Zombie Rules | Book 8 | Who The Hell Is That? Achord, David (most popular novels of all time .txt) 📖

President VanAllen fixed Justin with an unfriendly stare. “I have read your report, Captain. It is full of information. You have described the ongoing repairs and updates to Fort Detrick. You have notated food and water consumption. You have documented the minutest of issues with Fort Detrick personnel, like, let’s see…” he paused to put on some bifocals and peer at his laptop’s screen. “Ah, yes. A member under your command sustained an injury during a training session.”

“Yes, sir,” Justin answered.

It was a small prevarication. They’d gotten up a competitive snowball fight a few days ago and Shooter had somehow broken his pinkie finger. It was a minor injury, but the protocol required even the smallest of injuries to be reported. It was true that he wrote it up as a training accident, but they did not need to know the real circumstances.

“Here is what I do not see in this report or any previous reports since the attack. I do not see anything regarding scientific research.”

Doctor Kincaid spoke up. “Mister President, I can assure you we are conducting research and various tests almost every day.”

“Oh, I see. So, tell me, Doctor Kincaid, tell us all. What kind of scientific breakthroughs have you and your colleagues accomplished lately?”

“Um, well,” Doctor Kincaid stammered. “We’ve observed some interesting phenomena with Patient Eve’s blood and are continuing to analyze our data.”

“Yes, that’s old news, Doctor. Tell us what you have achieved lately. Let me answer for you. Nothing. You and your people have done nothing. Not one damn thing.”

The doctor replied immediately. “Not true, sir. We have numerous experiments ongoing. One cannot simply have a scientific breakthrough after every test. Proper analysis of research takes time.”

“How much time?” the president asked.

“Days, weeks, years,” Doctor Kincaid replied. “There is no definitive timeframe.”

“Doctor Kincaid, you sound like a typical lazy bureaucrat attempting to use vague expressions in order to hide your nonexistent productivity.”

“I strongly disagree, sir. I…”

President VanAllen interrupted him with an upraised hand and turned his head toward Justin.

“Captain Smithson, you are hereby ordered to close Fort Detrick. You will have seven days to complete this task. All food supplies and other materiel will be transferred back to Mount Weather for proper dispersal.”

Justin felt the blood going to his face. He was incredulous but had the forethought to take a deep breath before speaking. “Sir, this is a terrible idea. I can list a dozen reasons off the top of my head why…”

President VanAllen interrupted Justin in the same manner he had interrupted Doctor Kincaid.

“It is not a suggestion, Captain. It is an order. An order I expect you to carry out. Unless you perhaps intend to commit treason?”

Justin felt his blood pumping harder and there was a strong desire to jump over the conference table that separated them and beat some sense into the man, but he knew he would have to kill the husband-wife bodyguard team first. He took another deep breath and regained his bearing.

“No sir, I have no intention of committing treason. Your orders will be carried out.”

“Excellent. I expect you want to get started immediately and have it completed within,” he paused and looked over at Vice President Rhinehart. The old man took his cue.

“Three weeks is more than ample time,” he said.

“Excellent. We expect you to have this task completed by Christmas. You’re dismissed.” The president paused only long enough to adjust his bifocals and read something on his computer before speaking again.

“Our next order of business is Marcus Hook, correct, Mister Vice President?”

“That is correct, Mister President.” Rhinehart faced Roscoe and Johnny G. “Please stand, gentlemen.”

The two men glanced at each other as they stood, wondering what they were about to face.

“We submitted our own report three days ago as well,” Roscoe said. “We don’t have any scientific breakthroughs to report. Of course, we aren’t conducting any experiments.”

There were a few guffaws from the crowd. Even President VanAllen smiled a little.

“No, Roscoe, I’m sure you aren’t. But there are other matters of importance we need to discuss. First, let’s discuss the unfortunate death of one of your residents. What was his name? Ringo?”

“His real name was Marcus Anthony Starr,” Roscoe said.

“Marcus Anthony Starr,” VanAllen repeated. “Commonly known as Ringo. He fell victim to the zeds, am I correct?”

“Yes, Mister President,” Roscoe replied.

“And he was killed as a result of a foolish foray into an unexplored section of Philadelphia, correct?”

“In retrospect, the mission could have used more manpower. Unfortunately, we have a limited number of personnel, a situation in which the president is aware of.”

“Tell us more about this so-called pipeline,” Vice President Rhinehart directed.

This time Roscoe felt his face redden. Not from shame or embarrassment, but from anger. The pipeline, or secure route, had been in the works for over a year. Everyone knew about it. President Stark was an advocate of it.

“Please indulge the rest of the audience, Roscoe,” the president directed.

“As I have discussed before, we have created a secure route down the I-95 corridor into the heart of Philadelphia. The roadway is covered in various forms of protection such as concertina, barbed wire, fencing, and the like. This has enabled us to venture further into the city than previously. If you have read the reports, you would know all about it.”

“I know a man has needlessly died,” Rhinehart retorted.

“There are always risks in this day and age,” Roscoe rejoined. He did not mention the fact that the men had forgone wearing protective headgear and Ringo did not have his protective coveralls pulled all the way up.

“We’ll get back to these so-called scavenging missions into Philadelphia in a minute. Let’s now talk about this rumor I’ve been hearing,” President VanAllen said.

“What rumor might that be, Mister President?” Roscoe asked.

“The rumor is, the two of you have authorized the construction of some sort of trading post. An agora, maybe?”

Both Roscoe and Johnny G stood there, stunned, but like Justin, they kept their facial expressions neutral.

“Yes, Mister