Ward Z

by Amy Cross

  "It's being dealt with!"

  "You don't know, do you?" I say, seeing the look of confusion in her eyes. "You're as much in the dark as the rest of us. You don't have a clue why this place is swarming with soldiers, and you -" Before I can finish, I feel a sharp, stabbing pain in my right side, and I wince for a moment before the sensation starts to subside.

  "As soon as he's free to come and see you," Nurse Aubry continues, "I'm going to get Dr. Page to take a look at whatever's causing your pain."

  "Why bother?" I ask, keeping my voice low so that hopefully Emma won't hear me. "Surely there are other patients who could benefit from being looked after a little better? In the long term, I mean."

  "That's not how it works," she replies, "and you know it. Now stay in bed for a while and someone'll be along to check up on you as soon as possible. Things might be a little more chaotic than usual today, but we'll get there in the end. Okay?"

  I nod.

  Once she's left the room, I take a deep breath before turning to Emma. She's a few meters away on the other side of the room, but it feels as if there's a gulf between us.

  "Come here," I say, patting the side of the bed.

  She doesn't budge.

  "Are you scared of me?" I ask. "Is that the problem? Sweetheart, what I've got... it's not catching."

  She stares at me.

  "I'm sorry," I continue. "I shouldn't have put you in the position where you had to go and get help for me. I was being selfish."

  No reply.

  "Please," I add. "Just come and sit next to me."

  Slowly, as if she's having to really force herself, she gets up from the chair and comes over to the bed; after a moment's hesitation, she perches next to me, as if she's being careful not to get too close. Damn it, she's treating me as if I've got the plague.

  "See?" I continue, hoping to lighten the mood a little. "It's not so bad, is it?"

  "Are you going to die?" she asks suddenly.

  I stare at her, too stunned by the question to even know what to say.

  "Are you going to die?" she asks again.

  I feel a cold sweat pass through my body, as if I'm dizzy for a moment.

  "It's okay to tell me," she continues. "People keep asking me at school, and I just want to know what to say to them."

  I open my mouth to reply, but the words catch in my throat for a few seconds. "Yeah," I say eventually, feeling a million tears behind my eyes but not letting any of them out. "Yeah, sweetheart. I am."

  She pauses. "When?"

  "I probably have two or three weeks left," I reply.

  She frowns, as if she's thinking hard. "Why didn't you tell me before?" she asks eventually.

  "I don't know," I reply. "Did you guess before?"

  She nods.

  "I'm sorry," I continue. "I should have told you."

  "What do you think happens to you after you die?"

  "I don't know," I reply.

  "Do you believe in God?"

  I shake my head.

  "Why not?"

  "I don't know," I tell her. "Maybe I need to reconsider my position."

  "And that pain in your side," she continues. "Is that something new that's happening because of your cancer?"

  "I guess so," I reply. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I should have told you a long time ago. Your Daddy and I talked about it, but we couldn't work out when would be the best time."

  She pauses, and then suddenly she moves along the bed, reaches out and gives me a hug.

  "When do you think Daddy's coming to get me?" she asks after a moment.

  "I'm sure he'll be here as soon as the soldiers let people back inside," I reply, trying to ignore the fact that I can feel a strange, churning sensation in my right side, as if something's moving deep inside my body. "Don't worry, it won't be long."

  "I'm not worried," she says, giving me the biggest hug I've had since I was admitted to this goddamn place. "It's going to be okay, Mummy. I promise. Everything's going to be okay."

  I smile. Although I want to believe her, I can still feel the strange sensation of something moving and shifting in my body, right in the spot where the pain usually hits. Whatever this is, it doesn't feel like the cancer, but at least it's not hurting too much right now. Anyway, I don't have long left to live. If this new pain, whatever it is, wants to have a strike at me, then so be it, but it's left things a little too late. After all, I can only die once.

  Dr. Andrew Page

  "I'm not sure this is what they had in mind," Dr. Gerrold says, glancing along the corridor.

  "Beggars can't be choosers," I mutter darkly. "I'm sure it'll be okay."

