by Anthony Izzo
“I think our sweep is done on this floor,” Emma said.
“Smells like a slaughterhouse,” George said.
“You ever actually been to one?” Emma said.
“If I was, this is how it would smell.”
“Fair enough,” Emma said.
Emma heard a door slam; someone had entered the hallway. They crept out of the lab, each of them taking a side of the hallway so they wouldn't be in each other's field of fire. Buckshot in her ass would not improve the evening.
Someone stepped from one of the patient rooms. Emma recognized him as the dead guy from the hallway. His skin reminded Emma of old cheese. His eyes were dead and white.
After a moment, it seemed to notice them and came forward. Emma aimed and fired, the dead man's head exploding and showering the walls with gore. The man stumbled and slumped against the wall.
“C'mon. We got the rest of the hospital to cover,” Emma said.
They walked around the dead man and were nearly to the waiting room when Emma heard footsteps slapping the floor. Someone jumped on George's back and drove him forward. She spun around to see a second person – one of the dead lab techs – coming at her. She drove the butt of the shotgun into the woman's face, driving her backward. Then she blasted her in the face.
She turned to see the other dead tech gnawing at George's neck. She slammed the shotgun into the tech's head, but she didn't budge. Emma grabbed her by the hair, slicked with blood. She pulled the howling woman backward, both of them ending up on their asses. The woman lunged for Emma, but George got there, slamming a boot into her head. He proceeded to beat the zombie's head in with his shotgun stock. When he was done, he stood panting, his uniform shirt specked with blood.
“You okay, boss?” George asked.
“I'm in one piece. Your neck, George. Shit.”
Blood dribbled from a cut on his neck. It wasn't that bad, but she worried that the bite may have transmitted the virus.
He touched his hand to the wound, then looked at the blood. “Not so bad. Hope it doesn't make me sick.”
“Yeah, hate to have to shoot you.”
“You do, just make it clean.”
They were joking, but Emma was scared to death that it might become a reality.
Chapter Eleven
Lieutenant Matt Stamford had a crick in his neck and was sure the quick teeth brushing he did hadn't done a thing to kill sleep breath. He'd been woken up by one of the Colonel's staff and was presently hoofing it over to the boss's office. Something about trouble in a small town upstate.
He arrived in Colonel Chadwick's office to find the man sipping something from a styrofoam cup. He entered, saluted. The Colonel gave him a tired salute back.
“Stamford. You want some coffee?”
“No sir.”
Even at this time of night, the Colonel was squared away. Uniform sharp as a sword and not a hint of stubble on his face.
“Sit down.”
Stamford took a seat across from Chadwick's desk. On the desk was a picture of two incredibly beautiful girls of about nineteen. “What's up sir?”
“We got a call from a cop down in Anderson. They've got some sort of mutant-things running around down there.”
“Sir?”
“I would've thought it was bullshit, but we had an issue down there a little while back. Some sort of bio weapons project they were transporting got loose. I don't know much about it, but from what command tells me, it's our problem to clean up.”
Chadwick knocked back the rest of his drink and threw the cup into the trash.
Stamford actually had a little tingle of excitement in his guts. He felt like he was rotting away on this base. After being sent back from Iraq, he'd been stationed here. He'd wanted to get into Special Forces, but didn't meet the requirements. He was single and had no family on the base, so most of his nights were spent watching Discovery Channel. Sometimes the occasional skin flick on cable. Some action would be welcome.
“What do you need me to do?”
“We're getting a chopper ready to go. I need you to take a squad in there and see what the hell's going on. It's a three hour drive to Anderson and people will need our help. I need you to assess the situation and give me a recommendation.”
“Recommendation sir?”
“Whether or not we need to open a bottle of whoop ass down there. Casualties, that sort of stuff. Get any civilians out of harm's way.”
“Will do, sir.”
“Get squared away and be ready to go in a half hour. Chopper and your men'll be waiting.”
“Yes sir,” Stamford said, and stood up.
“This is probably gonna be nothing like you saw in Iraq. Be prepared.”
“What am I up against?”
“From what I know, this project causes people to...reanimate. It was part of a weapons project designed to be dropped in enemy territory. The dead come back. They change. Extremely hostile. It was designed to be dropped in areas with heavy casualties, turn the enemy's dead against them.”
“Holy shit.”
“My sentiments exactly. I'd shoot for the head. Be sure it brings them down.”
A half-hour later, Stamford was climbing into a Blackhawk chopper with his squad. He had his M-16 ready to go. He had no idea what to expect. In Iraq, he'd killed two men. One an Iraqi regular and one an insurgent that had ambushed their convoy. He still could see every detail on both the men's faces. Often he saw them in his dreams.
