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And praying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
OPERATIONAL COMMAND POST
INSIDE STEBBINS COUNTY
A young lieutenant knocked and entered the general’s trailer just as Colonel Dietrich left.
“Sir,” said the young office to Zetter, “we’re still getting reports,” he said, holding out a clipboard wrapped in plastic.
Zetter took it, shook off the raindrops, and studied the data. Six patrol helicopters had encountered infected, two of them within a mile of the Q-zone. Sixteen ground patrols had also located and eliminated the walking dead. In all cases the infected were eliminated without any of his people taking injury. No additional loss of life was reported.
“And there’s this,” added the aide, handing over a second report. The general took it, and as he read he felt his heart sink. He turned away in case his feelings showed on his face.
Zetter stood there, considering the information in the second report. He sighed, read the rest of it, sighed again.
“Damn,” he said to himself.
During the ground search, his teams had encountered twenty-three people who displayed no signs of bites or other injuries, and who did not appear to be in any way infected. Five men, seven women, eleven children. Two of the children were babes in arms.
The report was written in the way that such reports had to be written.
All potential risks were removed with dispatch.
Removed with dispatch.
They didn’t even use the word “eliminated.”
Removed.
“Is there a reply, sir?” asked the aide.
“Just … proceed with the operation as directed,” said Zetter.
“Yes, sir.”
The aide left.
General Zetter sat heavily in his chair and stared bleakly at the report.
“Goddamn it,” he breathed.
He considered calling this in to the White House.
In the end, he did not. There was nothing new to report except that the cleanup was proceeding as anticipated. Proceeding, in fact, at something close to the best-case scenario outlined in the National Biodefense Analysis and Countermeasures Center protocols.
“We’re winning this,” he told himself. “We’re winning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE SITUATION ROOM
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
The president met with his advisors for an update and learned that nothing new was happening. That should have been comforting, but wasn’t. He shooed them all out and told the Secret Service agents to make sure he wasn’t disturbed for ten minutes. They nodded like silent robots and pulled the door shut.
The president dug into his pocket for a pack of Winstons and the gold lighter given to him as a gift when he agreed to visit a NASCAR event in Georgia. He kissed one out of the pack, popped the lighter, leaned into the flame, inhaled all the way down to the bottom of his feet, and sank back into his leather chair. He held the smoke inside, enjoying the way the menthol changed from cold to hot in his lungs, and then blew a long stream of blue smoke at the ceiling.
