by C. J. Sears
The scent of burning flesh grew stronger, pervasive even, forcing Finch to his feet in search of the source. The visage of a roasted female infected greeted him. Her speed was detached from that of the horde, swifter. She was weaponless, but dangerous. The flames that consumed her hadn’t incapacitated the parasite but spurred its determination into a singular goal: the death of Llewyn Finch.
Worse than that, her condition extended to the wooden floorboards beneath her, scorching and igniting everything in her wake. Finch bombarded her, one, two, three times in the leg, causing her to careen face-first into the floor. Crawling toward his feet, the parasite in her spine was exposed, and Finch shot again. The black, alien creature squirmed, wriggling in its death throes.
When the body stiffened, Finch calculated that it would be seconds before the first floor was submerged in flame. There was no back door that he’d seen, only a side door into a garage. He wasn’t attracted to the idea of being trapped in there. Jumping from the second-story balcony was out of the question and the front door was a no go. He’d have to bust through one of the first-floor windows and hope he didn’t cut himself too deep.
If there had been furniture left over, he could have used that to break the glass, but the previous owners hadn’t thought to prepare for this sort of eventuality. Finch wrapped his torn jacket around his forearm and closed his mouth as smoke fumes built inside the room. Breathing through his nose, he braced himself to strike the window.
It exploded in front of him and he had to shield his eyes from the shards. But he’d done nothing. He peered down at his feet, saw Mason’s empty shotgun. Glad to know that at least someone was still alive, he grabbed the gun and hopped through his freshly minted exit, taking care not to cut himself on what remained of the window.
He landed on the gravel walkway outside. To his left, the half-burning horde swarmed the house he’d absconded from, oblivious to his escape. They reveled in what Finch could only assume was their singular hive-mind. To his right, he saw the disheveled forms of Donahue, Mason, and a lost-looking couple that must have been confined in the house down the street. Seeing the two of them now, ragged, bloody, and frightened, he was overcome with shame that he’d given rescuing them a second thought.
They ran as he approached, and for a moment Finch believed they had abandoned him. One look over his shoulder said otherwise. The infected he’d seen storming the couple’s house were hot on his tail and there was no fire to distract them. Without thinking, he tugged the pin of the grenade and threw.
He knew better than to look. Finch heard the outraged cries of the infected as the flash-bang went off, blinding them. Forcing himself to sprint faster, he caught up with the group as they rounded the corner near the rotary where he, Donahue, and Mason had parked the car.
When he joined them, Mason’s limp became apparent. A gash ran the length of his calf down to his ankle, his pant leg ripped to shreds. Thick blood dripped from the wound. Finch guessed that his femoral artery had been severed. Best case it had only been punctured, but without a doctor he’d bleed out in minutes. No way was he making it to the station in his condition.
Finch helped him into the backseat as the civilian couple squeezed into the passenger side and Donahue took the wheel. It was a tight fit, but they’d have to make do. Shutting the door behind him, he heard the car’s engine roar to life. He felt a knot turn in his stomach as she shifted into gear and propelled them forward, far, far away from the infected that had almost overtaken them.
Fashioning a tourniquet from what remained of his jacket, Finch wrapped Mason’s leg, securing it in place with his belt. It was crude and reflective of his lack of medical expertise, but it was the best he could manage given the events happening all around them. The hospital was miles away. Even without traffic, time wasn’t on their side. If he kept a close watch, the deputy might hold on long enough to get someone who knew what he was doing to look after him.
And if there was no one at the hospital, Finch hoped that Mason had made peace with God.
* * *
Finch was thankful none of his old anxieties had risen up to handicap them as the car sped down street after street. The deputy’s condition continued to deteriorate as he rambled incoherently and a fainting spell would’ve only exacerbated things.
He wished he had morphine or oxycodone, anything to numb Mason’s pain. But all he could do was watch, mindful that at any second that life could leave the man’s eyes forever. No one deserved to die like this.
“How far out are we?” he asked Donahue as her brother murmured something unintelligible.
She didn’t take her eyes off the road, intent on not witnessing the state of her brother. “Just a few more blocks. We’ll drive into the emergency room entrance. God willing, someone will be there to help.” Finch could see she didn’t want to entertain the alternative, but facts were facts.
“And if there’s no one there?” She ignored him. “Willow?” She still didn’t reply, so he dropped the subject.
Empty buildings, driverless cars, vacant lots: all passed in and out Finch’s vision before he could blink. Compared to the earlier chaos, the lifeless roads and dearth of infected they encountered were almost serene in their false promises of normalcy. But there was an undercurrent in that endless tranquility of an unprecedented malice as if the hatred from the parasite men seeped through the fabric of the town.
With the sudden onset of the attacks, he hadn’t had time to postulate the how or why of what was going on. The bootlegging had contaminated more of the populace than any of them had originally assumed was the case. Based on his knowledge of statistics and the number of infected at the cemetery, compounded with the roaming packs and the horde at the housing block, Finch estimated that the parasite tainted at least sixty percent of the population. Not good odds for their survival.
