by Morris, Jacy
They stepped inside of the room. It was a crash pad, a stained mattress on the floor, a rotting body, and a beat up old loveseat in the corner. "Help me!" he yelled to Lou as he hastened to the loveseat. They dragged it across the scarred wooden floor and pressed it up against the broken door. It wasn't much of a barricade, but it would give them the time to reload.
Zeke pulled out the empty clip he had put in his pocket and began thumbing in rounds of ammunition that floated in his other pocket. He pulled the half-empty clip from the machine gun and did the same as the sound of the first fist on the door hit. More fists followed, and the cheap wood vibrated with the force. When he finished loading the second clip, he saw that Lou had done the same, back against the loveseat and his legs dug into the ground, preventing the dead from forcing their way inside.
Zeke ran to the window and threw it open. The apartment opened on the backside of the building. The ground below was solid concrete, but it was clear. Still, a twenty foot drop was not a thing to be taken lightly. He thought about throwing the mattress out the window to break their fall, but when a rotten fist punched through the wood of the door, he abandoned the idea.
"Looks like we're going to have to jump. You want to go first or second?"
"You go. I'll be right behind you."
"You sure you don't want to go first?"
Lou looked at him as if he were from another planet. "Man, are you scared?"
Zeke looked out the window. "It's a long way down."
"Get out that goddamn window, before I shoot you myself." Zeke smiled at Lou as he threw the window up and leaned out.
Zeke rested his gun on the ground. "Before you jump out, toss this bad boy down to me. I don't want to damage it in the fall." Lou nodded his head. "Man, that's a long way down," Zeke said as he climbed out the window. He dropped down, clinging to the windowsill to lessen the distance that he would have to fall. The cracked and dried paint dug into his hands. He had the feeling that this was how his life was going to end, and then he let go, dropping the fifteen feet to the ground. He landed with a thump, his heart landed a few seconds later. He was alright, though he still felt the impact of the drop in his knees. He looked up in time to see the gun falling towards him. His hands reacted out of instinct, protecting his face from the falling chunk of metal. He managed to catch the gun and not shoot himself in the process. Not too shabby, he thought.
Lou appeared at the window, the gun tucked into his pants. He put his legs out the window first and then sat on the edge. From the ground, Zeke read Lou's moving lips. He thought he made out the words, "Fuck this," but he could have been wrong. Lou hesitated and paused, looking up at the sky before he dropped out the window, fear frozen on his face.
Zeke stepped out of the way. He had seen people make the mistake before of trying to catch people jumping from high places. It was a good way to get cracked in the face with an elbow. The last thing he wanted was for both of them to be lying on the ground unconscious because they had bashed heads when he tried to catch Lou. So he watched the impact, and moved in quickly to help Lou to his feet.
"You alright?"
Lou was having difficulty catching his breath.
"You alright?" he asked again, looking up at the window to see arms attached to leering faces snarling down at them.
Zeke dragged Lou down the sidewalk, away from the window as the first of the dead tumbled down to the ground. Its landing was not as graceful as Lou's had been, and it smashed it's face into the ground. When it looked up at them and tried to rise to its feet, its face no longer looked like a face.
They moved away, Lou gasping, while Zeke tugged him along with his free hand under Lou's elbow.
"What's wrong with you?"
"My balls. The shock of landing smacked my balls all around."
"Jesus. You must have some pretty big balls."
"Yeah," he said. "That makes two of us. Where the hell are we going?"
"Beats the shit out of me," Zeke said as they stumbled through the afternoon street, zombies tumbling out of the window like lemmings off a cliff behind them.
Chapter 4: Those Things'll Kill Ya
After they notified the CDC of an impending apocalypse, morale was fairly low. Finding out that the entire world was essentially in the same boat as they were would naturally have that effect. The stress of the previous night had washed over them, and they had collapsed into a sleep that was fitful, but refreshing. They had slept, waking at every knock on the door, of which there were less and less. When Joan finally sat up, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, everything was just as they had left it.
On the black and white monitors that were their only link to the outside world, the dead wandered the halls. A former quarantine officer was plastered to the door of the office they were occupying, his fingers shredded to the bone from scratching at the magnetically sealed door. In the hallways, others shifted about aimlessly, making circuits across the linoleum floor, as if they were unable to leave. They reminded her of sharks, cold and lifeless, just circling until prey made itself available.
Joan heard Clara stir behind her. She knew that Clara still harbored an anger that was finely honed and aimed right at her heart. Joan didn't blame her. She watched as Clara stretched, running a hand through her tangled, caramel brown hair. Her eyes were puffy, and the make-up that had looked so great when she had first met her in the emergency room was now smeared, giving her an abused appearance. Clara had every right to be angry. If it hadn't been for Joan, she would be out on the street. She was strong. She was a survivor. But in here, she was trapped. Hopefully, Joan could make it up to her.
