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  ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE

  The Chad Halverson Series

  BRYAN CASSIDAY

  Copyright © 2016 by Bryan Cassiday

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Zombie Maelstrom

  Bryan Cassiday

  Copyright © 2011 by Bryan Cassiday

  Bryan Cassiday

  Los Angeles

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition: December 2011

  CHAPTER ONE

  When the plague hit, it hit hard.

  That was what the president called it, anyway. Plague.

  Plague was just a euphemism for zombies, Chad Halverson knew. The president could call it anything he wanted. Halverson knew a zombie when he saw one. These things, diseased creatures or whatever they were, may have been infected by plague, but the creatures themselves, not the plague, were the most imminent threat at this point. The creatures bore an insatiable lust for human flesh.

  Thirty-six-year-old Halverson worked for the National Clandestine Service, otherwise known as the black ops division of the CIA. The Agency had been tracking these worldwide outbreaks of plague ever since they had originated in China several weeks ago. The outbreaks were spreading like wildfire.

  The director of the CIA, the sixtyish and donnish Ivy League–educated Ernest Slocum, suspected terrorists of engineering the outbreaks of pox. In his mind, terrorists had concocted some kind of supergerm warfare. The question was, which terrorists?

  The Agency, therefore, was treating these outbreaks as acts of war and was operating accordingly. As of yet, no outbreaks had been reported on American soil. Slocum, Halverson knew, figured it was only a matter of time.

  At that moment, Halverson was flying on a 737 Boeing passenger jet bound for LAX. The jet was beginning its descent.

  Seven hours earlier Halverson had received a call at Langley’s CIA headquarters from the UCLA medical center. The receptionist had told him his younger brother by a year Dan had been involved in a car accident. As Chad had been listed as Dan’s next of kin in Dan’s wallet, she was notifying Chad.

  Chad had not seen Dan in over three years and was looking forward to reuniting with him. Chad could only hope that Dan wasn’t too seriously injured. Dan was Chad’s one close relative left, now that his parents had both died in, ironically it seemed to Chad considering Dan’s current predicament, a car accident.

  As the jet descended, Halverson wondered if Dan’s accident had anything to do with the plague. Halverson had no reason to believe this. It was just that he had plague on his mind after having been bombarded at Langley with myriad reports of the epidemic burgeoning all over the world.

  The plague probably had nothing to do with Dan’s accident, Halverson decided. The hospital receptionist would no doubt have told him if the plague was in any way involved with Dan’s hospitalization. But, then again, how long could America go before being invaded by the plague?

  As of this day the germ or virus or whatever it was that was causing the plague remained unidentified, Halverson knew. Without determining a source for the plague, scientists could not even begin to discover a cure or vaccination.

  It looked even smoggier than usual over LA, noted Halverson, glancing out his port window. Impenetrable fuscous clouds of smog mantled the entire landscape below him. What landscape? he wondered. He could be flying over the ocean for all he knew.

  The jet suddenly bucked wildly up and down. Halverson grabbed ahold of his armrests. Luckily, he had his seat belt fastened. He dug his fingers into the vinyl-covered metal supports.

  The jet began jerking back and forth. The rocking motion threw Halverson’s head against the fuselage near the window to his left. He blacked out with the impact of his head’s collision with the fuselage. He had no idea how long he was out. The next thing he knew he heard a voice.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please keep your seat belts fastened as we continue our approach to LAX,” announced the pilot ever the loudspeaker with a Texas drawl. “We’re running into a little turbulence here. It should be over momentarily. Thank you.”

  The jet bucked again. This time worse than before. Halverson felt his seat belt ripping into his hips. He couldn’t wait to get this flight over with.

  The flight had been smooth as silk for over five hours—up until now, that is. Go figure, decided Halverson.

  He still could not see anything outside the window other than the brownish yellow haze of the smog. He had never seen smog this thick in LA. He could not even see the signature high white arches of the spaceship-shaped restaurant the Encounter at LAX. He could always see those arches whenever he landed here.

  That was strange, he decided, feeling the movement of the plane. It felt like the plane was ascending again. Not SOP, that was for sure.

  “Folks,” said the pilot, “there’ll be a slight delay due to wind shear. We’re gonna circle around again and land. Please bear with us.”

  Halverson could see the Pacific Ocean coming into view as he felt the plane banking. The visibility was better here, but he still could not make out the coastline.

  “Is this normal?” asked the twentysomething passenger sitting next to Halverson.

  “It’s a first for me,” answered Halverson. “And I’ve flown here a lot.”

  An expression of worry crossed the young man’s unlined face. Sighing, he squinted out the window beside Halverson. The young man cleaned his spectacles with a handkerchief.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” the pilot’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “Our communication with the control tower is out. We’ll be landing using our radar, without the air traffic controllers’ help.”

  Sweat was beading over the young man’s upper lip.

