CURE (A Strandville Zombie Novel)

by Frisch, Belinda

  He lay on the floor and stretched his right arm over his head, pushing through the hurt and moving his foot closer to the phone until going any further would dislocate his shoulder. His hand was dead from his middle finger to his thumb and a stabbing pain radiated up his wrist from the too-snug cuff.

  “Come on, come on.”

  Repeated missed calls, texts, and voicemail indicators rang every several minutes, draining his battery. If he didn’t hurry, there would be no life left with which to make a call.

  No way to receive the call Nixon had indicated was coming.

  Zach tried flexing his foot, but the bulky fireman’s boot was too stiff. He sat up and tugged off the right one. The air cooled his sweating foot and the sensation returned to his hand, pain replacing numbness. Not exactly better. He repositioned himself, extending his socked foot as far as it would reach, and connected. He closed his eyes and exhaled. I’m sending help, baby. Careful not to kick, he hooked his toe around the phone and dragged it slowly toward him.

  He searched his call log and dialed Scott’s cell.

  * * * * *

  The sulfur tang of gunpowder overtook the bathroom. Holly’s head hung to the side, her mouth and eyes open. The milky white film, spotty over her corneas, covered the last traces of her humanity. Brain, blood, and skull slid down the wall.

  “No.” Frank hit his knees and wept, his wrinkled hands pulling the thinning hair at his temples. He closed his eyes and his mouth twisted in agony.

  Foster’s lips stretched into a pencil-thin line, quivering as if he might cry.

  “Maybe you should go check on the others,” Miranda said to him, her ears ringing from the gunshot.

  “I don’t think they’ll come in here, not after….”

  Miranda nodded.

  They had seen their share of horrors.

  Scott stood at the sink and rinsed the blood spatter from his exposed skin. He was calm and practiced. Like he hadn’t just committed murder.

  Not even Frank’s open grieving affected him.

  Miranda knew the pain of losing a child and mourned Frank’s loss as her own.

  Billy was more concerned with himself. “You wasted it. My last fuckin’ chance and y’all blew it.” He covered his groin and put his head between his knees, unfazed by the cesspool beneath him. Sweat dripped from his chin to the floor and he shivered.

  Miranda put the back of her hand to Billy’s forehead. “He’s burning up.”

  Frank trembled and buried his face in his hands. Whimpers escaped between sobs.

  Miranda squatted beside him. “We’ll take Holly with us,” she said. “We’ll see she gets a proper burial.” She withdrew the syringes from Holly’s abdomen, three of which had something left in them. Hopefully, it was enough to buy Billy some time. She reached up and closed Holly’s eyes, smearing the blood spatter in two parallel lines from her brows to her cheekbones.

  Foster took off his navy blue uniform shirt and covered Holly’s face. Nervous sweat soaked the grey tee-shirt he wore underneath it and he crossed his arms over his narrow chest self-consciously.

  Miranda weighed whether or not to ask Frank, the only one among them with medical experience, to administer the shots. His expression was vacant. He was grieving in some unknowable distance and she chose not to interrupt him.

  Billy shivered, his teeth chattered, and his muscles visibly tightened. Rigors shook him violently and the seizing caused the plastic seat to bang loudly against the toilet.

  Miranda moved into the stall, keeping enough distance between her and Billy to get out of bite reach if necessary. Please let this work. She plunged the first needle into Billy’s thigh and injected a half-dose.

  “Is it working?” she asked.

  Billy was shaking too hard to answer.

  She administered the second and third doses, watching for signs of improvement. The three didn’t equal one full dose, but it was enough to bring him back from the edge. He closed his eyes, resting for a brief moment, and then reopened them.

  Miranda checked for the telltale opacity and found only two hazel orbs of desperation and sadness. The symptoms were subsiding. “What do we do with him?” she asked. “He’s in no condition to go anywhere and who knows how long it will be before…”

  “Don’t say that!” Billy shouted. “Don’t you think for one fuckin’ minute you’re leavin’ me here. This is your fault. John, you make this right.”

