The infant squirmed and the mother gave her her hand in comfort. The baby grabbed the proffered finger and stuffed it into her mouth.
The mother said, “She’s teething. It’s really been hurting her lately. Rubbing her gums helps.”
“What’s your name, honey?” Lucy asked, remembering Cathy with the mother this morning.
For a moment she looked as if she didn’t know herself. “Martha.”
“Martha, make room. Please. I need to examine Deb.”
Lucy turned, began to snatch for Robbins’s stethoscope, then stopped herself and pointed at the device hanging from his neck. He blinked, then gave it to her. Lucy pressed it to the infant’s chest and listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. She pulled back the blankets covering the infant’s legs, grabbed the thermometer, and took the child’s temperature anally. The baby didn’t flinch.
Eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit. And dropping. Like a cooling corpse.
Yet the infant moved.
Martha winced and pulled her hand from the child’s mouth. Blood crowned the tip of her finger and beaded down the side in a long rivulet. It made a soft pat-pat sound as it dripped to paper on the table. The baby half screamed, half moaned.
Lucy turned to Robbins. “What is going on here, Robby? This goes way beyond biological warfare.”
He shook his head. “I have no fucking clue.”
“This child is dead.”
Martha frowned at Lucy but remained silent. She glanced at the blood-smeared mouth of her child.
A thump sounded as something heavy hit the door. The frosted-glass window cracked.
Robby said, “It’s time to get out of here, Luce.”
“Hold on a moment. I want to take some blood and another crystal sample. See here? She’s got it in her ears as well as her diaper, which means—”
Something slammed into the door again, and the window went white with small fractures. Another blow and it would be gone.
Lucy removed a Vacutainer for drawing blood from its wrapper and moved to the examination room’s cabinets to get alcohol and a swab.
“Luce. This is absurd.”
She ignored him. It’s an infant, so I should use a finger stick, but . . . Christ, the thing has no pulse! I have to use the Vacutainer.
“Lucy.”
The child seemed even cooler when she swabbed the crook of her arm with the alcohol-soaked cotton. As she placed the needle close to the child’s skin, Robby said, “Goddamn it, Lucy. Wake up!”
He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.
“Martha, get your child,” Robby said, shifting his gaze away from Lucy for just an instant and then turning back to her. “Enough, Luce. It’s time to start thinking bigger.”
Martha moved to the table and gently reswaddled her girl. Hands trembling, she kissed the baby’s gray head.
“Bigger?”
“It’s contagious, that much is certain, whatever this is. We’ve got to think about our families.”
“Call Rachel.”
Robby dug a cell phone from his pocket and dialed. Lucy watched him as he listened. Eventually, he shook his head and his expression grew even more grim. “‘Network busy,’” he said.
“So we still don’t know anything.”
A scream came from outside the door, a scream beyond anything she’d ever heard. The sound was half rage, half pain, like some pig sent to the slaughter, still alive before having the skin stripped from it. It was a sound that defied education, went beyond learning, and affected her on a physiological level. Her skin prickled, her muscles tensed. She was watching Robby when the sound came. Lucy noted his pupils dilating, marked his increase in breathing and the flushed quality of his skin. Heart rate up, increased blood flow. His body was preparing to fight. Or flee. Once again, it struck her as strange how her mind could still switch to the analytical, even in the worst situations.
She looked down at her hands, the Vacutainer and cotton-swab now looking so helpless and feeble against the mounting tide of mysteries, of questions she’d never be able answer, puzzles she’d never be able to solve.
“Okay.” She shook her head, half to clear it, half to come to grips with what was going to come next. She took a deep breath and said, “You’re right. We have to go.”
Robby gave a little manic laugh. The stress was visible in his posture, his expression. “I realize how hard that is for you to admit, Luce. So I won’t rub it in. How do you want to do this?”
Lucy grabbed her needle gun. She raised an eyebrow at Robby. “I say we go out the back way near the employee parking lot.”
Robbins checked his pockets. He pulled out his keys.
From the waiting room, a sound of shattering glass reverberated through the building. The door rattled in its frame. Martha whimpered and pressed Deb close to her chest.
