by James, Jill
Flinging the cloth across the room, she covered her eyes and the sobs broke. She wouldn’t be one of them. They hadn’t changed her that much. They’d taken her innocence; she wouldn’t let them have taken her beliefs and values.
“I won’t. I’m not a monster.”
Her fingers trembled as she pulled the sheet back up to his chin. “You have to live, Seth. I can’t do this alone.”
Time passed as the sun traveled from the living-room window in the morning, baked the small apartment through the day, and then sank on the horizon out the bedroom window. Miranda filled the time with checking on Seth, keeping him alive with sips of water every hour, and searching the building and nearby stores for supplies.
Each morning she rushed from the couch to find him still unconscious, but not turned. Each evening she said the prayers she’d thought she’d lost, begging God to see Seth through this. Three more days passed before his fever broke. She checked his hand as she cleaned it and bandaged it up again. The burn scars made her stomach clench, but there were no red or black streaks running from the mutilated flesh. Thank goodness for medical shows on television. She smiled at the thought of the television being good for something.
Getting Seth cleaned up and settled with more blankets, she decided to take a sponge bath herself. Grabbing two gallon-bottles of water, she headed to the bathroom. She stripped and stared at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t do anything about her missing hair, but her face looked fuller and her ribs weren’t showing anymore. She now had all the food she wanted, not how much she earned.
“Fuck you, Peters,” she whispered to her reflection. “Fuck you all.”
She turned away from the hatred flooding her eyes. No time for hate, only time to live.
The lukewarm water flowed over her as she poured the first bottle. She didn’t need shampoo but she grabbed the bottle anyway and squeezed a handful of strawberry goodness into her hand. Rubbing it over her head and body was the best she’d felt in a long time.
She was pouring the second bottle over her head when the screams began again. Cursing, with shampoo in her eyes, she did the best she could and grabbed a towel to whip around her body.
“Emily. Emily. Emily. Emily.”
“Shit, “Miranda said, as she ran into the bedroom.
Seth had pulled a hand free. She grabbed it as she jumped on the bed and straddled his hips. “Shush,” she begged, putting her other hand over his mouth.
His movements slowed and stopped. He pulled his hand free and put it on the back of her neck. Pressure forced her to lean down over him. Her hand fell from his mouth seconds before he pulled her closer and his lips found hers. No forcing needed then. Oh my God, his kiss was heat and fire and sin. Everything she’d read about in romance novels and nothing like Peters’ wet slurping on her face and in her mouth. Her head grew light and colors flashed behind her closed eyelids.
His lips left hers and trailed over her cheek to the sensitive skin behind her ear. His teeth nibbled at her earlobe and her legs grew weak. The only thing stopping her from collapsing on his body was the hand on her neck.
“Emily,” he whispered in her ear.
She whimpered. Steel flashed up her spine. She removed his hand and put it on the covers. Slowly, she stopped straddling his hips and moved from the bed. Untying his other hand, she moved to his feet and untied them as well. Seth rolled to his side and settled into a comfortable sleep, snoring included. She covered him and backed out of the room.
“Damn, Emily, you are a lucky woman,” she whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek.
♦♦♦
Seth’s eyes fluttered open. Pain shot from his hand, up his arm, to his head. He grabbed his hand and screamed in agony. Opening his eyes, his gaze traveled over his bandaged hand. The shape was wrong. He ripped the gauze off and it fell to the bed. He knew something was wrong, but his brain couldn’t comprehend how this mutilated—burned thing could be his hand.
He sat up in the bed, the covers falling off. A whispered sound had his head spinning around. A young boy stood in the doorway. No. His view of the front of a T-shirt changed that thought. A young girl stood there. Flashes of her being there bombarded his mind.
A flash pierced his mind of the destroyed hospital.
Another flash slammed into him, of his mother turning into one of them.
His breath left him. His mother was dead. He’d killed his mother.
“Fuck.”
“Yep, that about sums it up.”
He winced. “Sorry about that.”
She laughed. “No problem, Seth.”
He sat up straighter. “How do you know me? Where are we? How did we get here? Are there others?”
“Whoa,” she said, walking across the room and sitting on the bed beside him. “One thing at a time.”
She gathered up the bloody gauze and rolled it into a ball. “Let’s get that covered again.”
When she left, he heard her in cabinets, presumably the bathroom. His hand throbbed where his missing fingers should be. It beat in time with his heart. He prayed there were some painkillers wherever she was.
“How do you know me?” It shot out the second she returned with gauze and ‘Thank God’ a pill bottle.
She cradled his hand, her fingers soft and sure. He looked away until she’d covered it up again. Shaking out a couple of pills into his other hand, she waited until he threw them in his mouth and handed him a water bottle.
“Sorry about that,” she said, pointing to the bandages.
“Did you do that?”
“I had to. Let me start at the beginning. I’m Miranda Stevens. I saw you at Peters’ compound in the Delta when you brought supplies and stuff.”
