigh, missing the big man already. “When?”

  “As soon as I get you back into fighting form. I owe that much to the Society.” He kissed the top of her head and stood up. “So you got twenty more minutes to grieve, then it’s back to work,” he added as he headed toward the door.

  “I need more time than that.”

  “I know you do. You just don’t have it. They’re coming and in big numbers. They see the panic the aliens have caused, and they’re coming to retake the town you’ve denied them these many years.”

  “I’m the one who told you that.”

  “Yes you did, ma’am. So don’t think for a moment that I won’t kick your butt to get you ready just because I feel bad for you.”

  “I would never accuse you of such kindness,” she said with a smile.

  “Ma’am,” the Guide smiled back, then left the room and closed the door behind him.

  Laurel reached out for Michael’s picture again. She kissed it, then pressed it against her bosom. She looked up to the sky in wonder.

  How on Earth could she continue to be what they wanted her to be? How on Earth could she trust her slayer instincts, feeling as she felt?

  She didn’t think she could.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The military blockade at Jacksonville’s north and west city lines stretched for miles, rendering access impossible without a fight. Marines with binoculars were positioned along the beaches, scouring the Atlantic for unusual activity, rendering a surprise attack from the east impossible as well. The only way into the city was from the south, where the aliens were, and it too was being watched extensively.

  Security stations were set up at half-block intervals to validate each volunteer’s true identity. Behind them were upright X-ray machines through which approved soldiers would need to pass to confirm their human-ness. Behind those were formerly retired Navy SEALs with M16s in case anyone tried to crash the line.

  In front of each security station was an endless queue of jeeps, trucks, cars, motorcycles, and men and women on foot, all waiting their turn to be confirmed. Most, but not all the men and women, wore uniforms. Most, but not all the uniforms, were American, and most, but not all, didn’t fit. The groups included seniors, the obese, the disabled. The organized chaos was akin to US customs at a major airport on Christmas. The call had been answered!

  Harve, Frank and Johnny got out of the bus with other volunteers, then made their made to the back of the queue. The scope of the blockade and the thousands of men and women who showed up were nothing less than overwhelming.

  “Wow,” said an astonished Frank. “Look at all these people.”

  “It sure is encouraging,” Johnny said in reply.

  “So you’re ready to fight now?” Harve asked him.

  “No. But with such a great turnout, I don’t think I’ll be needed.”

  Harve whacked him behind his head, grabbed his sleeve, and yanked him to the back of the queue where the three men awaited their turn.

  Miles away, at the opposite end of that very same queue, a Canadian Armed Forces Lieutenant and a US Army Captain held charge at one of the security stations. The Lieutenant sat at a makeshift desk on which was a laptop connected to a small metal plate. The Captain, who sported a deep scar that ran from the top of his left temple across his lips and down to the bottom of his chin, stood behind with a clipboard and pen, the overseer of the whole operation. Both wore dark glasses to combat the Florida summer sky.

  “Next!” shouted the Lieutenant.

  A sickly thin man in his midforties slowly stepped forward on crutches. He wore tattered clothes, had long, greasy hair, and he was missing a leg.

  “State your name and rank, then place your hand on the plate,” the Lieutenant barked, treating the man like any other applicant.

  “Private Roger Hayes,” the man said humbly. “Rog.”

  Rog placed his hand on the metal plate like he was told. It hummed softly as his service record popped up on the screen, along with old driver’s licenses, birth certificate, hospital and phone records, high school transcripts, old e-mails and love letters, photos of good times and bad—the entire digital life of a man, compliments of a paranoid government.

  “I know I can’t do no proper fighting no more,” Rog continued apologetically. “But I saw the veep on TV and thought I could, I dunno, pitch in maybe?”

  Next in line, sitting atop Harley Davidsons were a Mexican Army Sergeant and her lower-ranking kid brother. The Sergeant was a beautiful woman with short black hair, fierce brown eyes, a fire-breathing dragon tattoo on her left arm, and more attitude than most men could handle.

  “Get the lead out, you monkeys!” she shouted.

  “Wait your turn, Sergeant!” snapped the Canadian Lieutenant.

  Sergeant Sanchez smiled, laughed internally.

  “You really think we should start off by insulting the officers?” asked kid brother Miguel, a dashing looking boy in his own right..

  “They think we’re ‘less-than,’ chico. We gotta show these pinche gabachos we’re ‘more-than,’ just so they treat us ‘good-as.’” She then turned back to the officers. “Let’s go, pinches! I got me some bugs to kill!”

  “I’m warning you, Sergeant!” shouted the Captain-with-the-scar. “One more word and you’re back of the line!”

  Sanchez raised up her palms in surrender, mimed zipping her mouth closed, then snapped a sarcastic salute.

