Time of Death Book 2: Asylum (A Zombie Novel)

by Shana Festa

"Thank God," said Vinny. "If I had to fight right now I'd probably shit myself."

  "Go already," I bitched at him. "I want to move."

  Still squirming, Daphne dug her nails into my arm and pushed off, launching away from me and tumbling onto the cement with a yelp of pain. Shaking it off, she got back on her feet and ran at Vinny.

  "What the hell?" He asked, backing away from the charging animal.

  When he reached the end of the wall, he stopped, hands held out in front of him again, ready to defend himself against the dog. If only. There were so many ways this scene could have played out. Vinny didn't have time to turn, so fixated on Daphne coming at him; he didn't realize a zombie had been lying in wait behind the small section of wall.

  It was so close that it took only one long step and it was on him. It pounced with enough strength to take down the two-hundred and fifty pound man. The right side of Vinny's body hit the pavement and he cried out when his shoulder buckled under him. The sounds of his bones snapping were audible over the sound of our boots against the pavement and the cacophony of shouting as we ran. He fought the monster the best he could with the use of only one arm, but his attempts were feeble at best with the searing pain of broken bones and the awkward angle of his body pinned beneath the raging zombie.

  The sound of his cries intensified when the hungry beast carved into the exposed flesh of his neck with jagged teeth, opening an artery. Blood squirted out of the wound like a sprinkler as he struggled against the undead. I reached the wall, jumped into the fray, and helped Jake drag the writhing corpse off his brother. It rolled onto its back, displaying the same quickness we'd seen from the zombie at the dealership. The zombie lifted itself into a seated position in a swift movement and reached out for Jake. Wrapping its bony fingers into the fabric of his shirt, it jerked Jake forward toward its gaping mouth.

  I screamed, certain this was the end for my husband. My vision tunneled and I watched with disturbing clarity as its mouth opened, dripping with the blood of my brother-in-law, and began to clamp its jaws around my husband's shoulder. Before its teeth could break skin, a boot entered my line of sight. Connecting with the side of the zombies head, Striker's well-placed kick caved in the side of its skull, leaving it deflated. The pressure exerted on the facial bones forced one of its eyes to burst from its socket and it hung loosely by nerve bundles. The momentum of Striker's attack knocked it onto the bloodied pavement beside us.

  We had only a moment to catch our breath before remembering Vinny had been critically injured. Meg's crying brought me back to the present, and I crawled to my brother-in-law on my hands and knees. His eyes were wide and staring back at me with fear as he gasped for air. The blood that had been spraying in a wide arc now trickled from the fatal wound in his neck, leaving a tacky puddle beside him.

  Jake pushed past me, frantically pressing his hands against his brother's neck. "Oh, Jesus, Vin. I'm sorry," he cried.

  Vinny worked his mouth in an effort to speak. "Not your fault," he managed. "Don't let me—" His voice was cut off by a fit of feeble coughs and his eyes lost their focus. With one long exhale his struggle ended and he lay dead on the pavement. All sound ceased save for our labored breathing and strangled cries of anguish. Even Daphne had gone quiet and stood behind me like a scared cat ready to bolt. I fought for control of my emotions, knowing the stillness would soon be shattered by Vinny's rebirth into an undead monster.

  I sat back on my heels and looked at Striker, poised over us with his machete in hand and ready to swing. He felt the heat of my stare bore into him and quickly turned his gaze to meet mine. Using only my eyes, I looked to Meg, hoping he would understand my request to remove her from danger. She sat by Vinny's head, hands cradling it as if they were a pillow to keep him comfortable. Striker moved to her, still ready to jump into action if needed, and gently carried her a few feet back and out of harm's way. She didn't protest, as if all the fight had left her, and she'd already resigned herself to the hard truth of Vinny's demise.

  We had minutes, at best, before his lifeless shell would begin to stir with the first signs of reanimation. Jake was murmuring apologies under his breath while he leaned over his brother's broad chest.

