“Alright, that gives us about thirty minutes then, Miss Munroe. Which chair do you want me to sit in?”

  Abigail indicated the chair where they’d planned to have President Wilson sit and said, “Please sit here and we’ll begin when you’re ready.”

  The president sat and adjusted his suitcoat before saying, “Alright, I’m ready now.”

  She nodded to the producer who ordered both cameras to begin recording, one angled to record Abigail from the front and the other positioned so the president was centered in the shot. “We’re ready, Abby.”

  It was the morning now, but she knew that this would end up as prime time footage, so she looked directly into her camera and began, “Good evening. I’m Abigail Munroe with KYXR Denver News and tonight I have the opportunity to interview a very special guest. Good evening and a belated Happy Thanksgiving to you, Mr. President. It’s nice to have you with us tonight.”

  The president had played the game long enough that he knew not to look into the camera, instead he looked at Abigail and said, “Good evening, Miss Munroe. Thank you for having me.”

  “First, I want to tell you how much of an honor it is to have you in the KYXR studio. I know our viewers are excited to hear what you have to say about matters which affect everyone, not just those of us who live in Denver.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” he replied with what appeared to be a genuine smile. Abigail almost hated to do what she planned to do, but it was her career and if she didn’t take some risks, she’d be stuck at the local level for the rest of her life.

  The first twenty minutes of the interview went exactly on script. She asked him the pre-arranged questions about the economy, job creation in the coming year and the new natural gas and oil pipeline agreement between the US and Canada. The president seemed to be absolutely at ease and in his element discussing the topics. He should be, I fed him the questions already, Abigail thought.

  Then, it came time to go off script and begin asking the hard questions. The questions that everyone wanted to know the answers to, but either hadn’t had the opportunity to ask or were too chickenshit to do so. “Thank you, Mr. President. Now, I’d like to switch gears away from the future and discuss matters that are happening today. Will that be alright?”

  The quick flash of fire across the surface of the president’s eyes were the only indicator that he wasn’t happy that the next question wasn’t about the bill to legalize marijuana use nationally. “Of course, Miss Munroe. What would you like to know?”

  This is it, dive in. “Sir, we’ve seen estimates and flat-out guesses about the zombie war’s death toll from every federal agency and the national news networks; how many people do we truly believe have died since the first reported attack in Philadelphia on the sixteenth of September?”

  The president seemed to relax a little as if he knew that question would likely come up in an interview and had been prepared by his people on how to answer it. “As you know, the figures have been all over the place. We’ve only recently begun the clearing efforts after the last of the gigantic zombie hordes was wiped out near Bedford, Pennsylvania. However, our Department of Homeland Security puts the estimate at a conservative sixty-five million Americans who perished in the war.”

  “Sixty-five million? What about the United Nations’ claim of more than a hundred million dead?”

  “I’d love to see where they got their figures from,” he retorted. “Look, there were about a hundred and five million people living in the northeast and the areas in Virginia and Florida where secondary outbreaks occurred. We put a stop to the ones in Virginia and Florida very quickly, but the northeast was a total loss before we even knew what was happening. That being said, the population in our own refugee centers and the numbers of people who processed through the Appalachian Defensive Line would make the UN’s hundred million claim invalid.

  “Like I said, Miss Munroe, it’s still very early in the cleanup process and we know that there are still pockets of these creatures out there that our soldiers and police officers find every day. It will be a long time—if ever—before the final numbers of those who perished are known.”

  “Thank you. My next question is about our international foreign relations; specifically those with Russia and Mexico. We had a large group of guerilla fighters from the Herrera Cartel invade our nation without their government stopping them and we seemingly wasted the lives of more than 50,000 Russian soldiers who’d deployed to assist the United States in our fight against the zombies. How are we going to recover from an international slap in the face by Mexico and explain the deaths of their loved ones to the Russian people?”

  “Firstly, those soldiers didn’t die in vain as you’re suggesting. They died valiantly defending the citizens of the United States,” the president answered with a slightly elevated voice. “Their Russian commanders continually volunteered for the toughest assignments, missions that they knew were extremely dangerous, and saved countless American lives in the process, so don’t you dare say that the lives of those men were wasted.”

