Zombies! (Episode 4): The Sick and the Dead

by Ivan Turner

  Peter ran out and looked up and down the street. Many of the houses were dark, the cars gone. A lot of people had left. But there was traffic out on the main road. The streetlights were working. At the end of the road, a lady was leaving her house and getting into her car. She looked down at him, gave him a tentative wave, and then was gone.

  Peter was confused.

  Running back to his apartment, he rushed inside and closed the door. He went to his bag, the same bag he'd carried to and from his last day of work. Rummaging inside, he found the rotted remains of a sandwich he'd never had a chance to eat. There was the spare shirt he always carried, a Robert Silverberg novel, and his cell phone. The phone was dead so he pulled out the charger and plugged it into the wall. Peter didn't have a regular phone. There was no reason for him to have one. Everyone he knew called him on his cell so he chose not to incur the expense.

  After waiting a very long two minutes, he was able to turn on the phone and get his messages. There were eighteen of them. Most of them were from his parents in Cleveland. One was from Mariel, whom he'd met at a bar a week before his world had gone to hell. She wasn't very pretty, but he'd have been able to overlook that if she didn't sound like Ben Stein on downers. Two more calls were from Dr. Mancina over at the hospital.

  He called Dr. Mancina first.

  "Peter!" Mancina exclaimed when he picked up the phone. "We thought we'd lost you. You haven't been sick, have you?"

  "No," Peter answered. "At least not in the way that you think."

  "Well," Mancina answered, not quite sure what to make of that. "Well, that's good. Are you coming back to work?"

  Peter didn't quite know how to answer that. He thought about what it would be like to return to the hospital. After his episode during the previous week, he wasn't sure if he had the strength to return to the hospital. Still, his rational side took over. "Of course, sir."

  "Oh, good. Good. We've been open a few days now, you know."

  Peter was looking out the window, noticing the newspaper. "I thought, well. I thought all of the people were gone."

  Mancina was quiet on the other end of the line.

  "Sir?"

  "Still here. The world's still in business, Peter. A lot of people left but they'll come back. Anyway, we're really shorthanded here, though."

  "Did you want me to come in today?" He regretted asking it almost immediately.

  "That would be great. Anytime you can. Also, Peter, you know that losing Veronica left us a huge void. She's irreplaceable but I think you'd make a good interim acting chief."

  "Me? But I just…"

  "Quick thinking, locking down the ER like that," Mancina breathed. "You probably saved a lot of lives."

  Peter brightened. "Do you think so?"

  "Definitely. Will you do it?"

  "What about the seniority issue. Most of the docs are ahead of me…"

  "Most of the docs are gone, Peter."

  This time it was his turn to be silent for a bit. It surprised him that so many of them would just abandon the sick people to their fates. That's not why someone became a doctor. Of course, where had he been the past week? Huddled in his apartment scribbling nonsense plans for the end of the world.

  "Okay, Dr. Mancina."

  Mancina was overjoyed. Peter hung up the phone feeling much better about himself and the world. It meant a lot that his actions on that terrible day had been noticed and, more than that, appreciated. He wasn't one to go hunting for accolades but he wasn't one to reject them either. Especially after a week of self doubt and self loathing, the ego boost was just was the doctor ordered.

  ***

  SO Peter Ventura was chief of the ER at Sisters of Charity for two weeks on the day that Denise Luco met with 2 lawyers, a bureaucrat, and a PR man. It was a difficult transition, the one from full time doctor to full time administrator. He was often taken from patients in order to deal with schedules and budgets. He was in charge of a staff that differed dramatically from the staff that had been under Veronica Leke. The most notable change in staff was the addition of armed security personnel. There were guns in the ER. The pressure from above was different as well. The hospital administration gave him no quarter. They treated him like a seasoned veteran and scolded him for his rookie mistakes. A week in, he blew up at the board, telling them to go ahead and find someone else because he was done with the job. But there was no one else and they begged him back, promising to be more understanding of his position. It was a matter of hours before they broke that promise but Peter was mollified by the knowledge that he could do as he pleased with almost complete impunity.

  The biggest transition, though, had nothing to do with his new position. He found that his perspective as a doctor had been altered. He could no longer view patients in the same way. Setting a broken bone was one thing but he couldn't help thinking that behind every cough and cold that came through the doors lurked a zombie. Absolutely everyone was tested for the infection. It slowed down the patient turnover rate dramatically. Even with half of the population having vacated the city, the ER was still busy on a regular basis. The extra lab work kept people hanging around for far longer than necessary. Peter suggested that they let the people go home and follow up on the labs later, but that was quickly and rudely shot down. You can't just let infected people walk away. But better than ninety nine percent of them were free of the infection anyway. The truth was that it just wasn't that prevalent. There were, however, those few who really were sick. It was scary.

