“Zach, where’s Lenny?” Scott asked.
“He set me up. Last I saw him, he was with Reid.”
There was so much about Miranda’s rescue she didn’t know.
Foster helped Penny into the leather chair behind Nixon’s desk and handed Miranda his key.
Penny groaned and drew in a deep breath.
“Are you sure you are all right?” Miranda asked.
Penny shook her head. “I think so.” She strained to speak.
Miranda gently assessed Zach’s wounds, Scott’s jealous stare burning a hole in her back. She fit the tiny key in the lock and turned it. The cuff released and Zach struggled to stand. His knees and ankles snapped and popped. He staggered to the window and stared down at the helipad.
Miranda followed after him.
A bright, white light illuminated the caravan of staff loading boxes and equipment into Nixon’s chopper. The storm beat down on them, but none of them so much as flinched.
They were moving the experiment.
Zach rubbed the intact skin above the bleeding abrasions on his wrist. He flexed his fingers and placed his palms to the glass. “I have to get Allison back.”
Miranda wrapped her arm around him and put her head on his shoulder. “Zach, I’m so sorry.”
The packages slowed to a trickle, an indication the staff had completed the loading.
Heavy drops of rain bounced off the window like hail.
“You can’t go out there,” Miranda said. “Even without the storm, even with our help, you’re still outnumbered."
“Look.” Scott leaned forward until his forehead touched the glass.
Nixon’s lab coat stuck out against the blackness, the white sheet over the cart as visible and contrasting. The rain drenched him and soaked the sheet, exposing the shape beneath it. An intern carried an IV pole behind him.
It was a body.
“Allison!” Zach let out a pained cry and slammed his fist into the window. His hand ricocheted and he howled in pain.
“We’ll get her back,” Scott said, but the room of sad faces made it clear that none of them believed that.
“Not if they leave.” Zach pressed his face closer to the glass, his eyes wide and unblinking.
Allison was loaded first. An intern tried to get an umbrella over Nixon’s head, but the howling wind turned it inside out and pulled it from his hand. Nixon climbed into the chopper and disappeared from view.
Miranda sniffled and wiped her burning eyes with the back of her hand. She didn’t know how much more loss she could take.
Zach looked away, unable to watch the helicopter take off.
Penny let out a pained cry and doubled over, wrapping her arms around her knees.
Miranda went to her and rubbed her back. Heat radiated through her cotton shirt.
Scott shook his head and without further acknowledging Penny, rummaged the scattered papers on Nixon’s desktop. “We don’t have time for this, Miranda. We have to find your file. You should have made her go with Frank.” He opened the drawers in succession and slammed them closed progressively louder. “Stethoscope, pens, Post-it notes. There’s nothing here.”
Penny drew a long breath. “I’m okay. Really. Help him look.”
Foster filled a paper cup at the water cooler and handed it to Penny who was rocking in the chair to stave off the discomfort. She sat still only long enough to take a sip and then set it on the desk next to her.
Miranda picked through a stack of files on Nixon’s credenza.
Scott tugged on the top drawer of a locked file cabinet. “Miranda, hand me the ax.”
“Here,” she said.
He waved for her to step back and when she was clear of him, took a rounded swing at the lock in corner of the cabinet. There was a loud smash and the strain of bending metal. Penny covered her ears, the shrill noise seeming to make her pain, or at least her tolerance of it, worse.
The lock gave and Scott yanked the drawer so hard its contents scattered on the floor.
Miranda sifted through the rubble, glancing at Zach who put on his shoe and absently stared out the window.
Foster paced between Penny and the hallway. “Anything?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Scott said. “Graphs, spreadsheets, blueprints for some kind of expansion.”
A door slammed and Foster jumped. He got Penny immediately on her feet. “I have to get her out of here.”
Penny moaned, sweat dotting her brow.
“Take her to the lobby,” Miranda said. “We’ll catch up.”
Scott nodded in Zach’s direction. “He should go, too.”
“I don’t want to,” Zach said, wiping his swollen eyes and smearing the blood from his wrist across his face. He looked at Miranda in a way that made her uncomfortable, like he was tracking her.
“Go,” she said. “Foster can’t handle Penny alone.”
“I’d rather…”
“Now,” Miranda insisted.
Zach grudgingly agreed.
“What’s with him?” Scott asked once he was out of earshot.
Miranda shrugged. “He just lost his wife.” She only partly believed her own excuse. Zach had been acting strangely, watching her too closely. She was what Nixon wanted most. What if Nixon proposed him turning her over in exchange for Allison’s release? Scott had yet to draw that conclusion, but it was only a matter of time.
50.
Life on the unit had been exterminated, the virus efficient in its spread. Blood-spattered gurneys lined the hall and a trail of discarded IV tubes and catheters signaled the infected that broke from the herd. Reid ducked behind an abandoned supply cart, warned by the shuffling of slippers of one such defector’s approach. He could take them out one or a few at a time, but not all of them at once. He tightened the grip on his knife handle.