“Okay.” Lucy held up the big needle for aspirating tissue and looked at her companions. “Quickly, right? You ready?” At Robby’s nod and Martha’s terrified blinking, Lucy jerked open the door and stepped into the waiting room.
The contortionist stood, swaying, in front of her. Blood dripped from his lower lip, and he turned dull, milky eyes toward Lucy. He took a step forward, raising his arms.
“Go! Go!” she yelled. Robbins and Martha dashed behind her, moving toward the automatic doors.
Attention fixed on Lucy, the contortionist let the others pass. Lurching forward, he grabbed her arms, opened his mouth, and tilted his head as if to bite her face.
This is not happening.
She twisted in his grasp, but the man drew her closer with astonishingly strong hands. His mouth gaped.
Oh no, you don’t.
She was surprised at her own strength. She wrenched herself away and stepped back to get more space. Then, as if she was throwing a punch, she dipped her knees, flexed, and shot her fist outward, toward his face. He didn’t flinch or dodge.
It’s as if he’s lost all reflex . . . All his autonomic functions are suppressed. Nonexistent, maybe.
The needle went through his eye, into the brain, more easily than she thought possible. The haft popped the sclera and crushed the vitreous fluid from the eyeball. The needle jutted from the ocular cavity. The contortionist fell backward, pawing at the handle of the needle. He flopped to the floor, squirmed, then stilled.
How horrible, to die twice in a single day.
Looking beyond him, Lucy saw the waiting room had turned bloody during her palaver with Robbins and Martha. The foul-mouthed old lady with the religious bent shuffled slowly past the fake ficus and turned toward Lucy. Again, milky eyes glared at her. Lucy couldn’t pin it down exactly, but there didn’t seem to be any awareness in those eyes. It was as if some deep-sea creature felt eddies and currents spun off a passing fish and moved to attack, working on pure instinct.
She can smell, maybe. Hear sound or feel the vibrations of air. The eyes don’t move in the sockets, they don’t track. But she knows I’m here. The glassiness would occlude sight somewhat. If she can see me, I’m very blurry.
The woman lurched forward. Her legs and arms seemed to tremor still.
For a moment, Lucy stood paralyzed. The sight of the woman, half of her face missing and the entirety of her front covered in blood, locked her in place.
“Lucy!” Robbins’s voice came from her left. “The doors are open. Come on.”
Everything happened at once. The clinic’s front door exploded inward, billowing smoke. The explosion knocked Lucy sideways, toward Robbins and Martha. Her head smacked against the wall and the world went white and then tilted horribly as she fell.
When she sat up, men in black military garb poured through the husk of doorway, wearing masks that obscured their faces, their weapons raised. Lucy made herself move. Pushing at the floor with her hands, she scrambled to her feet, head spinning, and threw herself after Robbins. The back doors began to close just as she passed through.
Behind her, a cacophony of gunfire ripped through the smoke, and she
felt more than sensed the hard motes of bullets filling the air around her. Something spun off Lucy’s skull, and she pitched forward onto the tile floor.
The doors behind her closed seconds after she saw the soldiers begin shooting people in the waiting room, but not before she saw one of the patients lurch toward a figure in black, knock his gun aside, and drag him to the floor. Bullets ripped through the bloody old woman, yet she didn’t fall. She lurched and turned toward her attacker.
It wasn’t until bullets began ripping through the door that Lucy forced herself up again. The screams grew louder, the gunfire wilder and more frantic.
Tracers swam in the corners of her vision, and she found her body responding sluggishly to her own commands.
Robbins and Martha had already disappeared down the hall, and Lucy nearly bowled over Martha as she rounded the corner. The woman, shell-shocked and stunned, stared down at the floor. Robbins lay on his side, clutching his calf with both hands, trying to stem the flow of blood.
“They shot me.” He looked at Lucy, eyes wide and bulging, and then laughed. “They shot me! I’m a doctor, for chrissake!”
Lucy knelt and looked at him closer, puzzled by the crimson that spotted his shirt.
“Are you hit in the chest?”
“No.” He nodded at her hair. “Looks like they got you too.”
