“I’d like to take a shower, please,” Dylan said.
The nurse frowned, and her disapproval was evident. “Can’t it wait until morning?”
“I have physiotherapy in the morning,” Dylan said. “Besides, it’s after three already, and I could use a bath.”
The nurse hesitated. “Fine, but don’t use too much water. We are on strict rations.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dylan replied in a dry tone of voice.
“And don’t get that arm wet. The last thing we need is for it to get infected again,” the nurse added. “George will keep watch outside and escort you back to your room when you’re done.”
Dylan shrugged. “As long as he doesn’t spy on me, it’s cool.”
The nurse and security guard stared at her with distinct displeasure. “I’m certain he would never do such a thing.”
“I’m not a pervert,” George rumbled in a deep voice.
“Jeez, I’m just joking, okay?” Dylan said, rolling her eyes.
With a shake of her head, the nurse departed. George led the way to the communal bathroom equipped with baths and showers, and Dylan ducked inside. The room was empty, just the way she liked it. A soak in the tub was exactly what she needed to relax and forget about the creeping fear that wouldn’t let go.
Inside an empty cubicle, Dylan undressed and placed her stuff on the small wooden bench provided. She opened the taps and waited for the basin to fill, adjusting the temperature until it was just right. Feet first, she stepped into the tub and eased back into the steaming water. Her eyes drifted shut, and a smile played on her lips. “This is the life.”
After a few minutes, she sat upright to wash. It was difficult using only one hand, but she managed. Her fingers traced across the numerous injuries she’d accumulated on her journey to Fort Knox: The cut on her scalp thanks to crazy Maddie. That one still had stitches in it. Another one on her forehead and a jagged slash across her palm, both due to Frankie’s zombie boyfriend. At least, they’d closed up, forming thin scars she’d carry for life. She was healing, but slowly, and had yet to regain her former vitality.
Her bitten arm, wrapped tightly in bandages, dangled over the side. She didn’t have to see it to know what it looked like. Dr. Knowles had done the best he could, but the man was no plastic surgeon. It was a hack job, the damaged tissue brutally cut away, and the remnants stitched together until the arm looked like a Frankenstein special.
Dylan shuddered. It was a constant reminder of how close she’d come to death and insanity. A memory she’d much rather forget. Even now, Ray and his buddies haunted her dreams, their horrific deaths at her hands forever branded on her soul.
She shook her head. “Forget it. It’s done.”
Dylan quickly rinsed her hair, mindful of George at the door. If she took too long, he’d come looking for her. They were all scared of her. Scared and wary. At first, she couldn’t understand why. She’d been cured, hadn’t she? She wasn’t going to become a zombie anymore.
Then Tara explained. Even though she’d been cured, there remained a chance that she could relapse. That the virus could overcome the cure. Hence her enforced quarantine. This, Dylan already knew.
But there was more.
Two others, besides Dylan, had successfully received the cure. Saul, Tara’s companion and bodyguard, and a little girl. Both exhibited occasional side-effects that Tara was sure would present in Dylan as well. Fits of extreme aggression.
“And that’s why they’re all shit scared of me,” Dylan said with a sharp frown. It felt strange to be the object of such intense fear and hatred. Nor did she look forward to going nuts again and ripping someone else’s throat out. “Wouldn’t that be awesome?”
Dylan dried off and slipped the hospital gown over her head. The nurses had taken all her clothing when she arrived, so she had no option but to wear the flimsy cotton dress and panties. Even worse, it was open at the back, the two flaps tied together with string. She was forever holding it shut with one hand, not willing to grant anyone a free look at her ass.
Not that there’s much of it left anymore, she grumbled in her head. And the hospital food isn’t helping either. I wouldn’t feed that slop to a dog.
After brushing her teeth, she gathered up her stuff and prepared to leave when the lights went off. Plunged into darkness, Dylan froze on the spot. Her former fears came rushing back, and her heart rate sped up until it raced in her chest. Licking her dry lips, she called out, “George? What’s happening?”