His mouth dropped open. Miranda Stevens had been a beautiful young woman. She’d had brown hair to her waist and a smile for him every time he’d arrived with stuff for the group. He’d known some young man was going to be very lucky to win Miranda’s heart someday. He couldn’t reconcile that vivid memory of a sweet girl with the tough soldier chick before him.
She blushed, brushing a hand over her buzzed head. “It’s not important. I don’t want to discuss it.”
“No problem,” Seth added quickly, sorry he’d upset the young girl. “How did we get here? I remember the hospital.” He swallowed harshly, his throat dry and tight.
“I found you after I escaped the General and his men. You had a woman in your arms. I figured she was your mom. She looked like you. So I buried her, the best I could, and got you here. Someone bit you. It didn’t look so bad so I cut off your fingers, cauterized the wound, and waited for you to heal or turn. Whichever came first.”
He stared at his hand. She talked so matter-of-factly of doing the things she’d done to save his life, but they couldn’t have been easy. From the conversation, he got that there was only the two of them here. Wherever here was.
“How long since…since the hospital? What happened there?”
“It’s been four days, no, maybe five, since General Peters and his zombie horde took the hospital.”
“Took the hospital? Zombie horde?”
“He has a way to control them, to use them to attack people. He’s going to The Streets of Brentwood next. He destroys everything he touches. God, I hate him.”
“The Streets,” Seth cried, jumping up. He collapsed back to the bed, the blood leaving his head. “I have to go. I have to warn them.”
“Seth,” Miranda said, placing a hand on his arm. “That was five days ago. Whatever was going to happen, has happened.”
“But…Emily.”
“You called for her in your sleep. A friend?”
He took her hand in his. “More than a friend.”
“I’m sorry.”
Seth dropped her hand. He put his palm over his eyes and hot tears scalded his face. Emily couldn’t be dead. She just couldn’t be.
His tears dried as fast as they had come. All this world did was take, take, take. Well, he was damned tired of
it taking; it was time to take it back. It didn’t belong to the undead bastards and it didn’t belong to the General Peters of the world either.
He pushed himself off the bed with his good hand. “Where are my clothes?”
Miranda walked to a chair and brought him a pile with jeans and a shirt he didn’t recognize. She shrugged. “Your shirt was too far gone, but I found a Goodwill store down the street and got you those. I figured you might like some clean jeans too.”
He forgot and tried to grab the material with his right hand. A hiss escaped him as he jumped back when the denim brushed his injury. The pile fell between them. He cradled his hand as Miranda bent down and got the clothing for him.
His face heated. He was not going to be an invalid. What were a few fingers? At least, he was alive. He’d seen truckers in the past with missing parts of fingers. Just one of the many hazards of being a truck driver. He could do this.
Seth took the clothes from Miranda. “You shouldn’t have done this. It’s too dangerous to wander around by yourself for some jeans and T-shirts.”
She blushed. “It wasn’t so bad. I’ve seen hardly any undead at all. I think most of them died at the hospital.”
She turned to go. “I’ll let you get dressed. There’s some fruit and veggies in the kitchen when you’re ready.”
He started to speak up, but the young woman had already gone out the door and shut it behind her. Dropping the stuff on the bed, Seth struggled to get out of his jeans and pulled on the new pair. He managed most of the way with minimal cursing and grabbing of his damaged hand. He zipped up the jeans but couldn’t manage the button with one hand.
Letting it go, he slid a shirt over his head and called himself dressed. He paced the floor. Standing still just gave him time to mourn Emily, his mother, his old life. This world handed out nothing but crap. He’d told Emily that life mattered as long as they had it. She’d been right to see it for the load of bullshit it was. This wasn’t life. This wasn’t living. This was a big cosmic joke, and God was laughing at them all.
A sob built and broke loose as he slid to the floor, his head in his one good hand, the mangled one dangling by his side.
Chapter Fifteen
Highway 4
Between Concord and Brentwood
Martin Peters slammed his fist into the man’s face.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each crunch of bone eased his anger, until he released the man’s shirt and turned away as he slid to the ground. He glared at the rest of the huddled group in lab coats, the women crying and the men staring at the ground.
“Damn it,” he growled, striding into their midst. “I need a real doctor and I need it now.”
Four days and four doctors and still no one could tell him if Tanya would live or die. He glanced over to the tent set up in the middle of the road, Antonio’s crying carried on the silent air.
After the attack at the hospital, he’d returned to the bus to find Tanya twitching on the floor in the middle of a puddle of her own blood and his whore, Miranda, nowhere to be found. He’d dragged several men from their raping and pillaging to search. She hadn’t been found.
He clenched his fists. When he found that little bitch he’d make her wish satisfying his sexual needs was all she had to do. When he got through with her, she’d be happy to hump the zombies to escape his twisted punishments.
The first doctor had refused to help him. Martin shot him in the head and pointed the gun at the next lab coat. The second doctor had been out of her element, but she’d tried. Martin gave her to the men after Tanya started convulsing.
The third doctor had been a general practitioner and might have helped Tanya if the woman hadn’t hidden she’d been bitten and tried attack her patient. Antonio had yanked her off Tanya and thrown her out of the tent for Martin to shoot. The fourth doctor lay bleeding at his feet, finally acknowledging that he was an anesthesiologist and had no clue why Tanya wasn’t waking up yet. Martin raised his hand and shot him in the head.
