“Help them in, damn it.”
And finally, one man came to Christie’s left, another to her right, relieving Kate. A third man quickly ushered the kids in, his lead pivoting left and right, and again… left and right, and he nearly pushed the kids into the ER.
And once there, the doctor hit a button and the door quickly shut behind them.
Which is when Christie—and she didn’t know the reason, Why now?—began crying as a tall man with a long rifle held her up.
CHAPTER 3
A Stitch in Time
As the men guided Christie down a corridor, she looked to the right.
At nearly every window someone squatted with a gun, head low, staring out into the chilly night.
No one patrolling outside, she thought.
Made sense. Better to use the hospital itself as a fort.
Many of the windows had holes that had been taped up with cardboard and duct tape.
Signs of previous incursions.
Does their power ever fail here?
On those powerless nights do the Can Heads come crawling over the top of that fence?
She looked back. Kate and Simon followed her, alone now, trailing the two men and the doctor, who moved Christie through the ER corridor as fast as they could.
Until they reached a room.
“In here,” the doctor said. “Come on.”
His voice tired, maybe defeated.
What has he seen these weeks? The wounded, the dead? And this could very well be the only operating facility for miles around.
The men brought Christie beside a hospital bed.
“Okay,” one said. “Ready?”
And they lifted her up, tilting her, and slowly slid her onto the bed.
Which is when the doctor turned to her two kids, their eyes locked on her.
They have to be so worried, she thought.
So terribly scared.
“Um, kids,” the doctor said. “Can you wait outside? Down the hall. There’s chairs.”
For a moment, they didn’t move.
They had become people who no longer automatically did what someone told them.
But Christie didn’t know what was ahead… what would happen in this room.
“Kate… Simon… best you wait. I’ll be fine.”
The word sounding ridiculous.
Fine.
She looked right at her daughter. “Kate. Please.”
And then, another heart-breaking moment among so many on this night of nights, she saw Kate take Simon’s hand.
“Come on,” she said simply.
Simon nodded, didn’t shake off her hand, his face still looking so set; whatever thoughts he had, his worries, all unvoiced, hidden.
And he let Kate lead him away.
The men stood there for a moment. “Anything else, Doc?” one said.
“Try to get Karen to come in. For a bit, at least.”
The men nodded, and left.
And only then did the doctor, his snow-white hair in disarray as if he had touched something loaded with static electricity, come close to her.
“Let’s see… what we have going on here.” Then, for the first time, a bit of a smile. “Your name?”
“Christie. Christie Murphy. I-I—”
But the doctor nodded. No need for more information. No need for insurance cards. No forms to be filled out.
Just someone else who had been attacked by the plague of humans that everyone called Can Heads. People turned into animals. People who ate their own kind.
And then there was this thought: Can we even call them people anymore?
She saw a nametag on his white jacket.
Dr. Martin.
Like that British TV show she liked. The English village, the quirky doctor.
The doctor reached for the sodden jeans jacket, now such a deep crimson, and with every movement, every touch, causing such intense pain, he began unwrapping it.
*
She wondered why the doctor didn’t give her a painkiller.
They have to have painkillers, she thought. No way they could be out of them. Because if they were, God—then this was going to be worse than anything she could imagine.
But the doctor, who had been quiet during the unwrapping process—leaning close, his wireframes filmy, days away from their last cleaning—looked close at the wound and nodded.
“I’ll give you something in a bit,” he said. “I needed to see where you have the most pain. With what we have here, it helps.” A small smile. “Not scientific, but it could tell me whether we have major nerve damage as well as muscle tears, blood loss.”
“And?” Christie said, her eyes still watery from the pain.
“I think… think, no. Nothing major. You’ve lost a lot of blood. Something we don’t have a lot of. Your blood type?”
“O positive.”
A nod, neither confirming nor denying the possibility that this place had stores of that type of plasma.
“I can stitch up parts of the wound, and bandage the rest. Tell you. It won’t be pretty. And there may be some mobility issues afterwards. But I’m afraid it’s all we can do here. Can’t do any tissue transplants, and besides—”
“That will be fine.”
He stopped, and looked at her, eyes making contact.
“You need to do what will get me up and with my kids the fastest.”
Dr. Martin took a breath.
Not at all like the fussy Cornwall physician on TV, in his pressed suit.
“We can talk about that later. But I best get going.”
At that moment, a woman came in, burly, hair in a bun, in a white nurse’s uniform that Christie could see was dotted with stains.
She didn’t even look at Christie as she hurried in.
But the doctor turned to her. “Karen, I’m going to do some stitching, then I’ll need a large trauma bandage for the rest of the wound. Can we also get some type O plasma going, and—”
Now back to Christie.
“Going to knock you out now, Christie. This will take a while. Will be morning when you wake up. Hopefully”—the smallest of smiles—“all done.”
