On the door was a plate-sized sticker featuring a pretty good rendition of a Beretta pistol. It sat inside a red circle cut through with a diagonal slash. No firearms.
Gun free zones like this had been a norm in the old world. The zombie apocalypse had quickly flipped that on its head.
It was no secret that hospitals had been the first flashpoints of the infection. The universal practice of allowing only on-duty law enforcement personnel to bear arms inside, some would argue, was what allowed the Omega virus to spread so quickly during those first frenetic hours of the outbreak.
Why someone hadn’t scraped the sticker off the door here was a mystery Raven didn’t care to dwell on.
Sitting on a wheeled office chair just inside the entry was an African American security guard. He was somewhere in his sixties and took his job very seriously. His black shoes were always polished to a high luster. Raven couldn’t remember ever seeing a wrinkle on his spotless uniform.
As Raven rushed by, the man tipped his hat. “Hiya, Miss Bird. Mind you walk in the halls, now.”
Slowing her gait just enough to show Eddie the respect a Marine who’d served two tours in Vietnam commanded, she passed by the West Tower elevators and made a beeline for the stairwell. Moving as if on autopilot, she clomped up the stairs to the tenth floor, shouldered open the door, and turned to her right.
Unlike the air inside the hotel, the air here was heavy with the antiseptic nose of some kind of cleaner utilizing a common chemical whose name Raven couldn’t recall. At the end of the long hall, bathed in the flat white light from overhead fluorescents was the person whom she’d recently spoken with over the phone.
Gaze never leaving Glenda Gladson, Raven commenced a slow trudge down the hall in her direction. As she drew within arm’s reach of the woman, the fifty-seven-year-old widow smiled wide and went in for one of her trademark hugs.
Pick your battles.
Still on the fence about what was more annoying, Duncan’s cackle or this woman’s newfound propensity to be touchy-feely with her, Raven reciprocated.
When they parted, Raven saw there was a sparkle in Glenda’s green eyes. She also noticed the door to 10A. Usually closed, it was now standing halfway open.
“This is bullshit, isn’t it?”
“Language, Raven.” Glenda drew a deep breath. Hands on hips, she said, “It is not … bullpucky.”
“What’s different then? And why isn’t the team here?”
Suddenly the soft rush of air and steady beep of medical equipment was drowned out by the unmistakable sound of rotor blades thrashing the air somewhere nearby.
Since a heavy curtain was drawn over the west-facing window inside 10A, Raven instinctively looked at the drop-down ceiling.
Glenda said, “There’s a helipad above the emergency entrance. First time I’ve heard anything landing down there. And it sure doesn’t sound like any Life Flight helicopter I’ve ever heard.”
Raven had been around enough helicopters in the last few months to know it was probably a Black Hawk. As the sound began to dissipate, she dropped her gaze and fixed Glenda with a hard stare.
“What’s different? Where’s Ramona and Cole and the rest of the team?” repeated Raven, even as she was craning toward the door and peering inside.
In Raven’s line of sight was the miniature Christmas tree she’d left here a few days earlier. It was sitting atop a rolling cart and still infusing the room with the heady smell of pine. She’d even taken the time to trim it with lights, ornaments, and some used tinsel she’d scrounged from a supply room back at the hotel. Squares of white paper bearing scribbled words of encouragement were tucked in the branches alongside the ornaments. And thanks to some certain visitors to 10A, the tree was topped with a green beret instead of the usual star or angel.
Hovering a foot off a wall-mounted shelf was a pair of partially deflated Mylar balloons. Though it was hard to make out what the sad-looking misshapen blobs used to be, Raven knew that one was the number three, and the other the number six.
Reminders of Raven’s first parentless Thanksgiving—a ceramic pumpkin and plush stuffed turkey—sat on the windowsill, across the room.
Silent as a wraith, a ridiculously tall man in a lab coat emerged from behind the privacy curtain. A nametag on his coat read R. Cole M.D. Looking like a kid’s toy, a stethoscope was draped over the doctor’s giraffe-like neck.