  Nearly an hour after our brief conversation with General Kent, Dr. Gerrold and I have finally managed to clear the area around the main doors. All staff and patients have been ordered to go back to their rooms or stations, although most of them are peering around the door-frames, intently watching to see what happens next. I guess it's already something of a miracle that we've managed to beat the angry mob back, so we should probably at least let them watch from a safe vantage point.

  "If anyone tries to make a rush for it -" Dr. Gerrold starts to say.

  "They won't," I say firmly.

  "I hope not," he replies, as the soldiers step aside to allow a figure in a contamination suit to reach the door. "Looks like we've got company."

  We watch in silence for a moment as the figure unlocks the clamps that have been holding the door shut. The procedure takes a couple of minutes, which I guess is testament to the military's determination to make sure that no-one can break out of the ward, but finally the doors swing open and the suited figure slowly makes its way through to us. As soon as he's over the threshold, the soldiers start resealing the door.

  "You must be Dr. Gerrold and Dr. Page," the guy in the suit says with an American accent, his voice somewhat muffled by his oxygen supply. "I'm John Lincoln, I'm with..." He pauses. "Well, I'm with a major federal agency. I'm here to see what kind of mess you've got going on with Ms. Dominique Ribery."

  "You're American?" Dr. Gerrold asks.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "What's this got to do with America?" I add.

  "The whole world could be affected if this thing gets out," he replies. "I need you to show me to the room where we're going to perform the autopsy."

  "You didn't answer my question," I continue. "What's this -"

  "Do you have a problem with my nationality?" he replies curtly. "I hope your professional experience isn't clouding your judgment, Dr. Page. I'm aware of your career trajectory and -"

  "It's fine," I say quickly, preferring to avoid a rehash of my checkered past. "Come on. We might as well get started."

  "I don't suppose you could get hold of a few suits for us, could you?" Dr. Gerrold asks as we lead Lincoln along the corridor. It's almost like escorting an astronaut, since the contamination suit is too bulky and awkward to allow for quick movement; instead, Lincoln lurches awkwardly forward, clearly weighed down by the large pair of oxygen tanks on his back.

  "Don't worry," Lincoln replies. "We're gonna do everything in our power for you guys."

  "In here," Dr. Gerrold says, leading Lincoln into the examination room that we've set aside for the autopsy. Dominique Ribery's naked body is already in position on the main table, with a towel covering her crotch in an attempt, even at this late stage, to protect her dignity.

  "Close the door," Lincoln says as he sets his bag of equipment on the counter. "No-one comes in during the procedure, okay? No-one. The only reason you two are in here is because I need someone to pass me things. Otherwise, I'd be asking you to wait outside."

  "Might I ask -"

  "No," Lincoln continues, turning to Dr. Gerrold. "You may not ask. I know that both of you gentlemen are leading figures in your respective fields, but on this occasion I'm gonna have to ask you to work as my assistants. This is a high-risk procedure, gentlemen, and I'd appreciate your full cooperation. If that's not going to be possible, for wha
tever reason, then please step outside and leave me to work uninterrupted."

  "We were expecting a whole team to arrive," Dr. Gerrold replies. "Didn't you want to bring your own assistants?"

  "We decided not to take the risk," he says as he opens the bag and starts to remove various surgical items. "Every additional person introduced to the situation represents an extra point of possible infection. Our original plan was to bring three people in here, but we quickly realized that we should be a lot more careful. I guess I drew the short straw."

  "And what are you expecting to find?" I ask. "Dominique Ribery was just a cancer patient, albeit -"

  "Dominique Ribery was not just a cancer patient," he says abruptly, before pausing for a moment. "Then again, maybe you're right. Maybe we'll be lucky and we'll find nothing unusual in her body at all, in which case I can only say that I'll be eternally grateful to have been proven wrong." He turns and looks over at the small trolley of equipment that Dr. Gerrold and I have already assembled. "It looks like you've already got pretty much everything we're gonna need," he adds, before reaching into his bag and pulling out a couple of pairs of handcuffs.