  Peter told every positive patient himself. Though some might think that the other doctors would be glad to be relieved of such a burden, that was not the feeling. His actions actually generated resentment among the staff. To them, it seemed as if he was armoring himself in both his title and his trauma. It seemed to them that he looked down upon them as unable to convey the necessary sentiment. Or perhaps they were just unworthy. The truth was that he was no better at it than anyone else. In fact, he was probably worse. Peter passed along the news with absolutely no emotion whatsoever. His mind dropped a shield in place that blocked out anything that he might find hurtful. Though being a victim might have helped him commiserate with these poor people, it was something that his fragile mind could not allow him to face head on.

  Today he was busy. People were flooding through the doors with a variety of maladies, most of which could have easily been self-treated at home. He felt very on edge. He snapped at three people before finally taking himself away from the ER to gather his strength. It was while he was taking this break that a medical student brought him a lab report that was stamped as positive for the zombie infection. Peter stared at it for a full two minutes, trying to will it to be different. But it would not change. This person, this twelve year old boy who'd come through the door coughing up blood and had been diagnosed with pneumonia, was going to die and become a zombie. How was Peter supposed to tell him? How was he supposed to tell the mother?

  There was a protocol in place for plague victims. They were all to be transported to Arthur Conroy Memorial Hospital in Manhattan. Peter had never been there but he supposed that was where the city had set up its main research facility. Peter ordered transfer and then went to inform the mother. He pulled her aside and told her, showing her the report. To her credit, she didn't say, there must be some mistake. There was none. The boy would be retested at Arthur Conroy but the doctors at Sisters of Charity were satisfied. As a result, she would also need to be tested as well. The father was a non-issue. They hadn't seen him in six years. Was she dating anyone? Where did the boy attend school? There was a process. The poor woman had to answer question after question, putting aside the fact that her son was going to die in a matter of hours.

  Her name was Melissa Benford. Her son's name was Jason. Peter sat with the two of them even after the questions were answered. She didn't tell her son what was wrong with him. Peter asked her if she wanted him to do it but she shook her head. Instead she told Jason that they were going to take him to a
hospital in Manhattan where they had specialists. Jason wasn't stupid but he was only twelve years old. He grabbed hold of the lie tightly and clung to it even though he knew it wasn't true. After a while, more than a little sobered, Peter left them and went to attend to other patients.

  ***

  IT was almost thirty minutes later when one of the nurses came looking for him. He'd gone and seen two patients after the Benfords and then had needed to retreat and regroup once again. As the day wore on, he felt his rationale slipping away bit by bit. He had considered seeing a therapist but dismissed it. He knew the effects of trauma and, despite his week of paranoid isolation, he had convinced himself that he could see it through unaided. When the nurse told him that Melissa Benford had checked her son out against medical advice, he just exploded. Kill the messenger did not even begin to do his outburst justice. By the end of it, she was virtually in tears and he was offering up a very real apology. He tried to explain himself but the words jusat didn't do it justice. Finally, he asked about the tranport to Arthur Conroy. She told him it had never come. Later, when he finally looked into it, he would find that the call had never been made. Then he should have gone into a tirade but he was too drained. He let the matter go because it was just so easy to do so.

  When his shift ended, there was still some paperwork to clear up. He left it. He didn't even think about it. Instead, he went to the security closet where they kept everything from body armor to tasers. He took out a taser and a baton. He didn't bother with body armor. The two items were easily secured in his bag. Next he went to the drug and supply closet. He loaded up on some necessary items there. Finally, he went to the computer to gather some information and then headed out. As he did so, no one bothered to stop him and question him. By this time they were all avoiding him as if he was a zombie himself. And that suited him.

  He took a train ride from the hospital.

  The house where he arrived was modest, if not a bit small. The siding was showing signs of wear. There was peeling paint and a few hanging bits. The drapes in the windows were faded. There was no money here. How could there be? It occupied a single mother and her twelve year old son. Every last cent she earned went to the boy. And for what?

  "Dr. Ventura?" Melissa Benford said as she answered the door. She was already wary, he could tell. He could see things he would never have seen before. Peter had undergone a transformation. The course of action upon which he had decided made him feel that way. It had clicked as being right and that had removed all discomfort. The rest of his life, past, present, and future, had faded into obscurity. Peter Ventura was experiencing his own personal armageddon.

  "How's Jason?" he asked, all concern and sincerity.

  She wrung her hands together nervously. The question was unanswerable. There were only two answers. He was either worse or he was dead. The only real question was which.

  "I'd like to see him."

  "Maybe not," she said. "I'm sorry we left but I think I want to take care of him here. I don't want him becoming some experiment."

