by Marcus Caine
There was fighting out in the common area. Jude and Tim Tom beating somebody up, everyone else just watching. I knew if Jude and Tim were beating somebody they had a good reason. But it was so weird that no one was trying to stop it.
From the journal of Jude Guerrero
12/23/2012
First it was the big one, Jim or John or something. I knocked him the fuck out before he could do anything. I expected the rest of them to jump on me, restrain me, even though I was just defending the girl, but no, they just stared, looking stupid. Looking creepy, actually.
After that I tried talking to Tim Tom, see what he knew, but that’s never easy. He did say he thought something was wrong with the guy, like he had looked off. I was asking him what he meant by that when it happened again. Another orderly started screaming those words; worm milk chest mouth… what the hell? And he started fighting with one of the male nurses, not just fighting but scratching, biting, going for the eyes. There was blood. It took five of us to get him off but he would not settle down, not for anything, even with a good punch to the solar plexus, nothing, no reaction, so I had to knock him out too. Had too. No real choice, and still, no one did anything.
Dr. Gates seemed to be the only one with enough sense to get patients to their rooms, to separate people and start asking questions. He was talking to the other doctors but seemed frustrated with them. Then he backed off, looking at them like there was something wrong with them. And he looked at me, and he was scared, visibly frightened.
And that was when it just all went to shit.
I was trying to talk to Tim Tom again, and a few other patients, seeing if anyone had any idea if they had been on drugs or if there had been any bad blood. No one knew anything. One of the patients even said the guys had been friends, had joked around with each other.
While we were talking I heard one of the doctors, an Indian guy, start chanting, but in Hindi I think. He started chanting louder and louder and his face went from blank to stony then to straight up rage. I saw it come up fast, filled his eyes with malice. I knew he was seeing red but had no idea why. And I didn’t react fast enough. He pulled out his pen and stabbed a patient. Just fucking stabbed him. And then kept doing it while Tim Tom and I pulled him off. Dr. Gates tried to help. But everyone else was just acting stupid. I managed to get the pen from him but broke a couple of his fingers doing it, and he didn’t seem to feel it, he just jumped on me, biting at my face. He wasn’t big but he was mad, none the less I managed to get him in a sleeper and he was out.
Then another one started, a nurse, then another, another orderly. They started chanting and I was ready, knowing it was coming. The Doctor knew too, and was even more prepared than me. He had a syringe and got the girl first, she jumped on him, and I pulled her off but could feel her already going limp. Tranquilizers. He didn’t even hesitate to inject the next person. And he gave me a couple to help him.
We put them in the computer room and in the solitary room.
“I’ve never had to use this room before, not sure if anyone has in a while,” Dr. Gates huffed, trying to catch his breath.
Then he told me, “something is wrong. Very, very wrong and whatever is happening is on the news. It’s spreading.”
And then we heard the explosion, far away I think, but big, and we looked out the window and could already see the smoke. It was coming from Manhattan.
CHAPTER FIVE
From the journal of Dr. Montgomery Gates
12/23/2012
We started rounding patients up, the ones who were scared and not violent, and getting them up to the next floor. It was almost done being renovated so no one was up there. Just some equipment and tools, the paint smell, and some of the furniture that had been covered in plastic.
So we started moving patients up when Timothy stopped us. “Not him,” he said, pointing at Jonathon, a manic depressive patient.
“What? Why not?” I tried to gesture.
“He’s off. There’s something wrong with him, like with the others.”
I tried to ask him what he meant but he didn’t seem to understand.
Jude stepped in, “leave him.”
“What?”
“Leave him. I trust Tim Tom’s judgment. He says there’s something wrong with him then there is.”
Jude didn’t even remember Timothy beyond this morning, maybe not even from more than a few hours ago, yet he trusted him to make this decision and I hadn’t even thought about it. He was right.
Timothy hasn’t been able to communicate through traditional means since his accident 6 years ago. Of course, I had seen it before; he had developed an intuitive sense of body language and facial expressions. He could tell that something was wrong with Jonathon, and the others. He had been the first to each scene, ready to stop it, because he had known it was coming.
I wasn’t sure how I was going to explain this to Jonathon but it turned out that I didn’t need to. He had overheard and as soon as I turned to him he went completely mad, as if he had been saving it, waiting until he was on the next floor with us. He went right for my face.
But Timothy was on him and it didn’t take long for him and Jude to subdue him. From that point on we tried to check with Timothy as best we could about who else we were bringing up.
From the journal of Jude Guerrero
12/23/2012
We got them all up to the next floor, but our security didn’t last long. A few of the patients and staff from other floors would wander up the stairs and try to get through the doors but we had secured those pretty tight with restraints that they kept for emergencies. The elevator was another matter. We piled up furniture in front of it, but I didn’t think it would hold if a group came up that way. Oddly enough, though, we never had to test that defense, no one seemed to be using the elevator. Odd, but lucky I guess.
