Crimson Awakening

Chapter 10

Thirty-five hundred feet under the Potomac River, the evacuated White House staff and intelligence personnel were settling inside the bunker.

The construction had begun in secret during the Kennedy administration. Many billions of dollars later, it was finally finished under the first Bush presidency. It was a marvel of human ingenuity; the feather-like material reinforced with enough steel that it could have built fifty Golden Bridges. The bunker was designed to withstand the explosion of several atomic detonations topside.

It comfortably housed over a couple thousands of specially selected individuals. From the top to the belly of the bunker, it took more than three hours to walk through tons of reinforced steel doors, guarded by over five hundred elite soldiers equipped with the latest weaponry. The retina scanning and facial recognition checkpoints, combined with strip searches at every turn, made the entire complex a bastion of impenetrability, created by paranoids with a heightened sense of security, something of which the government never ran out of.

Things had gotten dicey after the Presidential Address to the nation, during which the president declared a national emergency. When the infection had made its way in the press room, throwing everyone in a panic, the president and his staff had been swiftly whisked into the bunker. He was now in session with the heads of the military. This was not an exercise. The situation in the country was dire.

Almost half the bunker was dedicated to the analysts and computer geeks in charge of monitoring systems built for surveilling the entire country. Feeds came from everywhere—military movements, communication with pockets of the fractured National Guard, satellites looking down on earth, and even mobile phones carried by regular citizens, unaware their government had spying software embedded in every chip.

The monitoring sector was buzzing with activity like a beehive. The command and control post, or “Cloud 9,” as it was nicknamed by the analysts on the floor, was encased in thick glass on three sides and perched above the large room.

In the corner of the ground floor, among the many cubes, a young analyst was viewing footage collected from gas stations and convenient stores around the country. After millions of digital images, he had grown numb to viewing murders and mayhem at the hands of the zombies, as well as criminal elements. Part of a special unit with dialed down senses toward savagery and atrocities, he almost didn’t care anymore.

Suddenly, something caught his attention. The software paused the footage, sensing an anomaly on the images. The screen displayed the very gas station and convenient store near Oklahoma City, where Rey’s wife, Gabriela, had been attacked by the two zombies.

The analyst watched with amazement at the ease in which Rey picked up the creatures by their throats and smashed their heads together. He fast-forwarded and pressed a button on the keyboard, switching to a different camera. The same giant was struggling to control the woman, dragging her to the back of the trailer and throwing her inside.

Amazing … the guy actually captured a live one. He forwarded through Rey’s drama and watched the truck disappear back onto the road. The young man rewound certain parts and watched the scene several times. Then he printed a few photographs, recorded the place and time of the incident, and stuffed it all in an envelope. Who is this guy?

He swiveled to his computer screen and jumped through several security protocols, logging in with the name—Alan Dixon. Once cleared, he constructed a global-wide search to match Rey’s picture with information flooding their supercomputers from millions of data sources. Within seconds, the computer chirped, announcing new information. Dixon read and catalogued all the records about Rey’s past then printed the highlights in a standard report format, adding it to the already thick envelope.

While Dixon was laboring over the details, another beep came from the computer and fresh footage sent from a satellite was displayed on the screen. Its powerful lens had captured images from a convenient store in New Mexico, just west of Albuquerque. It showed a tractor trailer parked behind a convenient store, but what Dixon found remarkable was zombies’ behaviors on the ground. It involved the same giant and his truck from the Oklahoma footage.

As Rey walked on top of the trailer, the analyst noticed the zombies halting their agitation. The other zombies, at the other end, continued the ruckus when Halldor walked toward them. Dixon watched the footage over and over again. Why the change in behavior? Something must have happened before, but what?

Dixon rewound the footage and observed Rey going in and out of the trailer before finally securing his wife with tires.

Aren’t you a smart cookie? Dixon thought and continued watching.

When Rey disappeared in the trailer, Dixon was blind. He switched to a heat-detecting camera and saw the red and orange colored figure moving in the front of the trailer as if building something. Then, as Rey rolled his wife inside the trailer and, observing less movement on her part, Dixon correctly deduced that she must have been behind an enclosure of some sort. It didn’t take him too long to figure out that Rey had constructed a fortress using boxes. I guess the long winter days in Iceland come in handy, huh?