  “Are there more shots?” Miranda asked Foster.

  “Nixon stores them in the basement.”

  John lowered his head, unable to look Billy in the eyes. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have let you go down there alone.”

  Billy stood up, grabbed the edge of the stall and fell back on the toilet. He reached down, pulled up his boxers, and tried again. “You’re takin’ me with you and we’re goin’ back fer more shots.”

  John cowered, scooting against the far wall.

  “You don’t have to.” Foster handed Billy the several he’d been holding. “I took them from the lab. I thought we might need them.”

  “You knew this was going to happen?” Miranda asked.

  “No…I…I didn’t know. I grabbed them while Scott was looking for you. I knew it was a possibility that if the infected were let out someone would get sick.”

  “We have to get Billy out of here,” John said.

  Scott waved his hand in Billy’s direction. “He can’t even walk, for God’s sake.”

  Miranda looked at Holly’s corpse in the wheelchair.

  “Don’t even think it.” Frank sniffled. “There’s no way to get her out of here without it. You have taken everything from me. Do you hear me? Everything.”

  “We can’t save every person,” Scott shouted. “Don’t you people get this? Billy’s dying--he might as well be a zombie already. And I’m sorry Frank, but Holly’s dead. If I didn’t do what I did, she might’ve taken us all with her. Miranda, come on. We’re leaving.”

  The main doors, only feet away, might as well have been miles.

  “I can’t go,” she said. “Not without...” She held her hand on her stomach.

  Foster grimaced. “Nixon’s research. His file on you.”

  Miranda nodded. “I don’t know what’s inside of me, Scott. I need Nixon’s research if anyone outside of here is going to be able to help me.” The thought of losing a second child was unbearable.

  Foster spoke softly as if to lessen the weight of his words. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but there’s only one kind of help for this situation.”

  Miranda couldn’t bring herself to think the word again, let alone say it. She wouldn’t kill her baby.

  Even Scott’s expression said he doubted she could go through with that after all that happened. “Where does Nixon keep his files, Foster?”

  Miranda sighed.

  He wasn’t going to fight her on this.

  She hadn’t seen that coming.

  47.

  Scott’s ringer broke the momentary silence. He answered the phone and static came through loud enough for everyone to hear. A familiar male voice spoke in interrupted dots and dashes. “You’re breaking up. Where are you?” He shut off the speaker.

  Frank wiped the flow of tears streaming from his eyes and sniffled, drawing a clear thread of snot into his nose.

  “Shit. We’ll be right there.” Scott flipped the phone closed. “It’s Zach. He’s in Nixon’s office. Foster, can we get up there without any problems?”

  Foster glanced around the room at Holly’s body, at Frank who was crumbling, and at Billy who was struggling to stand up. “Define problems.” The power flickered, not long enough to trigger the generator, but the bathroom went momentarily dark. “I don’t think we should take the elevator, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Billy shambled out of the stall, barely able to stand. He fell forward, grabbing the edge of the sink for support, and coughed blood all over the white porcelain.

  John handed him a wet pap
er towel, careful not to get too close.

  “We have to split up,” Miranda said. “There’s no way around it.”

  “More of the strong versus the weak.” Frank projected his hatred onto Scott.

  “Where’s the van?” Scott asked.

  Frank rubbed his aged hands along the wheelchair handles, staring down at the shirt over Holly’s head.

  “Frank, where’d you park the van?”

  “Out back, behind the loading dock.” He didn’t look up when he answered.

  “Miranda, you go with Frank and the others. Foster and I will find the file and bring it to you,” Scott said.

  Miranda shook her head. “No, I’m going with you. It’s me Nixon wants more than anyone. You send me with them, I lessen their chances of getting to safety as much as my own. And what if Billy…” Completes his change. She didn’t have to say it.

  Scott nodded in agreement. “Okay. I get it.”

  Foster handed his pistol to John. “Just in case.”