He kicked the dead man and strode over to the older woman in the group. “What kind of doctor are you?” he demanded, placing his gun barrel on her forehead.
She didn’t blink. “The kind who knows that woman is going to die if we don’t release the bleeding on her brain. I can try to help her, but it might kill her too. What assurances do I have that you won’t kill me if she dies?”
He squatted down in front of her, moving the gun to her chest. “None at all.”
The woman glared into his face. “Well, I might as well try then.”
Martin held out his other hand to help her up. She ignored it and pushed herself to her feet. He stepped aside. “This way, doctor…”
“Dr. Johnson, but you can call me Gwen.” She marched up to the tent and pushed the flap back.
He followed her inside and grimaced at Antonio’s wails. It’s my woman too, and you don’t see me carrying on, do you?
Gwen pulled a rubber band off her wrist and pulled back her long, auburn hair. She squatted by Tanya’s cot and reached out to take her pulse. “It’s fast and shallow. We need to get started right away. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I need alcohol, scissors, and a drill.”
Martin bellowed orders to his men and in short order the doctor had the things she needed. The blood left his face and his heart pounded when Gwen collected the scissors, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and a battery-powered drill like he’d had back home in his garage. His meal threatened to leave his stomach. He swallowed it back down. He was the leader, damn it.
“I don’t need you here if you’re going to throw up all over the place,” the doctor snapped at him. “But I’m going to need someone to help hold her down.”
Martin scanned the tent for Tanya’s husband, but he was already kneeling in a corner with his rosary beads wrapped around his hands. Fat lot of good that’s going to do, Gomez. God helped those who helped themselves. If I do nothing else, I always help myself.
“What else do you need, doctor?”
“Well, in a perfect world, a hospital and sterile conditions, I’d have clamps to keep her still and an anesthesiologist to knock her out, but you just killed the only one we had. Since we don’t have any of that, we need to strap her down and immobilize her head. Without clamps, I’m thinking good, old, all-purpose Duct tape should do the job. But I’ll still need you to hold the rest of her still.”
His mouth dropped open and he stared at the petite woman in front of him.
“What, did you expect me to whine and cry when you’ll probably kill me anyway? Sorry, buddy, but I stopped crying four months ago when I had to shoot my teenage daughter in the head. At least if I die today, I’ll be able to see my Monica again.”
His face heated in a rush with shame in a way it hadn’t in more years than he cared to remember. Just as quickly, he stomped on it. He turned to the side and coughed. “If she lives, so do you.”
She sighed. “I guess in this wonderful new world, that’s all we can ask for.”
He strode to the tent opening, demanded tape and got it. Martin returned to Tanya’s cot and started taping her down. His fingers brushed against her cold, clammy skin. Only the slow up-and-down movement of her chest reassured him of her continued survival.
Kneeling by her side, he handed the tape to the doctor and waited as she ran it across Tanya’s forehead and attached it to the cot. He jumped when Gwen grabbed a handful of his lover’s dark, thick hair and the scissors. “Do you have to cut it all off?”
“I suppose at this point it doesn’t really matter.” She sectioned off a small area and cut the hair to the scalp in a three-inch square. She grabbed the bottle of Jack, poured some on the scalp and some on her hands. Picking up the drill, she coated the drill bit with more alcohol. She pressed the trigger to test the charge.
Martin jumped at the loud sound in the still, hot tent. He reached over and locked his hands onto Tanya’s arms. “Ready.”
“Okay,” the doctor announced. “There is going to be some blood. I don’t have all the tools I need here, so this is the best we’ve got.”
“Just do it,” he gritted out between his clenched jaws.
The drill whirred in the quiet. Blood spurted out of Tanya’s scalp, but not as much as he was expecting, nothing like the puddle in the bus. He felt her bones creak beneath then tightened hands he’d clamped onto her arms. The sound of the drilling seemed to go on forever. The whine dug into his brain. He saw Tanya’s eyeballs move beneath her eyelids, but she made no movement on the cot.
Finally, the noise stopped and the doctor dropped the drill to the tent floor and fell backward to her butt. She grabbed the bottle, poured some on her bloodstained hands, and then brought the bottle to her mouth. “Now, we wait,” she muttered in between gulps.
“How long?” he whispered.
“Oh, I say the next twenty-four hours will tell.” She handed the bottle to him. “No more of that. I’ll keep watch with the husband there. He is the husband, right?”
She looked at him with a question in her tired eyes. A question he had no intention of answering. He stared until she turned away. “For now,” he muttered under his breath as he stepped out of the tent.
♦♦♦
Darkness was everywhere. They were coming to get her; she could feel them holding her down, smothering her. Pressure in her head had her screaming but no sound came out. Nothing but darkness and silence. She tried to move, but they wouldn’t let her. Her body was frozen and burning up at the same time.
“Martin, mi amor, where are you?” Tanya thought she spoke the words, but the words only echoed in her head.