  "Jake," I said in a soft, even tone. "You need to move back." My hand was on his shoulder and I shook it a little to get his attention. He ignored me, retreating further into himself. I looked to Striker once again, not knowing what to do. Jake's muscles were tight with strain, and he vibrated with rage, the vein in his neck bulging.

  Striker took a step forward. The deliberate act caused Jake to snap his head up and raise his weapon.

  "Don't," he spat. I couldn't see his face, but I knew his gaze must have been murderous, because Striker took a step back.

  "Baby," I tried again. Jake pulled his shoulder from my grasp in a swift motion, and I fell backwards from his violent jerk. Fear tightened my chest, both for what my husband would do and for his safety. Meg began to weep again, a low pitiful sound that raked my sanity like Freddy Krueger's knives scraping along metal. I couldn't take my eyes from my husband, knowing that it wasn't a matter of if, but when Vinny would begin to move.

  The minutes ticked by, and yet Jake still knelt stoically by his fallen brother's side. From just outside my periphery I caught movement. Had I imagined it? No. The slight tense of Striker's hand on his weapon told me he'd seen it to. There it was again, a twitch of a foot, a finger, as Vinny's nervous system began firing again. My breathing stopped, lungs constricted with fear, and I waited.

  His mouth opened, emitting the same raspy moan of the dead we'd heard time and time again. Limb by limb, his now-rotting brain sent rewired impulses for motion. His eyes opened, the final event in the transformation, and looked unfocused into the cloud-filled sky. The quiet was so immense that I could hear muscles tense stiffly beneath his pallid sheath of skin.

  Like an infant, Vinny tested his motor skills. He clenched and unclenched his fists, flexed his feet, and rolled his neck first to the left, then right, finally seeing Jake's body and registering him as food. His eyes, now bloodshot and opaque, never blinked. My heart ached seeing his face contorted with malice, and I searched for any sign that our goofy and lovable Vinny was still somewhere in there. I found nothing but a beast wearing the face of my loved one.

  The zombie struggled to right itself. So soon after reanimation, it had yet to rediscover balance, and it rocked from side to side in an attempt to get at Jake. My entire body shook uncontrollably, and my thoughts were muddled with indecision. I wasn't sure if I should act or remain a spectator and allow Jake to come to grips with the harsh reality.

  Once again, Striker advanced, slow and stealthy like a cat hunting a mouse. I knew what he meant to do, to execute the zombie before it took Jake down with it.

  Without looking up, Jake spoke in a ferocious growl. "If you take one more step, I'll cut you down where you stand."

  For a moment, I thought Striker would ignore the warning, but despite the determination he'd shown, the man stopped. He didn't move back, but he didn’t advance either. His knuckles were white from their tight grip on his machete, and his attention was focused on the threat.

  Jake spoke again, this time his voice much softer as he addressed his brother. "I'm sorry, Vin. There are so many things I wish I could take back. It should've been me." He hung his head in a moment of silence, praying under his breath for his brother's salvation and entry into Heaven. "I love you, bro," he said, and pulled out his handgun, shooting Vinny once through the forehead.

  The sound of the gunshot was deafening, but I knew there was no way he'd have found the emotional strength to plunge the screwdriver into his brother. He stood abruptly and spun, his eyes full of malice, and his body language radiating danger. This was not my Jake. This was the face of a man pushed too far, having lost too much. I saw it, and I knew Meg saw it, and I feared for what he was capable of at that moment.

  Jake took a step in my direction, and I flinched like a battered woman shrin
king away from an abuser. That was how much he frightened me. He put one foot in front of the other and walked, not pausing to look at anyone. He stopped only when he'd reached the bike, but didn't turn. He only stood there isolated and withdrawn.

  Striker was beside me. I hadn't even heard him move. He hooked a hand under my arm and pulled me to my feet. The man wore a concerned expression, and I have to say, I felt how he looked. Meg sat a few feet behind Vinny's ruined head, clutching Daphne to her chest and crying in heavy sobs.

  "Meg," I whispered by her side, "you need to keep it together. I'm afraid for your brother."