  "What are those for?" I ask.

  Without replying, he makes his way over to Dominique's body and attaches one of the sets of handcuffs to her wrist, before fixing it to the side of the table's metal railing. As Dr. Gerrold and I exchange a puzzled glance, Lincoln walks around to the other side of the table and does the same thing with Dominique's other wrist.

  "Isn't that a little over-the-top?" I ask, watching as he grabs two more sets of handcuffs and starts fixing them to the corpse's ankles. "You're aware that Ms. Ribery is dead, I assume?"

  "Very much so," he replies, double-checking that all the sets of handcuffs are securely in place before going back to his bag and pulling out a small chain, which he wraps around Dominique's neck; locking the chain to the side of the table, he tightens it until the neck is pulled tight against the surface, and finally he takes a step back to admire his work. He's bound Dominique Ribery pretty firmly to the table, almost as if she's a prisoner.

  "You're expecting... a difficult procedure?" I ask eventually.

  "I'm expecting the possibility of unexpected developments," he replies calmly, keeping his eyes fixed on the dead body. "I'd rather be too cautious than too slack. I've seen what happens when people just assume that everything will be alright, and I'm afraid it can sometimes lead to tragic consequences. In fact, it's exactly the kind of mistake that Dominique Ribery made a few years ago."

  "But handcuffing a dead body," I reply, "seems -"

  "Like a step too far," he replies calmly. "Let's hope so."

  I look over at Dr. Gerrold, and I can see the look of concern in his eyes. I guess that, like me, he's starting to wonder what, exactly, this John Lincoln guy is expecting to find when he starts cutting into Dominique Ribery's body. He certainly seems, so far, to be going beyond mere caution and edging into the realm of paranoia.

  "Let's get rid of this," Lincoln says, pulling away the towel that was covering Dominique's crotch, before taking a sternal saw from the trolley. "Gentlemen," he says after a moment, "I just want to remind you both that this autopsy might veer into..." He pauses, as if he's not quite sure how to explain his point. "I'll appreciate your cooperation," he says finally, before stepping closer to the table and placing the blade of the saw in the center of Dominique's body, between her breasts. "Anything you see in here," he adds, "is not to be discussed with anyone."

  "You have our full cooperation," Dr. Gerrold replies.

  Lincoln looks over at me.

  "Of course," I mutter.

  "Okay," he continues, looking back down at Ribery's body. "Are we ready to begin?"

  We both nod.

  Without replying, Lincoln pushes the tip of the blade beneath Dominique's skin, before slowly cutting a line down over her belly. Thick blood begins to ooze from the wound, but after a moment I realize that there's something unusual about the blood. I move around the table, to check whether or not the light in here is causing the effect, but after a few seconds I realize that my eyes aren't deceiving me.

  "That's a lot darker than it should be," I say, leaning closer. "It's more black than red, and it seems more viscous. More syrupy."

  "It sure is," Lincoln replies. "But if that's the biggest surprise we find in her today, believe me, we'll be the luckiest sons of bitches on the whole planet."

  Part Four

  Passing Through

  Cally Briggs

  They're everywhere, swarming through every room, through every door, ripping the walls apart where necessary, determined to get to their prey. Their appetite is insatiable, their desire unquenchable: all they want is to get hold of every person on the ward, to rip apart every body they find.

  I stand in the middle, watching, unsure as to which side I should join.

  It should be an easy decision, but it's not.

  Turning to watch one of the creatures as it rips apart a fallen body, I find myself staring with cool, clinical detachment. People are screaming in the distance, but I'm merely fascinated by the sight of the creature's work: with discolored, slightly yellow skin and sunken, dark eyes, the creature seems to be totally focused on its task; it has one hand on its victim's wrist, and the other on the shoulder, and slowly it pulls the arm away from the rest of the body with a slow, constant ripping sound. Blood flows onto the floor as the creature holds the dismembered arm up and begins to chew on the rags of skin that dangle from the wound., and I can hear a horrific tearing sound as meat is stripped from the bone.

