Containment (Alaskan Undead Apocalypse Book 2)

by Sean Schubert

  Everyone else, still in the backyard but now planted firmly on their faces following the sounds of gunshots from the garage, heard Malachi run down the street yelling at the top of his voice. He wasn’t making any sense, just noise. His voice became fainter and fainter as the distance grew. Shortly thereafter, his voice was replaced with the rat-a-tat of the M4. Even the gunshots, however, seemed to be coming from farther and farther away with each passing breath.

  Dr. Caldwell crawled to the door leading into the garage. The window, though still in its pane, was shattered and bore a small hole right in its center. He listened, his head cocked to one side. He heard breathing, panting really, like someone struggling for breath. There was no movement and no other sound.

  “Is there anyone still in the garage?” he asked into the room. When no one and nothing answered, he made up his mind that he had to go investigate. From his hip holster, he eased out the big Smith and Wesson revolver that was always at his side. “Neil, I’m going in. Got my back?”

  “Is it going to get me shot?”

  “I was hoping for a simple yes.”

  “Yeah, I’m there. Jerry?”

  “Already on my way.”

  Neil huffed while he crawled over to the door just behind Dr. Caldwell, “At least zombies don’t shoot at you.”

  Before they could go, Art choked out, “He fucking shot us. He....” His voice was cut short by a sudden choking fit.

  Dr. Caldwell couldn’t wait any longer. He sprang up and ran into the garage. The air was scorched with the acrid remnants of discharged gunpowder. He stopped awkwardly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the much more scarce light. Neil, of course, didn’t realize this and was into launching himself forward before he could alter his course.

  Instead of entering the garage with poise and confidence, the two men tumbled forward in very un-hero-ish style, tripping over the fallen stacks of supplies that had been knocked over in the chaos. Neil clumsily punched the toe of his right boot into a large sack of rice, which bled little white beads from the plastic wound.

  Still struggling to his knees, Dr. Caldwell called out, “Art? Where are you?” He looked around and saw a pair of legs emerging from behind a ladder and an unmistakable red pool. Neil was back on his feet and looking in the same direction as Dr. Caldwell. He too saw the legs. He was the first to step forward while Dr. Caldwell was still scanning the room.

  Neil asked, “What are you doing?”

  Dr. Caldwell said slowly, “He said ‘he shot us.’ I’m looking for the other...people that made up ‘us’.”

  Neil nodded in understanding and picked his way through the mess. For all their efforts to organize and categorize, it only took one catastrophe to bring it all down around them and they were back at square one. Stacks of boxes had laid low piles of cans that had toppled over towers of bottles. There was dry cereal spread out and stuck to the floor by splashes of soda or juice. If not for the burnt smell of the gunshots, the garage would have been overwhelmingly sweet, approaching unbearable.

  He got over to the pair of legs and rolled him over. “It’s Dave, and I don’t think he’s breathing. No pulse either.”

  Dr. Caldwell yelled to Jerry, who was still standing in the doorway, “Go get the Med Kit! The one we pulled from that military ambulance.”

  Dr. Caldwell panned the garage again and then saw him. “Art’s over there. Looks like he’s breathing.”

  From outside and with a voice that was threatening to crack, Meghan asked, “What happened? Is everyone alright?”

  Neil and Dr. Caldwell were leaning over Art, trying to ascertain the damage without adequate light. He was obviously hit; his clothes appeared as if they had been dipped in a vat of red dye and his skin had an almost glowing, pallid whiteness to it.

  Meghan was much closer when she asked, “Need some light?”

  “Yeah, that would be great,” Dr. Caldwell answered. “Where’s Jerry with my bag?”

  “Right here,” answered Jerry as he tossed the backpack-sized medical supply kit.

  With the aid of Meghan’s flashlight, Dr. Caldwell immediately tore into it, taking supplies and medications out in a furious pace. He cut Art’s shirt off and decided that the blood was coming from lower. He felt around and found the wound. How could he have missed it?