Looking up at the doctor, Raven said, “What’s different this time, Doctor Cole? And where’s the rest of your team?”
“I think Nurse Gladson should be the one to bring you up to speed.”
Voice wavering, Glenda said, “I’m a retired RN, Doctor Cole. I’m just volunteering here.”
Making a notation on a ream of papers clipped to the clipboard in his hand, the doctor said, without looking up, “You’ll do just fine, Nurse Gladson.”
Through gritted teeth, Raven said, “One of you needs to tell me what happened?”—she waved a hand spasmodically before her own face—“Why does he still have to wear all of that?”
Glenda sighed. “I was reading to him and saw his eyes doing that rapid eye movement thing behind the lids. Thinking it was the same old, I continued reading—”
“What … happened?” Raven pressed.
Glenda made a face like she was about to cry. “He opened his eyes and looked at me.”
Raven’s eyes widened as she said, “Did he recognize you?”
A tear traced a path down Glenda’s cheek. Dabbing at it with a sleeve, she said, “He must have.”
Eyes narrowing, Raven asked, “How can you be so sure?”
Flashing Raven a wavering half-smile, Glenda said, “Because he tried to ask me something.”
Skepticism evident in her tone, Raven said, “With that thing still jammed down his throat?”
Glenda nodded. “It has to stay in him for now.”
Dr. Cole looked up from what he was doing. Meeting Raven’s questioning stare, he said, “He’s still intubated because he can’t breathe on his own. And he’s still sedated. We will have to slowly wean him off his meds.”
Incredulous, Raven said, “It’s already been”—she looked at the ceiling, her lips moving as she tabulated the days—“forty-seven days. How much longer will he have to be like this?”
The doctor placed the clipboard in a holder attached to the foot of the bed. Steepling his fingers, he paused for a beat. Finally, tone of his voice showing more compassion than hope, he said, “He suffered a serious head injury. It will be some time before he’s back to normal. That is if he ever gets back to normal.”
“If he’s no longer in a coma, why keep the curtains closed?” Recalling the time she spent in a car trunk with Peter, hiding from the Chinese soldiers, she added, “It feels like the inside of a coffin in here.”
“He’s had his eyes closed for several weeks, sweetie.” Glenda looked past the doctor. “His retinas couldn’t handle the direct sunlight.”
Raven took a tentative step over the threshold. Gripping Glenda’s arm, she said, “What did he say?”
“I couldn’t make it out entirely,” Glenda said. “I told him how his team had rescued him and that they killed all the people responsible for his condition. I told him a helicopter brought him here in bad shape. Then I joked with him about how he’d slept through his birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.”
Raven made a face. “Sure he understood all that?”
“I’m certain he did,” insisted Glenda. “Because when I finished talking, he tried to speak again. And it came out sounding the same as before. Which got me to thinking about what I had left out of the story.”
Hearing a commotion in the hall, the doctor stepped out to take a look.
Raven crossed her arms over her chest. “What was he trying to say?”
Again tears pooled around Glenda’s eyes. Lip quivering, she said, “Stupid Glenda had a brain fart and forgot to let him know you and Peter were safe and sound. I should have told him that stra
ight away. I was just so damn glad he was awake for real this time.” She swallowed hard and dabbed at her eyes. “As soon as I said your name, Raven, and assured him you were here and unharmed, he closed his eyes and his whole body seemed to melt into the bed. I could tell he was smiling on account of how the tube had risen up and the tape holding it in place had gone tight on his cheeks.”
Dr. Cole returned, saying, “Better move inside, ladies. We have a herd of men with guns coming this way.” He followed them inside and closed the door.
Finally convinced this wasn’t another futile false alarm visit, Raven made her way to her dad’s bedside. She grabbed his hand and squeezed softly. No change. Still warm, yet no reciprocity.
Where her dad’s fingernails used to be, misshapen slabs of translucent material were growing. Though they looked like scabs texture-wise, she’d been told they were indeed fingernails growing in. She’d been told that if they did succeed in gaining a foothold and growing back all the way, they would look nothing like they had before the Chinese torturers yanked them out with pliers.