Christie nodded, as Karen walked over to a wall, and wheeled an instrument tray close to the bed.
Not till morning.
Would Kate… Simon… be all right?
“Can you explain to my kids? They’ll worry.”
A nod.
The nurse brought over some vials to the tray.
“Morphine,” the doctor said, quickly filling a syringe. “Should do the trick while we get the blood going, stop the pain. We’ll get a patch on you as well for when you come to.”
He stuck the needle in one end of the small container, and then, bringing the syringe close for inspection, leaned close to Christie.
“In the hip, on your good side, will be best. I’ll also inject the wound area with a powerful local aesthetic. Just in case.”
But Christie had a question.
“Doctor… you must have seen people. Like me. Attacked, bloody.”
“Yes. Lately… so many. Like it’s getting worse.”
“So, a question.”
The physician waited.
“Is it ever like… a contagion? Something that happens to people when they’re bitten.” She took a breath. “Are people the same afterward.”
The doctor again looked her straight in the eyes.
“I don’t pretend to know much about this… thing. These Can Heads. How—I mean—how did it all happen? Has anyone told us?”
She heard frustration, even rage, in his voice.
A man of science reduced to dealing with the victims of human monsters, with no one knowing where they came from.
The doctor stopped.
Another breath. Christie wondered: Is he the only doctor still left here? Does this whole hospital, all its patients, land on his shoulders?
Then this…
How long could they hold out here? When will the gates f
ail and the place be overwhelmed?
Not a matter of if, Christie thought.
But when.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve seen. Bites, flesh ripped out, a lot worse than this. And afterwards—those who lived at least—they seemed the same. So I say… no, this isn’t like rabies. Not like TV… those grisly movies. No, when people die from a Can Head attack, they stay dead. And when they survive, they seem… fine.”
He brought the needle close.
“Shall we start?”
Christie nodded, the doctor’s words reassuring.
And yet she had to wonder.
Fine.
Physically. But inside people’s heads, when they sleep at night, when they try to sleep at night.
Could they ever be the same?
The needle pricked her skin in her left hip.
“Just will take seconds,” the doctor said. “Everything should start fading in a minute.”
That seemed impossible. That this night, the attack at the Mountain Inn, their escape, sweet Kate driving. How could that fade with just a slim needle sliding into her hip?
Until… it did.
CHAPTER 4
Morning
As soon as Christie opened her eyes, she felt the pain.
But what last night had been a spike-like feeling spearing her thigh now felt dull and throbbing.
Sun poured through the windows, the blinds open so the hospital room filled with light.
She licked her lips, dry and cracked, feeling so thirsty. She turned to the end table beside the hospital bed and saw a plastic cup with a lid. A straw stuck from the top.
Had someone given her water during the night?
She had no memory of the night, of sipping water, of anything except that moment she felt the pin-prick of the syringe entering her left side.
Her “good side” as the doctor called it. In moments, all was blackness.
Now she still felt woozy, as if she had been partying with one drink too many.
But so thirsty…
She reached awkwardly with her left hand, her arm moving like a badly working crane stretching to the cup. Fingers closed on it, and she brought it close to her mouth, making a few attempts before her lips finally landed on the straw end and she could suck in the precious liquid.
Tepid—but still so amazingly delicious when it hit her dry mouth.
Which is when the nurse came in.
Had she been up all night? Was she the only nurse?
Christie tried to recall her name, drawing a blank for a second. Then it came: Karen.
“Ah, you’re up. I’ll let the doctor know.”
The woman moved efficiently through the room, lowering the blinds so the sun didn’t make everything glow so brilliantly. Then, grabbing a clipboard and a look up to the monitors, to the IV drip.
“All looking good, sweetie. How’s the pain?” Then, before an answer, “Let me get you some ice water.”
Christie nodded.
Ice. Cold, cold ice…
She took the cup from Christie’s lips and dumped what was in it into a sink across from the bed.
“How’s the pain, Christie?”
Pain.
“Um, not like it was. Can feel the bandage.”
“And you got some stitches as well. Looked pretty good when he was done. Think the wound seemed worse than it was, all so bloody. Once we had it cleaned up, not so bad.”
Karen came to the bed, and pushing aside Christie’s hospital gown near her right shoulder, exposed a two-inch white square.
“Right. Your morphine patch. He’ll want you on lighter stuff. Thinking… you might mend fast. That will be good?”
Christie nodded. Last night, she hadn’t had any thoughts other than getting to the hospital, getting help.
Now talk of “mending fast.” The wound not so bad.
Christie turned right, to her IV drip. No blood hanging up there; they must have given her some, and that was done.
Karen reached down and grabbed Christie’s wrist as if she was a doll, lifeless, at the whim of this bustling woman who you might look at and think, well, she must have gotten a solid eight hours of sleep.