No answer.
“George?”
Dylan edged forward, one hand stretched out into the unknown until she encountered the wall. She pressed her back against it and shut her eyes in an attempt to calm down. In the distance, a siren began to wail. It grew louder and louder until the sound vibrated through the walls and floor beneath her naked feet. It could only mean one thing.
A breach.
“No. It can’t be. Not here. It’s supposed to be safe here,” Dylan whispered, her voice harsh in her ears. Terror flooded her veins. She’d been warned about the siren. It meant that the infected had breached the compound. They were inside.
She crept sideways on trembling legs, arms stretched out until she felt the door beneath her fingertips. Her hand gripped the handle, and she cracked it open an inch. Inky darkness met her eyes. “George?”
Still no answer.
Her anxiety ratcheted up several knots.
Where could he be?
“George!”
Still nothing but the echo of her voice up and down the passage. The hair on the back of her head rose, and goosebumps pebbled her skin.
Then the back-up generators kicked in, and the lights in the hallway flickered on, much to her relief. She looked to either side. The place was deserted with no signs of George or the nurse. Where were they? What was happening?
The siren continued its wailing cry, and Dylan knew she was in trouble. They all were. “Shit, what now? I’ve got no clothes, no weapons. And what about Alex and Amy?”
Thinking about her friends calmed her galloping heart, and she was able to focus on the situation at hand. Her brain switched into survival mode, and she remembered something she’d seen a few days ago.
On silent feet, she jogged to the spot until she reached it. Bolted to the wall was a red box with an ax inside. One of those “Break Glass in Case of Emergency” boxes. Ditching the soap and toothpaste, she wrapped the towel around her fist and smashed the glass with one solid blow. After clearing away any sharp bits, she plucked out the ax, hefting it with both hands. It wasn’t a gun, but it was better than nothing.
Faint cries emitted from the occupied ward across the hall as other patients woke up from the noise. The door opened, and an older woman stuck her head through the opening. “What’s going on?”
Dylan shrugged. “I’m not sure, Ma’am, but you’d better go inside and barricade the door from the inside.”
“Is it an attack?” the woman asked.
“I think so, ma’am, but I’m sure the soldiers will sort it out. In the meantime, stay inside and block the doors,” Dylan said with more confidence than she felt. “I’ll go have a look outside and find out what’s happening.”
The woman eyed the ax in Dylan’s hands and nodded. “Alright, but be careful.”
“I will, ma’am. Thanks.”
The woman disappeared back into the ward, and the noise of dragging furniture sounded soon after. At least, they were following her instructions, and it should keep them safe for the time being.
Dylan turned away and looked down the hall. Going back to her room served no purpose. There was nothing there that she could use. No clothes. No weapons. Nothing. Nor did she feel like cowering behind its door, waiting for the inevitable. That left the nursing station. “There’s got to be someone there. Or something I can use, at least.”
With slow steps, Dylan walked down the hall with the ax held ready to strike. The lights dipped in and out, alternating between utter da
rkness and a feeble glow. Her pulse quickened as her brain imagined terrifying horrors lurking around every corner. Her tongue darted out to touch her dry lips, and goosebumps pebbled her arms.
Finally, she reached the end of the passage. A set of double doors were propped wide open and led to a small waiting room. She peered into the murky space beyond the opening. Chairs lined the walls, and a coffee table sported a couple of dog-eared magazines. Her destination, the nursing station, lay to the far left. It was a simple counter bolted to the wall and topped with computer monitors.
Dylan narrowed her gaze, studying the space with minute attention. Not a single person was in sight, and nothing seemed out of place, but instinct warned her that she wasn’t alone. Gripping the ax tightly, she walked toward the station, placing each foot with care. Thick carpet replaced the cold tiles, muffling her footsteps. As she drew closer, low grunts and snuffling met her ears. It sounded like a pig feeding at a trough.