  The color was so absolute, so deep, that he had assumed that Art’s pants were darker than they actually were. It took looking at his own rust-stained hands after he’d touched Art for the doctor to realize how badly Art was bleeding.

  He had been hit three times. Under more normal circumstances, the wounds, though serious, would likely not be considered life threatening. Seeing the blood and feeling his frustration and helplessness to properly treat the injuries, Dr. Caldwell was reminded all too clearly that these were not normal circumstances.

  The first wound was of the least concern. The bullet had punched a hole through the soft tissue on his flank and just above his waist, essentially poking a ink pen-sized opening in his love handle. There were no organs threatened in that part of his body and the heat of the bullet had partially cauterized the opening so as to limit the amount of blood loss. That’s not to say that it didn’t look bad, but the reality, as Dr. Caldwell knew, was that it was far from life threatening even with the most limited of care provided.

  The second was more troubling as it was on his left leg below the knee. That hole was less round and more oblong than the other, evidence that the bullet had likely struck something else first and then careened into him as it traveled awkwardly end over end. Tiny flecks of white bone fragments near the surface of the oozing hole caught the light cast by Meghan’s flashlight. They resembled small white-sanded islands in a sea of meandering red.

  Dr. Caldwell thought to himself that neither the location of the trauma nor the presence of the bone fragments boded well for him. Art would likely be incapable of walking for the next few weeks.

  Of course the third and final wound was the most problematic. It appeared that Art’s hip had been pierced, which likely resulted in his pelvis fracturing. Without proper equipment, Dr. Caldwell couldn’t ascertain the nature of the internal injuries that were conceivably received as a result of that injury; not that he would be able to effectively treat them anyway. Just the amount of blood that Art had lost was starting to really concern the doctor. They had neither plasma nor a clean, sterile environment in which to provide even the most basic care to their suffering compatriot. He felt as in control as a Civil War era field surgeon whose only option for many injuries was amputation and then prayer.

  They moved Art into the hallway near the front door. They tried to make him comfortable with pillows and blankets while Dr. Caldwell directed them in first aid for each of the injuries. They applied pressure to slow or possibly stop the bleeding and the good doctor worked feverishly to clean the wounds of bits of bone and other external matter such as shreds of cloth and minute pieces of plastic and wood. If there was any good news at all on which they could build, it was that each of the three bullets had exited the body, meaning that Dr. Caldwell didn’t have to go digging into the bleeding openings to retrieve any lodged offenders. There were both entrance and exit wounds for each injury.

  Meghan held his hand and spoke slowly and reassuringly to him over and over. She wasn’t certain that he was understanding or even hearing what she was saying, but she continued to do it just the same. She rubbed his forehead and his cheeks soothingly and tried to provide both comfort and distraction.

  After several tense moments and a seemingly Herculean effort by Dr. Caldwell, they had nearly controlled the bleeding from each of the three bullet wounds, though the bandages pressed firmly against Art’s hip were still spotting through the several layers applied. The dose of morphine administered to Art had also thankfully taken effect enough to let him rest.

  Dr. Caldwell finally set back onto his haunches, tilted his head back, and let out a long, labored sigh. He looked over at Neil. “We’ve got to talk.”
/>
  Chapter 47

  Obviously agitated and her emotions on the rise, Meghan demanded, “So what the hell are you suggesting?”

  Dr. Caldwell, seeing Meghan’s growing and animated concern, said as calmly as possible so as not to throw gasoline on the proverbial fire, “I’m not suggesting anything. I don’t think any of us have suggested any course of action.”

  Defensively, she fired back, “No, but you did make it pretty clear that Art is going to be nothing but a burden and perhaps a burden not worth...” She couldn’t finish.

  “Meghan, all I said was that, because of his injuries, it is unlikely that I can do anything to help him other than try and manage his pain. Maybe help him be comfortable, but even that is going to be a challenge.”

  “Until he dies. You forgot to say ‘until he dies’.”

  Ignoring her, Dr. Caldwell continued, “And also that it is unlikely that he would be walking any time soon, if ever again. We’re talking Nineteenth Century medicine here. Either he is going to heal or he’s not, but only time will tell.”