  Again, I should be horrified, but I'm not. Somehow, this feels right, and natural. Deep in my belly, there's a yearning for blood.

  In fact, I think I want to join in.

  One of the creatures has turned its attention to a door at the far end of the corridor. While chaos rages all around, I calmly pick my way past the dead bodies and the bleeding, screaming victims. When I reach the door, I find that the creature has stopped trying to force its way through, and has instead turned its attention to the handle, as if it understands the need for subtlety. There's a small window in the door, and on the other side of the glass I can see the terrified face of a woman. I can hear her screams, too. She's trapped, and she knows the creature will get inside eventually. I should feel sorry for her, and I should try to help her escape, but instead I'm merely interested in her plight, and there's even a part of me that wants her to be killed.

  "Mummy?"

  Ignoring the voice in my head, I watch as the creature continues to struggle with the lock. Putting a hand in my gown pocket, I'm surprised to feel something small and metallic; fishing it out, I realize that I'm holding a key. I stare at the metal surface for a moment, watching as it glints in the light, and finally I realize what I have to do. Most people would turn and run, or they'd stand and fight in order to save the woman who's trapped in that room.

  But not me.

  "Out of the way," I say, pushing past the creature and slipping the key into the lock.

  "No!" the woman shouts from the other side of the door. "Don't let it in! For God's sake, stop!"

  I turn the key. It feels good. I've made the right choice.

  "Why are you doing this?" the woman screams.

  Slowly, I turn the handle and push the door open, and the creature immediately barges past me, making straight for the woman. As she cowers in the corner, the creature rips her arm from her shoulder and tosses it toward me. I calmly pull the door shut, and seconds later I hear the sound of flesh and bone being ripped apart, along with a gurgled shout of pain. I want to turn and walk away, but I force myself to lean closer and look through the window; the creature is holding the woman in its arms, and its face is buried deep in her blooded neck while her head hangs back at an unnatural angle. Her eyes are twitching, which I guess means that she's still alive, but all she can do now is wait while the creature slowly devours her body.

  That's all any of us can do now.
>
  Wait.

  Reaching down, I grab the dismembered arm and pick it up, enthralled by the sight of the bloody stump. After a moment, I bring it closer to my face, before biting down hard and feeling the rush of still-warm blood flooding into my mouth. It feels good, as if it's filling me with strength and power; I take another bite, tearing flesh away until I've exposed a raw white bone. With yet another bite, I feel blood being squeezed from the muscle, and I tilt my head back as I rip ragged skin from the arm.

  "Mummy?"

  Looking down, I realize that something's moving under the front of my gown, as if the tumor is shifting and stirring in my belly. It's not exactly painful; it's more... uncomfortable. At the same time, I have the strangest feeling that this is what's supposed to happen. There's no need to fight, no need to push back. This is how things should be. In weaker moments over the past few weeks, I've prayed to God for some kind of miracle, and now he's giving me what I asked for. I guess I can't complain if that miracle happens to be very different to anything I was expecting. At the same time, I can't really pretend to be too horrified. This all feels so right, and so natural.

  As I bite another chunk out of the dismembered arm, I feel more alive than ever before.

  "Mummy?"

  I just -

  "Mummy?"

  Suddenly everything changes. I sit up in bed with a gasp and find that I'm back in my hospital bed, with Emma sitting next to me. My heart is racing, and I feel as if I'm being pushed to the side in my own mind. For a few seconds, I have to wait until, finally, my thoughts seem to settle. I reach up and run my hand over my chin, expecting to find blood smeared across my face.

  I blink a couple of times.

  "Mummy?" Emma says, her voice filled with fear. "Are you okay? I think you were having a nightmare. You were..." She pauses. "You were groaning a lot."

  I stare at her for a moment, trying to work out exactly where my dream ended. For a fraction of a second, I can still feel the sensation of movement in my belly, as if something is trying to force its way out, but eventually this, too, passes, and I realize that the whole thing was a dream. Wiping the back of my hand across my forehead, I find that I'm dripping with sweat.