She touched her scalp. A long, wet furrow traced the left side of her skull. It throbbed, and suddenly, Lucy became aware of the pain.
She reached for his belt.
“Hey!”
She laughed, maybe a little too wildly.
“Robby, I’m not gonna rape you right here.” She unbuckled the belt and ripped it from his pants. “I’ll wait till later.”
After tying off his calf, she helped him up. Down the hall, the gunfire continued in spurts.
“We’ve got to get out of here. There’s an emergency exit at the end of this hall. We’ll have to cross the picnic area to get to our cars. You still have your keys, Robby?”
He nodded, wide-eyed. Martha cradled the infant, cooing softly. Lucy noticed the bundle jerked and shifted in the woman’s grip.
Lucy wiped her hands on her skirt, suddenly glad of her running shoes.
“Good. Remote key ring. Keep pressing the unlock button. You still drive the Suburban? Big monster?”
He nodded.
“Great. Let’s go.”
The gunfire died and the clinic was silent except for the bright sound of falling glass. In the distance, beyond the walls, a high-pitched scream sounded, rising and falling. Sirens.
“Shit. Whatever has gone wrong, it’s not just here.” Lucy’s mouth felt dry and she shivered. “I’ve got to get home. Gus, Fred. They’ll need me.”
Martha sobbed and shifted the bundle on her chest. Robbins tottered, and Lucy grabbed him and threw his arm over her shoulder.
They moved down the hall, Robbins’s leg trailing a thin ribbon of blood, until they reached the emergency door. Looking through the window, Lucy couldn’t see anybody—military or otherwise—so she pushed it open and waved them out.
They moved haltingly across the lawn, toward the parking lot. Air sirens shrieked, and Lucy heard the deep rumble of vehicles, though she couldn’t determine their directions.
It was mid-July; sweat prickled her temples and spotted her shirt. She looked at Robbins, who seemed to be holding up well. She’d have to check his wound once they’d reached somewhere safe.
Martha walked away from Lucy and Robbins.
Lucy stopped. “Martha, where are you—”
“I’ve got family of my own. My little sister. Now that Deb is okay—”
“Martha. Look. We’ll take you. You might need our help.”
The woman holding the bundle swayed and passed her free hand across her forehead. Then she looked at Robbins and frowned. Her expression was clear—she didn’t think he’d do much to improve the situation.
Lucy raised her voice. “Damn it, woman, we’re both doctors. Come with us. It’ll be safer. Everyone’s going crazy! Do you want to be alone?”
As if to punctuate her words, a fusillade of gunfire came from inside the clinic. Then, a rumbling grew and grew until Martha winced and Lucy raised her hands to her ears. A gigantic low-flying plane appeared above the tree line, its massive props buzzing the air in near subsonic frequencies. It passed overhead, frighteningly close—so close Lucy could see the open side door of the plane, the men there with headphones on, and more behind them in shadow, pointing and yelling silently, their voices blanketed by the noise of the props cutting the air. Dull gunmetal glinted in the sunlight and the open mouths of large-bore weapons swiveled, searching for a target.
The massive sound made Lucy stagger; it rattled her skeleton and vibrated her flesh. Robbins moaned. From beyond the clinic, two black specks rose into view and the sound buffeting them took on a rhythmic, percussive pulse. Helicopters, angular and heavy.
Martha looked around wildly.
“Come with us. We’ll help you.”
Martha nodded and shifted the swaddled infant in her arms.
Another DC-10 rumbled across the sky. Beyond it, two jets shrieked through the blue, leaving contrails.
“Holy shit.”
Lucy jerked Robbins forward, nearly knocking him off his feet. “Press the goddamned button, Robby!”
A vehicle chirped. They scrambled across blacktop. At the SUV, Lucy yanked open the back door and shoved Robbins into the seat. Martha hobbled up behind.
“Gimme the keys.” Lucy opened the driver’s door. Robbins dangled the key ring over the seat. She snatched them out of his hand and tossed him her purse. “Get me my phone and then patch yourself up.”
She cranked the ignition, and the Suburban roared to life. Lucy slammed it into gear and peeled away, turning the wheel hard.