  She looked up at me, aghast at my comment for a split second before realizing I meant the brother that still lived. She cut her eyes to Jake, still standing by his bike facing away from us.

  "I don't think I can, Emma," she cried. "He's gone. But he can't be gone." She dissolved into hysterics again, and I felt Striker at my back. He'd done it again. Either he was a ninja, or my instincts were severely impaired in the presence of Vinny's dead body. Maybe it was a combination of both.

  "There's no other option," I told her, looking to Striker for support. He gave me nothing in return. The man fought his own demons. I took Daphne from her arms and helped Meg up, physically pivoting her toward the bikes and giving her a slight nudge to get moving. The dog was smart enough to interpret the somber mood of our group and licked my chin; her equivalent to a pat on the back.

  Watching Meg walk away, I waited until she was out of hearing distance and stepped closer to Striker. "I've never seen him like this before. It's like he's checked out," I shared, keeping my voice low.

  "What do you expect?" he replied. "He just lost his brother. You know he feels responsible for you all, right? Like it's on him and no one else to make sure you're safe."

  "That's just stupid!" I hissed. "There's no way he can control what happens to us, no more than I, or even you, can. That much pressure is too much for one person to bear."

  "You'll never know just how much," Striker said, startling me with his statement. There was more to this man, a story, and one I suspected I would never hear. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that when we arrived at Asylum he would turn right around and disappear back into obscurity.

  Chapter 13: Code Gray

  Without conscious thought, I rubbed my shoulder. Jake's lack of emotion and empty eyes sparked a memory of a scary day during nursing school. My first experience with schizophrenia was something that would stay with me forever. You don't get the full scope of how dangerous a person diagnosed with schizophrenia can be, especially when not taking their medication. It's almost like a switch is flipped. One moment they may see you as an ally, a trusted confidant, but not the next. Anything can trigger their psychosis.

  I've never been as scared for my safety as I was that day. I had worked hard to earn the trust of a male patient, Craig, and we would walk the halls, discussing his treatment and progression. Craig had been displaying increased moments of lucidity and decreasing delusions. Tammy, a new nurse, had moved to the unit, and I noticed the more time she spent with Craig, the less he trusted me or other staff members.

  In a very short span of time, the nurse-patient relationship became nontherapeutic. Manic outbursts resulting in physical altercations were par for the course during days in which Tammy wasn't working. At least one time per shift, a facility-wide code gray boomed from the loudspeakers, indicating violence requiring all hands on deck to either verbally or physically diffuse the situation.

  The facility was notorious for under staffing to boost profitability. With a census of thirty-two patients, they felt it appropriate to schedule only two nurses and three mental health technicians, also known as the bouncers. Only one of the nurses was qualified to perform assessments, take off physician's orders, chart check, and write incident reports. Those tasks were outside the scope of practice for an LPN. I remember feeling pity for the charge nurse on duty, especially considering an incident report was time consuming. Throw a seclusion or restraint into the mix, and the workload multiplied exponentially. And let's not forget student nurses. Somehow, they needed to find the time to provide us with an educational experience.

  One Saturday, the medication nurse called in sick, leaving the charge nurse alone. So it was no surprise when instead of teaching me, they used me like an additional employee. I worked with patients and the psychiatrists and led the afternoon nursing group. Craig had isolated himself in his room all day, refusing to take medications or eat.

  The charge nurse was on the phone with the physician, transcribing an order for medication, when I heard yelling. This was a psychiatric hospital; shouting, crying, and the random giggles of mania were the norm, not the exception. She waved in the direction of the disturbance and shooed me off to handle it.

  A technician, Michael, accompanied me to Craig's room. He was an African American man in his mid-twenties and composed himself with a calm quiet that resonated well with patients. Craig blocked us from entering his room, eyes crazed and darting suspiciously between Michael and me.

  "This is my room," he said without emotion.

  "Craig," I said, my voice quiet and steady in an attempt to keep things from escalating. "Is everything okay?"

  "Everything's fine," he replied, annoyance creeping into his tone.

