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The aftermath of the pie fest incident was chaos, to say the least. The media had filmed it all, undoing any work that might have been done to show zombies as real people. General Mills had had to be told that his daughter had been turned full Romero, and had not been notably impressed by Major's insistence that she was kidnapped and Romero-fied on purpose for just this reaction. The delegation had left with serious faces, refusing to meet Major's eyes, and every time he'd been outside since then he'd found himself automatically scanning the skies for incoming nukes.

And in the midst of it all, he still needed to work. To feed New Seattle's zombies, to make sure no humans retaliated for the park incident, to make sure no zombies retaliated for what had been done to Sloane Mills and her boyfriend. To simply keep the peace, which was easier said than done on a normal day … assuming there had ever been any normal days. Major sure couldn't remember any.

He was sitting in his office trying to go over paperwork but in reality just brooding, reading and rereading coverage of the incident, keeping one ear open for the phone to ring, when Collins came in. "Still no word from the Joint Chiefs?" he asked her, knowing there had been none, but hoping she might pull some out of her pocket anyway.

"No. Last time I checked they're 'formulating a response', they'll notify us … et cetera."

"Great."

She produced a folder, holding it out for his inspection. From the snap in her wrist and the look on her face, whatever it contained was not going to be good news.

"Please tell me this has nothing to do with zombie rampages or—"

"Just boring stuff."

Boring. Boring sounded good. "Yeah. Okay, bring it on." He took the folder and opened it.

"A few of our security scanners haven't been logging key card IDs properly. Possible we might need an upgrade."

"With any luck, we'll get the bugs worked out of the key card system right before they bomb us back to the Stone Age."

They glanced at each other, both wishing it was a joke so they could laugh. But it wasn't, and there was nothing they could do, so they shrugged instead.

Major finished up in the office and headed down to the locker room to change. He was looking forward to going home, if only so he could stop picking up the phone every few minutes to check and see if it still had a dial tone. At least at home there were limits to how often he could call the office and check his voice mail.

Who was he kidding, anyway? Midnight in New Seattle was three in the morning in Washington, DC. The delegation had gone home to their families and now they were safely asleep in their beds. Zombies across the country were tomorrow's problem. Or maybe the day after. It was sad that Major was counting on that apathy to buy them a few more days.

As he was zipping up his bag, the custodian rolled his cart up behind him. "Sorry. Thought everyone had gone home for the night."

"Almost. Don't mind me." It occurred to him that he hadn't seen this particular guy before. Major's hours were well known by soldiers and support staff alike. And this guy was hovering there with his cart in a way that said he wasn't quite sure what he was doing. "You new here?"

"Newish."

"Hmm."

The custodian reached out a hand to shake. "Crawford."

"Major. Nice to meet you. Well, I'm off. Don't work too hard."

Crawford laughed, bending over to get something out of his cart. As he passed, Major looked over and something about the ID badge on Crawford's hip caught his attention.

"Why do you have two key cards?"

"What?" Crawford had frozen, half bent over. Whatever he was up to, he had not planned on being asked about that, and it was taking him a minute to come up with a story.

Major pointed. "One on your cart, and one on your belt. I only get one, and I run the place."

"Uh …."

"Something wrong?"

"No!" Crawford lifted his hands, shifting his feet.

"You didn't sell that so well, Crawford. You better come with me." So much for going home.

"What? Why?"

"Because I asked you a simple question and you broke out in a cold sweat."

Crawford looked around him in desperation.

Major kept his voice very calm and even. "I'd just like you to come with me and answer a few questions."

Crawford turned and looked at him. No more fidgeting, no more heavy breathing. He had come to a decision. Before Major could pick up on that and move to stop him, Crawford had sprinted across the room and impaled his head on one of the metal hooks there to hold towels.

Shocked, Major stared at him. What could he possibly have been up to that had made suicide—decisive, painful suicide—a better option than simply answering questions?

He called for backup, having the body removed to the morgue, and put Collins on figuring out where the key cards had come from.

She reported the next morning with a mug shot and a rap sheet.

Major looked it over, frowning. "Crawford Davis. Civilian. Hired by Enzo right before we put him away. What'd we get on the key cards?"

"One clean, the other stolen. Reprogrammed to register blank ID at any point of entry."

"Do we know where he used it?"

"Storage warehouse," answered the soldier with Collins. "Twelve entries, all in the last two days."

"What did he want from there?"

"Max Rager. Had a case hidden in his cart."

"Enzo hires this guy, gives him a doctored key card, six weeks later he starts stealing Max Rager."

"Maybe Enzo's recruiting outside of Fillmore Graves, reorganizing—" Collins suggested.

"Enzo's a lackey, not a strategist. And Justin's dead." It still amazed him that he could say that calmly, after he'd shot one of his best friends in the head for betraying everything Major stood for. That Major had thought they both stood for. "Someone else must be pulling the strings."

Max Rager. Were they making more zombies? Were they dosing zombies? He wished he knew.