Jackson approached the security entrance to the White House. He had called his wife on the way over and told her to get out of the city. He wasn’t an epidemiologist, but it didn’t take much more than common sense to see what was going to happen when those things got at the people on Main Street, USA. Fortunately, common sense was one thing Jackson had in abundance. He had also called Whitehead, and despite his superior’s initial disbelief, the senior Secret Service agent had come around and rallied the troops.
Part I
Part II
Part III
"I need to brief the President," Jackson panted.
The guards at the gate eyed him suspiciously. The phone in their bullet-resistant booth chimed urgently and a gruff, bulky man with a reddish beard answered it. Jackson saw him nodding vigorously through the plate glass. When he put the phone down he twirled his hand in a circular motion and the gate was opened. Jackson stepped through and the portal jammed closed behind him.
Jackson was escorted through an auxiliary door that led into the bowels of the White House. The historic building wasn’t just the home of the President, it was much more. In essence, the building was a fortress. The security redundancies were second to none, except on rare circumstances involving party crashers.
Good luck to any undead fuckers trying to get in here, Jackson told himself, hiding a smile.
Whitehead met him at the third door. He nodded to the two guards who ushered Jackson in and they turned to leave.
"Stay frosty," Whitehead cautioned.
"Stay extra fucking frosty," Jackson added.
Whitehead keyed in several digits into a touchpad and then put his eye up to a retinal scanner. The security clams relieved like a loosened cramp and the air-locking mechanism swooshed.
"SitRep?" Whitehead asked, walking briskly.
"I don’t know exactly, sir," Jackson said. "Something infected Congressman Cantor. Andrew Breitbart had bitten him yesterday. Evans clubbed the bastard down. It didn’t seem like anything this out of the ordinary. We figured the guy just went nuts. But it was something else."
Jackson told his account of what happened in 133 C-Street and Whitehead eyed him suspiciously. After a moment, Whitehead sighed and said: "If it was someone else telling me this, I might have called for a psychologist. I trust you Jackson, but if you’re fucking around I promise you’ll swing for this."
Jackson nodded. "I know sir. It’s difficult to believe."
"Let’s go," said Whitehead. "The President is waiting."
-
"You’re out of your mind," Sammy Grimes said, wiping away a shock of blond hair from his face. "Morrison wasn’t just a singer...he was a poet. An American Poet."
Johnny Timmonds shook his head and took a deep drag on his cigarette. He watched the ember burn orange, took another puff, and winged it harmlessly to the ground.
"I agree," Sophie Graymore said. "Jim wasn’t just a singer. He was much more."
"You know how stupid both of you sound," Johnny said spreading his arms to measure an imaginary mass between his hands. "This stupid!"
Teddy Baronson, a chubby kid dressed in black dropped his Emo routine for a moment and chuckled loudly.
As he was laughing, he heard a scream.
It came from behind them. The group turned and saw a raggedy man dressed in tattered garb pointing across the street. They followed his finger like you followed the bouncing ball on a kids show. Several blood-soaked people dressed in business suits were mauling a postal worker. The woman was trying to fend them off with an overstuffed bag of mail, but the attacks were coming from all directions.
"Oh my God," Sophie gasped. "Someone do something. They’re eating her!"
Out of the group of teens, Johnny was their leader. There hadn’t been an election or anything like it, but he was the most vocal and the most likely to try and be a hero. Selflessly, he turned on his heels and made has way across the road. His steps turned into a trot – into a full out run. When the Kyl thing noticed him and locked his bloody countenance on the boy, Johnny stopped dead in his tracks.
"I don’t think that’s a good idea," said the homeless man who initially alarmed them. "There’s something wrong with those people."
"He’s right," said Sammy excitedly. "Let’s get out of here...NOW!"
The group started to retreat, but the things had seen them. Their jaws worked unevenly, compulsively.
"Isn’t that Congressman Cantor?" Teddy asked.
Johnny back peddled as a few of the things crept towards him. "I don’t care if it’s fucking Santa Claus, RUN!"
Johnny raced into the lead and the rest followed. The homeless man had leapt off a cardboard square and joined the pack. They raced down C-Street, heading for a Starbucks on the corner.
To be continued...This is a choose your own adventure story, so choose wisely!