  “Like that,” she told Miguel. “They’ll remember me now.”

  The American Captain and the Canadian Lieutenant shook their heads at the noncom’s blatant disrespect, their natural instinct being to dole out punishment on the spot. But their orders were to be inclusive of everyone. Man, woman or child, as long as they could be confirmed as human, if they wanted to fight, they were in.

  They turned their attention back to the task at hand and surveyed the onscreen life of the handicapped man before them.

  “You seem to have disappeared for some years,” said the Lieutenant as he studied the screen. “What have you been doing since the war?”

  Rog lo
oked down to the ground in shame. “Well, panhandling mainly.”

  “Oh yeah, there it is,” the Canadian continued as he stared at the screen. “It’s all over your police files. Arrested four times, eh?”

  “Five,” he shamefully corrected. “But two of them were—I was just hungry. I got myself arrested on purpose so they’d feed me.”

  “He is who he says he is, Captain.”

  The Captain-with-the-scar leaned in to skim Rog’s military service. “Impressive record though. Bronze star, purple heart.”

  “Yeah,” sighed Rog as he awaited the “but” that was sure to follow.

  The Captain looked at the Lieutenant for a moment, then came to a decision. “We’ll find something for you, soldier,” smiled the Captain-with-the-scar.

  “Yeah?”

  “Welcome to the American Division of the New International Armed Forces.”

  “Yes sir!” Rog shouted giddily as he saluted with an ear-to-ear grin on his face—clearly his first smile in a very long time—then hobbled through the X-ray machine to confirm his humanity beyond reproach.

  *****

  The well-dressed couple going door-to-door meant well. They were aware that some people found their visits an annoyance but for others it was the first step toward salvation, and it was well worth bearing the brunt of the occasional rude comment in order to help their fellowman find Christ.

  They approached a dilapidated old shanty near the swampy part of the creek—people who lived in places like this often needed their guidance most. The door was open, but they rang the bell anyway. When no sound came out, they knocked.

  Adeline McGibbons staggered toward them. She looked worse than her sons had earlier that morning for she not only had the same rotted teeth, blotchy skin, extended fingernails and dead eyes, but much of her flesh had been chewed away, leaving large patches of her skeleton exposed. She gazed blankly upon the do-gooders as they began their pitch.

  “Hello, neighbor. We can see that you are having a bad day. And with all the horrible events happening in the world, many wonder if God really exists. What are your thoughts on this topic?”

  Adeline drooled for a moment, then wrapped her arms around the pious man and proceeded to chomp on his flesh just as her own had been chomped on earlier.

  The devout woman screamed and turned to run but there stood zombie-Jeb and zombie-Marcus who flailed their arms upon the unsuspecting do-gooder, knocked her to the ground, and pigged out on her fine sinew and muscle.

  *****

  On the lonely country road, a brand-new, shiny BMW convertible peeled to a stop in front of the totaled Silverado that had crashed into a tree. A yuppie man and woman quickly got out of their car and raced to the wrecked vehicle.

  “Are you okay?” shouted the woman. “Is anyone in there?”

  “I think they’re dead,” the man said sadly as he peered into the van. “No, wait! The little boy’s breathing!”

  The woman whipped out her cell phone to call for help, but there was no signal. The man reached into the open window to pull out Joey, then snapped back his arms as he cried out in pain.

  “Damn! The kid bit me!”

  “Honey, we don’t know what we’re doing,” said the woman. “Let’s hurry to the next town and send help from there.”

  “We can’t just leave them here,” said the man, rubbing his bite mark.

  “Even if you manage to pull them out, what’re we going to do? We won’t know what to do. And pulling them out may cause them even more damage than leaving them still. We need to get them professional help.”

  “All right, all right,” said the man as he rubbed the bite on his hand and started to sway. “But you’d better drive. I feel kind of weird.”

  She took the keys from his hand, they got into the convertible, and the woman peeled out. A moment later, zombie-Joey crawled out of the open window. A moment after that, his parents, zombies both now, crawled out as well.

  *****

  “Next!” shouted the Canadian Lieutenant.

  The sun was already down for it had taken Harve, Frank, and Johnny most of the day to make it to the front of the queue. Johnny, the next in line, extended his arm in mock courtesy to allow Harve to cut in.

  “Age before beauty.”

  “Go!” Harve said as he pushed the Private forward.

  “Name and rank. Place your hand on the plate,” barked the Canadian.

  “Private Johnny Kester. And for the record, I’m here under duress.”

  “No one cares, boy,” replied the now weary Lieutenant. “We need bodies.”

  Johnny’s service record popped onto the screen, and the Lieutenant seemed immediately flummoxed. He turned toward the next station where the Captain-with-the-scar was standing, and called out. “Captain!”