  John held it loosely by his fingertips.

  “You do know how to shoot, right?” Foster asked.

  “Of course I know how. Every boy in Strandville’s been on a hunting trip. It doesn’t mean I like it.” John closed his hand around the grip.

  “Then might I suggest you take the safety off?”

  Frank wheeled Holly toward the door. “I’m taking her out first. I’ll bring the chair back for Billy.”

  “Like hell you will.” Billy hooked his arm around John’s neck. John wrinkled his nose and cringed. “I can walk. I’m not lettin’ you leave me here. How do I know you’ll come back?”

  Frank shook his head. “Because you have the shots. Even if they don’t save you, this isn’t over. What if another one of us gets bit?” He looked directly at Scott and there was no mistaking his loathing. “What if it’s Miranda you have to put a bullet in next?”

  Scott turned to Foster. “Are there more shots somewhere?”

  “Not that we can get to easily.”

  Billy clutched the syringes to his chest. “These here’re mine. You people ain’t even been bit.”

  “Billy’s right,” John said. “He needs the shots or everyone around him is as good as dead.”

  Frank pushed his daughter’s body into the hallway. “The old, the sick, and the crippled. We’re as good as dead, anyway. With Holly gone, it doesn’t matter one way or the other to me.”

  * * * * *

  Billy pulled away from John, the infection coursing through him. The shots had helped some, but already the effects of the virus were resurfacing. He held his palm to the bathroom wall and willed his legs to move. Each step was like trudging through quick drying concrete.

  “Are you sure you can walk?” John asked.

  “I’m fine.” No thanks to you.

  John held the door.

  Billy moved unsteadily at first and then recovered, freezing when he saw his sister waiting in the hall. “You’re alive.” Tears rolled down his pimply cheek. “I knew you didn’t leave.”

  Amy shifted in her wheelchair and reached for Billy’s hand. He knelt beside her and wept.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “There ain’t time to explain.”

  John handed Billy a pair of scrubs he took from an abandoned laundry cart in the lobby. “Come on. We have to go.”

  Billy pulled the extra large shirt over his head and it went halfway down his thighs. He discarded his soiled underwear and stepped into the drawstring pants.

  Frank shuffled away, head down and sniffling, unwilling or unable to see the happy reunion.

  Carlene set her hands on Amy’s wheelchair handles and Billy stopped her. “Let me take ‘er,” he said. “I could use the help standin’.”

  He needed to be close to her after all that happened.

  “Stop, wait a minute.” Amy stretched her legs, flexed her feet, and winced when she pulled herself forward. “You need the chair more ‘an I do.” She clamped a hand over her stomach and grunted when she pushed herself up.

  Billy set his hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back down. Frank faded in the distance. “We oughtta go before we can’t catch him.”

  48.

  Reid locked the Security Office door behind him. He wouldn’t be caught off-guard again.

  A montage of his recent murders played back in his head and he rode out the memories like a junkie on a high, stopping only when his radio crackled. He checked to make sure it was on the right frequency and lowered the volume.

  There was work to do.

  A blue, plastic top stretched over one of a dozen silver keys made the arsenal key an easy find. He went into the hidden back room and scanned the wall full of weapons. Emergency supplies for the bedlam he was secretly enjoying. He took down a spare pistol and as much ammunition as his pockets would hold. He loaded two high-capacity clips with thirty rounds each and grabbed a hunting knife with a gut-hook on the back.

  Satisfied that he had what he needed, he returned to the lobby. The load of weapons and ammo felt good as his muscles engaged to carry the weight.

  The anticipation of the hunt was close to true happiness, but his bliss was short-lived.

  In the brief time he was gone, someone else had been there.

  He picked up his two-way. “Foster, you piece of shit, answer me.” If he let Miranda out, he was dead. “Foster, this is Reid. Answer your goddamned radio.”

  Shit.