Joan's responsibility was finished. She was a doctor of a hospital whose only patients were of the dead variety. The speed with which the hospital had fallen still shocked her. They had been prepared. They had known how to deal with this. But knowing and doing are two completely different things. For instance, Joan knew that they couldn't stay hidden in the room they were in indefinitely; there was no food, no water, and if the power went out, there would be no way to open the magnetically-sealed door that was keeping the dead out. The cramped office would become their tomb if that happened. She knew this, without a doubt. She knew they had to get out, but doing it... well, that was another thing entirely.
Clara rose from the bed, hopping along the linoleum floor of the office on her sprained ankle. The swelling was bad, but Joan didn't think there was anything structurally wrong with it. It would merely slow her down at a time when being slowed down was the last thing a person would want. Clara leaned over Joan's shoulder, her morning breath forming a miasma that hung in the air. It was an unpleasant smell, but considering the situation, Joan didn't feel like making a big deal about it. Joan also had a feeling that her own breath was probably not the most wonderful thing in the world either.
"No change, huh?" Clara asked.
Joan shook her head. Then she broached the topic that had been on her mind since she had awoken. "We have to leave."
Clara laughed a little bit, until she saw the look on Joan's face. "You're serious? Fuck that. We go out there, and we're going to get torn to shreds by those things."
Joan shook her head. "I know. I know what's out there and how it will likely end up, but look at the alternative. If we stay here, what happens? Best case scenario, we die from dehydration, hoping that someone will come and rescue us. If the power goes out, we're going to be locked in here. We'd never even know if someone did come to rescue us. If we wait much longer, we'll be too weak to fight our way out of here. We don't have time to waste."
Clara laughed. "If you're trying to make the case for me to kill myself, you're going to have to try harder than that."
Joan looked at Clara. She was right. Walking out that door was suicide, but so was staying inside. Slow death by dehydration or a quick one by cannibalism, it was a hell of a choice to make. "I'd rather risk it all than sit here waiting for the inevitable."
Clara sat down on the floor, her head again
st the wall. "I wish I had a cigarette."
"Now there's something that will kill you," Joan said.
Clara stood up, sighed, and dusted off her jeans. "Well, cigarettes aren't just going to come walking in here on their own. I guess we ought to try. What's the plan?"
****
The door popped open with a click, and the creature on the other side of the door hesitated. It had been banging on the door for so long that it was almost as if it had no idea what to do next now that the obstruction was gone. It didn't have to think for long. Plastic keys clattered on the hard floor as Clara brought a computer keyboard crashing down on the man's face. The former quarantine officer was massive, and the keyboard did not slow his advance. Behind him, more of the infected were drawn to the commotion.
Time was important now. If they were slowed here, they were as good as dead. The keys of the keyboard crunched under her feet as Clara stepped sideways. Joan stepped up to fill the void, and she smashed the security guard across the face with the metal chair legs that they had liberated from the single office chair in their would-be tomb. It was an unwieldy thing, harder to use than the keyboard, but its starfish shape and solid metal construction gave it more of an impact. The guard fell to the ground, and they hopped over him.
Over the hours that they had slept, the quarantine ward had emptied somewhat. There were less infected, but there were still enough there to turn the hallway into a deadly obstacle course. They ran across the foyer, just like they had discussed, stooping to pick up the discarded weapons of the overrun quarantine detail, guns that they had no idea how to use. Still, they would make better bludgeons than a chair leg or a cheap plastic keyboard.
Clara liked the feel of the metal in her hand. Its weight was reassuring. She aimed the gun at one of the infected, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, so she reversed the weapon and swung it like a baseball bat at a female quarantine officer, her face torn to shreds, and her biohazard suit splattered with blood that was in mid-coagulation. The impact was satisfying, the crunch loud and solid. The female quarantine officer fell to the ground, and Clara readied for another swing, but the quarantine officer didn't get up.
They moved through the double doors at the end of the hallway, Clara limping on her ankle and dodging the outreaching arms of the dead. Clara threw her shoulder into the metal bar of the door, and it flew open, the metal handle springing back into place with a loud clang. Joan followed Clara closely as they moved through the hallway, avoiding the elevators, and making their way to the stairs. The hallway was long, filled with benches and windows set into alcoves. Several of the infected stood in the hallway, and the two women swatted at them as they grasped for them. All the while, they could feel the presence of more infected behind them, slowly marching towards their position. They had to get out, or they would be trapped forever.
The hallway was stained with gore. Bloody footsteps marred the carpet, and a pile of guts sat on a bench in one of the alcoves. Clara still couldn't believe that this was happening. Only last night she had been at a punk concert with her future husband. Now he was dead, but still alive, and the world had been turned upside down while she continued to fight for her life.
Her thoughts evaporated as one of the undead reached out to her, a patient in a gown that hung down her arms. Her naked, gray body sent a wave of revulsion through Clara, and she grasped the gun in both hands, jamming the butt of the rifle into the creature's jaw and sending it sprawling. Ahead of her Joan did the same to an older gentleman with crooked glasses and an arm that had no flesh on it. Despite the use of only one good arm, it grasped at Joan, clawing at her. Joan smashed it in the face and it fell to the ground, dragging Joan down with it by her hair. The man's mouth opened wide as he pulled the struggling Joan closer.
