Fall of Night (Dead of Night 2)
“You killed him,” she said.
“Who?” asked Zetter sharply, clearly alarmed. “Is Mr. Trout—”
“Not him, you douchebag. You killed JT.”
“Who is that, Officer Fox? Was that a friend of yours?”
“Patrol Sergeant JT Hammond, Stebbins Police. A good man. A family man. A decent person who only ever cared about other people. You maniacs killed him.”
Zetter said, “Was he the officer who went outside with the other infected?”
“Yes.” It hurt Dez to say that one word.
“I … he…” Zetter cleared his throat. “I saw what happened to him. I saw what he did. He protected the children from the infected. Officer Hammond died a hero.”
Dez banged the back of head against the wall. “JT was murdered and you bastards killed him. And now you want us to spread our legs and let you fuck us.”
“That’s not how it is, Officer.”
“Yeah,” she said. “It is.”
Neither of them spoke again for several burning seconds.
Then Zetter said, “We need those flash drives.”
“If you try to take them, General, I’ll burn them. You can come in here with guns blazing and you won’t find shit. But I can promise that every single thing you do will be streamed live to the Net. The world’s watching, General.”
“Officer Fox,” said the general, “be careful not to overplay your hand. You might not have as many good cards as you think. I’m trying to work something out we can both live with—and I do mean live—don’t make fools out of both of us, and don’t make martyrs out of the children in that school.”
Dez almost told him to eat shit, but she kept her tongue. What he’d just said chilled her, filling her mind with awful possibilities.
“Look,” she said, “Volker gave the flash drives to Billy. It’s his call. I’ll talk to him and get back to you.”
“Very well, Officer Fox, I apprec—”
She switched off the walkie-talkie.
Moving slowly, like someone awakening after surgery, she got to her feet, closed the door, crossed to the teacher’s desk, pulled out the chair, and crawled into the footwell. It was a tight, dark space that smelled of shoe polish, crayons, and old coffee. Dez pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around her shins, and laid her head down. Sobs shuddered through her whole body and tears steamed hot and thick down her face.
“Oh, God,” she wept. “JT.”
The shakes began then.
Dez crammed a fist into her mouth to block the scream that tried to tear its way out of her throat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
The president returned to his office and there received an endless flow of advisors, including generals of different wattage; planners from FEMA; senators from Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia, and Ohio; scientific advisors; the senior members of his staff; and Scott Blair. Over and over again, Scott Blair.
His desk began piling up with reports on everything from estimated casualties—the current guess was more than nine thousand—to letters from heads of state expressing sympathy and offering assistance. The offers were rote lip service that carried as little actual weight as people at a funeral suggesting the bereaved call on them if there’s anything they can do. Most people wouldn’t want to take that call, and that was doubly so in global politics. Besides, the quickest way for his administration to look even weaker than it was would be to ask for help from another country.
However, that was secondary.
When he was alone for a few minutes, the document that caught and held the president’s attention was the estimated loss of life. He read the numbers, then closed his eyes and winced as if each digit gouged a fishing hook under his skin.