Crimson Awakening

Chapter 12

Rogers dialed Whitman. As always, the young man picked up on the first ring.

“What’s the situation on the ground, Whitman? Anyone capturing a zombie?”

“Yes, Commander. So far, we have reports from at least fifteen locations throughout the country, and three from our Asian and European bases. Over three hundred zombies have been captured and put in cages, sir.”

“Any reports on behavioral changes amongst the remaining zombies?”

“Behavioral changes, sir?”

“Yes, Whitman. Did anyone notice the other zombies pausing their attacks when the zombies were captured? Were any troops able to kill more of these bastards since they caged these animals?”

“Not sure … sir,” Whitman said, puzzled about the question.

“Call every one of them; find out and report back to me in thirty minutes.”

“Copy that, Commander.”

Rogers hung up then ran several scenarios in his head. If they were to drop these cages in large areas of the infected, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

Rogers smiled. It was all about control, and control had just dropped into his lap.

He rubbed his hands together. This will be fun, and the president will know who brought it to him. He smiled wider and almost chuckled with future dreams of advancement.

Wait! Why would I give away that information? The president is a moron. I, Commander Rogers, am in control of the information, not the president. Well … Dixon, too, but he’s a data geek. What the hell does he know? Getting rid of Dixon will be a walk in the park.

He erased Dixon from the equation and continued his dark plans for a coup d’état. He liked this version of the future even more.

As time went by, Rogers planned the details to perfection.

Taking all troops under his control meant getting rid of the president, and that was murder and treason. He shrugged. He was willing to take that risk, but he needed confirmation that caged zombies indeed could actually control the others.

After exactly thirty minutes, Whitman called.

“There is no indication of any changes, sir. The zombies are as aggressive as before.”

What? What the f**k!

“Tell them to try it again, Whitman. This s**t has to work!” he yelled through the phone line.

“Yes, sir.”

He smashed the phone on his desk, feeling rage at the possibility of his plans evaporating in thin air. Forget about commanding armies across the country. Forget about killing that clown of a president and the entire administration … unless … unless that b***h is special!

The thought jolted him off his chair. He stood up and started pacing the floor like a caged wolf. She must be; otherwise, why did they stop being aggressive and not kill Halldor? He needed her. She’s the key to this whole thing. I wasted all this time …

Stupid, Wesley, just stupid, his mother’s words echoed in his brain even after all these years. He shook his head, chasing away the scalding he had endured from an early age.

Rogers dialed Whitman again.

“Activate Victor Cassar. Give him the address where Halldor is delivering the load,” he ordered. “And Whitman, send him all the details about one Halldor, Reynir, and his wife—Gabriela. Same last name.”

“Yes, Commander,” came the answer promptly.

“Now listen carefully, Whitman, because I’m just gonna say this only once. We need the woman alive. I don’t care what Cassar does with Halldor, but she must be alive. It’s national security stuff in play. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Commander.”

Rogers hung up then reclined back in his chair. It will be messy, but you gotta break some eggs if you want an omelet.

That’s so cliché. Why the hell do people say that?

Rogers smiled like a Cheshire cat while flipping through Rey’s information. He put himself in the guy’s shoes and tried to imagine how he would react if someone were to kidnap his own wife, even if she was a zombie. Yeah, I’d give her up in a heartbeat, he decided, knowing other people might not think like him.

Whitman called again.

“What now?” Rogers asked, annoyed.

“We have reports of a group traveling from California to Colorado, sir.”

“So?”

“They are employees of Paradime, the d**g company that created Zicomer, the substance we believe triggered the infection. The group called a couple of hours ago to their HQ in Colorado, sir.”

“Again, so?”

“They encountered Halldor at a gas station near Fenner, California. We might be able to find out more about the captured zombie, sir.”

Stupid son of a b***h. You should have started with that.

“What’s Paradime’s deal in Colorado, Whitman?”

On the other side, Whitman shuffled through his notes. “Their HQ is in Fort Collins, and they have a bunker for developing new drugs for us … and others, sir.”