So alert.
Cheery even!
The nurse looked at a large clock on the wall facing the bed.
“Pulse good.” A smile, as her eyes went from the clock to Christie. “Everything looking good. Maybe even a bit to eat later. Some lunch?”
Eating.
When was the last time she had actually eaten something? But however long it had been, there was no rumble in her stomach signaling that she was hungry.
Christie took a breath.
She had a question and it would take an effort asking them.
“It all went well?”
Karen nodded, smiled reassuringly. “Perfectly. But you can talk to the doctor about that. Any questions you have.”
Maybe not so perfectly, she thought.
But then a different kind of question.
“My kids…”
Karen nodded. “Right. We found a room for them, got them some food, told them you would be fine. Nice kids. Been through something? All of you.”
Karen’s smile faded as she asked the question.
Been through something.
Guess you could say that.
“They slept okay. I checked on them in a bit. Worried about you, of course. Real good kids you got there.”
Christie nodded. “Can I see them?”
After last night—after what she had seen—the idea of not knowing where her kids where, not having them close by, immediately put a pit in her stomach.
Though this nurse seemed so helpful, warm, efficient, trust was something that had faded in Christie’s universe.
She struggled to raise her head a bit. To make her request seem less like begging, more forceful.
To make it absolutely clear.
“I want to see them.”
The nurse’s eyes narrowed. “Usually, we like you to be up a bit, get your head clear, you know. As I said, they’re fine, and—”
“I want to see them now.”
The voice steady. Not snapping at the woman. But repeating what she wanted.
Karen stopped, nodded.
“Okay. Let me just check with the doctor, and I’ll go get them. Sure you’re able to… talk? Probably still a bit wobbly.”
Christie nodded, not really knowing whether she was in any shape to talk to them.
But no. It wasn’t as if she had things to be discussed. No plans forming at all. For now, it was enough that they walked in here, and she could touch their hands, give them a smile, to let them know it was all okay.
Finally, Christie said: “I’m all right. Thank you.”
“All righty then. Be a few. Like I said, gotta check with the doctor. He’s usually numero uno to see a recovering patient.” The woman paused, leaned close. “But I get it. And… I’ll go get them.”
And then she turned and left the room, crossing the zebra stripes of sun and shadow on the hospital room floor made by the morning light on this bright day.
*
Kate walked into the room so slowly, with Simon just steps behind.
Christie quickly smiled—but no smiles came back. Instead the kids kept walking toward the bed with tentative steps that seemed better suited for a funeral than a hospital visit.
She decided to try humor.
“I don’t look that bad, do I?”
But now with both of them beside her, Christie saw that that didn’t work at all.
Not a time for humor.
So we’ll be serious, she thought.
And she had to wonder what the impact of all this—last night, their trip home after Jack sacrificed his life for them, the guns…
Their stay in the Mountain Inn that turned into a trap.
The guns… the killing…
What toll would it take on them?
“Mom,” Kate finally said, “are you okay?”
She struggled to speak in as normal a voice as she could.
“Well—I haven’t spoken to the doctor this morning. But sure feels better. All bandaged. No real pain. Unless I move, that is.”
Her daughter nodded.
“And you two… you were okay last night?”
She saw Kate look at Simon, the boy barely turning his head to his sister. As if there shared a secret that wasn’t about to be revealed.
“We were okay. They got us some food. Mostly potatoes and peas. A room to sleep in.”
Christie nodded as best she could with her head against the pillow.
Something else for her to worry about.
Her kids without her. What did they really know about this place, the people here?
Then again, these days, what did they know about anyplace?
“Good. And you both slept?”
Two nods.
“Great.” Then she looked right at Kate, needing her to hear something.
“Kate, I couldn’t have done this… gotten here without you. You know that, right?”
Another nod. “Wasn’t so hard,” Kate said. “The driving.”
Finally Simon spoke. “Bet I could do it,” he said—a flash of her old son, always competing with his older sister.
And Christie turned to Simon, smile broadening. She thought of how Kate had found him last night, rope tight around his neck, being led away.
Does he know—does Simon have any idea at all—where they were taking him, what they would do?
She hoped to God… not.
And then Simon, seeing their neighbor, the always upbeat, always hopeful Helen, who fired her cannon-like shotgun with the steadiness of a cowboy.
Simon seeing her killed.
In mere seconds, all those thoughts. Thoughts that she knew she had to somehow get past.
“I bet you could too, Simon. Maybe, when I’m a bit better, lessons for you.”
“Mom…” Kate protested, finally a bit back to form as the older sister with her prerogatives, “he’s years away from a license.”
“I know,” Christie said. Back to take Kate’s hand with another squeeze, hoping she’d get the message.
That message…
Does any of that matter anymore?
Licenses, permits, laws?
Family Page 2