She let her gaze roam his face. Though it was still slack underneath all that facial hair, his eyes were no longer clamped shut. All in all, he seemed to be at peace. After a final furtive glance at the leather band around his right wrist, she let his hand go and looked a question at the doctor.
“Like I said… your dad still has drugs running through his system.” He glanced at the door. “And it’s likely he’s going to sleep for some time before he’s ready to have a room full of visitors.”
Raven asked, “When are you going to take off the handcuffs?”
“They’re called four-point restraints,” said the doctor. “They’re soft against his skin.” He shook his head. “And they’re not tight at all. But because he’s likely to be combative and tear away the tubes and IV lines when he becomes fully aware, they have to stay on—both for his safety… and ours.”
Raven said nothing.
A jangling screech from what could only be chair legs being dragged across the hallway floor outside the door drew Glenda’s attention. “Who’s out there?” she asked.
“Your boyfriend, who is waiting patiently,” he answered. “And a bunch of soldiers, who are not.”
Raven looked to the corkboard on the wall above the head of the hospital bed. It bore all manner of unit and morale patches, including the Bastion Pale Riders patch that featured the Grim Reaper wearing night vision and armed with a suppressed rifle. Several American flags and a couple of Navy SEAL Budweiser pins—the Special Warfare insignia featuring an eagle clutching a trident and flintlock pistol—had found their way into the mix.
Regarding the doctor, she asked, “Can they all come in? My dad would approve.”
“Seeing as how most of them came all the way from Peterson, and that their ride is currently parked on our landing pad, it wouldn’t be very neighborly of me to turn them away.”
“I’ll fetch them,” Glenda said as she pulled the privacy curtain aside and strode toward the door.
The doctor placed a hand on Glenda’s wrist. “I’ve got to finish my rounds,” he said. “I’ll talk to the heathens on my way out.”
Halting midstride, Glenda dismissed the doctor with a wave of her hand.
“They’re not heathens,” shot Raven. “They’re guys just like my dad. Guys who keep sheep like you safe.”
Once the doctor had left the room and the door was closed, Raven turned to Glenda. “Why were you crying?” she asked.
Glenda made a face, then said, “Since I lost my two boys to this insane world, I’ve come to think of your dad as one of my own. As a matter of fact, I’ve come to think of you all as family.”
“Would that make me your granddaughter?”
Glenda nodded and dabbed at the tears with her sleeve.
“I’ve been wondering about all the hugging.” Raven moved in close, wrapped her arms around Glenda’s midsection, and pressed her cheek to the woman’s bosom. “It’s all right with me,” she said. “I lost my grandmother and grandfather the day this all started.” Drawing back and looking Glenda in the face, she added, “I’m real grateful for all you’ve done for us.”
Looking to the unmoving form on the hospital bed, Glenda said, “And I’m grateful for all your dad has done for us.”
Chapter 16
Penrose Hospital
Upon receiving the early morning call from Duncan, Ari Silver immediately ceased his pre-mission inspection of the Ghost Hawk he’d be piloting east, on another tagging mission, and paid a visit to First Sergeant Whipper—the cantankerous lifer in charge of maintaining the growing fleet of aviation assets now housed at Peterson. Short of bending a knee and begging, Ari spent five minutes lobbying Whipper to let him “borrow” anything air worthy enough to make the short hop to the new capital.
After making a trio of promises—two that would be easy to fulfill, one not so much—Ari succeeded in convincing the first sergeant to let him take a Kansas Air National Guard UH-60 Black Hawk, fresh off a total tear down and rebuild, out for a supposed “shakedown flight.”
The reluctant sounding “yes” had barely crossed Whipper’s lips and Ari was burning up the airwaves with his sat-phone, alerting his crew and every member of the Pale Riders team of the new development.
A total of thirty minutes had elapsed between the time Duncan had made his call to Ari, and the hotshot aviator was bringing his borrowed bird in low and fast and settling her gently atop Penrose Hospital’s emergency facilities building.