  Under his breath, Neil said to himself, “Something we once again don’t have much of.” He turned to Meghan. “Meghan, we have to think about all of us and which are the best ideas to keep us all alive. That hasn’t changed. Remember when we left the house and we had to leave Rachel and Tony?”

  “That was different.”

  “Only by degree and by personality. Is that more important this time? Is he somehow more special than Rachel? Or Tony?”

  She looked at him with her eyes full of pain. Neil could see the conflict and the confusion. She turned and ran back downstairs just as the tears started to fill the bottoms of her eyes. She flashed one last watery look at him before she descended the stairs and then was gone. He considered chasing after her but his stung pride, like a heavy barnacled anchor, planted his feet to the floor.

  As silent spectators, Emma, Claire, Gerald, and Evelyn watched the scene play itself out.

  Finally, Emma said, “I’ll go check on her.”

  “And I guess I’ll go check on Art,” Evelyn said.

  Dr. Caldwell said, “Thank you ladies. Well played, Neil.”

  “What? Am I wrong?”

  “Are you familiar with the phrase, ‘it’s not what you said; it’s how you said it’?”

  Neil rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You sayin’ I was bein’ insensitive?”

  Nodding his head, Dr. Caldwell answered, “That pretty much sums it up, yes.”

  “Yeah. Came up a couple times during the divorce. I guess I’m defective in that department.”

  Jerry finally said, “So, back to the task at hand.”

  The big question that Meghan dreaded, as did all of them—including Neil—was what to do now. There was no doubt in any of their minds that their current and strictly temporary refuge had been compromised. The fact that they were about to be on the run again was no longer a point of debate and they all accepted that.

  Malachi’s shooting would act like a magnet for the zombies who had been seeking them out unsuccessfully for the past several days. The series of shots would help their predatory instincts to hone in on their position. Malachi’s subsequent action in running down the road while yelling and shooting the assault rifle would help to detour them temporarily but they had no illusions any longer about staying there long term.

  Dr. Caldwell wondered about poor Malachi. He couldn’t be certain, of course, But Dr. Caldwell wanted to think that Malachi had realized what he’d done and how he’d compromised everyone else’s lives and had chosen, in that moment of clarity, to do what he must to make amends. Dr. Caldwell hoped that Malachi was able to slay the ghosts of his past before they got him. The doctor was also keenly aware that if they were to delay too long, then the best of what Malachi had done would be outdone by the worst of his actions. If had Malachi just sacrificed himself to buy them a little time, then they had damned well better use it to the best of their abilities.

  It was a familiar topic and a replayed discussion. They needed to decide a direction and a route. They also needed to decide what to take and how it would best be carried. It would have been much easier if they had a vehicle at their disposal, but that was obviously not an option. Wishing for a vehicle was as effective as wishing for a helicopter to come and spirit them away. Neither were realistic possibilities.

  Throughout this exchange, Neil’s voice was curiously and perceptibly absent. He nodded and listened, but his distraction was obvious to all of them. His input was as desperately needed as was his leadership, but neither were forthcoming.

  He wanted to go to Meghan but what he’d do then, he didn’t know. He could feel the divide that had been forced between them, and when he thought about that, he couldn’t help the anger that he felt toward Art. It wasn’t Neil’s fault that he realized he really didn’t like the guy right about the time Malachi went nuts. And now that Art had been shot, Neil’s feelings toward him made him feel and look like a jerk. And that kind of pissed off Neil too. Just because a guy has been shot, doesn’t excuse him for his actions. But Neil couldn’t think of anything that Art had done really. He’d been difficult and a bit of a naysayer, but he hadn’t actually done anything. Neil was certain that Art had been a....

  If Neil was going to be perfectly honest with himself, he’d just have to admit that his dislike of Art was as inexplicable and subjective as a lot of modern interpretive dance. He’d also have to admit that he never really put any effort into getting to know Art as anything other than another set of hands with which to get things done. Their interactions had been limited at best despite having shared some fairly intimate space on occasion over the past few weeks.