  Halverson could not blame him.

  “This doesn’t sound normal,” said the young man.

  “I can land this baby in my sleep,” the pilot assured the passengers as if reading their minds. “Just keep your seat belts buckled, sit back, and relax.”

  Halverson did not like the looks of this. One aborted landing and communication with the control tower down. Still, the pilot had assured them everything was under control.

  As one of the flight attendants walked by, the young man buttonholed her. “Maybe we should land somewhere else. At John Wayne Airport or somewhere.”

  The Hispanic stewardess leaned toward him. She unleashed a wide smile at him. “No need for concern. You heard what our pilot said. Just sit back and relax.”

  She had big liquid black eyes that were radiant with her smile, Halverson couldn’t help but notice.

  The young man withdrew a cell phone from his trouser pocket.

  The stewardess shook her head. “No. You can’t use your cell till after we land.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’ll interfere with the plane’s radar. We’re flying blind. All we can count on to guide us now when we land is our radar.”

  “I need to call my girlfriend and tell her we’ll be late.”

  “You need to put that away, sir.”

  Halverson heard rumblings among the other passengers voicing their concerns.

  The stewardess addressed the passengers. “Please be patient. We’ll be landing shortly. Thank you.”

  The young man massaged his forehead.

>   “This is insane,” he muttered. “We can’t even see where we’re going. How can we fucking land?”

  “That’s why we have radar,” the stewardess told him.

  Halverson glanced out the window. His neighbor followed suit.

  “What’s with all the smog?” asked the young man. “I’ve never seen it this bad.”

  The stewardess peeked out the window over their heads. “The Santa Anas must be blowing.”

  He gave her a look.

  “They’re hot dry foehn winds that blow down from mountains into Los Angeles from the east—” she said.

  “I know what they are,” he chimed in. “But I’ve never seen smog like this in all the years I’ve lived here.”

  “Well, excuse me,” she huffed.

  She proceeded down the aisle, inspecting the overhead storage bin doors to make certain they were secure.

  “You get the feeling they’re not telling us something?” the young man asked Halverson.

  Halverson said nothing.

  He gazed out the window again. There was no sign of the city below. Smog was the order of the day. Miles and miles of a hazy blanket of dun smog.

  “By the way, my name’s Tom,” said the young man. He held out his hand.

  Halverson shook it. “I’m Chad.”

  “I wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances.”

  Halverson nodded.

  “What brings you to LA?” asked Tom.

  “I’m meeting my brother.”

  “I’m a wine salesman.”

  “Oh.”

  Halverson did not want to say too much. In his line of work with the Agency, it was best to keep one’s own counsel.

  Just then the jet bumped about a foot up and down.

  Tom gasped. “Jeez!”

  Halverson peered out the window. He could not tell if they were descending or not. All he could see was the dusky smog below. He had no means to calculate his bearings. There were no landmarks visible that he could use to determine whether they were descending.

  “Did we hit the tarmac?” asked Tom, wide-eyed. “Did we land?”

  “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

  Halverson could not see the tarmac. The omnipresent smog was thicker than a dense fog.

  “Are you sure?” asked Tom.

  “It doesn’t feel like we’re braking.”

  “Our pilot must be the worst pilot in the country. I’ve never felt so many bumps in a flight.”

  “I don’t think that’s smog,” said Halverson, still peering out the window, ignoring Tom’s words.

  “What else could it be?”

  “It looks more like smoke.”

  “I hope not.”

  “I’ve never seen smog that thick. I don’t look forward to breathing it.”

  “The problem is, where there’s smoke there’s fire.”

  “Prepare for landing,” came the pilot’s voice over the loudspeaker.

  The flight attendants bustled to their assigned landing stations.

  “I still can’t see a thing out there,” said Halverson, straining his eyes to penetrate the shrouds of grey haze consuming the jet.

  “We should land at another airport, like I said before,” said Tom. “This is flat-out insane.”

  Sitting up front, the amiable Hispanic stewardess caught Tom’s eye. She held her forefinger to her full lips trying to shush him.

  “Insane,” he repeated, just to irritate her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Boeing 737 slammed down onto the tarmac.

  Halverson felt the shock of the landing all the way up his spine. He winced in pain. He heard Tom groan beside him.

  Several of the doors for the overhead bins snapped open. Luggage of various shapes and sizes toppled out of the storage compartments, crashing onto passengers’ heads and laps.

  Passengers screamed.

  An expression of petrified horror swept over the genial stewardess’s face.

  “Keep your seat belts fastened for your own safety,” admonished the pilot’s voice over the loudspeaker. “Do not leave your seats till the seat belt sign turns off.”

  The jet abruptly veered to starboard as it taxied down the runway. In a matter of seconds the jet crashed onto its port side. Halverson could feel the port wing snapping off the fuselage as the jet flipped onto its side.

