CODE Z: An Undead Hospital Anthology

by Brown, Eric S. ; Besser, Rebecca; Wraight, Anastasia; Rosamilia, Armand; Ibarra, Bowie V. ; Christie, Peggy; Mahan, Jeremy L. ; Sinclair, Pembroke; Snow, Rebecca

  “Why are eggs like Fruit Loops, baby boy?”

  “Because,” he said. It was as if he was going to say something else, but he didn’t. Instead, he lay still in the gurney, looking at the ceiling as if something was there.

  Tracy gently ran her hand through his hair. It didn’t matter that he was sweating from the fever. She just wanted to ease his pain with the simple gesture of loving affection.

  “Ms. Prado?” came a voice.

  Tracy looked up to see a man in a white coat and mask standing next to the gurney.

  “That’s me,” Tracy said, standing up.

  “Daddy?” asked Jerry.

  Stepdad, thought Tracy. She answered back, “No, Jerry. It’s the doctor.”

  “I want to be a doctor when I grow up. Help little animals.”

  Upon hearing the statement, the doctor looked at the boy. After observing him briefly, he turned to Tracy with eyes that knew truth. He didn’t even ask what the problem was. He just asked, “Where is the bite?”

  Tracy pointed at Jerry’s arm. The doctor dutifully had a look at the wound. He peeled the bandage back to see the wound that had turned dark green and black. He took a moment to reexamine the stats the CDC nurse had documented. Then, he leaned down toward Jerry.

  “What’s your name, buddy?”

  “Daddy?”

  “No. I’m not daddy, my friend. I’m Dr. Malone.”

  “I’m Jerry.”

  “Good,” said the doctor. A spark of hope flashed in his heart like a match that was struck but didn’t light. “Good. Good to talk to you, Jerry. Does your body hurt yet?” Tracy could tell it was a loaded question.

  “Yes,” came the reply.

  “Jerry, I’m going to bring you something to help ease the pain, okay?”

  “Thank you,” whispered Jerry, groaning in misery. It was as if the doctor mentioning the hurt brought it back to the forefront of Jerry’s mind.

  The doctor signaled for the CDC lady to move Jerry to room 167, then pulled Tracy aside.

  The doctor was blunt. “Ms. Prado, I’m going to give you an honest assessment. Your son has Biter Syndrome. He’s going to die soon. Very soon.”

  Tracy began to fall apart.

  “We’re moving him to a room where he can pass slowly. We don’t want him out here with the others at this point. We are going to give him morphine to ease the pain.”

  Tracy watched as they wheeled Jerry in the gurney down the crowded hall.

  “Considering the circumstance, we would recommend you stay with him. But I’ll leave that up to you.”

  Tracy nodded her head. “I’m staying,” she said, wiping tears away from her eyes. “I’m staying.”

  “The nurses will be administering the morphine drip,” said the doctor. “I’m very sorry,” he said, taking her hand. “Take care.”

  Tracy just nodded as the doctor went back to work. She turned to walk down the hallway where Jerry was taken, having to pass a line of gurneys with sick passengers. Their family members stood by the side of their sick relatives. CDC and other medical staff tended to them, doing the best they could.

  On one gurney, an old man had clearly suffered a bite on his shoulder. On another, a young girl and his father were weeping. She had a bite on her leg. On yet another, a woman was dealing with what appeared to be the common cold.

  Just up ahead, Jerry was wheeled into a room. In spite of the circumstances, Tracy thought the room would be just like any other hospital room, with two beds and a cloth partition. Certainly, they would have some privacy.

  When she turned the corner, she thought to herself, What was I thinking?

  The room had no beds in it. Even the lay-z-boy style chairs were removed. What was left was a nightmare of gurneys with dying people on them. In fact, as Tracy walked in, she saw the process by which Biter Syndrome patients were dealt with in their final hours.

  Each person in the room was strapped down to the gurney. Even their heads were strapped down. Some were struggling to break free. Their bodies rattled in a frenzy of anger. They groaned, but their mouths were gagged. A CDC official was placing a blanket over a person. They then wheeled the lady out, right past Tracy. A family member followed the sad vehicle, weeping as she passed Tracy. It took a Herculean effort to stay strong amid the mire of misery in the room.