With supreme reluctance, Dylan edged around the corner of the counter. Her foot landed in a thick puddle of fluid, and she froze. Her eyes darted down, and bile rose up her throat as the lights flickered on again.
Blood.
She was standing in a pool of blood.
She lifted her gaze, and they fixed on the crooked figure of a man hunched over the lifeless body of George. The former guard stared at her, mute in death, while the zombie tugged at his guts with curved fingers. Beyond them lay the head nurse, her uniform no longer white but crimson. Her throat gaped open, the bones of her spine shining through the tendrils of torn flesh and sinew.
Dylan stared at the tableau of horror for several seconds, not daring to breathe. The zombie was right in front of her, so close she could reach out and touch him. With infinite care, she lifted the ax above her head. At the last second, the soaked carpet beneath her foot squelched when her weight shifted.
The infected man whirled around and snarled. As quick as a striking snake, he leaped. Before she could blink, he was on her, and they tumbled to the ground in a whirl of arms and legs.
Dylan hit the ground hard, and the air left her lungs in a pained exhalation. She held onto the ax with both hands, desperate to keep the zombie at bay. He wriggled on top of her, his teeth snapping at her face, and his fingers clutched at her shoulders.
Twisting to the side, she kneed him in the ribs, dislodging him for a brief second. As he lost his grip, she smashed the ax into his mouth. A couple of teeth broke from the impact, sending the infected into a frenzy of vicious snarls. Blood and spit sprayed across her face, but she couldn’t back down.
With the ax head clamped between his jaws, she wrestled the zombie to the side and got one foot underneath her. She ducked when he swung at her head, and his fist narrowly missed her temple. Another hit landed on her shoulder, and she grunted from the force of the blow. Her arm went numb but dared not let up for even a millisecond.
Dylan pulled back her weapon and struck again, using all of her strength. The zombie fell backward, his mouth a gaping hole filled with shattered fangs. The moment she was free, she brought the ax down on his head. At the same time, he lunged upward. The blade sunk into his forehead with a dull thunk, and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. For a single, breathless moment, they were suspended in the act of death. Then the ax slid free, and the infected collapsed to the floor, still at last.
Dylan scrambled to her feet, breathing hard. The fight had taken its toll, and her limbs quivered with exhaustion. The stitches on her forearm burned beneath the bandages. Hopefully, they were still intact, unlike her nerves. “Holy shit, I can’t believe it. I’m still alive.”
But movement caught the edge of her vision, and she turned, her heart jumping in her throat. Next to the counter stood George. His eyes were as black as night, and his hands were curled into fists the size of dinner plates. Behind him, the head nurse was getting to her feet, her head swaying back and forth on her ravaged neck. Both honed in on her fragile form with predatory instinct. Their lips peeled back, and they roared with insane hunger.
In that instant, Dylan knew she was as good as dead. Rage took the place of fear. If she was going to die, she might as well go down fighting. She raised the ax and screamed with defiance. “Come on, you fucking zombies! Show me what you’ve got!”
Chapter 2 - Tara
Tara blinked at the computer screen. The letters blurred in front of her face, and her eyes burned with exhaustion. A cold cup of coffee languished next to her on the desk next to a half-eaten biscuit. She yawned and checked her watch. “Crap, is it that late already?”
It was after three in the morning, and she was still in the lab. Saul was going to kill her. Ordinarily, he gave her a lot of leeway. He was just as invested in the cure as she was, after all. But even he drew the line at all-nighters. As her self-appointed guardian, he made sure she didn’t run herself into the ground, workaholic that she was. He got overprotective at times. Domineering. But Tara didn’t mind. It was nice to have someone around who cared about her. Someone who had her back, no matter what.
Tara frowned. “Speaking of which, where is Saul? He should’ve dragged me out of here ages ago.”
Working on auto-pilot, she backed up her latest research and tucked the removable hard drive into her pocket. She’d learned her lesson in the Congo. Now she carried her work with her wherever she went. It was too valuable to lose, no matter how many times she hit a wall. The virus was tricky. It kept adapting, learning, changing.
