Foster turned up the volume. “I forgot I lowered it.”
“Foster, Reid
, anyone
, this is Jim. We have a Code Black. I repeat Code Black. The infected have gotten upstairs. Repeat, the infected are upstairs.”
Scott forced Miranda though the door. “Hurry.”
Foster shook his head. “It’s already too late. The infection spreads faster than you can imagine.”
41
.
Jim’s call interrupted Reid’s post-homicide high. Killing Lenny released his pent up anger, but now a new, more dangerous hunt was on. Reid stepped over Lenny’s corpse, loaded his pistol, and descended the nearest stairs to the first floor without losing his breath. His hands ached from the strain of the strangulation, but the new prospect energized him. He craved action and it didn’t take long to find it.
The Ambulatory Surgery Unit echoed with screams. A horde was already evolving, too many to kill by silent means.
Reid rushed through the double doors. An infected female secretary wearing a two-piece blue suit and one high-heeled shoe shambled toward him, wobbling as she walked. Her long, dark hair, disheveled from a struggle, partially hid the festering bite on the side of her neck.
“Come and get me.” Reid dared her. She picked up speed, losing her other shoe. Reid waited until she was just outside of arm’s reach to level his pistol. “Bang.” He fired a shot into her forehead and she collapsed. Blood gushed from the hole.
She was target practice. Nothing more.
An elderly couple that was either too confused or stubborn to evacuate howled in pain on the waiting room floor. Not yet infected, they were suffering the change. Reid watched with a twisted grin as the hunchbacked woman reached for her husband. Her face was bitten, the brittle flesh pulled away from the corner of her mouth revealing shining pink gums and a distinct lack of teeth. Blood covered her knotty hand from trying to seal off the wound. Her husband, a stout man with large pores, bled heavily from his neck and had all but given up his fight. He drew his last human breath and Reid spent another round to ensure he stayed dead. The wife howled and he shot her next.
“Please, help me.” A woman’s voice came from a metal supply cabinet behind the check-in desk.
Reid maneuvered through the carnage and opened the door. A storm of Post-it notes rained down on the pretty, young brunette crouched inside. Her gentle, brown eyes looked on him as her savior. He wished he had enough time to change that. She tried to stand up, but was stiff and off-balance. He offered his hand and when she stood up, pressed the muzzle of his gun to her chest. Holding it over her heart just long enough for her relief to turn to fear, he drank in the two-second thrill before pulling the trigger.
Her body fell at his feet.
The ruckus grew in the Recovery Room, the sound of gunfire drawing the others. Reid went into the twelve bed unit where Mark, whom Reid immediately recognized as an infected intruder, had eaten his way through several of the recovering patients.
The virus took them all in turn, each reanimating at a different pace.
Reid assessed his targets, prioritizing them by most dangerous out of respect for his limited ammo.
A rotund woman, several hundred pounds and with an open chest wound, glanced up from the elderly man she was devouring. Her gown dangled low enough that he could see her sagging breasts. Between them, sternal wires pulled apart, exposing her heart through a gaping surgical gash. Bits of her victims flesh stuck out from her worn, crowded teeth and blood painted her lips.
A rabid gargoyle of a boy, no older than seven, crouched on his bed ready to attack. His expression held malevolence and hunger, and unlike the large woman, he was spry. He shifted his weight and launched himself forward. Reid fired and missed his intended headshot. The bullet grazed the boy’s temple, releasing a dribble of stagnant blood. Reid lined up his next shot and took the boy down.
He didn’t miss twice.
The heavy woman, drawn by the noise, moved faster than Reid would’ve thought possible. Her substantial fat acted like a buffer and she put Reid out several rounds before finally succumbing. Thick rolls of flesh slapped the tile as she belly-flopped and pushed one of the beds between Reid and Mark.
“Looks like it’s you and me,
fireman
.”
Mark charged Reid, the yellow pants whooshing as he quickened his pace toward the gurney. Syrupy fluid dripped down his cheek where his ruined eye laid poked out and weeping. A Bowie knife jutted from his chest.
Reid pulled the trigger, over and over, but his pistol would not discharge. It jammed.
