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Major had left some insurance on Don E's desk—a hidden microphone in a pen he had happened to 'forget'. He and Hobbs and Collins listened in as Don E and Stacey Boss did some negotiating of their own. Don E was dragging his feet about cutting Blaine out of the deal, which rather surprised Major, given how Blaine treated his subordinate. It apparently surprised Boss, as well.
Don E wasn't sure if be believed Fillmore Graves' budget issues; Boss didn't care about them. He saw a jackpot in front of him. And he probably wasn't wrong. Whatever it took to feed Seattle's zombies, Major would have to find a way. And that way didn't look like it was going to come from Blaine's network, even under new ownership.
He had no choice but to get on his knees, figuratively, at least, and go hat in hand to the United States government, even knowing that they would rather see the city of Seattle blown into the ocean than feed its zombie citizens.
That attitude was buried, and not too deep, either, in the response he got from the suited and uniformed people sitting around the oval conference table on his call with the Joint Chiefs of Staff that night. "I'm sorry, Commander, but we cannot be responsible for Seattle's issues. We had an understanding. You have to find a way to live up to it."
"I—I understand, General," Major replied, holding on to his temper with both hands. He couldn't afford to yell at these shortsighted idiots. He had to placate, to soothe, to cajole. If only he had the energy to do any of that. He was so tired, and so worried, and so close to the edge of scared, that all he had was the honest truth. "But the situation here is truly dire. I can't state it any more bluntly. We'll be out of brains in 48 hours. After that, zombies might turn on the living. Some might try to scale the wall. I know that you think this is our problem, but it could end up being all of our problem."
The woman at the head of the table, General Lane, cut him off. "Thank you, Major." She seemed to have to search for his name. "We'll discuss it, and get back to you later."
"Or sooner, if you can." He cut transmission and took a few minutes to swear and slam his fists on the desk. Which neither helped nor made him feel any better, but he had to do something, and that seemed to be the only recourse left to him.
The nightmare was coming. Night of the Living Dead type stuff, starving zombies attacking innocent humans for their brains, zombies escaping the walls of Seattle and spreading the virus far and wide. Major could see it there, like a tsunami wave hovering just over their heads, ready to crash, and he couldn't do anything to stop it.
The next day, the news was out. Literally. The local stations were playing Dolly whats-her-name blowing the whistle on New Seattle's critical brain shortage. Major watched it from his desk wondering who her source was. She said it was the plant workers, but he had a hard time believing that.
Hobbs came in while Major was trying to decide how to respond to this latest development. Damage control was needed, and quickly, but could he lie to the whole city? "So, Commander, the Joint Chiefs called while you were out."
He'd gone home for half an hour to shower and change. From Hobbs' tone, you'd have thought he'd taken a vacation in Aruba. "Fine," he said. He hit the comm button on his desk. "Alan, let's call back the Joint Chiefs."
"Actually, sir, they, uh, left a message." Hobbs produced a small pink slip of paper. "Basically, since it's the official position of the US government that Fillmore Graves is a terrorist operation, they do not—"
"So, no." Major sat back, his heart sinking. He had been afraid this would be their answer—he had mostly expected it—but he had held out some hope that they wouldn't consign American citizens to a horrifying death quite this easily.
"So … no," Hobbs confirmed. "Oh, and, uh … it looks like Blaine DeBeers … made bail."
Well, at least someone was having a good day.
Major arranged a press conference, went on camera promising that the brain issues were being resolved. He was getting better at lying through his teeth, even coming up with a way to explain to need to ration the current brain supply. Never mind that he hated himself, hated the situation, and was rapidly coming to hate the government, who would rather let its citizens starve and become feral nightmares than feed them.
From his face to the newscaster's: "Lillywhite's assurances come amid ongoing concerns about Seattle's brain supply. CHICs leader Dolly Durkins stood by her own claims."
The screen cut to Durkins: "They're running out. And when they run dry, the zombies are gonna come after us." She was staring straight at the viewer, inviting them to share her outrage and her paranoia.
Except it wasn't paranoia, because it was true.
"Surplus stores and gun retailers are reporting record sales, and police reports of robbed graves have skyrocketed," the newscaster reported.
Hobbs had come in again while Major watched, trying to figure out what to do. "Looks like the alarmist view is carrying the day so far," he said.
"Things will calm down once we get the brains flowing again."
Clearing his throat, Hobbs handed him a folder. "Speaking of: transcript from our bug in the Scratching Post. Boss and Don E have cut DeBeers out of the operation."
Major looked at the transcript and then back up at the TV, where the announcer was asking, "Has Seattle reached the end of its tenuous zombie-human peace?"
Not if Major had anything to say about it, it hadn't. There had to be a way. He just had to find it.
One thing he could do—he could try to neutralize Dolly Durkins. He went down to her fish truck, ringing the bell jauntily. She turned to him. "Hi. Can I help—" Her words stopped as she recognized him, her mouth pursing as though someone had just shoved a brain in it.
Major gave her his best smile. "Hi! Cute shirt." It said 'Dead Fish for Live People'." "Does it say on the back what zombies get, or is it the same dead fish idea?"
"We don't serve your kind here."
"Oh! If I have to shut you down for discrimination, you won't get to do any more of those fun little TV interviews."
They looked at each other, but he had her there, and she knew it. Reluctantly, she stuck a piece of fish and a couple of fries in a basket and dropped it in front of him.
As he paid, he grinned at her. "Excellent service!" Lifting his walkie-talkie, he said into it, "All good, boys! They do serve zombies here. Anyone hungry?" He winked at Dolly Durkins, whose face fell as she saw all the Fillmore Graves soldiers crowding around her truck.
Major tossed the overcooked and overpriced fish into the garbage. Durkins marched up to him. "Do you think you and your jackbooted thugs can obstruct my business? You brain-eating, undead abominations."
One of the young soldiers had come up behind them without Major noticing until he said, "Geez, Mom. Just chill out."
"You gave up the right to call me that when you became one of them," she snapped, storming off.
"You've been holding out on me, Murphy," Major said to the kid. "Dolly Durkins is your mother?"
"Not anymore, I guess."
"Wow." Major couldn't imagine giving up on their own child like that.
"If I may speak freely, sir: Don't underestimate her. She really hates zombies."
Major turned to look at Durkins, who was back in her truck, glaring at him. Or her former son. Or both. What he wouldn't give to scratch her and let her feel what it was like to go hungry for brains. Maybe then she'd understand.
And none of it helped him get more brains for his people.