Dixon watched the back and forth walk Rey did on top of the trailer, and when he saw him slowly descend from the top of the cabin and get in the truck, it finally hit him.

The only new element in the equation was the zombie, and if the other zombies had changed their behavior to a non-aggressive stance, that meant Rey’s wife had something to do with it.

Dixon slapped his forehead in amazement. She’s talking to them! And if she talks to them, maybe we can, too.

Alan Dixon believed his findings to be of the utmost importance for the security of the country. Hell! For our survival as a race.

He printed all the information and stuffed it in the same envelope that he had already prepared with Reynir Halldor’s information. Then he dialed a four-digit number, spoke for a minute, and swiveled his chair toward Cloud 9. Up top, a sharply dressed man watched him behind the thick glass. He gestured to come up.

The analyst sent an email to his supervisor, to which he attached the digital files of his findings, grabbed the envelope, and then walked purposely toward the secured elevator.

Flanked by two soldiers who looked like they spent their entire lives lifting weights, the analyst found the hallway to the elevator had several checkpoints. He had never been upstairs but knew the protocol by heart—go through a metal detector gate, run the badge, input a sixteen-digit number on a keypad that simultaneously collected and scanned his fingerprints, then he would approach another screen where his face and retina had to be scanned.

Once he entered the elevator, the doors closed with a swish and a synthesized voice requested a voice sample.

“Alan Dixon,” he spoke into the air, loud and clear.

The elevator climbed up to the next level, then the doors opened into a well-lit hallway. Dixon turned left and waited behind the line clearly painted on the floor, marked with “DO NOT CROSS” where two special forces armed with Uzis guarded the entrance of Cloud 9.

A man in his fifties, sharply dressed in a navy-blue suit, white shirt, and a red tie, walked up to him, pointing at the envelope. “Is this it?” he asked, his voice sounding like the ra-ta-ta of a machine g*n.

“Yes, sir. All here,” Dixon replied, handing the envelope over to the older man.

“Come with me,” the suit said, walking past him and into an empty conference room that was tucked behind the elevators. There, he sat down at a large table and fidgeted with the clasp on the envelope without opening it.

Dixon followed behind and pretended not to be overwhelmed by the suit’s presence. He vaguely knew who the guy was but had no idea what his name or rank in the operation was. One thing Dixon knew for sure—the guy was powerful and had lots of authority to throw around. He had no idea that he was meeting one of the most talented and secretive minds of the ONI—Office of Naval Intelligence. The suit was Commander Wesley Rogers, a highly decorated Navy Intelligence veteran who had led operations spanning over two decades and across six continents.

“Show me,” Rogers said with a slight hint of excitement in his voice, pushing a keyboard laying on the large conference room table. Large TV screens hugged the walls around the room.

Dixon punched in a couple of keys, hoping the brass used the same system as the folk downstairs. Several screens lit up, and the scene with the rig and the massive truck driver appeared.

“What am I looking at?” Rogers asked after a few seconds, already bored with the images.

Dixon didn’t answer. Instead, he forwarded to the savage action with Rey and the two zombies.

The suit pushed his chair closer to the screen. “Holy crap, that guy is big,” Rogers blurted.

“Yes, he is, sir.”

Dixon fast-forwarded to the scene where Rey pushed Gabi into the trailer. On the next image, the trailer’s rear lights disappeared in the distance.

Capturing a live zombie was something, especially a woman. Maybe studying her will give us an idea what we are dealing with here? Rogers thought.

Still, unimpressed, he said, “This is it?”

Dixon continued the report and brought up the Albuquerque footage. When he got to the part where Rey entered the cabin unharmed, Rogers’ eyes widened in disbelief.

“You’re shitting me?”

“No, sir, I’m not … kidding you,” Dixon replied.

Rogers wasn’t sure what to make out of what he had just witnessed. He wanted to probe the young analyst’s mind first. “What’s your theory, young man?” Rogers asked, pointing to the screen.

“I think the zombie inside is controlling them, sir. Or, at least, she speaks to them … somehow. As you can see, even the guy is puzzled by their behavior.”

