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Major checked in with the office immediately after Liv and Ravi had left. If he had been taken out of commission for most of the day by those tainted brains, he could only imagine what might have happened to other people—zombies who operated heavy machinery, who looked after small children, who were just going about their daily lives lost in a fog. Fortunately, it sounded like there hadn't been a lot of incidents, and he ordered his people at the production plants to check into the contents of the brains being ground into the paste. Such a heavy concentration of one type of brains shouldn't have been allowed to happen. How many people were involved in this, how many were embedded into his various systems? He got Justin started looking into it, and went to bed to let the fresh brains Liv had fed him finish clearing the fog from his head.
The next morning, he felt as chipper as ever. Up and dressed and downing his first cup of hot sauce-doctored coffee for the day. He called Ravi before he left for work, leaving a message to thank him and Liv for having Major's back—as they always did. "I'm still a bit fuzzy on yesterday," he went on, walking into the living room, where the TV was blaring the morning news, "but, you know, maybe it'll come back. Anyway, you complete me. See you later."
He ended the call just as the newscaster said something about armored vehicles, tear gas, and water cannons. Turning, Major saw his own people on the screen, attacking humans. The newscaster went on, "After a tense standoff, Fillmore Graves turned the high pressure hoses on CHICS protesters, including women and children, without warning."
Major watched the rest of the footage, outrage building in him. So. He had been taken out of commission for one day, and someone within his organization had leaped into action to undo all of Major's careful work to try to build a détente between humans and zombies.
He went to the office, using routine paperwork to refocus his mind and determine how to deal with the problem—whose name, he was fairly certain, was Lambert. Finally, as evening fell, he called Lambert into his office.
Major and Collins were watching the evening's newscast as the Frenchman made his appearance. "… giving rise to concerns that the return to the police state instituted by the previous regime may be imminent. Earlier today, CHICS spokesperson Dolly Durkins had this to say."
The camera cut to Durkins' smug, self-satisfied face. "Fillmore Graves may not be guillotining people anymore in the town square, but make no mistake, they are an authoritarian regime with no regard for human rights. Okay? We will resist, we will fight back, we will prevail."
Behind him, Lambert cleared his throat. "You asked to see me, Commander?"
Major muted the TV and turned to face him. It took all his control not to throw the jackass through the plate glass windows and hope he smashed his head on the pavement below like a watermelon. "I did," he said calmly. "The water cannon. The billy clubs. You were acting on my orders?"
"Your direct orders," Lambert lied.
"Really. 'Cause that doesn't sound like me." He turned to Collins. "Does that sound like me?"
"No, sir. It does not."
"What are you suggesting?" Lambert asked.
"I'm one of a couple hundred zombies in Seattle who got dosed with a tube of brains from Alzheimer's patients."
Lambert frowned unconvincingly. "Mmm."
Major leaned toward him, saying quietly, "But I think you know that."
"You seemed fine when we spoke."
"Did you know anything about the bad brains going around? A number of our men suffered the same effects."
"I did not." God, Lambert was a terrible liar. Either that, or he was sure Major couldn't prove anything, so he wasn't bothering to try.
But Major was one up on him. "Interesting. 'Cause Corporal Wells said he briefed you."
Lambert stood silent, knowing his lie had been poorly thought out.
Major turned away from the Frenchman before he could decide that punching him would be a good idea. "You gave the Dead Enders exactly what they wanted. You walked into their trap. I bet every time that footage runs, another hundred humans sign up. I don't know what you're up to, Enzo, but you're going to go away for a while."
Two of their men had arrived in the doorway, standing at attention and waiting for Major's signal. Lambert hadn't anticipated that, it appeared, from the panic on his face when he saw them. Then he turned to Major and lifted a fist into the air. "Vive Chase Graves!"
If Major hadn't been so concerned about how deep the problems went in the organization, that would have been laughable. Chase Graves hadn't had any more use for Lambert than Major had. "Whatever," he said.
"I did what had to be done," Lambert declared as the soldiers took him by the arms and escorted him from the office. "Your failure of leadership will be the destruction of us all!"
Major worried about exactly that. What was going on under his nose? How had the brain supply been tainted? Who else was working with Enzo? Was there anyone left in Fillmore Graves he could truly trust?
Collins came in the next morning to confirm that Enzo's sentence had been carried out. He thanked her, but she hesitated. "I … noticed something when I was there, however. Prisoners Tador and Jackson are missing."
"Missing?"
"They aren't the only ones. I ordered a full accounting. Seventeen prisoners gone in total."
He stared at her, trying to figure out what was happening. "Who'd want to unthaw our prisoners? And why?"
Whatever the reason was, it couldn't be good. What was happening here under his nose—and who was behind it?