As we were moving furniture I saw Tim Tom unscrewing a thick oak table leg from one of the tables. Scary, but smart, it would be a hell of a weapon, especially for someone his size. And he was right, the people on the news were killing other people. Those patients and the staff downstairs were aiming to kill, they just didn’t have any weapons but their own hands to do it. And I’m pretty sure that one doctor had killed a patient, banging his head against the floor, before we got the rest out. And the Indian doctor stabbed that other guy.
“Hey Doc, is there a kitchen on this floor?” I asked Dr. Gates.
“Kitchen? No, not really. The kitchen is on the first floor but there is a break room, of sorts. But probably no food yet. Are you actually thinking about food right now?”
“No, but we should soon. I was actually thinking about knives.”
Of course, there were no knives, not with a bunch of depressed patients. But since they were moving people in there was something almost as good — box cutters. Not perfect, but it would work, if it came to that. There were also some hammers, screwdrivers, and some other tools that might come in handy.
We settled in, somewhat secure, but still watching people trying to get in the doors. And then we looked outside.
Things out there were bad. Really really bad.
The hospital, if I haven’t already explained this, is on Wards Island in New York. From what the Doctor says there is this hospital, which is the Manhattan Psychiatric Center, the Kirby Forensic Psychiatric Center in the building next door, a sewage treatment plant, some other smaller buildings and a whole lot of parks.
There wouldn’t be as many people as Manhattan, of course, but there were still a whole lot of people wandering around out there. Some just wandering, and others fighting, attacking, traveling in packs and jumping on people and, holy shit, it looked like they were just tearing people apart. Like roving bands of animals, wolves, I don’t know. What the hell was I seeing? Was this real?
And then I went to the front and saw some of them trying to get in the building. The whole campus was surrounded by a fence and there was a guard gate but some people must have already been inside, and now
they were coming in the building. I saw piece of a tall chain linked fence, no two of them, in a row, with razor wire on top.
“Doctor, what’s in the building next to us, with the razor wire fences?”
“The Kirby Forensic Center.”
“Forensic. So is it like a ward for the criminally insane?”
“We don’t tend to call them that, but yes.”
“The whole building?”
“Yes, but there are only about 200 patients in there. Like this building, it is far below capacity.”
“So it’s maximum security, right, with bars on the windows and doors that can be locked?”
“Yes, heavy doors, very secure,” then the Doctor got it, “my God, you’re right.”
“You know how to get the keys?”
“I know where there will be manual keys, yes, and my security badge will get us in anywhere. It was part of the deal.”
“We should get the keys too, just in case. Your badge won’t work if we lose power.”
“OK, that, that’s just brilliant.”
From the journal of Dr. Montgomery Gates
12/23/2012
Of course I should have thought of it. But Jude is a soldier, actually, more than that, a SEAL who is fluent in four languages. Sometimes, because of the way he speaks, I actually forget that. You can’t be stupid and be a SEAL, they are the best and brightest.
But getting over there safely, now that would be a problem. Timothy was using duct tape to make a grip on his new toy, the wooden table leg, and Jude had borrowed a tool belt loaded with screwdrivers, hammers and box cutters. I had to tell him what I thought, “this is madness. How are we going to get them all over there? Some of these patients are barely responsive, getting them up here was a miracle.”
He responded, “we’ll wait ’til dark, of course. And we’ll be very very quiet.”
CHAPTER SIX
From the journal of Jude Guerrero
12/23/2012
So we waited, prepping as much as we could. Some of the patients, according to Cassie, they could start screaming if startled. And the Doctor said some of them had missed their medication for most of the day. Which gave me another idea. Tim Tom and I and I think Cassie and Eric the insomniac, we could fight. Tim Tom had already made it clear he was willing to kill if necessary. But the Doctor, no way, he needed another way to take them down, one he could live with. So the first order of business was to get down to a nurses station on one of the other floors to get tranquilizers, hypodermics, and some restraints.
“The restraints,” Dr. Gates says, “they don’t get used much these days. We train our staff to prevent escalation first and restrain only as a last resort. But, they are still there, for dire emergencies.”
“Well, Doc, if it’s any consolation, we’ll be using them on the staff too.”
Per Cassie’s request, we picked up some ear plugs too. For some reason she was quite determined not to hear what the nutters were chanting out there.
“I’m telling you, that is what will drive you mad. Bob told me it’s on the news too.” And the Doctor actually listened to her, “look, it sounds mad, of course, but something is causing this, this mass hysteria. I suspect a virus or maybe, I don’t know, toxins.”
“Toxins? You think this might be a terrorist thing, a chemical weapon?”
“Of course not. In so many cities? Do… do you?”
“Honestly no, but right now, I don’t actually have a better explanation.”
Of course he wanted my opinion from what I had seen overseas and I meant what I said — That level of coordination, so many different cities at once. I doubted the enemies of the US could pull it off. But then, no one saw the planes coming either, did they?