  “Mommy,” called out Jerry. “Mommy?”

  “I’m here, Jerry,” she said, taking his hand. His fever was breaking. The heat of the sickness was being replaced by a cold stiffness in his hands.

  “Mommy, will daddy be here soon?” he moaned.

  “He’s on the way, son,’ she said. “He’ll be here soon.”

  “Good,” he said, spacing out. “I miss daddy. I see… I see these shapes. I just…” He was losing consciousness. “I just…”

  “Take it easy, baby boy. It’s going to be okay.”

  “Mom,” he groaned. “I’m not a baby.”

  Tracy smiled. Even on his last leg, her son was spunky.

  She couldn’t help but be sad. The youthful exuberance of her six-year old son clearly did not comprehend the dire circumstance he was in. The naïveté of his young mind understood death in a broad sense, but never thought it would happen to him. Only old people died.

  It was real. Death was at his doorstep, but he didn’t know it.

  There was, however, someone more present and concrete arriving at his bed, bringing his own brand of hell following with him.

  “Why the hell didn’t you come down and show me the way up here?” shouted Jack Prado, storming into the room. “Do you know how crowded it is down there? You could have at least called and talked me up.”

  Tracy tried to calm the big lout down. “Jack, please. We need to talk.”

  “Daddy,” whispered Jerry with as much energy as he could muster. The call was so quiet, mommy and daddy could not hear him over their shouting.

  “Goddamn right we need to talk. Why the hell do you want to make me look stupid trying to find you?”

  It was beginning to bother the other people in the room.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said a nearby female senior. “Please. My husband is dying here.”

  “Stay out of this, old lady,” shouted Jack.

  “Jack,” yelled Tracy in embarrassment.

  “Daddy,” whispered Jerry, with as much strength as possible.

  “Don’t you talk to my wife like that, you young bastard,” said the dying male senior strapped to the bed, sweating in the white sheets of the gurney.

  “Go to hell, old man,” shouted Jack, flipping him off.

  A military CDC person approached Jack. “Stop now or you will be removed, sir.”

  “It hurts,” whispered Jerry, completely ignored.

  Tracy stepped in front of the CDC person. “We’ll be just fine. Thank you.”

  Jack turned his anger to Jerry. “What did I tell you about that dog, Jerry? Huh? What did I say?”

  Jerry just smiled. His body was going cold. “It’s good to see you, daddy.”

  Jack turned to Tracy. “I don’t understand how you can put up with such a stupid child.”

  There was too much emotion pent up, too much emotion held back since she arrived for her not to respond. Tracy reacted to the rude comment with violence. She slapped Jack across the face twice, paint-brushing him.

  “You bastard! How dare you walk in here shouting like that when my son is dying!”

  Jack softened up, holding his face. He glared at Tracy.

  “You walk in here, disrespecting these people, disrespecting me, disrespecting your son. Do you know who he’s been asking for since we’ve got here?”

  Jack just shrugged, a whipped dog.

  “You,” she shouted. “He’s been asking for you.”

  “Mom,” whispered Jerry. “Dad.”

  Then, as Tracy continued to shout, Jerry exhaled for the last time.

  “Do you know how that makes me feel, to know that I did all this work by myself for my baby
boy? Like shit, Jack. Like shit.” Tears began to lace her cheeks. Her cheeks and nose were turning pink. “He calls you his dad. Not his stepdad. His dad. You’re the only dad he’s ever known. He loves you, has been waiting to see you. And you act like this? You’re a bastard. You know that? A bastard.”

  Jack stood, ashamed. “I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t know, because you were too busy being a dick. You were out drinking, playing poker, or some other dumb shit instead of being his father. Now say hello to your stepson whose been waiting for you.”

  Jack turned to little Jerry, who was lying peacefully on his back. His eyes were closed.

  Jack walked to the boy. He kneeled beside the bed.

  “Hey, Jerry,” he said, meekly. “It’s me. Jack. Your… dad.”

  Jerry just lay in peace.

  “I heard you were waitin’ on me, little buddy. Here I am.”