Now, with the group of kitted-out Pale Riders lounging on folding chairs in the crowded tenth floor hallway, Duncan was watching Ari free the faux sheepskin cover from the copious amounts of plastic used to compress it into a neat little cube.
Duncan was standing with his back to the door to 10A and watching Ari unfurl his new acquisition. “What do you think, flyboy? Does it fill the bill?”
Standing back to the wall and bracketed by Haynes and Skipper, Ari smiled and nuzzled the plush seat cover. “This is just what I was hoping for. My ass thanks you, kind sir.”
With a tip of his Stetson, Duncan said, “My pops liked to say ‘there are two I’s in integrity. I will … and I did.’”
Folding the seat cover under one arm, Ari said, “Follow through is damn important. Especially in this day and age. Your pops was a smart man, Duncan.” He paused to stroke the wool again. Lifting his gaze, he asked, “Did I come through for you all with some solid intel? Or were their ears harvested already?”
“All parties are happy,” Duncan drawled. “Even my dreadlocked amigo.”
Suddenly the door to 10A opened and out stepped Dr. Cole. Adjusting the precariously perched stethoscope, he said, “Who’s in charge of this motley crew?”
Everyone save Duncan looked to Lopez.
Griffin pointed and said, “Captain Lopez outranks us all.”
The doctor leaned forward, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and gazed down at Lopez. “Captain Lopez,” he said, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to send the army here into the room in groups of two. Divide and conquer, so to speak.” He went on to tell everyone present the same thing he’d just told Raven as it related to her father’s road to recovery. Finished, beginning with Duncan and ending with Lopez, he looked the assemblage over. Gaze lingering on the captain, he reiterated the strict room occupancy rules.
In a grumbly voice, Lopez said, “Understood, Doc.” He regarded Skipper. “Get your straws out. We’re drawing to see who goes in first.”
The crew chief took a clutch of tiny coffee stirrer straws from one of his flight suit’s many zippered pockets. “Anyone else get a heavy metal earworm when the doc said motley crew?” Before anyone could answer, he launched into an awful rendition of Girls, girls, girls.
With Skipper continuing to butcher the song, Haynes said, “Affirmative. And that song just took me back to my favorite strip club near Fort Campbell.” He closed his eyes and smiled. “Trixie … been missin’ you,
babe.”
By the time Skipper had counted out seven straws and was busy cutting them into seven different lengths, everyone in the hall had started a chant to get him to stop the singing.
Quieting the chant with a wave of a hand, Ari said, “You only need to cut four. Us Night Stalkers will go in last.”
Skipper shrugged. “I’m used to loitering on station until the ground pounders are finished.” Choosing four different-sized stirrers, he discarded the rest. He closed his gloved hand around the straws, tapped the exposed ends with his palm so that they were even, and offered first pick to the Pale Riders’ current commander.
Plucking a straw out with two fingers, Lopez held it aloft for all to see.
Unsure of that particular straw’s order in the lineup, Skipper proceeded to dole out the rest, starting with Cross, moving on to Axelrod, and ending with Griff.
Brandishing his straw like a mini fencing foil, Lopez said, “Show me what you got, gentleladies.”
Once again Griff got the shortest straw. Axelrod was next in line from the bottom.
“Looks like me and you have honors, Chief Cross.”
Lamenting the fact that he had crapped out again, Griff took a seat in a chair to wait for his turn inside.
“Looks like we got ourselves a classic example of age before beauty,” quipped Ari as he pulled up a chair of his own and sat down next to the crestfallen Navy SEAL.
“That would mean I’m dead last,” deadpanned Duncan as he stepped aside to allow Lopez and Cross entry into the room.
Skipper said, “I hardly know you, fella. But from the vibe you’re giving off, I don’t think we have a straw short enough for you.”
Duncan pulled the door shut. Eyes narrowing, he fixed the crew chief with his best intimidating stare. Once he had the shorter man’s undivided attention, he growled, “Where you hail from, 15T?” The last part was a reference to the crew chief’s military occupational specialty.
Speaking for his crew chief, Ari said, “My 15T is from Florida, originally. Panama City, specifically.”
Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 14): Home Page 9