Shit. He’d been lazy with cleaning it.
He stepped backward and looked for an alternate weapon.
The knife was his only option.
Mark gnashed his teeth and his lips spread wide in either a smile or a growl.
Reid locked his gaze, the milky opacity making it impossible to see his pupils. “Come and get me you rabid fuck.” His heartbeat hammered and blood rushed in his ears. He kept the gurney between himself and Mark and struggled to grab the knife handle. The thought of the filthy virus Mark wanted to instill in him fueled Reid’s rage. He shoved the bed forward, sending Mark backward. He fell on the ground and Reid was on him before he got up.
This was for survival.
He grabbed a pillow off the floor and covered Mark’s face
.
He pulled the knife from Mark’s chest and drove it, repeatedly and with crushing force, into the top of his head. Mark stopped struggling, his moans silenced, and a familiar calm washed over Reid.
The worse was over.
Until one of the other beds moved.
42
.
Foster’s heavy boots clapped against the tile and the echoing sound made Miranda uneasy. He was going to draw the infected. Scott hung back, doting on her more than she would have liked.
“I’m fine,” she said, unsure if it was true. Her feet ached and she was desperate for a rest or a comfortable pair of sneakers. She leaned on Amy’s wheelchair and allowed it to carry her along.
A rancid odor emerged and her heightened, pregnant senses took over. She whiffed the pungent air, the hollow ache in her stomach giving way to returning nausea.
“What’s that smell?” A near-imperceptible drawl colored Carlene’s voice.
“Food storage.” The words barely made it out of Foster’s mouth when they reached the ransacked kitchenette. A trail of carnage led away from an open chest freezer. Red biohazard bags covered the hallway floor and sharply contrasted the white tile. Chunks of flesh clung to the walls and the ceiling like morbid spitballs. Smears of blood painted the wall.
“Scott, look out.” Miranda was the first to see him.
The other young boy Foster had warned about cried out in obvious frustration. He slumped over a shredded pile of flesh, his overgrown nails having made mincemeat of the decayed arm he desperately tried to feed on. His baby teeth scattered on the floor around him, his face bloody and bruised--cut from the jagged, sharp bone.
Carlene screamed and Penny covered her eyes.
Scott drew the ax overhead and decapitated the boy with a single, clean chop.
Carlene hit her knees and prayed. “Our Father who art in Heaven…”
Penny slipped into shock.
Miranda wiped a tear from her cheek and saw a harsher side of Scott than she ever imagined possible. While the others mourned the losses of life, he’d grown immune to them.
An adaptive soldier in a harsh and unforgiving reality.
“Scott, are you all right?” Foster asked.
The assassin slipped from his gentle eyes. “I did what I had to,” he said focusing on Miranda. “Don’t think for a minute I enjoyed it.”
“I know.” Miranda held her stomach. This side of him unsettled her. She felt Amy’s wheelchair move.
She was coming to.
“We have to keep moving,” said Foster.
Penny whimpered and turned her face away from the slaughter.
Miranda squatted next to Carlene and held one of her trembling hands between her own. The prayers had died down to a mumbled string of incoherent words and an occasional Amen. “Carlene, we have to get Holly and Amy upstairs. I need your help.” She led Carlene to the handles of the wheelchair and she instinctually held on to them.
“We’re almost there.” Foster helped Penny past the carnage.
“Look at me.” Miranda kept Carlene distracted while Scott cleared a path for her to steer. “Keep moving. It’s going to be all right.”
Carlene locked her eyes on Miranda’s, unwilling or unable to see any more death.
The ruddy-faced girl with the acne scars straightened, brushing her thin, dirty-blonde hair from her face. “Where am I?” she whispered, her dry, unpracticed voice cracking. “Who’re you?”
Foster stood in front of her, blocking her view of the scene and leading them to the elevator.
“My name’s Miranda, Amy. I’m here to take you home.”
Amy tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate and her arms were too weak to compensate. She let out a yell and grabbed her stomach.
Miranda coaxed her to be still in the chair. “You’ve been in the bed too long to stand up. Please, we have to get you out of here.”
