Zombies Inside

by Rebecca Besser

  Suddenly the elevator dinged and the doors slid open; Nurse Dalton fell backwards into the small, transportation box.

  “What the . . .?” a man said as she practically fell into his arms as he tried to dart out; her falling body halted him.

  She screamed as his hands gripped her, trying to keep they both on their feet. Spinning, she came face to face with a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties. Instantly she realized he wasn’t one of them.

  Moaning and hissing in frustration over their main course suddenly escaping their grasp just as they’d reached her, the undead and abomination baby struggled to close the new gap of a couple extra feet to regain their advantage.

  “Excuse me,” the man said, moving to step out of the elevator and into the corridor, “I need to find . . .” He froze at the site of the bloody, walking, growling crowd around the door. “. . . my wife.” The man finished speaking in an almost whisper, his eyes falling on Mrs. Straight, his wife. “Shit.”

  Nurse Dalton grabbed the man who seemed to be paralyzed in the doorway and yanked him back just as his wife was about to sink her claws into him. She pressed the “close doors” button and stepped back, beyond the reach of the arms that came darting through the gap of the closing elevator doors.

  The man, seeming to suddenly snap out of the shock of finding his wife a bloodthirsty mess, punched and kicked at the limbs reaching for them, clearing the gap so the doors would shut and ensure them a measure of safety. Once they were closed he leaned against the back wall, crossed his arms, but lifted one of his hands up to pinch the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. Expelling his breath in a long, low whoosh, he stayed that way for many tense moments, only moving when Nurse Dalton reached forward to press the button to go down to the ER. His arm shot out and his large, strong hand closed almost painfully around her wrist.

  “No,” he growled.

  “Look, we have to get down to the security desk, in the ER,” she snapped, tugging her arm away roughly. She didn’t think he would let go for at first, but finally he released her.

  “No,” he said again, watching her with a dazed expression on his face.

  “Why not?” she asked, reaching forward, again, to press the button.

  “I said no, damn it!” he roared and grabbed her wrist again, but not as tightly as before.

  “Why the hell not?” she screamed back with tears running down her face – the fear, adrenaline, and confusion in her system finally overcoming her composure.

  “Because I just came from down there and it was far worse than what you just escaped up here!” he hollered, clenching his fists at his sides.

  “Oh,” Nurse Dalton whispered. “We can’t go down then . . .” She frowned, crossed her arms, and leaned back into the corner of the elevator, swiping at the tears running down her face with the back of her shaking hand.

  “I guess we go up and hope for the best,” he said flatly, reaching forward and pressing the button for the top floor; the elevator jerked as it started in the direction it had been commanded to go.

  She nodded and closed her eyes, fighting a battle within herself for control. All she really wanted to do was sit down and cry. The senseless agony being caused for no reason tore at her soul. She’d seen years of suffering, being a nurse, and the only disease she could compare the events to was cancer. A ravenous disease that wanted to eat the good and turn it into the bad until the cells grew and killed the host. It caused suffering to people of all ages and wasted them away. What she was dealing with – what was around her – was the cancer of an outside nature, external to the body of life itself. It was death that sought the living, darkness more than willing to snuff out light. She groaned and sobbed, knowing that everything they could do would be futile. The disease, the death, was out of control. The face of the mutant baby swam before her tear-filled eyes – a torturous memory forever imprinted on her brain – giving a gruesome face to everything about this evil, this plague.

  In her distressed, thought-filled state, she didn’t hear the man speaking to her until he gently gripped her shoulder. She jumped and swung her arms up to protect herself.

  “Calm down,” he said soothingly, “I’m not going to hurt you.” He stopped and swallowed a couple of times. “I just need to know . . .” He paused, looked up at the ceiling, swallowed hard again, and looked back at Nurse Dalton with determination. “I need to know what happened to my wife.” His voice cracked with grief on the word “wife” as tears fell from his eyes and his jaw clenched. “What happened to our baby . . . ?”