He sat next to Chris Sampson, who was carrying the M-249 SAW. It had enough ammo in it to cut down a small army of whatever they were up against. He wanted to think zombies, but that sounded fucking crazy.
“You ready for this Lieutenant?”
“Flying into a horror movie you mean?”
Sampson was from Alabama, a blond-haired kid with a slow drawl. He loved Alabama football, evidenced by the crimson tide tattoo on his forearm. He had served with Stamford in Fallujah and promised if they ever got out alive, he would have his mother make them an honest-to-God Southern meal. Stamford was looking forward to it. Someday.
“About like that, yeah.”
“Beats sitting on my ass watching cable.”
As the chopper lifted off he scanned the men's faces. A few had their eyes closed, perhaps praying. Some looked down at the floor while others' eyeballs did a nervous jig back and forth in the sockets. He supposed each man dealt with fear in their own way. He'd never taken much to praying, although someone had seen fit to send his ass home from Iraq alive. Supposed there was a God somewhere looking after him.
Although he didn't pray, he hoped God wouldn't take the night off.
“Get out of there,” Tim said.
“I need to get the key off of him.”
“We'll find another way.”
“There's no other way,” Rob said. “I have to kill him.”
“Rob-”
“Gotta go,” Rob said, and ended the call.
He couldn't pinpoint Carl's location, but he could hear the undead man in the hallway. Somewhere. He crept forward, urging Kayla to follow. He crept to the junction in the hallway. If he went right, he'd end up back at the cafeteria. Something crashed in the cafeteria, which told him the janitor – or what was left of him – was in there.
He knelt down and was face-to-face with Kayla. “I have to go in there.”
“No.”
“Listen. That man, or whatever he is, has the key to the van. We need the key,” Rob said. “I don't want you out here by yourself, so I want you to stay close. When I tell you, close your eyes so you don't see. Understand?”
“Uh huh.”
“Good girl,” Rob said.
He stood up and propped open the cafeteria door, Kayla at his hip. There was no sign of the janitor in the cafeteria, only tables that had been tipped over. He crossed the cafeteria, Kayla following close. There was another set of doors opposite the ones he came in. He checked the floor for footprints or any sign of blood and saw none.
The kitchen door flew open and the janitor with came storming at them. Half his head had been turned to jelly. One of his eyeballs hung by a thread on the cheek. Rob told Hannah to close her eyes and plug her ears. He aimed the shotgun and fired. The shot went wide, the buckshot cutting holes in the wall.
He was about twenty feet away. Rob tried to back up and stumbled over Kayla. The janitor's head whipped around and he fixated on Kayla. She was in front of Rob, who was trying to get to his feet with the shotgun. His legs felt like iron and he couldn't quite grip the gun.
He pulled Kayla backward and got a grip on the gun. He leveled it and fired. The buckshot turned the janitor's head to jelly. The body slumped to the ground. He knelt down and hugged Kayla. “You okay?”
She nodded.
“I need to get the key,” Rob said.
He knelt beside the body, the smell of blood and rotten meet coming off the janitor. Rob swallowed hard, trying to hold his lunch down. Reaching in the dead man's pocket, he found the key ring, heavy and cold. He took it out and sifted through the keys. The last one he checked was a Ford key. The van.
“We've got to go. You okay? Did I hurt you when I fell?”
“Dad, I'm tougher than that.”
“That a girl. Come on.”
When he reached the lobby, the things pounding at the glass had caused several jagged cracks to form. It wouldn't keep them out much longer. He panicked for a moment when he didn't see the others, but then reasoned they must have gotten out of sight. He found them in one of the corridors that jutted off the lobby.
Tim looked up and saw him. “Did you find him?”
“Found him and put a new hole in his head.”
“Thought he was dead,” Tim said.
“He had different ideas. Ready to try for the basement? That glass isn't gonna hold forever,” Rob said.
He took a quick glance at the others. Ramsey looked as if he'd been smacked. Mary continued to pace, and Ryan leaned against the wall, hands in pockets. If shit got crazy, he would trust the cop before any of the others. He couldn't see any of them holding up under pressure. Didn't know how we would do either, for that matter.
The assault on the glass continued.
They hurried across the lobby to the elevators and descended to the basement.
Rob said, “Which way to the loading dock?”
“Follow me,” Ramsey said, and walked ahead of them. “It is my building.”
Well excuse fucking me, Rob thought. “After you boss.”
They wound up in a large open area. On one side a concrete ramp sloped up to a roll-up door. There were a few pallets with cardboard boxes stacked on them. Next to the ramp was an office with the words Receiving Manager painted on the door.
“The security camera's in there,” Ramsey said.
“Is there another door out of here?” Tim asked.