But if it makes Cassie feel secure, then it’s better than the cloth and tape around her head that she’s using now. And, even though it is ridiculous, perhaps we should cover the ears of the other patients, or at least give them the choice, just in case. Many of them believe what she is saying and will want them anyway.
So we picked a floor that Dr. Gates knew would have less patients and staff, and those they do have would be less of a threat; the diabetic ward.
He was right, there was no threat left there.
From the journal of Dr. Montgomery Gates
12/23/2012
“Oh my God.”
At first I thought I had said it, because it was exactly what I was thinking. But it turned out Timothy had beaten me to it.
The diabetic ward was where we kept patients with other special medical needs besides their mental or neurological conditions. Many of them were confined to beds or wheelchairs, but none of them were left in their beds or wheelchairs anymore. They were scattered across the floor. And by scattered I mean TORN APART and scattered, everywhere. Never, not in my time in Africa, never, had I seen something so, so just incredibly awful. There are no words to describe the carnage.
“Stay right here Doctor. You too Tim Tom,” Jude said, gesturing to Timothy to stay with me right outside the elevator. Then he held his finger up for silence.
I wanted to close my eyes. I would have, but I could not help but take in the scene. Guts, limbs, and mainly, blood. Blood everywhere. And there on the wall, in bright red blood, were those damned words again. Worm milk, chest mouth, wound sea…
I turned to see Timothy looking at the wall, and where I thought I would see a face as full of shock as my own must be, I saw only sadness. Deep in that gentle giant’s soul was just sadness. He was looking at the words too, not understanding their meaning, of course, but then, neither did I.
“Doctor, down!” Jude screamed from the hall where he had been scouting as we waited. But I wasn’t nearly fast enough. Thankfully Timothy was.
As the male nurse was charging us and nearly on us Timothy took one grand swing with his table leg and sent blood and teeth flying. I clearly saw and heard his jaw break on impact and his head slam down against the tile floor and knew he was out, but Timothy did not stop there, he was on him, slamming the table leg into his head again and again until he was completely unrecognizable, just a quivering heap.
“Timothy. Timothy!”
He stopped, his table leg in the air, dripping gore. And he caught his breath and heaved a great sob before straightening himself out and trying to regain control. A tear flowed down one check but that was all he allowed himself.
Jude, back to us now, patted him on the back.
“It’s OK, big guy, it’s OK.”
He didn’t know the words but he knew the meaning.
“I don’t think this guy did this alone but the others must have already left and for all we know could be heading down to our crew so we need to get a move on.”
While I collected any drugs that might be useful Jude went through the surgical instruments and picked what, I suppose, would be useful to him.
“Do you really need all those scalpels?”
“Not all for me, Doc, we can’t have our people moving around without a means to protect themselves.”
“Jude, many of our depressed patients haven’t had their medication today, I don’t know if…”
“You would rather someone else kill them? And honestly, I doubt anyone is going to want to off themselves when they’re working hard to survive against others.”
He did, I suppose, have a point.
By the time we got back to the rest of our group Jude had to ask what the plan was again. He was aware of what was going on still and knew there was a plan, he had just forgotten the details already.
“We are going to move the patients who are unaffected over to the forensic ward where they will be safer, locked behind steel doors and barred windows, in a building with two razor wire fences surrounding it.”
“Sounds like a good plan. How are we getting in?” he asked.
“The back door to this building will take us through a gate and into the back door of the next building. But first, we need to get to the guard station in this build
ing and get the keys.”
“Guard? Any weapons?”
“I’m afraid not, Jude. Firearms are not allowed on the premises.”
“That’s a shame.”
But just getting the keys, that proved to be a more difficult proposition than was expected. We left Cassie and Eric in charge of the rest of the patients, feeling that they were still quite secure on this floor, if only for the time being, and took the elevator down to the first floor. But, unlike the diabetic ward, the first floor was not at all abandoned.
As soon as the doors opened they were upon us.
“Stay in the elevator,” Jude yelled.
And he was off. In the blink of an eye three people were down, blood flowing from their necks, as he wove into the crowd, like liquid flowing through the cracks of a desert floor. Never have I seen such a macabre ballet as Jude’s dance through the mad crowd, slicing as he went, each movement carefully controlled, each slice exactly where it needed to be to do the most damage. It was clear he was aiming to kill quickly, as merely hurting them would not stop their onslaught. And it all happened in the time it took for the elevator doors to open, then close, and he was back in with us just before the doors closed.
Breathing hard, covered in blood.
“So, the direct approach isn’t going to work so well,” he laughed, actually laughed, as he hit the button to go back up to our floor. “Any other ideas?”
From the journal of Jude Guerrero
12/23/2012
Since the Doctor was the only one familiar with the building, it was kind of up to him to work out a plan. But he’s a smart guy, so it didn’t take long. He drew it out on the fire escape map.