A male infected-- in his thirties if Reid had to guess--rounded the corner. His deadpan stare fixed on something in the distance and his lumbering gait gave Reid the peace of mind that he hadn’t been spotted. It’d be moving much quicker if he had. Tension mounted as the Id moved closer. Reid waited for it to pass him and grabbed it from behind. He held his breath to avoid inhaling the decomposing stench and hooked his arm around its neck, choking up on his grip to prevent a bite. His pulse pounded as he lifted the infected man’s chin and settled his blade under his Adam’s apple. A single, sharp pull severed the trachea and settled his knife between two vertebrae. He ripped his blade the rest of the way through, completing the decapitation, and the body fell to the floor. Reid wiped his face on his sleeve.
It was a quick and unsatisfying kill, but a necessary one.
He huffed until his breathing steadied, the foul smell filling his lungs in spite of turning his head.
A soft, whimpering noise caught his attention.
Miranda. He tip-toed toward the noise, disappointed to find a young, red-headed medical assistant instead. The girl balled up in the fetal position, sobbing beneath the nurse’s station counter. Her pink, striped uniform sleeve was torn and an angry, red bite mark stared back at him from her ivory, freckled shoulder.
“Help me,” she whispered, shivering and frantic, but not yet beginning to the change.
Reid drew his pistol and she screamed.
She covered her mouth with both hands and tears sprang from her wide green eyes, the telltale film, so far, absent.
He pressed his finger to his lips, drinking in her panic. Shhh. She clamped down harder, her knuckles turning white, but it didn’t matter. She was too late.
The mindless pack of infected were drawn by her scream. They moved quickly and clumsily, knocking over equipment and each other in their dogged determination to consume the last remaining live flesh.
A middle-aged woman with a freshly cut tracheotomy in the center of her neck led the pack. The wound tract was disrupted, pulled wide apart and dark blood trickled down the front of her faded hospital gown. An IV line dangled from her left arm and dragged on the ground next to her. Her
right ankle appeared broken, bent at so severe of an angle the instep of her foot laid flat against the floor. Abrasions and stitches disfigured her swollen and bruised face.
Reid contemplated stepping in, thinning the herd for his benefit and not the girl’s, but there were too many of them. You’re on your own. He ducked into an inpatient room and watched through a small gap in the door as the horde descended.
“Help, help!” The girl scrambled out from under the counter and ran. “Help me.” The infected female grabbed a fistful of the girl’s hair. “Help!” The girl twisted and yanked until the strands pulled free, tearing from her scalp.
Reid watched with pleasure and the fear that if the girl opened the fire door, an act the infected no longer had the dexterity for, the horde could take over the center.
An elderly male tripped and grabbed the girl’s ankle, anchoring her in place.
Bite her. Finish this.
But the man didn’t have the strength. The girl kicked him, hard, with the heel of her sneaker and reached for the door. Her hand closed around the knob and Reid stifled a scream.
No!
He aimed his pistol, but common sense warned him not to take the shot.
The girl pushed, hard, and the door caught on the stop, staying open. Worst case scenario. The horde ran her down, trampled and grabbed at her. They tore at her flesh, her screams loud at first, but fading as her life drained away. The dead devoured her before fanning out into the hospital.
* * * * *
Penny was almost to the first floor when the pain in her stomach crippled her. “I have to stop.” She squeezed Foster’s hand. The stairs had been too much. Every time she took a step, another jolt shot up from her groin. “I need to get to a bathroom.” A building pressure in her abdomen threatened to force its way out both ends.
A loud crash echoed down the stairwell and a single, shrill scream followed. A bloody catheter fell from above and landed at Zach’s feet.
“We’re almost there,” he said. “Hurry.”
Foster reached out his hand. “Somehow the infection is spreading. Dammit, Zach, this is what I was afraid of. We have to get out of here.”
God, please help me.
Penny shifted her weight onto Foster, needing to sit down. A cacophony erupted above them; the moans and groans of a hungry, infected mob. She willed her defeated body to move.
“Just three more steps, come on.” Foster pulled the door open and Penny’s knees buckled. Pain blurred her vision and something warm and gelatinous seeped out from between her legs. She lowered her head and tried not to cry. Crimson droplets dotted the floor. Another wave hit and she let out a wounded moan. She doubled over and Foster grabbed her arm.
“Help me get her into a room,” he said.
Zach cradled her like an oversized baby and she squirmed uncomfortably. He pushed his way through the first door they came to and immediately turned around. “Whoa, not this one.”
“Wait, put me down.” Penny breathed in the familiar, sweet smell of myrrh incense. The kind they burned in her church. She settled her gaze on the near-life sized crucifix at the front of the chapel and prayed. Our Father, who art in heaven. The pain in her abdomen subsided.
The world was falling apart around her and this was her peace. Thick clots slipped from inside of her, the cramps like a terrible period. She was miscarrying Nixon’s abomination. Guilt overshadowed her relief as her mind turned to Miranda and Carlene who were both still pregnant.
Hail Mary, full of grace.
She continued praying, but this time the prayers weren’t for her.
51.
Frank couldn’t believe it when they reached the van. Amy took her first slow steps out of the wheelchair, her feet coming down hard as if to go through the pavement. Her rigid, spastic gait made it clear she couldn’t run, not even if her life depended on it. Frank was glad it hadn’t come to that, for all of their sakes. He guided her toward the open side door and tried to shield her from the storm. The rain came down hard and at such an angle it hissed against the tarp covering Holly’s body.