  Abigail realized that he’d paused for her response and attempted to compose herself. She hadn’t expected such a vehement response from the man across from her. “I uh… Of course, Mr. President, I stand corrected. The Russians played a key role in the salvation of our country.”

  He nodded his head and continued, “Thank you. I just wanted your viewers to know that those men died bravely and for a cause much larger than themselves. I want to thank my good friend, President Akulov, for sending Russia’s sons and daughters to aid the United States in our hour of need. I also want to offer my condolences to the Russian people for their grievous loss. Your American friends and partners will forever be in your debt.

  “As to the Herrera Cartel, I’ve talked with President Arnesto at great length about the incident. We lost thirty-four brave Americans fighting against those people and the Mexican government is deeply saddened at our loss. However, this isn’t a Mexican problem or an American problem, it’s a societal problem. Until we can stem the continued rise of the drug culture in our two nations, these types of incidents will persist. Mr. Arnesto and I plan to meet in the coming weeks to outline a new anti-drug task force with the charter of seeking out and arresting criminals like Ernesto Herrera.”

  Okay, he’s stuck to the party line so far, she thought. “Thank you for your candid answer. Next, I’d like to address the accusations that the zombie war started because you kicked a hornet’s nest when you ordered troops to infiltrate Washington this spring to recover the Constitution.”

  “I think we’ve talked about how absurd that accusation is on several national news broadcasts, Miss Munroe. I’d prefer if we discussed a different topic.”

  “Mr. President, how do you explain that for six, almost seven years, the zombies seemed content to stay behind The Wall and leave us alone? It wasn’t until we started sending troops in that they struck out against us. That seems to me like pretty solid evidence that they would have stayed put without attacking.”

  “We’ve gone through this before and I’m sticking to what every analyst in my administration believes. The creatures needed a way out of the region. The Wall was too heavily guarded to allow them a chance to break free. The zombies found a way out when the Marchione Family damaged the river gates sending divers through to rob banks. They escaped through the river gates underwater at the first opportunity that they had. It just so happens that the robberies and the recovery effort overlapped.”

  Well, shit. He didn’t take the bait on that either; he’s good. Time to go for it. “Okay, I know that our time is running short, Mr. President, so I have one final question for you.”

  He smiled like he’d swallowed a live worm, “Alright, Miss Munroe. What else would you like to know?”

  “The KYXR Denver News team has learned that several House and Senate members from your own party have sided with Democrats to call for your impeachment from office on the grounds that you acted treasonously against the United States by starting the Second Zombie War. How do you respond to those allegations?”

  The president glanced off camera to where his Chief of Staff sat on the edge of his chair. Abigail looked over in time to see Mark Namath shaking his head. They don’t know!

  “Honestly, Miss Munroe, this is the first that I’ve heard of impeachment proceedings against me. Where are you getting your information?”

  “You know that I can’t reveal my sources, Mr. President. But know this; the movement is going to happen on the floor of the House within the next couple of days.”

  “Treason?” the president asked, letting his voice betray his disappointment.

  “Yes, sir. They feel that your actions…” Abigail referred to her notes and read them verbatim, “‘Assisted a rebellious supernatural army to seriously detriment the power of our sovereign nation, leading to a near-total collapse of our society.’ How do you respond to those allegations?”

  “I think that it’s absolutely false and is nothing more than political posturing in an effort to pin the blame on somebody for what happened. I did not assist the zombie forces in any way. There was—”

  “What about hiding the fact that there were sentient zombies controlling the others? If that information had been more widely known, there might have been a concentrated attack on those types of creatures. Instead, we ended up with anywhere from sixty-five to one hundred million dead.”

  Abigail took a deep breath. She couldn’t believe that she just cut off the President of the United States! He’d stopped to listen to what she had to say.

  “That information wouldn’t have helped the common soldier or the people fleeing from the zombies. If anything, it would have only increased the panic. I chose to keep it on a need-to-know basis in order to protect the people, not to conspire against them.

  “All of my actions have been taken to preserve this great nation, a nation that I love dearly. I know that the American people will see through my opponents’ misdirection and understand that their government did everything that we could to keep this nation together while it was unraveling around us.”