What was more, the attacks themselves flew in the face of what he’d learned from Black’s investigation and testimony. If these creatures were motivated by self-preservation, why attack anyone unaffected by them, reducing their likelihood to persist and thrive? Why pursue, with staunch single-mindedness, a task at odds with the whole idea of parasitism? There had to be more to these creatures, a reason they had coordinated to murder the innocent townsfolk of Lone Oak and one outsider federal agent.
Perhaps Black was wrong, and these creatures were more sentient than he’d believed. If they were capable of the manipulation he expressed, then what was stopping them from organizing an assault on the scale he’d observed this very day? Suppose they were a hive-mind, which would explain their stalwart aptitude at completing a singular task. If that were the case, could they function like an ant colony, laboring for their queen?
“We’re here,” said Donahue as she shut off the engine and shoved her door open. Finch did the same, then lifted Mason out with the help of the rescued couple whose names he hadn’t bothered to learn. His body was warm, his breathing still regular, but Finch suspected the deputy didn’t have much time left, regardless of the willpower he possessed to have fought for this long.
The lights were on in the emergency room, but the doors were locked and nobody was home. Doctor or no doctor, they had to get Mason inside. Breaking the doors down wasn’t an option; it would set off an alarm and draw attention they didn’t need. But if they were going to attempt rudimentary, amateur surgery on the deputy, there was little else they could do. Finch looked for an optional entrance. Reinforced steel doors and thick glass windows shot down those hopes.
One of the doors had a slight gap along the edge. If he had a crowbar or something like it, he could pry it open. Maybe the shotgun would give him the leverage he needed…
“I could pick the lock,” said the man Donahue had saved. “If the sheriff, uh, doesn’t mind?” he added, remembering present company.
“Do what you have to,” she said.
He went to work, withdrawing crude picks from his coat pocket. Donahue stood guard while Finch and the man’s girlfriend
carried Mason. The sheriff’s eyes only ever settled on her dying brother for milliseconds at a time.
As he heard the tumblers in the lock click, Finch had the urge to say something to her, anything that could ease her stifled suffering. The words lodged in his throat. In that moment, he wished he were the one in Mason’s place, if only to spare her the agony she didn’t feel comfortable enough to express.
Behind them, the doors sprang open, which Finch knew meant that the electronic sensors were still operational. The sheriff rushed to clear off a gurney for her brother. Thanking the lock picker, Finch stepped inside, blinded by the light.
SEPARATE WAYS
Devoid of life, the bland, sterile halls of the hospital engendered Donahue with a hollowed pit in her stomach. She’d never been fond of the place, dating back to multiple broken bones and a few close calls she’d suffered as a kid. Her work as sheriff led to more return visits than she cared for, dragging her down to the morgue. Now, with her brother on the brink of death, she despised it more than ever.
She couldn’t bear to stay in the room with him as Finch worked to keep him steady and alive. Donahue knew that the agent was no medic, that her brother was on borrowed time no matter how much Finch rigged up to help him. She couldn’t force herself to be with Rick in his final moments. His groans, the ragged wound in his leg−that wasn’t how she wanted to remember him.
Part of her wanted to run outside, to throw herself into the fray and let the horde take her. But that was the old Willow talking, the one that had died in the ritual chamber. She’d been a fish out of water, caught in the midst of something greater than her small town sensibilities could grasp. Finch’s words had brought her back, made her realize that she was stronger than she gave herself credit for, always had been. The situation had changed, her orders were out of date, but she wasn’t afraid, at least not of those things roaming her town.
The couple she’d rescued−Evelyn Rogers and Michael Kaposi, they’d said−offered to search the hospital for doctors or nurses, but Donahue doubted anyone was left behind in the building. Between the scattered papers, upturned gurneys, and dead silence, all evidence said that patient and caretaker alike had fled. The lack of mutilated bodies gave her pause at first, but she assumed that any casualties weren’t in line of sight. The parasite men were nothing if not efficient when their prey was cornered and defenseless.
She heard the door of the emergency room open and looked up. It was Finch. The grim, thin line of his mouth said more than words ever could. Donahue stood, followed him back inside. Rick was propped on the gurney, his head relaxed against the pillow. His eyes fluttered open when she approached. He managed a weak smile before succumbing to a painful grimace when he saw what had happened to his leg.
“I look like I’ve been through a honky-tonk on biker week,” Mason said, his first words that had been comprehensible since the car ride. He coughed. “I feel like it too.”
She pulled up a chair beside him. As she sat, her thoughts fought to disconnect, to go back to the hallway, to before this last week, to when they were kids. Forcing her mind to concentrate on the here and now, she said, “It’s pretty rough. But I think you’ve looked worse.” She couldn’t laugh at her own joke.
He grabbed her hand, held it in his. His grip was weak, slippery with sweat. “You’re probably right. I remember that friend of yours used to call me catcher’s mitt. What’s her name? Betty, Betsy, Bertha?”
“Elizabeth,” she corrected him. Probably dead or dying too, like everyone else in this town. “She had a crush on you. But she wouldn’t admit it.”
“A little late to tell me this, Wils,” he said. He’d not called her that since they were children, back when their father had been sheriff and the town not so complicated. Even that small bit of comfort, the memories of a simple life, didn’t hold true. “Though I guess if you could arrange it, a big ol’ kiss would be a better way for me to go…” He trailed off, groggy. Donahue shut her eyes, didn’t want to watch him fade away.