  "Do you want to sit and talk for a few minutes, or take a walk around the unit?" I asked, waiting to see his reaction.

  "Why?" he asked in a booming voice. "You want to give me drugs again? Is that nigger going to hold me down so you can stick me with something to shut me up?"

  I cringed at his racist comment. He spat the words with such vehemence that spittle flew from his lips when he spoke. "No, I just had some time and thought you'd enjoy the company," I said, doing my best to keep my voice low and even. Craig was a loaded gun, waiting to explode without provocation.

  "Because I'm craaaazy, right?" To punctuate his statement, he began wildly swinging his arms above his head.

  Michael stepped forward, ready to subdue him if his behavior continued to escalate.

  "Step the fuck back!" Craig pointed his finger at the imposing tech. "You get the fuck away from me. Nigger! Nigger! Nigger!"

  Each time the word left his lips it sliced through me. I hated the word and knew from the look on Michael's face that he was working hard to show no reaction. I had no doubt that had we not been in a psychiatric hospital and this was happening somewhere else, Craig would have been toast.

  I have analyzed the events of that encounter over and over, trying to come up with anything we could have done differently to diffuse the situation. Honestly, I don't think it would have changed anything. Craig was off his meds and decompensating. He'd reached the point of no return and nothing could have stopped his inner bomb from detonating.

  My instincts told me our continued presence would only make things worse, so I reversed out of the doorway slowly, not wanting to turn my back on the unpredictable man. His pupils were constricted and his eyes drilled into me, not blinking. I saw muscles in his jaw clench the moment before he sprung at me, catching Michael off guard and knocking him out of the way. Both hands grasped my forearm, gripping tight enough to send a jolt of pain up my limb. I yelped and the sound served as an accelerant for his diseased mind to increase pressure. Like a tug-of-war match, he yanked on my arm, twisting his hands at the same time. I felt a tearing sensation at my shoulder just before blinding pain radiated down to my elbow. Instantly, my vision blurred and I tried to blink away the spots floating in front of me. Each time I blinked, little white dots exploded like fireworks.

  Michael regained his footing and I was vaguely aware of someone shouting code gray nearby. The pressure on my arm released, and I stumbled back and hit the wall, clutching my wrist close to my chest. At some point in the struggle, I'd slid to the floor. Looking back, from the moment my rotator cuff tore, the scene took on a dreamlike quality. My memories were limited to snippets, like quick snapshots captured by a photographer. />
  I rubbed at my shoulder again, feeling the pain dissipate to a dull ache when the memory ended and my thoughts returned to the present. My breathing was shallow and my chest pounded from fear as my subconscious fired, connecting the dots between the memory of Craig and my husband's current behavior. I shook my head in hopes of rattling loose the comparison. This was Jake, my goofy and lovable husband, not a psychotic patient. But the more I watched him, the less sure I was in my conviction.

  * * *

  We rode in silence, afraid that anything we said would further break Jake's already tenuous hold on sanity. I scoffed at the thought that we were journeying to a location named Asylum. Striker came to a stop in front of me and turned to face us.

  "We're not far now, but it's going to be dark soon. Once we clear this street there will be no place safe enough to hold up if we run into trouble."

  "What does that mean?" asked Meg.

  "It means we're spending the night here." He pointed to the house we'd stopped in front of.

  "Do you smell that?" I asked, wrinkling my nose at the pungent smell of death. Zombies were nearby, close enough that their stench traveled on the breeze.

  Striker dismounted the bike and walked toward Jake with apprehension. "Hey, bud, you doing okay?"

  "Define okay?" retorted Jake, trying to make light of the situation.

  "We need to clear the house. I can't do it alone. I need someone at my back," he clarified.

  "Yeah, I'm good."

  The gruff man searched Jake's eyes for lies. He either found none or refused to undermine Jake's answer. Looking first at Meg, then me, he said, "You girls stay outside, butt up against the front of the house, and keep your eyes and ears open for company. We'll come get you when it's clear."

  We nodded in confirmation and plastered ourselves against the house while the men entered the unlocked front door and disappeared into unknown territory.