  Nurse Dalton took deep breaths and tried to focus on the man in front of her. Images of the baby sliding out of Mrs. Straight and into the arms of the undead Dr. Limon flashed through her brain: the baby’s scream of pain and the abrupt halt to the sound of new life; the scream of the mother as she watched her child die; and the blood-chilling sounds of the woman’s death as she too was eaten alive.

  “Tell me,” Mr. Straight growled through clenched teeth, gripping both of her shoulders and shaking her. “I need to know!”

  She whimpered and twisted, trying to break free of his grasp. “I can’t . . .”

  “Yes, you can!” he screamed in her face, spraying her with saliva and tears.

  Closing her eyes, she rushed through the facts as fast as she could, only opening them again when she felt Mr. Straight’s hands leave her body.

  He slumped down against the far wall, covering his face with both hands; he wept. His body shook and he breathed in great, sobbing gasps as his grief for his lost wife and child overtook him.

  The elevator emanated a resounding ding and the doors suddenly slid open to expose them to the top floor of the medical facility; all was quiet beyond the open door.

  Nurse Dalton stepped forward, holding her hand against the door to keep it open. Slowly, she stepped out into the hall, careful not to move her hand in case someone or something tried to attack. She didn’t want to be sealed off alone.

  “It looks clear,” she said, turning back to the man who had quieted somewhat, taking her eyes off the hallway.

  A woman with no face growled and slammed into Nurse Dalton, knocking them both into the elevator.

  Mr. Straight jumped up and tried to wrestle the undead woman off of Nurse Dalton; they slammed into the control panel as he did so and their bodies pressed a couple of buttons for the lower floors.

  Screaming, crying, and flailing, Nurse Dalton fought against her attacker as well. The bloodthirsty beast roared, clawed, bit, and scratched as they tried to subdue her.

  During the struggle they descended many floors where the elevator paused and the doors slid open. Luckily, no one else decided to join the elevator battle, until they reached the ground floor.

  The doors opened with yet another ding, alerting all of the creatures milling around in the Emergency Room to turn and watch the struggle within the elevator. With moans, groans, and harsh squeals of glee, the undead descended upon the battling living.

  Nurse Dalton saw them coming and wiggled her way over to the control panel. She pressed the “close doors” button, but there were too many bodies pressed between the doors and they were struggling too hard with the faceless woman to defend their small “safe zone.”

  Soon they were overwhelmed and the hungry creatures tore their limbs from their bodies, feasting on their flesh while they screamed. Soon, they too, joined the undead to walk the halls . . .

  About the story from Rebecca Besser:

  “To Walk the Halls first appeared in the Code Z: An Undead Zombie Anthology in 2012, from KnightWatch Press. When I started thinking of a plot of my story for this anthology, I tried to think outside the box. After all, there are many, many zombie stories that originate in or have scenes in hospitals. I started to think about all the reasons someone might go to the hospital . . . to the ER.

  Then I started wondering what would happen if a pregnant woman, close to her delivery date, got bit by a zombie. After my brain started wandering down that path
, it couldn’t be stopped until the story you just read was written.

  When I told my husband about the story, while I was writing it, he shuddered and said he didn’t want to read it. That alone told me I was on the path of an amazing story that would make the reader feel something, even if it was just disgust!

  I hope you enjoyed my take on how a zombie apocalypse might affect the maternity ward of a hospital.”

  WHEN PLANS FAIL

  By Rebecca Besser

  The pantry is almost empty, Rachel thought for the hundredth time in the last hour. The sleeping infant in her arms was a heavy weight on her consciousness. She knew she had to do something if she and her small son were to survive.