“Who’s in charge over there with security?” Rogers asked, knowing a military arm would provide security for such a national security objective.

“Fourth Security Force Assisted Brigade, Colonel Conrad, sir.”

“Who’s Paradime’s CEO?”

“Um … a Pete Stockhouse, sir,” Whitman reported after checking his notes again.

“Do they keep in touch with the group?”

“Yes, they call daily, sir.”

“Fine. This is what you’re going to do, Whitman. Call Conrad and tell him to go with our story if anyone asks. Tell him this is a national security matter, and he’ll understand. Then call this Stockhouse guy. I need to drop in a conference call with the group. Got it?”

Whitman took quick notes and responded, “Yes, sir.”

Within one hour, the wheels of government bureaucracy spun with fury, and Whitman connected Stockhouse with Rogers.

“Mr. Stockhouse, this is Commander Rogers with Naval Intelligence. Commander, Pete Stockhouse is the CEO for Paradime Corporation, sir.”

“Thanks, Whitman.

“Mr. Stockhouse, I’ll get straight to the point,” Rogers said, skipping the pleasantries. “We believe your California group encountered a person of interest, and I want to ask them a few questions. I’m sure you are okay with that, right?” The question came across as a definite order.

Who the f**k do you think you are to order me around, you stupid …? Stockhouse wanted to scream into the phone but only said, “Sure, Commander. At your service.”

“Good. What calling schedule do you have with them?”

“We … don’t really have one,” Stockhouse said, imagining Rogers would say something sarcastic about civilians lack of discipline.

He was surprised when Rogers said, “Perfect. Can we call them now, Mr. Stockhouse? Who’s in charge of the group?”

“Sure, Commander. The appointed leader is a project manager from our Pasadena office—Zoe Beauchamp.”

“Great. Call them, talk your normal stuff, and then I’ll come online, okay?”

“Sounds good, Commander,” Stockhouse said, happy the request was that simple.

“I’m not going to tell them my real identity. Just roll with it. Again, matter of national—”

“Security. Yes, I know, Commander,” Stockhouse finished Rogers’ words while dialing Zoe Beauchamp’s number.

After a few rings, Rogers heard the voice of a young woman. He figured she was the leader and, after receiving the road report, Stockhouse asked about the safety of his son.

So, the prodigal son is traveling with the group. This could be useful. Rogers licked his lips.

Beauchamp asked if there was any infection reported in Colorado Springs or Denver, and that was when Rogers jumped into the conversation.

“Miss Beauchamp, this is Colonel Wesley Rogers of the Fourth Security Force Assisted Brigade in Fort Collins,” Rogers lied nonchalantly. “I’m in charge of the security of the Paradime Labs and other installations in the area.”

Rogers’ introduction was met with silence at the other end.

He patiently waited for the reply that came a few seconds later, and then Rogers probed her with a few questions about the zombies before he got to the interesting stuff.

“… By the way, Colonel, we met a truck driver who locked his infected wife in his trailer. He is traveling to California to find a remedy.”

Rogers remained silent, faking surprise.

“Interesting,” Rogers finally said. Mentally, he gave kudos to Dixon for the accurate report.

He continued to interrogate the young woman carefully so she wouldn’t get suspicious. Then she dropped a bomb on Rogers.

“Apparently, since he locked her in there, no other zombies will attack him or his daughter.”

In his office, Commander Wesley Rogers blinked fast. I was right. She is special. He paused for a beat, but then he recuperated fast. “Hmm … that’s even more interesting. What else?”

“That’s it,” Beauchamp said.

Having the experience of thousands of interrogations, Rogers wanted to be one hundred percent sure they were talking about the one and only Reynir Halldor, ex-special forces of the Icelandic Anti-Terrorist Force Delta Squad.

He asked about his name and the truck he was driving. Beauchamp confirmed once again that it was indeed the truck driver he was looking for.

When Rogers pushed ahead with more questions, alarms sounded off on the other end and, suddenly suspicious, Beauchamp’s tone changed. She faked the need to get back on the road, and that was when Rogers passed the baton back to Stockhouse. On his end, he exited the conference call.