  Overhead sign or no overhead sign, Halverson pried open his seat belt. He wasn’t about to sit strapped into his seat while the upended plane caught fire. Tom took Halverson’s cue and flipped open his seat belt.

  The flight attendants, including the Hispanic stewardess, were busy opening the emergency exit door on the starboard side of the fuselage. She wasn’t smiling anymore, Halverson noted. The flight crew deployed the plastic slide outside of the exit for the passengers to disembark.

  “One at a time,” she was saying to the passengers that congregated around the exit.

  “No running. Stay calm.”

  The distraught passengers began sliding down the blue, tarpaulin-like slide to the tarmac.

  Halverson gazed out the open door. “Where are the airport emergency personnel?”

  “There ought to be fire engines and foam trucks all over this place by now,” said Tom with misgivings. “What’s going on here?”

  A woman pushing thirty with short brown hair in the back of the plane started screaming.

  Halverson thought he could smell smoke. If this plane caught fire, it would blow up fast, he knew, what with the presence of the avgas. The only thing in their favor was the fact that the fuel tanks should be just about empty after their long trip from back east.

  “Everybody, please keep moving,” said the stewardess. “Don’t get your luggage from the bins now. You’re holding up traffic. We’ll get your luggage later. We need to get out of the plane in an orderly fashion at once.”

  Tom leapt out of the emergency exit onto the plastic slide and slid down to the tarmac.

  “Do you need any help?” Halverson asked the stewardess.

  “No, I’m fine.” She smiled tightly at him. She addressed the rest of the passengers. “If anyone needs help getting out of their seat, please let us know and a flight attendant will come to your aid.”

  Halverson heard a woman sobbing behind him. He jumped out the door onto the slide. Once he reached the tarmac he stood up.

  He scanned the airstrip. No sign of fire engines or ambulances speeding toward the crash site. He could not understand it. Of course, he could not see very far thanks to the heavy smog. He was lucky if he could see five feet ahead of him. He smelled smoke. Their plane might be burning or the smoke might be coming from somewhere else.

  Tom walked up to him out of the smog. “This is screwy. How come no one’s here to help us deplane? Don’t they know there’s been an accident?”

  A middle-aged woman with henna hair approached them. “How could they know? It’s impossible to see anything in this smog.”

  Passengers milled around the tarmac after they got off the plane. They didn’t know where to go.

  “Where are the terminals?” asked Tom, surveying the smog-shrouded area.

  “How do we know in which direction to go?” asked the woman.

  A fortyish potbellied man in a black-and-white plaid two-button wool-and-cashmere Ascot Chang suit joined their group. He was gripping a black attaché case. “I would submit to you that we’re screwed.”

  He had a pale white face and a double chin. His courtly bearing radiated authority, Halverson noticed.

  “You’re not helping matters any,” the woman said, scowling at Potbelly.

  “Don’t blame me for this fiasco,” said Potbelly. “I’m not the pilot.”

  “Your negative words are not welcome.”

  “I’m just calling a spade a spade.” Potbelly looked indignant.

  “There’s no sense in arguing about it,” said Tom. “We’ve got to figure out what to do next.”

  “I wish I could come up with bright ide
as like that.”

  It was obvious to Halverson that Tom didn’t appreciate Potbelly’s sarcasm. However, Tom said nothing.

  “Where’s the pilot?” said Potbelly. “He should know where the terminals are located.” He made a show of scanning the vicinity in search of the pilot.

  “I wish someone would tell me what happened,” said the woman.

  “It’s quite simple. We crashed.”

  The woman’s face registered her annoyance. “But why? And why is all this smog here?”

  “In answer to your first question, our pilot is a numskull. In answer to your second”—Potbelly paused—“I don’t know.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gary.”

  “Gary, you have a swelled head. If I ever see you again it will be too soon.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mildred.”

  “Mildred, the feeling is mutual.”

  “You’re an offensive man. You know that?”

  “But you’d love to have me represent you in a court of law. I know.”

  “Can we save this for later?” said Halverson. “We need to move away from the plane. It might explode any minute.”

  As the last of the passengers emerged from the plane followed by the flight crew, the restive crowd retreated from the plane.

  “Where’s our fearless leader, the pilot?” asked Gary. His chubby cheeks, as well as his double chin, quivered as he spoke.

  “Maybe he got hurt in the crash,” said Tom.

  Halverson cast around the crowd. “Here he comes.”

  A fiftysomething man wearing a navy blue pilot’s hat with an emblem of wings on it and a short-sleeve button-down white shirt approached them. He wore a white plastic pen shield in his shirt pocket.

  “Is everyone safe?” he asked, surveying the crowd.

  “If we are, it’s no thanks to you,” said Gary.

  The pilot glared at him with icy grey eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your landing left something to be desired.”

  “Any landing you can walk away from is a good one,” the pilot said humorlessly.