  She’d been lucky so far . . . she hadn’t had to make a supply run in the six months since the world had fallen apart. She was happy, now, that her husband believed in being prepared for anything – that’s what the military had done for him. The fact that he’d been on the other side of the world at the worst time ever was unfortunate; she could have used someone to help her, especially right now. She didn’t want to take Troy out into the world. They’d barely made it back to the house when everything had gone wrong. She hadn’t seen the zombies that the news and everyone else were talking about. All she’d seen was the chaos the idea of them had caused to society. Everyone had been panicked and started looting, not caring about the people around them. She’d watched helpless as Mrs. Helton – the ninety-year-old woman who lived at the end of her street – was mowed down by a pickup truck in the super market parking lot. The frail woman had been thrown by the strike and had flown through the air to land on the hood of a vehicle traveling the other direction; she hadn’t stood a chance and Rachel had hoped that she’d died instantly. She’d been too afraid to get out and check on the woman, for fear of something happening to herself or Troy (who’d been only one month old).

  Just the thought of losing Troy made her clutch him harder, closer to her chest, which caused him to stir.

  “Shhhh,” she whispered instantly, trying to keep him quiet. She was always trying to keep him quiet.

  How am I going to keep him quiet out in the opening? she wondered silently and almost started to cry as panic choked her.

  She vowed then and there not to take him out unless she had to – she would wait until she absolutely had to leave the safety of the basement beneath their house before she did, before she would risk either of their lives.

  ***

  Four days later . . .

  Rachel stared at the bare shelves in the pantry, knowing she had to leave their sanctuary and face the world in whatever state it may be. She wasn’t looking forward to it. Troy had been cranky for the last couple days, fussing and crying more than normal. For once in her life, she wished she had something, like a drug, to make him sleep and keep him quiet. She’d always hated the idea of doing something like that to one’s child, but she felt that she had good reason to do so, but she didn’t have the necessities to do so.

  She’d made a solid plan, or so she thought, of how she could go out and get supplies with the least amount of risk. She’d kept Troy awake for a long time – over fifteen hours if she’d calculated correctly – now she was waiting for him to fall asleep. Her plan was to leave him in the safety of the basement while she went out into the neighborhood and raided the closest houses, especially the ones she knew small children had lived in. Deep down, she felt bad about hoping those families had left . . . or died. But she reasoned that she and her son needed to survive and that was her main concern. The only thing she wasn’t sure about was whether she could kill another living human being to ensure the survival of herself and her son.

  She could hear Troy fussing in his crib and she moved toward him.

  He sat up and raised his arms toward her.

  She smiled and picked him up. Humming softly, she walked around the limited area, holding him close; it didn’t take him long to fall asleep.

  Rachel kissed Troy on his sweet, soft head with tears running down her cheeks.

  “I love you,” she whispered, and laid him back into his crib. For a moment she just stared down at him, silently vowing to return to him no matter what it took. Finally, through a force of will and despite her paralyzing fear of never seeing him again, she made her muscles move and she walked to the door.

  The simple barricade bar wasn’t hard to remove, but it still took her time. She was trying to be extra quiet so she wouldn’t wake Troy. Once she managed it, she twisted the doorknob and started to open the door – it creaked loudly.

  Rachel froze and listened for any noise behind her from Troy and for any sounds from beyond the door. When there was neither, she continued to open the door as slowly and quietly as she could. Once she had it all the way open, she held her breath and listened again. Tears were no longer flowing silently down her face, but she was still terrified of what she was doing by leaving her baby to fend for himself, and of where she was going . . . into God knew what.

  She could hear nothing more than Troy’s even breaths as he slept. She stepped through the doorway and onto the stairs that would take her up to the ground floor of the house, pulling the door closed behind her. She carried the metal barricade bar up the stairs with her, and gasped when she almost dropped it at the top; it thudded loudly against the wood timbers of the wall of the stairwell, but she managed to keep ahold of it. This too cost her time, since she felt she had to wait to see if anything beyond the doorway leading into the house had heard her.

  Nothing . . . again.

  She said a silent pray that her luck would continue, and that she would face nothing but quiet emptiness the entire supply run. She knew it was unlikely to be true, but she couldn’t help but hope.