“Just the big door, why?” Ramsey said.
“I'm worried they'll hear it and come for us,” Tim said.
“It's the best chance we have,” Rob said.
“Why are we wasting time?” Ryan asked. “Let's get the hell out of here.”
Rob didn't really like the kid. He tended to take twenty minute breaks when allotted ten and Rob had seen him running uncompleted paperwork through the shredder. But he had a point. “Ryan's right. We can't waste time.”
“Who's going to run for the van?” Mary asked. “Jerry's kind of slow. No offense. I'm wearing heels and a skirt.”
“Tim's got the most experience with guns. Whoever goes out there's going to need cover,” Rob said.
“And you got the other gun,” Tim said. “So that leaves you, my friend.”
Rob expected some sort of whiny protest from Ryan, but the kid said: “Game on.”
“Jerry, what's the interior of the van like?” Rob asked.
“Oh, AM/FM stereo, drink holders. Why the fuck does that matter?” Ramsey said.
“Are there bench seats, buckets, or is it an open cargo van? I'm thinking Ryan can back it up and we can hop in back. But not if there's bench seats.”
“Dude, I can figure that out. I'll have to back down the ramp either way. I'll either open the side or rear door. Just be ready.”
Tim said, “Alright ladies. Enough chatter. Jerry, right? Get on that camera.”
The back of Rob's neck began to sweat, the droplets rolling down his back. Same thing would happen before an exam in school. Same thing happened when he was waiting for Emma to walk down the aisle. He looked down at Kayla, who was fiddling with the strings on her hoodie. He squeezed her close, and it was one of those moments where worrying to death about your kid almost outweighed the joy of having a child. Almost.
Ramsey unlocked the office door and flipped on the light. They were almost ready.
Chapter Twelve
“We should take the stairs,” Emma said. “I don't want to be caught waiting for elevator doors to open or close.”
“You're the boss.”
They found the stairwell and left the blood lab behind. She hoped they faired better on the next few floors. It couldn't get any worse than what they just saw. There hadn't been any survivors, which had been disheartening.
They swept the third floor and found a number of specialty clinics: neurology, dietetics, training rooms for birthing classes. There was also a locked business office and a cafeteria. As they approached the cafeteria, they saw light spilling under the door.
Emma stopped at the open double doors. Inside were stations for hot foods, coolers with cold drinks, and racks for chips and cookies. Two cash registers stood unmanned and she wondered if any staff left on might have evacuated. They took a walk through the food serving area and the dining room. No one was home. There was no sign of the creatures.
Her cell rang. She took it out and answered. Tim on the line.
“Army's sending a squad in by helicopter. They should be here in half-an-hour,” Tim said.
“Send them here. We've got our hands full.”
“Not doing so hot here, either Chief.”
“Explain.”
Apparently Tim, Rob, and some of Rob's co-workers were surrounded by whatever freaks were loose in town. “How many?”
“Fifty, at least.”
Did they leave the hospital? But there were sick people at home, too. Half of Parker Elementary school was home sick, teachers and parents. The things didn't necessarily escape St. Mary's. “I'll get on the horn with the state boys. Their barracks is an hour away. Not sure how much that'll help. How are Rob and Kayla?”
“Holding up. Look Chief, we're about to boogie. The front doors are all that's keeping those things out right now.”
“Keep everyone safe,” Emma said.
“Will do,” Tim said.
She was torn. Wanted to leave the hospital to go to Rob and Kayla. But they were in good hands with Tim and she had people to tend to here. Hopefully the Army would show up and be ready to kick ass.
She heard the squeal of a door opening from an upper floor and gave George a look. There came a chorus of hisses and growls. Then the sound of sniffing, like an animal testing the air. She heard someone clopping down the stairs and. A pale-skinned leg came into view. It's wearer had on a hospital gown. The woman in the gown turned her head and Emma saw her vacant white eyes. The woman was joined by six others in gowns, all shoving and pushing to get around each other.
“Back to the third floor,” Emma said.
The retreated to the floor with the blood lab and waited at the end of the corridor. Emma hoped to funnel them down the hallway and make easy targets. They took a moment to reload. While they were reloading, Emma heard the door open, which was followed by a series of grunts. The things turned the corner, seven of them in hospital gowns. When they saw Emma and George, they broke into a run.
“Cut 'em down,” Emma said.
They brought down the first four with shotgun blasts. The others climbed over the bodies. They took down two more. The final zombi
e was a tall, elderly man. His stringy, white hair hung over his face, and blue veins crisscrossed his arms like a roadmap.
As he drew closer, Emma was forced to re-load again.
George fired, catching the old man in the arm. The blast ripped off his arm from the elbow down, but he kept coming.