  In fairly short order, Neil was completely ashamed of himself for his foolish pride and his jealousy. His ex was right and now so was Meghan. He deserved every bit of their enmity, if that’s what it was that he was getting. The world would likely end and all life extinguished before the mystery of Woman and her effect on man would ever be untangled by unworthy mortals. If there was ever a proof of God’s existence, it is that there has to be one being in the universe that understands women. If not God, then who? Still, if he didn’t show any jealousy, then he could be accused of not caring enough. With regard to women, Neil didn’t see a whole lot of options to win.

  His dad, probably the smartest guy he knew, would likely say something like: ‘it’s not about winning the game or even scoring points, it’s just about playing the game and getting something out of it’. He said things like that a lot to Neil while he was growing up. Neil probably should have listened to him more often rather than think of all the ways in which his dad was wrong about everything. Once again, another missed opportunity that had been kicking him in the ass his entire life.

  Badgering himself and second guessing everything that he’d done to date made him angry again, but this time the anger was more of a mood spoiler than it was anything else. He decided to let Dr. Caldwell deal with Art and for Jerry to deal with the others. Neil retired to a bedroom with Jules and Danny and shut the door. There were fewer questions with the children and those that were asked weren’t nearly as taxing as those that he would face from the adults in the other room.

  The debate continued and continued, resurfacing at every opportunity. Despite the high emotions and the loud voices, a decision was reached upon which they all could agree.

  Chapter 48

  Gerald was completely sincere when he said, “Geez, Doc. That’s impressive. They teach you how to do that in medical school?”

  Impressed with his own handiwork as well, Dr. Caldwell nonetheless didn’t want to sound cocky. “Nope. Scouts.”

  “Scouts...Boy Scouts, that is, wasn’t too popular where I grew up. At least not in our neighborhood. I ‘spect most folks just didn’t have that much extra money for such things. Whatcha call this thing again?”

  “It’s called a travois. As I recall, the Plains Indians used them to move the sick or the hurt and som
etimes even the old.”

  Gerald, always full of good humor, joked, “I think I may be a little of each I’m afraid.”

  Dr. Caldwell answered with a smile, “I think one travois at a time is about all we can handle.”

  Gerald asked, “So are we really going to be able to move him and us?”

  Dr. Caldwell nodded reassuringly. “It’s going to take all of us working together but I think we can. We can’t stay here much longer. I just hope we have time to get ourselves prepared enough for the long road ahead.”

  Almost on cue, Jerry and Claire burst into the garage where Dr. Caldwell and Gerald were working. They’d just finished burying Dave in the backyard without any fanfare or even an audience. Nothing dramatic or the least bit consoling was said. Jerry’s face was very serious and Claire’s looked somewhat nervous.

  The doctor asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Jerry looked at Claire and said with alarm, “The buzzing. We can hear the buzzing again. I think they’re getting close.”

  “Shit. Have you told Neil yet?”

  Jerry nodded. “Yeah. He’s getting Jules and Danny together. Evelyn and Emma are helping gather together some last minute supplies.”

  “And Meghan?”

  “She’s still hanging out with Art,” Claire said.

  “Is he conscious?”

  “In and out.”

  “When he’s in, is he being quieter?”

  Jerry shook his head.

  Dr. Caldwell stood up from his creation and used his authoritative voice. “It’s time then. We’ve got to get out of here while there is still daylight. Maybe we can get to another hiding spot before it gets dark.” To himself, Dr. Caldwell muttered, “Maybe I can give him something to put him out and keep him quiet.”

  Neither Jerry nor Claire said anything to that. They just looked at the travois seemingly made of mop handles and bed linen. It seemed so fragile...too fragile to be able to transport a person. They could only hope that their concerns were unfounded; this hope was unfortunately in addition to the hope that transporting the stricken Art would not so hobble them that they’d all soon be meeting their collective fates. All of this would certainly be easier if they still had a vehicle.