  Rachel followed the same precautionary routine that she had with the lower door as she opened the upper door that led directly into the kitchen on the ground floor of the house. Everything was still silent, so she went through and closed the upper door behind herself. She looked at the bar she’d hefted with her up the stairs and looked at the door she’d just closed. Her plan had been to somehow secure this door with it to keep Troy safe, but she saw no way to do so affectively. At last, in desperation, she pulled and pushed the heavy wooden table from the corner in front of the door to at least make it difficult for any zombies to get to Troy. She knew that a human would be smart enough to know that the table was blocking the doorway – she just hoped if someone did happen through and see it, that they would think it was a safety device to keep a zombie imprisoned and not feel the urge to explore further. She stood the metal bar under the table, behind a leg, just to add to this affect. No one would see it there.

  Her hopes were no more than threads of chance. She knew this, but still she clung to those threads for dear life.

  She moved through the house as soundlessly as possible, heading upstairs to retrieve a duffle bag from the master bedroom closet. While she was up there, she decided to look out the upstairs window, seeking the vantage point to give her an idea of what she faced outside.

  The blinds had been drawn by her previously to prevent anyone, or anything, from seeing any movement within. Light seeped around the edges and through the cracks just enough to let her see the gray shapes of the furniture around her. When she slipped a finger around the edge and pulled ever so slightly and slowly, she was blinded by the sunshine that shone directly into her eyes. She winced and blinked rapidly until her eyes adjusted.

  What she saw beyond was not what she expected. Weeds had choked all the once well-manicured lawns to unrecognizability. The once beautiful neighborhood now looked worse than the few slums she’d seen over her twenty-seven years. She didn’t know what she’d expected to see, but this shocked her. Facing reality, she knew no one would be mowing or working on the upkeep of their houses, but she hadn’t expected it to look so bad, so swiftly.

  Cars were abandoned on the street and in various yards. The weeds and vegetation that had grown up and around the ones in the yards
shadowed the insides of the vehicles, not letting her see if there were any treasures or dangers within their depths. She knew there might be something of value or interest in them, especially the trunks, but she would save those until dusk, when there was less chance of her movements in the open to be seen.

  In every direction she could see, as far as she could see, there was no movement save the wind as it breezed through, ruffling the foliage that had overgrown the world in its eagerness to erase mankind. This brought a measure of calm over Rachel, and she almost decided not to bring what else she’d retrieved from the closet . . . a 9mm Glock. Henry, her husband, had made sure she’d known how to use the pistol, telling her that with him away she might need it for her protection. She’d surprised herself at her aptitude with the weapon.

  With another deep breath that she exhaled on a sigh, she resigned herself to getting on with her task so she could return to Troy before he awoke and found her missing. Faster than she’d come upstairs, she was again downstairs and stood before the front door. She reached her hand out to open it when she suddenly thought better, and headed to the backdoor. If there was anything outside, she wanted to be the one with the advantage of surprise.

  The backdoor was the better choice, but was stiff and hard to open from the months of neglect. She made it outside and stood for a moment just breathing in the forgotten scent of fresh air; it seemed like a lifetime since her lungs had filled with sun-kissed fresh air. She could smell the wild flowers that were weeds in and of themselves as she inhaled deeply a few times. Despite herself, she smiled. Being outside was a blessing she hadn’t counted in all her dread.

  With a grin on her face, she tromped across the small porch, down the steps, and into the overgrown yard. She planned to visit three doors down where a family with triplets had lived. At the time, she’d thought that caring for so many babies at once was crazy, now she hoped they’d had enough of a stock of formula and other baby foods to keep Troy content until he started eating adult foods. Even then, she knew those would be hard to come by. She’d already given him some that she thought he could handle, mashing canned food to make it easier for him to consume. He choked sometimes and she felt bad, but she didn’t know what else to do. She planned to remedy their troubles and she prayed as she slunk from house to house that she would meet with success.