Rogers stared at the screen for a time then reclined back in his chair and linked his fingers behind his neck. Holy f**k! If this is true, we could capture several hundred of these fuckers, stick them in front of our troops, and then blast the hell out of them. This is big!

Minutes went by, and Dixon wondered if he was still needed. “Sir?” he probed timidly.

Rogers snapped out of his deep thoughts and future plans of controlling the situation. He grabbed the side of the desk and slid his chair closer. “It looks like they change behavior within a certain distance, no?”

“According to my calculations, the zombie’s range for transmitting to the other zombies doesn’t go more than thirty feet, sir.”

“Hmm … that’s not much. Still, far enough for our boys to blow them up,” said Rogers. And maybe even control the damn monsters for other purposes, he wanted to add but found it wiser to keep his mouth shut. Still, this was his chance. Finally.

If everything is planned right, I’ll show that pompous bastard who’s in charge.

Rogers had been born in Reading, Pennsylvania, to a d**g addicted mother who, most days, chose the shoot up and get drunk with her dealer rather than take care of him. Since she had always called him “stupid,” Rogers doubted she ever remembered his real name. The father who went out for cigarettes one day and found them on the West Coast never returned to see his son grow up.

Rogers had tried to work his way through the tough life of an outcast. Exposed at an early age to the violence surrounding drugs and d**g dealing, he had decided that things needed to be taken by force, if called for, and everyone else was a fool trying any other way. His mother’s numerous boyfriends had abused him for years, and he had gotten no protection from his mother. Military was his only escape out of the miserable life, and the Navy was his chance to put much distance from his joke of a family.

Rogers had graduated in the same class as the current president, and their college rivalry had reverberated throughout the years. He couldn’t stand the smug son of a b***h with his family and money and all that power passed on from generation to generation.

At the Academy, his thirst for power and influence had turned most of his former colleagues away. Armed with a burning desire to succeed by any means necessary, he had climbed the ranks fast, and his deceiving mind had served him best in the line he chose to operate within—covert operations. That was where he felt in control, and control was something he had craved his entire life. His childhood had lacked structure so, to compensate, he believed life should be based on order and hierarchy, not inherited like the “bastard president,” but earned through cunningness and force.

Because Rogers had come from modest roots, the president, his former colleague, never missed the chance to rub it in his face. Rogers had watched the sons and daughters of the powerful elite enjoy life to the fullest, while he had burned his hands washing dishes in restaurants. He hated them with every cell in his body and had spent time between classes imagining dark, convoluted plans that always ended with certain individuals bowing down to his power. The sitting president was first in a long line of soon-to-be under his foot. One day soon, I’ll own this f*****g country and that bastard.

Now, Rogers needed information. Lots of it.

He turned toward the young analyst. “So? Who is he? Who is the woman? Where are they going? What kind of truck is that? Where is this guy now?”

Dixon folded under the avalanche of questions. Blood rushed to his face, and he sucked a deep breath through his teeth. Then, blessed with a brilliant memory, he rattled his answers in succession.

“Reynir Halldor, former sergeant with the Icelandic Anti-Terrorist Force Delta Squad. Parents deceased in a car accident in Iceland. Raised by a grandfather since he was six. No other living relatives. Seven feet, two inches; three hundred and twenty-five pounds. Gold medalist, he deadlifted one thousand and two pounds. Numerous medals of honor, one tour in Afghanistan, married to Gabriela Morosanu.” Dixon paused and focused on the screen. “Sir, the woman is the subject shown in the footage, attacked by the zombies.”

Rogers flicked his hand—go on.

Dixon continued the report, “Eve Halldor, daughter, age five and a half. Last known address: Spring Grove, Minnesota. Halldor is self-employed, driver and owner of a 2020 Volvo 740, currently en route to deliver half a trailer of copy paper from Atlanta to Long Beach. Approximate ETA … twenty-four hours from now.” Dixon paused, searching for some sign of acknowledgement from Rogers.

During the report, the man had watched the analyst closely. Rogers liked the guy. Sharp with a phenomenal memory, he knew when to talk and, more importantly, when to shut up.