  Jerry didn’t move in his dead state.

  “Jerry?”

  Tracy realized something was wrong and moved to Jerry. She placed her hand on his arms, which were unusually stiff.

  “Jerry!” she cried. “Oh, God, Jerry. Please. Wake up, son.”

  Jerry was not budging.

  He was dead.

  The two parents looked at each other with shame.

  Jack swallowed his pride. “I’m… I’m sorry.” He began to whimper.

  “You bastard,” muttered Tracy. “You bastard.”

  “That’s what you get for being such a sonovabitch,” said the senior gentleman, grinning as he was fighting to survive in his bed. The senior female just glared at Jack, then turned back to her husband.

  Jack was upset. But the severity of the moment took his edge away. The insult was appropriate. His selfishness cost him the last moments with his stepson. Rather, his son.

  “Do you see?” whimpered Tracy. “Do you see how ignorant your selfish rage is? You were so blinded by your selfishness, you forgot why you were here.”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” said Jack. “I’m sorry, alright?”

  “Sorry’s not going to bring him back, Jack. Sorry’s not going to bring him back.”

  “Please, Tracy,” said Jack, a cruel bitterness growing in his heart. “I said I’m sorry, alright?”

  “Do you realize his final moments were spent with you yelling at me? You know that?” She had no problem laying down the guilt trip. “You wasted the final moments of your stepson, your son, yelling at me.”

  “I need you to stop right now, Trace,” whispered Jack, “or…”

  “Or what, you dick? You going to hit me again? You going to hit me in front of my son? Well, you can do it guilt-free now because he’s dead now. Dead!”

  Then a voice stopped the fight stone cold.

  “Mommy.”

  Tracy froze in her place for a moment. Was it a ghost? It was her son’s voice. But he was dead.

  Tracy slowly turned and looked at Jerry in unison with Jack. Slowly. Frightened.

  “Mommy,” whispered Jerry in a hoarse, cold voice. His eyes were open, but clearly changed. A thick fluid, like a cataract, covered both his pupils. His face was sunken. His skin was a clammy gray.

  “Jerry?” whispered Tracy in disbelief.

  The boy was able to wiggle his arms loose from the bonds. He raised them to Tracy. “Mommy.”

  “Oh, Jerry,” said Tracy, frightened. He was a Biter. It was clear. It would be suicide taking him into her arms. Russian roulette.

  But she did.

  “My baby,” she whispered, taking Jerry into her arms. She loosened the strap around his head. “My baby.”

  She held him. His face nuzzled in her neck and shoulders. It was cold against her flesh.

  Tracy did not let go. She did not want to let go. She held him close.

  Then, Jerry loosened his grip. Tracy stood up, weeping.

  The boy turned painfully to Jack. “Daddy,” he whispered, reaching out to Jack.

  Jack knew he was dead. Jack knew he was dangerous. But his guilt was too much.

  Taking a deep breath, Jack leaned over, taking Jerry into his arms. “My son,” he whispered. “My son.”

  He held his son. Jerry’s face was nuzzled in Jack’s neck and shoulders. It was cold against his flesh.

  Jack did not let go, or want to.

  The CDC nurse walked in with the morphine drip. Tracy stopped her.

  “You won’t need that,” she said. “He’s gone.”

  The CDC nurse watched as Jack pulled away from Jerry.

  “Sir,” she shouted, then stopped. “Did he bite you two?”

  “No,” said Tracy, smiling.

  “Fascinating,” the nurse said, moving into the hallway and calling for assistance.

  Jack looked at Tracy. Their tears were welling up simultaneously.

  The CDC nurse and two others walked past the two parents, who walked away from the gurney. They knew that in spite of the miracle that just occurred, Jerry was gone. There was no sense staying in the room.

  Tracy took Jack’s hand into her’s as they walked out of the room.

  The nurses moved to Jerry, who lay as docile as a baby asleep in a crib.

  They were surprised at first, observing the peace that seemed to be cast over Jerry. He lay in the bed with a look that was closer to a smile than a frown. They felt a sense of security around him.

  But it was false.