His hand slipped from hers. She waited for the inevitable release, for the sensation of life leaving his body like dad’s had a few months ago. She’d been the only one there when it happened; Rick was stuck on a domestic assault case as a key witness for the prosecution. Watching the light vanish from her father’s eyes and seeing his mouth agape had felt so unreal as if some sadistic artist manipulated the image. Numbness had overtaken her then, prevented her from feeling the full brunt of his death.
For Rick, it was different; losing him would be akin to gaining a phantom limb, an ache she couldn’t dull with painkillers or alcohol.
“I stitched him as best I could, but he’s been touch and go like this for a while,” Finch said. He’d been quiet and mindful to let them get a few words in before there weren’t any words left to have.
Donahue opened her eyes, saw that her brother was still breathing, still living. That brought a real smile to her face. “Stubborn,” she said. “He’ll give it a good fight at least.”
Finch said nothing but his eyes traced a path. She saw they were fixated on a sharp, pointed object on nearby tray. It was difficult to make out in the harsh light. She squinted. A needle? No, it was a syringe, labeled “Morphine Injection, 10 mg/mL” and filled to the brim with its liquid form. She reached for it.
He shook his head. Donahue guessed that he was trying to stop her from using it on herself. Perhaps his worry would’ve been justified, in another time, another existence. But this wasn’t her crutch, not anymore. “It’s for him,” she said, extending her hand, trying to allay his fears.
The agent yanked the tray back, though not with as much force as she’d expected. “I know that,” he said, “but we don’t know the proper dosage to give him. Too much and he might slip back into his stupor. Or worse.”
Donahue sighed. He was right. Taking a chance like that was out of the question, even if it alleviated her brother’s considerable pain. Grateful as she was for that dose of truth and Finch’s admirable trust in her, the sobering realization that continued to pummel her was the helplessness of it all. A town in chaos, swarming with infected? Sure, that was fine, adrenaline-pumping for how jacked up it was. But being unable to lift a finger to help her flesh and blood? That was madness she could never be contented with.
Rising from her seat, it occurred to her how foolish she’d been to let two unarmed civilians wander unsupervised in a potentially hostile environment. And they hadn’t returned, had been gone for half an hour. Even in a rush, it wasn’t like her to forget the little details. But she couldn’t and wouldn’t berate herself for it, not when they had precious little time for anything but movement and survival. Serve and protect. That was her duty.
Finch offered to help search for them, but Donahue refused. “No, you stay here. Someone needs to be here if…when it happens. Better you than me. Besides, they can’t have gone too far, the hospital’s not that large.” In fact, it was a giant glass-windowed eyesore three stories high. It comprised at least three buildings connected by skyway bridges. By her reckoning, the hospital was oversized for a town as small and close-knit as Lone Oak. Another institution funded by the private sector, like the library. She wondered what these folks gained by pouring money into a town at odds with their sensibilities.
The hospital must have paid a small fortune for its electricity. Every light in the corridor and beyond seemed to radiate outward as if they were miniature suns. She’d grown accustomed to the rather dim illumination of the police station and the nil visibility of caverns and abandoned mansions. Adjusting to the glow, Donahue held her pistol high and pointed outward. Training had taught her it was better to let it rest, her arms relaxed downward. The nature of her predicament screamed screw it and let soreness sprout where it may.
Having been here more times than she ever wanted to be, the sheriff could have navigated most of it blindfolded. Still she took the time to scan the map displayed on the bulletin board hanging over the front desk. Chances were that
they’d stopped here first, looked for any rooms that stood out as a place for a doctor or a nurse to barricade him or herself inside. The staff lounge, the operating theater, the therapy chamber−all seemed like prime candidates, but they were spread across multiple floors. She didn’t have time to search them all.
The operating theater was the farthest away, on the opposite end of the facility, but it was also the room with the largest capacity. She remembered that it had a great deal of security: keycard locks, fingerprint scanners, the works. If any of the staff were alive and still present in the building, Donahue bet they would take refuge there. She hoped that Evelyn and Michael had thought the same.
Were the faint echoes of footsteps the sound of other survivors? The question remained unanswered as she trod down the indistinct passageways of the hospital.
She had to have imagined what she heard; the noises weren’t vivid enough to be real. The stress of the town’s collapse, her brother’s quickening fate; it had to be getting to her, piling up. Concentration on the task at hand, that was what she needed, not speculation about what ifs and maybes.
As she ascended to the second floor, Donahue recalled something her father had said to her about a case in his early days as a detective. He’d been tracking a drug dealer, a rarity in that time for Lone Oak, before the bootlegging operation took hold. He and his partner had investigated a lead at a butcher’s shop in a neighboring town.
On their way inside, her father had become suspicious of the owner’s behavior, suspecting him as someone involved with the drug ring. He’d gotten so preoccupied that he let his guard down and a meat hook fell on top of him, skewering his shoulder. The scar that left had been more than enough reminder for Donahue to stay alert on the job, and the same held true now.