Amy held her stomach and limped a few steps closer to the door. John helped her in to the van and Carlene eased her into the passenger’s seat.
Billy coughed and wheezed, soaking wet and curled up in the back corner, shivering.
Frank sighed, the heat on full blast unable to draw the chill from his bones. This was going to end badly. They never should have taken Billy with them. He wished he had been thinking straight enough to argue.
Carlene bowed her head, her dripping wet hair shielding her face.
Frank didn’t need to see to know she was crying.
He straightened the tarp around Holly and a bit of blood spilled out from one of the folds, pooling on the metal floor. He reached in his bag for a pair of latex gloves and mopped up the spill with the reverence owed to his only daughter. The fresh blood on the wound, where bone and skin erupted, glistened in the dome light. He hated Scott for what he’d done. He had no right. “I’m so sorry.” He smoothed a tangle of matted hair over the hole and folded the blue plastic so that it came up to Holly’s chin like a blanket.
Carlene sniffled and rested her hand on his shoulder. “She’s with God now, in peace.”
God, in his estimation, had taken more than his due.
His respect for her beliefs kept him from saying so.
John closed the side door and scrunched up his face. “What’s that smell?”
Carlene pinched her nose.
Frank lifted Billy’s eyelids and examined them by penlight. “It’s death. Can you follow the beam with your eyes?” He traced a square in front of Billy’s face and he moved his head to see it. “Eyes only,” Frank said, but Billy couldn’t do it. His right pupil was blown, his left unresponsive to light. A thin, cataract-like veil formed over both of them. “How many shots have you taken?”
“Including the ones in the bathroom?”
“After leaving it,” Frank said.
Billy counted the remaining syringes. “Three.”
Frank couldn’t remember how many went into Holly before she stopped breathing, but he guessed Billy was close. “I don’t think it’s safe to take more than that right now.” Frank tried to ease the syringes away.
Billy bristled. “Over my dead body.”
Amy peeled off her wet shirt and hissed as she moved. She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath.
Carlene cringed. “Frank, you need to take a look at this. The smell isn’t coming from Billy”
“We have to get out of here.”
Carlene folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not kidding. She needs to be looked at.”
Billy groaned and spat on the floor.
“There isn’t time,” Frank said.
Carlene blocked the driver’s seat.
Frank tried to gently move her. “You don’t understand what’s happening. I have to drive.”
Amy shivered and her eyes rolled back.
Carlene held her hand. “Not until you help her.”
* * * * *
Jim didn’t argue when Nixon ordered the lockdown to contain the infection. He owed him that for the ten years he’d taken care of Maura, his late wife. Now that he was a widower, he didn’t mind if he died fulfilling his purpose, which was almost certain. He was having or about to have a major heart attack.
The gore-filled elevator descended to the basement. Jim took a deep breath and leaned against the only clean wall, dreading what he might walk into. He’d rather die any other way. He’d seen the infection’s effects time and again. It was a living Hell.
The door opened and his chest tightened, whether from anxiety or his failing heart he wasn’t sure. He grunted as the sensation radiated pain to his right arm.
“I’m stronger than this,” he said, refusing to succumb.
The bloody slaughter was worse than he could have imagined, but he was thankful to find only dead and not undead. He pushed off the invisible hand squeezing
his heart and stumbled past the carnage as though wearing blinders. He set his sweaty palm on the scanner and the red light changed to green. Almost there. He limped to the master panel and nearly crashed into it. His right leg weakened and an electric feeling lit up the nerves down the side of his body. He eased himself into a chair and pulled out the keyboard tray. His arm tightened as he typed his password in a hunt-and-peck fashion.
The walls closed in like a tomb and his breathing grew shallow. He drifted for a moment, thinking of Maura, the love of his life.
“Honey, I’m coming home.”
He opened his eyes, typed the command prompt, and hit ‘Enter’.
52.
“The file has to be here somewhere,” Scott shouted.
Reams of green bar and copy paper covered Nixon’s office, the carpet only visible at the edges. Scott knocked the cabinet over and tossed the desk drawers into a pile in the corner. Miranda’s chest tightened and sadness came over her as she watched him fighting her battle, red-faced and on the verge of tears. Months, almost a year of pushing him away after losing their baby had been undone in a single day.
“We have to go.” Miranda wiped a stream of tears from her cheek with her shaking left hand.
“We need that file, Miranda. I get that you can’t stand to lose another child, but we have to know what we’re dealing with.”
Footsteps echoed in the distance and the fear of being recaptured made it hard for Miranda to breathe. “Someone’s coming.” She hoped he’d respond to common sense and reason. “I’m sure it’s somewhere else. You’ve been through everything at least twice. Why would Nixon keep those kinds of files here, where a secretary or anyone else, for that matter, could find them?”
Another door slammed and pulled Scott back from his determined search. His head snapped around at the noise.
“Please,” Miranda said, already in the doorway. “Let’s go.”
CURE (A Strandville Zombie Novel) Page 19