Before he could take a bite out of Joan, Clara was there, smashing the creature in the face. It fell on its back, its nose shattered, and blood oozing out of the split skin. Clara reached down and grabbed Joan, pulling her up to her feet and shoving her forward while the old man dripped blood down a faded green, cardigan sweater.
They were halfway through the hallway. Joan looked behind her to see every creature that they had passed marching towards them, undeterred. They could ill afford any more hold-ups. Joan ran ahead, while Clara limped along behind her, her walking boot bearing some of the shock that her injured ankle felt, but it was still on fire, and her breathing was heavy. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead as they ducked and dodged their way past the staggered handful of infected that ruled the hallway.
Then they were at the door to the stairwell. Joan pulled the door open and held it open for her. They ducked inside, and Clara did a quick scan of the landing to see if there was any way to block off the door they had just entered. There was nothing, just the stale emptiness of the concrete stairwell, the walls painted white and orange, the plain concrete steps oozing a coolness that Clara welcomed. She began her descent down the stairs, wincing as the movement sent pain from her ankle straight into her brain.
They weren't out of the woods yet. Joan ran ahead of her, looking back up at her and yelling, "Hurry up!" Clara was going as fast as she could, hopping down the stairs on her one good leg, using the butt of the rifle as a makeshift crutch. She had reached the first landing by the time she heard the door above her pop open and the first of the infected shamble through. She saw the shadow of others, the fluorescent lights above them transforming the shadows into absurd shadow puppets against the wall.
Clara doubled her efforts. When she reached the bottom of the next set of stairs, she heard a large clatter above her. When she looked, she saw them tumbling down the stairs, their arms outstretched before them. The old man in the cardigan was there, as was the naked gray woman, her hospital gown lost in her pursuit of fresh flesh. Clara was moving as quick as she could, but it wasn't fast enough. Behind her, she could hear them, getting closer, tumbling over each other as if they were waves in the ocean. They didn't care about stairs. They didn't care about falling. Clara couldn't compete with that. At the third landing, she felt and heard them close behind her, so close that she was afraid to look over her shoulder.
Clara did the only thing that she could. She rested her bottom on the railing with the intent of sliding down it. She lost a handful of hair as one of the infected reached out to her just as she began her descent. The force threw her off balance, and she slipped off the railing, rolling down the flight of stairs to another landing. When she stood up, they were tumbling after her, broken limbs and gore flying everywhere. She had lost her rifle in the fall, and the wave of infected crashed over her, their hands grasping, squeezing, clawing at her, and threatening to pull her under. She was dead. This was how it was going to end, knee deep in a pile of cannibals.
Then Joan was there, sweat covering her body, swinging her scavenged rifle at the infected. Clara broke away from the mass, their clammy hands clawing at her jeans, and slid down the next handrail. Joan followed after her, bounding down the stairs, two and three at a time.
"C'mon, girl. It isn't time to die yet," Joan said. It was a stupid thing to say. It was an action movie thing to say, but it infused Clara with energy, forcing her to push herself. She hobbled and slid down another railing, and she was about to continue to the next when Joan put her hand on her chest. "Listen," she said.
In addition to the moaning and groaning from above, below them was a buzzing sound, like the sound of a mass of people talking. Clara leaned over the railing and looked down below. The bottom of the stairwell was full of the infected, milling about, groaning and bumping into each other, spinning off in a new direction only to bump, spin, and continue the process. There would be no escape at the bottom of the stairwell.
They hurried down the next flight of stairs, careful not to alert the horde below to their presence. Joan reached the door to the second floor and pulled it open. The entire hospital was dead. They had yet to see a living person, and now their way out was blocked by a mass of infected that
was too thick to walk through.
Clara hobbled through the door that Joan held open for her. The door closed behind them, and they were off through the second floor of the hospital, looking out the windows to see if there was any way down.
The second floor was different from the rest of the hospital. It contained the cafeteria, a chapel, and numerous waiting rooms filled with threadbare couches and chairs that had seen better days. It was also populated with the infected, and Clara and Joan moved quickly, sticking close to the windows.
"Where are we going?" Clara asked.
"We need to get to the backside of the hospital. There's a small parking garage for the staff there. It's connected to the hospital by a covered walkway. If we cut through the cafeteria, we can get there, get in my car and get the hell out of here."
They made it through the waiting rooms just fine, only having to dodge a few lazy hands and bash a couple of heads, but they skidded to a halt at the entrance of the cafeteria. The mass that milled around in the cafeteria was far too dense for them to make it through. Clara and Joan backed away as the infected noticed their presence, and, as a single body, advanced upon them.
"Oh, shit," Clara said.
Joan turned around, and saw that the creatures they had passed in the hallway had pursued them, cutting off any sort of escape, not that there was any place in the hospital that didn't seem to have infected milling around in it. If there was such a place, they had no way of getting to it. There was only one option, the windows, large thick hunks of glass that went from floor to ceiling. Joan ran to the nearest one and began bashing on it with the butt of her rifle, she could see the ground below, a twenty-foot drop, likely onto either hard concrete or some sort of landscaping that was likely to impale them. She was fine with either option; it was better than being torn to shreds.