  “Now what did he do?” Harve smirked to Frank under his breath.

  The Captain-with-the-scar approached as the Lieutenant pointed to the screen, “Take a look at this. He checks out otherwise.”

  The Captain looked at it then turned to Johnny. “Private Johnny Kester?”

  “Yes sir,” Johnny answered.

  “You were a chopper pilot?”

  “Busted,” Johnny said matter-of-factly.

  “You were not,” blurted Harve, assuming this to be another one of Johnny’s scams. “He wasn’t,” he said to the officers.

  “Was, actually.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Pretty good one, if I do say so myself.”

  “You have to be at least a lieutenant to be a pilot.”

  “Was a captain before I—let’s not get into it. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Correction, sir,” said the Lieutenant. “You are a captain.”

  “What?” blurted Harve.

  “What?” blurted Johnny.

  “All crimes and infractions have been pardoned by order of the Commander in Chief,” explained the Captain-with-the-scar. “And we sure do have a shortage of pilots. An honor to have you with us, Captain.”

  “Captain,” Johnny said back officiously, then turned to Harve. “And you’d better start treating me with some respect, soldier.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Harve muttered.

  *****

  Not too far away in the Jacksonville district of Northbank, abandoned skyscrapers loomed along the edge of the St. John’s River. The once vibrant hotspot where metropolitan crowds would mill through trendy shops and restaurants, quaint old buildings and giant new ones, central offices of banks and insurance companies, had given way to the hustle ’n bustle of soldiers in a hurried attempt to convert the area into a military-base camp. Makeshift offices were set up in charming old bed-and-breakfasts, clothing-store chains became storage bunkers, fast-food restaurants converted to mess facilities, and luxury hotels turned into soldiers’ quarters.

  Irish Defense Force Major Sean Shaughnessy walked at a brisk pace as he led Peyton and entourage to their destination, and Peyton’s Chief of Staff did not seem pleased.

  “I wish you’d reconsider, sir,” pleaded the Chief of Staff.

  “I’m not going to reconsider,” said the President. “I’m going to appoint the most qualified general to run this war, and the most qualified is me. Next?”

  “But there are so many other tasks a president needs to perform.”

  “Like what?”

  “Um, well, you need to nominate a new vice president.”

  “I nominate the Speaker of the House.”

  The Chief of Staff paused for a moment, unable to speak as he processed this. “Um, sir,” he said in awe. “That’s kind of brilliant.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes, sir. The Speaker is next in the line of succession anyway. And by nominating a member of the opposing party, you’d be showing unparalleled bipartisanship in a time of global crisis. It guarantees a swift confirmation in the Senate while making you a hero to the nation.”

  “I just never liked the son of a bitch, and it’s a crappy job,” Pe
yton admitted “But say it to the press your way.”

  They arrived at the front door of the towering Wells Fargo Center, which was guarded by four Army Rangers with M16s. Major Shaughnessy barely paused as he began the password sequence. “DiMaggio.”

  “Gretsky,” replied one of the Rangers.

  “Jabbar,” answered the Major.

  Three of the Rangers stepped aside as the fourth opened the door. Peyton and the others entered and were instantly greeted by Army Colonel William Williams, Peyton’s handpicked deputy commander and longtime subordinate, who proceeded to guide them through the massive lobby now converted to a veritable arsenal. Rows upon rows of shelves upon shelves of M16s, AK-47s, Glocks, Beretta M9s, RPGs, grenades, cannons, Uzis, and countless samples of heavy artillery filled the giant space along with enough ammo to overthrow a small country. The good Colonel went on to explain how this was only one of sixteen facilities just like it spread throughout Northbank, and Peyton was quite impressed.

  “Where did they all come from?”

  “Some were ours, some from local police. Various embassies and consulates. Museums, street gangs, the Mafia. But mostly from survivalists.”

  “God bless the nutjobs,” the President said with a smile.

  “Aye, Mr. President,” added Major Shaughnessy. “We also have a bleedin’ fleet of Hummers given by local car dealerships, armored vans from security companies, and bleedin’ helicopters from the news stations. Aye, we’re armed as armed can be.”

  Peyton picked up one of the RPGs and pressed it against his shoulder as if taking aim.

  “Any regular citizen can buy one of these?” he asked.

  “Yes sir,” answered the Colonel.

  “Bet those bugs never factored in our messed-up political system.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  That same night, two lobbyists were walking through Washington’s National Mall. They had lived in D.C. for over ten years but had still never tired of visiting the inspiring structures.

  They strolled alongside the Reflecting Pool toward the Lincoln Memorial when a handsome young couple in tattered clothes approached them. The couple seemed down on their luck, and the men braced themselves for the handout plea.