“Dixon, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go back down there, Dixon, and keep an eye on this guy, and especially the zombie … um … the wife, whatever … you know what I mean. Listen, we might have something here. Inform me as soon as something changes.” He paused and scratched an eyebrow. “I want to know every move this guy makes. Got it?”

“Copy that, sir,” Dixon said, switching to the military style of communicating, something he hadn’t done since graduating from the Naval Academy. “Sir? There’s something else.”

Rogers’ eyebrows arched upward.

“We intercepted several phone calls between Halldor and a Fredrick Jenkins of Long Beach, sir.”

Rogers lowered his head. He knew the name, but why did it sound familiar? “Who’s this new guy? I’ve heard the name before, but…”

“Ex-military, sir. Medical doctor, virology expert, graduated Magna c*m Laude from—”

Rogers slapped his forehead. “Oh, yes … good old Jenkins. I remember him … a drunk and a scoundrel. What’s he up to?”

Almost ashamed of the brilliant man’s demise, Dixon said with a blank tone, “Janitor at Sylvania Labs in Long Beach, sir.”

Rogers chuckled, as he often did when he heard stories of good men crashing and burning. “What? A janitor? Oh, that’s a damned shame, Dixon.”

He chuckled some more, but when he noticed he was the only one, he returned to an official tone. “Why is Halldor talking to that loser?”

Dixon didn’t quite think Jenkins was a loser but kept an impartial face. “Halldor asked for his help.”

“Jenkins? Jenkins the janitor? What the hell is he gonna do? Help Halldor clean his trailer?” Rogers waved a hand. “That’s just stupid.”

“I don’t know, sir … The guy was highly respected for his knowledge. I mean, the papers and the research this guy did are—”

“Bah,” Rogers dismissed it. “Was, Dixon, was. Not anymore. He’s washed out. And an alcoholic, so …” He paused, suddenly not in the mood to convince Dixon what he thought of Jenkins. “Okay. We’re done here, Dixon.”

“Understood, sir,” the young analyst said then headed for the door.

“Thanks,” Rogers said then changed his mind. “Hold on.”

Dixon turned and snapped to attention.

“This is between you and me, Dixon. Your supervisor need not know about this. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” He paused. “Sir? I already emailed my supervisor about the findings. It’s protocol.”

The other man bit his lip. Dissatisfied, he ground his teeth. Then he reclined back in his chair and acted like it wasn’t a big deal. Dixon didn’t buy it.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to him. What’s his name again?”

“It’s a she, sir. Carlisle … Donna Carlisle, sir.”

“Carlisle. Hmm … okay. Thank you, Dixon.”

Dixon walked out and endured the entire security protocol in reverse order to return to his desk.

Rogers walked to his office and crashed on the chair. Besides a desk, a phone, and a chair, nothing indicated the office belonged to one of the most powerful individuals in the intelligence community. Rogers operated strictly through other people. He understood technology perfectly and precisely. Because of that, he never used a computer for communication. He seldomly used his secured mobile phone, only to call or text his wife about dinner and such.

He dialed his assistant, who appeared before him in seconds.

“Whitman, send communication to all field commanders to apprehend one of these creatures alive. We need to study them and understand what we are dealing with. Send it under the president’s name.”

“Sir?” Whitman blinked.

Rogers flicked his hand. “I’ll talk to him. Call the office. Tell them I want to see the president right away.”

“Yes, sir.” Whitman saluted then vanished.

Rogers stood up then made his way to the presidential quarters. He trusted Whitman with working out all the details of the impromptu visit before meeting the president.

After ten minutes, he explained to the leader of the free world his plan. The president asked several questions then concluded the visit with a reluctant, “Do it. But be careful. You mess up, and I’ll have your head on a platter.”

Rogers saluted while thinking of a dozen invectives to call the president, then returned to Cloud 9. He reached for the phone to activate Victor Cassar. Maybe not just yet. That guy is a sick puppy … but these are sick times.

He opened the envelope Dixon had left with him. The zombie control by another zombie was something new, and he needed to get on top of it fast. And he had just the man in mind to do it for him.

After studying the information for about an hour, he called Whitman.

“Check on Victor. Find out where he is and tell him to be on standby,” Rogers ordered then returned to the file.