The Suburban’s chassis shuddered as a tire hit a curb. Through the roof, Lucy felt the vibration of helicopters passing overhead.
The Suburban barreled around the side of the clinic past the patient parking area, toward the front of the building, passing near a dull green army vehicle—Lucy didn’t know what kind, but it looked armored and sat in front of the smoking front doors of the clinic.
Lucy slowed. Military men and patients milled on the pavement under the awning, some in the mulch beds to either side of it.
She stopped the car.
“Wait just a second, guys.”
She opened the door and it dinged a tinny warning. She ran around the front of the Suburban, toward the clinic’s entryway. The people looked disheveled. Dazed. Bloody.
Her feet crunched on glass. They turned to face her.
Lucy gasped and stepped backward.
One of the soldiers staggered forward, guts spooling out of his stomach and dragging on the ground. A girl, the one who’d bitten off her fingertips and lips, was now missing her pelvis and legs. The child pulled herself over the threshold of the clinic and onto the concrete walkway with raw, stripped fingers. An elderly man’s head tilted over dramatically where a bullet had blown out his neck, exposing sinew and gristle.
A toddler stepped forward, apparently whole except for bite marks on his arms.
Lucy’s stomach lurched. All were dead. Despite reason, despite her training, she knew this with certainty.
These people were dead.
More came from the building, slowly, onto the walkway and into the sunlight. Walking corpses.
Milky white eyes held her in an intense, unfocused gaze.
They came for her, moaning.
She turned and ran to the Suburban. The creatures followed.
A helicopter, wreathed in deafening sound, passed over again and swung its tail about, presenting the clinic with its profile. Lucy glimpsed a man behind a mass of gray metal. Despite the din of rotors, she heard a brrrrrppp, like a great mechanical belch, and the awning and front of the clinic disappeared in a quickly expanding billow of smoke seeded with bits of cloth, spatters of blood, an
d small chunks of brick and cement.
Lucy threw herself into the SUV. Bullets chewed the walkway. One of the dead vanished in a mist of blood.
She blindly cranked the vehicle into gear and jammed her foot to the accelerator. They shot forward, careened around the median, and sideswiped a poorly parked sedan. The passenger window turned white with a web of cracks.
The wheels screeched as she accelerated onto the highway. The Suburban tilted sideways on the turn, and Lucy feared they would topple. But it rocked back down on its shocks. In front of her, the road was empty and the interstate overpass fast approached. Semis and automobiles whizzed along Highway 65. Some slowed, most likely to gape at the helicopters. She mashed the accelerator to the floor.
A myriad of tiny geysers, puffs of smoke, and asphalt ejecta traced a path toward the Suburban.
“They’re shooting at us!” Robbins’s voice pitched toward hysterical.
Holes appeared in the hood with a sharp thunk. Shafts of sunlight, like columns sprouting in a line down the roof, fell into the cabin of the vehicle. Robbins barked a garbled noise of surprise. Lucy looked down at the floorboard and saw, through a smoking half-inch hole, pavement whizzing by underneath in a blur. The engine coughed and began to whine.
Lucy craned her neck to look at Robbins and Martha and the child—the child! Martha clutched her bundle tight to her chest and peered behind them, out the back window, as smoking bullet craters streaked in a dotted, quick path away from the SUV. The thunder of helicopter rotor blades diminished, and Lucy turned back to the wheel.
The Suburban coughed again and slowed dramatically. Then sputtered. Something in the engine whined even louder, caught, then jerked forward with renewed acceleration. Lucy was at a loss to even begin to know what might be damaged.
She grimaced at the irony: she knew the most intimate functions of the human body, but a combustion engine was a mystery to her. She stomped the accelerator, and the vehicle jumped forward. The beast still had some life yet.
She spied a truck swerving into the oncoming lane. Again, the beat of rotors grew audible. The helicopter completed its turn and began another pass. The oncoming driver plunged his vehicle off the road and into the crusty bare lot adjacent to the interstate, the truck bottoming out with a shower of sparks, bouncing up and then flipping into the air, as graceful as a gymnast, before hitting the ground and smashing into a wretched pretzel of steel and smoke.
This Dark Earth Page 3