  "He's going to die. You know that."

  She nodded, strong like before. "Then let him die at home."

  "I think you should let me see him. He's dangerous."

  "He's just a little boy."

  "I know that. Don't you think I know that?" He reached into his bag, felt her tense. "I have something that will make him more comfortable." But when he pulled his hand out, he wasn't holding anything to make anyone any better. He shoved the taser forward, glancing her arm as she swerved to get away. She was still stunned and he was able to bring it in for a better blow. When she was on the ground, incapacitated, he stepped over her and moved deeper into the house.

  Jason's bedroom was on the second floor. There were only two bedrooms in the house. The master was small and the second bedroom was a shoebox. There was a window with old window shades and a closet that was so overflowing with clothes and toys that it wouldn't even close. Melissa had done the best she could with what she had, building shelves along the walls and setting up plastic cubbies. In the end, though, there was just clutter. Along the far wall was a twin sized bed with a small shape huddled under a faded green bedspread.

  Peter was there to kill the boy and destroy his brain, thus saving the child and any potential victims. Leaning over the bed, he could see that there wasn't much time left. The boy's breathing was shallow. His eyes were closed and there was blood on his pillow. Even though Peter was sure that the boy couldn't feel anything anymore, he wanted to be humane. Stretching on a pair of latex gloves, he filled a hypodermic with a lethal dose of epinephrine. He pulled the boy's arm out from under the bedspread and emptied the hypodermic directly into his vein. There was an instant reaction. The boy's eyes shot open and he looked straight up at Peter.

  "Where's my mom?" he choked. Then his heart gave out and he slumped back down into his bed.

  Making sure, Peter flipped him over, reached into his bag for his surgical tools, and got to work.

  ***

  AT just about the same time as Denise Luco was sizing up Joseph Solomon and Louis Juarez, Detective Anthony Heron's day was just beginning. He came lazily out of sleep, aware that he'd been dreaming but unaware of the details. The pillow was warm against his head and his blanket was curled around his body the way he liked it. That meant that Alicia was already up and gone from their room. Sniffling, he raised himself on one elbow and looked around. Sunlight poked in through the window blinds, giving the room a diffuse illumination. It was a nice time of the morning, a time of the morning that usually meant he'd have the day off even though he didn't. It was a good time to wake up on a Monday.

  Heron was feeling remarkably good that morning despite his job and his cancer. It had been almost three weeks since the surgery and his recuperation was progressing well ahead of schedule. Of course. Physically, he was a prime specimen. He'd always taken impeccable care of himself, choosing martial arts training and outdoor exercise over something like weight lifting at the gym. That kind of workout was good for building definition but Heron had always been more interested in stamina. Endurance. Running was a preferred exercise but his doctor did not recommend it for another several weeks. At this point, against doctor's orders, he was taking brisk walks at night. He liked this time of year, when the nights were cold and dark and came early. He liked to work up his body and battle the cold with the rush of ninety eight degree blood.

  He was undergoing chemotherapy now as well. That had taken its toll on him. The physical effects were bad enough but the depression that came with the debilitation was something for which Heron had not been prepared. He was now beginning to cope with that. So he felt better emotionally even if his body was less than one hundred percent.

  Finally there was the smoking. He'd given it up as soon as the diagnosis had come through, dropped it on a dime. What other choice had he had? But it hadn't been easy. You can't smoke for almost thirty years and then just quit. Well, he supposed some people could. Some people just never became truly addicted. He didn't understand it but he knew it happened. There was this guy once… Never mind. From Heron, the addiction was finally receding. He still wanted a cigarette. After meals. On his walks (ironic). In the car. Especially in the car. That had been the thing between him and Stemmy. Stemmy had always let him drive and Heron had rolled down the window and smoked in the car. Now that was gone. And so was Stemmy.

  Rubbing his bald head, he felt no stubble. Chemotherapy again. It was almost a bonus, not having to shave his head. After all, shaving one's head is no picnic. He wondered if the lack of maintenance would force him to become lazy. Maybe he'd just let the hair grow back when it was all over.

  If he lived that long.

  Heron's morning routine was pretty bland. He went to the toilet, brushed his teeth, showered, shaved if it was necessary, dressed, and went downstairs for a cup of coffee. With shaving the routine took him twenty six minutes. Without it, he was under twenty. Since the surgery, he'd been a bit slower. It
took him longer to get out bed, longer to get out of the shower, longer to dry off. But it wasn't too much longer and he could probably just chalk it up to age. At some point, he would return to himself and that was the concept that was moving him emotionally in the right direction.

  "Good morning," he said to his wife as he went into the kitchen. "I didn't expect you to be home."