  The producer got Abigail’s attention and gave her the signal that there was only thirty seconds left. She nodded in understanding. “Alright, I believe our time is up, Mr. President. Thank you so much for this opportunity and for your answers to all of my questions.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Miss Munroe. Thank you for having me.”

  “And thank you for watching, Denver. Goodnight.”

  The studio lights faded to nearly black. The moment the red lights on the top of the cameras flashed to green the president stood up. “What the hell kind of bullshit was that?” he shouted.

  “It was an interview. The people of Denver need to know your stance on matters. I think you did—”

  “Frankly, I don’t care what you think, Miss Munroe. We’re through here.”

  The president stormed out between the two Secret Service agents and Mark Namath stepped over to her. “You know, that was pretty low, young lady. You may think that ambushing the president is the kind of quote-unquote journalism that will get you promoted, but it won’t. It will do the opposite because you’ll be blackballed; nobody will do an interview with you. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

  Abigail didn’t have an opportunity to respond before he had already left the room. She whipped her hair back behind her neck and mumbled, “I am proud of myself, Mr. Namath. Damn proud.”

  EPILOGUE

  01 December, 1019 hrs local

  The Castle, Smithsonian Institution Building

  Washington, Dead City

  The heavily armored operative plodded up the back staircase. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Thousands, literally thousands, of bodies littered the National Mall in front of the Smithsonian Castle and the interior was filled with them as well. Given the powder burns and injuries on the bodies inside the building, most seemed to have been shot at extremely close range or even…stabbed?

  The fact that one man had done this was simply insane. Nothing like it would ever be seen again and he was grateful for the camera that he wore to chronicle the exploits of the man that he believed to be somewhere inside this building. Hank Dawson had come to find his friend and bring him home.

  It had taken quite a bit of work by both Hank and Alistair Reston to convince Director Kelly Flannigan to schedule a meeting with General Zollman. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had taken even more convincing to allow a retired Army Delta operator to enter the military quarantine zone behind The Wall. He’d finally relented because nobody knew what the fuck had happened those last few days of the war and he needed answers.

  It hadn’t taken Hank long to call in some favors and he got a Black Hawk ride into the city where his friend had texted him from. The messages had been direct, simple to understand and meant as a one-way conversation; that was the Kestrel’s way.

  He made it up the stairs and saw the body of the female Type One. It had a neat bullet hole right in the center of the eyebrows where a perfectionist like Kestrel would have placed it. Then he took in the whole scene. Dried, smeared blood covered the floor and there was his friend. The man looked as if he’d simply gone to sleep. Next to him was an old, rusted Roman gladius, soiled with dried blood as well.

  His experienced eye worked out what happened quickly. Kestrel was distracted by the zombie behind the door and the Type One used the sword to kill him. It had likely observed the Type Twos’ inability to penetrate the chainmail armor that he wore and used the sword to up the ante. It worked, but not before the Kestrel had sent it to hell.

  Hank pressed the button on his chest, “This is Dawson. I found him. We’re up the back set of stairs on the second floor.”

  Three men, wearing the same chainmail that he wore, came in and assisted him with the body. The government had already secured the plot next to Allyson Harper’s grave and once everything was set, he’d be buried beside her in Charlottesville, Virginia.

  Before they picked Kestrel’s remains up off the floor, Hank placed his open palm on the forehead of one of his oldest friends from the Special Operations community. “Good job, Asher Hawke. You were one hell of man. I’ll make sure that everyone knows your story and you will never be forgotten.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A veteran of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, Brian Parker was born and raised as an Army brat. He moved all over the country as a child before his father retired from the service and they settled in a small Missouri town where the family purchased a farm. It was on the farm that he learned the rewards of a hard day's work and enjoyed the escapism that books could provide.

  He's currently an Active Duty Army soldier who enjoys spending time with his family in Texas, hiking, obstacle course racing, writing and Texas Longhorns football. His wife is also an Active Duty soldier and the pairing brings its own unique set of circumstances that keep both of them on their toes. He's an unashamed Star Wars fan, but prefers to disregard the entire Episode I and II debacle.

  Brian has authored several books across multiple genres, including post-apocalyptic fiction, zombie horror, paranormal thrillers and children's fiction. His next project is Easytown, a sci-fi noir detective series set in New Orleans fifty years in the future.

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