In the Congo, it became airborne, which enabled it to spread rapidly across the globe. Especially with the seventy-two hour incubation period. Sick people were able to travel and work in the early stages, infecting others. The remaining population proved resistant to the airborne strain, but none were immune to a bite. The concentration of the virus in a zombie’s saliva was too potent. At times, she despaired of ever creating a real, workable vaccine and cure, even with her latest success story: Dylan.
Tara pushed back her chair, ready to call it a night when the sirens went off. First one, then another, and another until they formed one uniform wail designed to alert all inhabitants of a breach.
Terror ran down her spine with an icy touch. Not once since she’d gotten to Fort Knox had there been a breach. “Oh, no. This is bad. This is really, really bad. Saul, where are you?”
Tara gripped the stock of the sawed-off double-barrel shotgun she carried at her waist. Saul had taught her how to use it. Since she was no great shot, he reckoned the shotgun was her best bet. It would obliterate anything close to her without needing any real expertise. She also carried a knife and a bandolier filled with extra shells, though she’d never had to use it. Not with Saul around.
She was about to leave when the lights went off, plunging the lab into darkness. Tara froze, her heart on in her throat. She reached out with her free hand and edged her way around her desk. She had to find Saul. Who knew how bad the breach was?
As she inched her way in the general direction of the exit, her foot hooked on a stray wire. With a yelp, Tara tipped forward, arms windmilling in a failed attempt to stay upright. She crashed to the floor, and her head connected with the corner of a table. Her brain exploded with white-hot agony, and stars filled her vision.
She lay crumpled on the floor, one hand pressed to her temple while she fought to stay awake. It was a doomed effort. The tiled floor was cold beneath her cheek, inviting her to relax. To let the pain fade away as her consciousness dipped into oblivion. With a faint moan, Tara gave up the struggle.
***
She leaned on the wooden railing of the boat, staring down into the dark green depths of the Congo river. It hid a myriad of dangers as she’d experienced first-hand a couple of days before during their narrow escape. Crocodiles, hippos, tiger fish, and who knew what else?
She hated it. Hated the jungle with its predatory creatures and hostile inhabitants. Hated the mosquitoes and gnats that plagued her existence. Hated the heat, the sun, and the oppressive humidity. Most of
all, she hated that she was stuck in the middle of nowhere while the whole world was going to shit, and she could do nothing about it. All those hours spent researching the Vita virus, and for what?
“Are you okay?” Saul asked, interrupting her thoughts.
Tara scratched at an insect bite, the spot already raw and suppurating. Just one more sore to add to the many others marring her tender skin. “I’m alright, I guess.”
“No, you’re not.” His dark brown eyes surveyed her, cataloging every misery she was experiencing with shrewd calculation. “You’re not made for this country. This environment.”
“No, I’m not. It’s awful. How can anyone live here?” Tara complained with an audible groan. “How can you?”
Saul shrugged. “It’s in the blood. You’re born to it, or it calls to you.”
“The only thing calling to me is a cold shower and a soft bed.”
He chuckled. “It’s not always this bad. Africa has many great and wonderful things to offer, as well.” He rested one hip on the railing. His muscled frame was relaxed in the same way as a panther at rest — calm one second and in full-blown action mode the next.
Since their camp had been overrun, she’d gotten to know him much better. In many ways, he was a wonder: Skilled at arms, fighting, and survival tactics. Ideally suited to the hostile environment of Africa. Even the zombies didn’t appear to faze him. To him, they were simply another danger to add to an already long list.
In other aspects, he was still a mystery. She didn’t know much about his history, and he wasn’t prone to sharing either. Not a big talker, she’d gotten used to long periods of silence between them. It didn’t bother her. They understood each other, and that was enough.
One of Saul’s men cheered as he wrestled a colossal fish onto the deck, and Saul nodded with approval. “We’ll eat well tonight.”
Rise of the Undead Box Set | Books 1-3 | Apocalypse Z Page 16