  When a nurse reached for his arm to re-secure it under the strap, Jerry grabbed the hand. With unearthly strength, he yanked the nurse’s arm to his mouth and bit, taking a large segment of hand away from the nurse. She screamed in pain.

  Another nurse went to grab one of his arms with the same bloody result. Except this time, a large chunk of her cheek was torn away and consumed in a bloody frenzy.

  The entire room fell into chaos. The demon that was Biter Syndrome unleashed across the country was now running full force through the little body of Jerry Prado. Blood splashed on walls, on faces, on tears falling from nurse’s eyes as Jack and Tracy walked away down the hallway, hand in hand. What was now a demon wrecking havoc in the room was once, in a moment of truth, a kind of angel.

  In death, the boy left the world he had only known for six years alone. Rising from the dead, he began the cursed moments of the undead life with an expression of love. It was a love for his mother. And a love for his father, the only father he had ever known.

  And in that same moment, clarity reached the eyes and minds of Jack and Tracy. The risen child taught the corrupted heart and soul of his parents the only truth they needed to know. It was the truth the world needed to know. When the chips are down at the end of the world, the only way you will have a chance at anything is with love.

  The Night of the Beasts

  By Eric S Brown

  The rain fell in waves, splashing and rolling down the large window facing the emergency room’s parking lot as Harold stared through it. He liked the rain. It brought him a kind of peace. As a kid, he loved falling asleep to the sound of it pelting the metal roof of his parents’ house.

  The night had been a calm one up until the last hour. He had almost talked himself into believing he’d make it through his entire shift without any excitement. Calm nights were a rare and beautiful thing in the ER but they did happen from time to time. It wasn’t as if he would be getting blood on his hands. Harold wasn’t a doctor or nurse. He was just a lowly, and he felt underpaid, security guard. Still, Harold hated watching all the drama as he made his rounds. After coming home from the Gulf War, he couldn’t find any other job. Today’s world didn’t have a lot of places, that were legal, for folks who’s chief skills were hand to hand combat and killing. Every time he had tried to get a position with the local police, he had failed the written tests. Brains just weren’t his strong point and accepted that. Cathy worked too so his family got by but it wasn’t easy and she was often worn out from the grueling shifts at the diner and fell asleep as soon as she got home in the evenings. He would tip
toe around the house getting ready for work and leave her passed out on the couch with a blanket he’d toss onto her. It wasn’t doing wonders for their relationship, but their first child was due in less than six months. Emotionally he was ready, but the financial reality of their situation was scary. It was why he’d started stealing drugs from the hospital and selling them in the inner city of Asheville. He wasn’t proud of it and Cathy would kill him if she knew, but he had already tucked away a few thousand dollars for their future in the couple of runs he‘d made so far. Harold swore to himself that he would stop when he hit ten grand. That would be enough to get them through that rough first year with the baby he hoped. If anyone at the hospital suspected something was going on, they either kept their mouths shut or hadn’t gathered enough evidence to confront him yet. Harold’s fingers caressed the butt of the pistol holstered on his belt as he thought it all over. His doing so was a tick left from his days an MP in the Gulf.

  Blue lights flashed as the third ambulance of the last hour pulled around the building. Harold gave up his spot at the window and went to meet it. As he stepped outside, its backdoor swung open and the paramedics hit the pavement running with a woman strapped to the stretcher between them. He caught a glimpse of her as they passed him by. Her blond hair was wet with blood and he could tell both of her legs were badly broken as if something had shoved them apart with such force they’d nearly been ripped from her body. Harold shuddered and followed the paramedics into the ER proper. There was chaos everywhere as the doctors and nurses raced about trying to tend to their growing number of patients. All three who’d came in so far were mauled or injured so bad they were near death. Again, he found himself glad he wasn’t among those trying to save them.

  “Harold!” he heard Gregory shout at him from behind. Harold turned to face the ambulance driver. They had known each other for about two years, ever since he’d taken the security job here at the hospital. Gregory was easy to get on with. Both of them were smokers and it was nice to have company when you were freezing your butt off for a puff during the winter months.

  “What the heck is going on out there?” Harold asked as Gregory walked up to him, shaking the rain off his jacket.