  The IV pole had been moved and a sheet covered Mark’s body. A soiled pair of boxers lay against the wall and several trails of fresh blood made it hard to theorize what happened. If it was Miranda who had been there, she wasn’t alone.

  He tracked the bloody footprint smears to the elevator where the numbered lights had stopped at three.

  Reid slammed the heel of his boot hard enough into the elevator door to dent the metal. He pushed the call button and growled at the car’s slow descent.

  Three. Two. One.

  The door strained open, clunking along in its track. Part of him thought it best to clear Ambulatory Surgery, to see what was in there, alive or undead, but he knew better. Nixon wanted Miranda back and there was no way that IV pole moved itself. What started as an obvious distraction, releasing the infected, was about to become a pandemic.

  He stepped into the waiting car, eyeing the blood pools, the tire tracks, and footprints, and knew Miranda had made it back to the ward. There were too many different, small prints for that not to be the case. He slammed his fist into the wall and his head spun.

  He was losing control and had to get it back before Nixon found out how bad things were.

  The elevator stopped at the third floor. He drew the knife from his belt, preparing to attack, and sighed when the door opened to emptiness. He followed the blood trail down an empty hallway, the red becoming increasingly faint as it meandered through the vacant neurology wing toward the fire door at the back. He stared at the drag mark pattern. Two parallel lines. Like a pair of severed legs. The amputee he left in the recovery room.

  There were only two ways an infected got upstairs: either it was alive and looking for help before it changed or someone lured it up there as a viral bomb to take out what was left of the center. With any luck, Miranda and the rest of them were dumb enough to get themselves cornered.

  The trail stopped at the secured fire door.

  Reid heard the screams before he turned the knob.

  This was all Miranda’s fault.

  If she wasn’t on the other side, he vowed to find her and pay her back.

  Payback is what he was made for.

  49.

  The arsenal had been ransacked leaving only a single spare pistol, which Foster tucked into his waistband before heading toward Nixon’s office.

  Miranda tried to keep up, but Penny slowed her down.

  “I thought you said there were weapons in there.” Scott shook his head.

  “Someone beat us to them. Probably Reid.”

/>   “Hey, can you two wait up?” Miranda called up from one turn of the staircase behind them and Scott stopped.

  “You two all right?” he asked.

  Penny moved increasingly slowly, her arms crossed over her stomach.

  “We’re fine.” Miranda offered for Penny to lean on her. “We are fine, right?” she asked under her breath.

  Penny winced and cracked a fake smile. “Too much time in bed, I guess. I’ll be okay.” Her normally vibrant blue eyes paled to a muted slate.

  Miranda saw through her attempt at being strong and regretted not insisting she go with Frank and the others. “If you need to take a break, Foster can stay with you.”

  A blush of embarrassment painted Penny’s cheeks and she bowed her head. “I’d rather have another woman nearby.”

  Miranda managed a smile, but her heart ached. Penny was too pure, too virginal and naïve for so much pain and suffering. Miranda hooked her arm around Penny’s waist and pulled her wrist over her shoulder.

  Scott held the hallway door open and brushed his hand across Miranda’s back as she passed him. She didn’t move away from his touch. Things between them were better than they had been in a long time, even if only because of the stress.

  “Nixon’s office is the last on the right,” Foster said, but he didn’t have to.

  The rattling of metal on metal and a stream of profanity echoed down the hall.

  Zach.

  Miranda handed Penny off to Foster and picked up her pace, breaking into a jog despite her weary and aching legs.

  Scott met her speed.

  “What the hell happened?” Miranda stifled a gasp when she saw Zach handcuffed to the radiator. His face was red, his forehead sweaty, and blood streaked his arm from his wrist to his elbow. Thunder boomed and the lights flickered. Miranda knelt next to him and gently lifted his hand. “Oh my God.” Zach pulled away, the cuff catching at the end and fresh blood running from the wound. “Stop tugging.” Despite Zach’s attempt at hiding it, she could tell Zach had been crying. “Foster, get in here. Give me your handcuff key.”