“Outta where?” Amy tugged her hospital gown upward until her half-healed cesarean wound and retention sutures were visible. Amy attempted, again, to stand, but couldn’t and she crumbled, crying. “What’d they do to me? What the hell is happening?”
Foster hit the elevator button, positioning himself so as to shield the already melting down Amy from further panic-inducing scenes.
Miranda held her hand on Amy’s shoulder, shushing her and speaking in a calming tone. “It’s going to be all right.”
Amy pushed her away. “It ain’t gonna be
all right,
” she said, recovering a hoarse version of a voice
Scott stepped up and grabbed the arms of Amy’s wheelchair hard enough to jostle her. “You listen to me. We’ll explain everything once we get you out of here
alive.
” The threat in his eyes forced her cooperation. Miranda couldn’t believe what she was seeing. He was suddenly an uncompassionate stranger, not at all like the man she married. Scott backed away from Amy’s chair, and as if he just noticed Miranda watching him, softened his expression. “I’m sorry.”
Before Miranda could answer, the elevator door opened with Clarence’s body still tied to the railing.
43
.
Mark’s death had been too close.
Reid cleaned his bloody hands on his uniform pants and kept an eye on the reanimating female corpse in the bed at the other end of the Recovery Room. A tube extended from the middle-aged woman’s throat and she thrashed, popping her IV. Blood sprayed the walls and blankets and while she wasn’t up yet, it was only a matter of time. He searched the room for a makeshift weapon he could use from a distance. Hospital beds, IV poles and monitoring equipment, tons of linens and disposable wound dressings, but nothing sharp, wieldy, or strong enough for him to dispatch a hungry Id.
The newly infected fought the hardest.
He cleared the jam in his pistol, but didn’t trust it. Without time for cleaning or troubleshooting, he needed a new gun with ammo
and the only place to get them was the Security Office arsenal.
He had to lock down the department first.
And he still had to find Miranda.
Each complication made it harder to focus. Reid picked up the IV pole set outside of the unit for fixing. One of the casters had broken off and a repair tag dangled from the hook where a medication bag would hang.
“This’ll have to work.”
He held the base with his foot and unthreaded the pole from its center. He ran it through the double door handles and bent the ends until it formed a “C”. If anyone were alive inside, they’d have to get past the infected first.
* * * * *
Amy screamed at the sight of Clarence’s decapitated body handcuffed to the elevator. “Please, please don’t make me go in there!” She pleaded tearfully, her greasy hair clinging to her tear-stained cheeks.
Miranda stepped in front of her, slipped her arm out of the too long sleeve, and used the jacket as a curtain between Amy and the body.
“Don’t take that off,” Scott said.
Miranda met his determined stare. She twisted around, yanked off the coat, and tossed it over the corpse.
Scott tried to catch it mid-air, but missed.
“Too late, the blood’s already on it.”
“That was bite protection you just contaminated.”
Miranda wheeled the traumatized Amy to the far side of the elevator and faced her into the corner. “I don’t plan on sticking around to get bit.”
Amy covered her face with her hands and wept.
Foster tucked Penny under his arm and helped her inside, but the small car had become quickly cramped.
Carlene forced Holly’s wheelchair in next to Clarence’s body and the wheels came to rest in the pool of his blood.
“There isn’t enough room in here.” Something was blocking the door, keeping it from closing. Foster unfastened the belt holding Clarence to the rail. His hands fell, dead weight, at his sides. “Grab his feet, Scott.”
Everyone turned away except for Miranda.
Scott picked Clarence’s feet up by his bootlaces. Thick clots dribbled from his neck onto the floor. Foster lifted his hands higher to cut off the leak and the two of them carried the body into the hall.
“Don’t step in the blood,” Foster said. He looked at the other women’s feet and they were all only wearing slipper socks. “Any cuts or cracks, you’ll absorb the virus like a plant taking up water.”
“Penny, stand over here.” Miranda pointed at a clean patch.
Penny waited for Foster to come back and complied, reaching for his hand.
Scott nudged Miranda until she was the furthest from the spill. “I’m sorry,” he said softly enough for only her to hear him. “I’m over-protective, I know it. But you’re my wife.”