A Worthy Decision, Mr. President

Secretary of State Anna DuPont, Secretary of Defense Steve Marquet, and Vice President Ross Effing joined President Jack Derring at the large table in his cabinet room in the White House.

Jack Derring was a tall, slender man with a protruding chin framed by wire-rimmed glasses. Voters compared him to George H.W. Bush at the age of fifty-nine, nine months into his first term. From humble beginnings in Annapolis, Maryland, he had advanced steadily through the ranks, becoming a lawyer at age 31, the mayor of Annapolis at age 42, and a district representative at age 46. Before being elected president aged fifty-eight, he served in the House with distinction. He was a moderate liberal Democrat who had won all except the Republican strongholds in the South and the Midwest by denouncing the mishandling of the Iraq War.

However, a grave problem arose at the start of his administration. Mauer's Syndrome, a deadly African illness, struck American soldiers in Iraq. Derring committed a serious mistake by sending tens of thousands more troops to replace the fading brigades as men died. The reinforcements fell, turning into zombies just like their forebears. The last Americans were infected and lost, and Iraq turned into a wasteland.

"How much worse has the situation in New York gotten?" Derring sat down and questioned his cabinet, his voice etched with fatigue.

Secretary of State Anna DuPont, a lady in her mid-forties with short blond hair and a thin, straight face, responded, "About as bad as it could possibly be." "Mayor Bloom has stepped down. Even though he only had a month till elections, the projected 300,000 uninfected Manhattanites would still suffer a terrible loss.

Vice President Effing, a heavyset man with spectacles, stated, "As of two hours ago, approximately one million people were infected out of a pre-disease population of eight million, with four hundred thousand dead." "An additional five million have escaped, leaving about 1.6 million people in Manhattan, Queens, Staten Island, the Bronx, and Brooklyn without the infection."

"Brooklyn, like most of Manhattan, except uptown and Greenwich Village, is a wasteland," DuPont explained. "The Bronx and Staten Island, where the disease hasn't yet spread, are home to the majority of uninfected survivors."

"Marquet, how is the lockdown going?" The President inquired.

As he handed Derring a dossier of brigades, battalions, and a regional map, Secretary of Defense Steve Marquet responded, "I have the 42nd Infantry sealing off Harlem, Fort Lee, and Staten Island." General Rylan is commuting between his bases in Hackensack and Levittown via helicopter. I asked Fort Drum for the 10th Division, but they could only spare one brigade because the other three were killed in Iraq.

"Damn," Derring mumbled, his tone tinged with regret.

“I agree, and so do the Joint Chiefs,” Marquet added. "We should maintain all standing forces in situ, with the possible exception of deploying one airborne division. After nine months of the disease wreaking havoc in Iraq and Afghanistan, our force was overworked. We'll need troops to protect other cities if zombies start to appear there.

"How much progress are we making in New York, though?"

Marquet lowered his voice and cleared his throat. Very little. At approximately 6:15 ET today, a local National Guard scout unit was compelled to withdraw from Times Square. Although New England units are coming to help, nothing significant is happening. Five more citizens become infected for every zombie our warriors eliminate. As we seen in Iraq, Mr. President, they re-establish their ranks with each American who is injured or killed.

"What can we do then?" DuPont's voice was strained with worry as she asked.

"Is it really that unrealistic to believe that a massive chemical or biological attack on the city could be successful?" Effing took a prudent risk.

In response, Marquet steepled his fingers and said, "I wouldn't say biological." "But a nerve gas, phosgene gas, or anthrax airstrike on midtown and Brooklyn might temporarily suppress the zombie threat."

"I considered a nuclear option," Effing insisted.

Derring shook his head and stated, "I couldn't… not yet."

"However, when?" Effing grabbed the opportunity. "Where is the boundary? when 50 million Americans have died and half of the nation is infected? Mr. President, when? How do we proceed?

Derring gripped the military papers tightly, his jaw clinched, his face buried in his fists. He lost himself in thought for what seemed like an eternity. At last, putting the papers down, he gave his silent order.

Use nerve gas to attack New York. Tonight's bout will be interesting to watch. We chemically firebomb the city if nothing changes by dawn.

"A commendable choice, Mr. President," Marquet said.

Jenna felt completely, painfully alone. She felt alone in the sea of humanity as she was surrounded by thousands of civilians in the Teaneck Armory's auditorium, including terrified adults and crying children. She sat on her government-issued cot and wrung her hands compulsively while others crowded about, unwilling to let go the mental chaos occupying her head.

The image brought to mind the Superdome in New Orleans during the 2005 hurricanes. The theater was packed with hundreds of people who poured into the soldiers' barracks upstairs. The National Guard had set up large-screen TVs, and people were either wandering aimlessly or glued to CNN broadcasts that flickered across them. Every age group was represented, from newborns only a few weeks old to elderly people who were frail and dying.

"Pay attention, pay attention," The garrison commander, Lieutenant Colonel Clement, made the announcement over the intercom. "Will the chosen civilians show up at the outdoor parking lot to wait for a ride to the front lines of Palisades?"

Jenna looked up curiously as a dozen citizens, flanked by riflemen, made their way toward the parking lot entrance. Impulsively, she got up, picked up her backpack, and followed the column through the convoluted hallways of the armory's crowd.

A young female soldier at the door said, "Go, go, go," as she ushered the group out. As she passed by, Jenna gave a friendly nod.

The woman said again, "Go," and Jenna broke free from the oppressive enclosure.

In contrast to the gloomy panes of the armory, Jenna and the twelve civilians were warmly illuminated by the afternoon light in the parking lot. As they marched under military protection toward a group of Humvees, where officers and troops waited, the fresh air energized them.

Jenna was shocked to see how much the armory grounds had altered. The building had been surrounded by a mowed lawn the night before; now the area was scarred by trenches and bunkers. Behind the lines, soldiers guarded pillboxes, barbed wire was scattered throughout the meadow and along the pavement, and the field was punctuated by foxholes and ditches built with sandbags.