Scott rolled to his knees. “I think so.” He crossed his arms over his ribs and eased himself up. “Where’s Reid?” Blood stained his teeth, one of which appeared loose and hung at an odd angle.
Miranda listened, no longer able to hear Reid’s voice. “I don’t know.”
The sickening dread returned with the fear that Scott couldn’t hold him off.
Scott staggered over to the windowsill, grabbed the pistol, and sat down on the bed.
“What are you doing?” Miranda asked. “We should go.”
The fresh swelling on Scott’s face made his pained grin more than a little crooked. “No, we should stay.”
* * * * *
Shadows danced on the wall of the chapel, the red and blue glass oil lamps taking the place of novena candles.
The worst of Penny’s ordeal seemed over, the moans of pain now only occasional whimpers. She lowered on a kneeling bench in the first row of pews, ignoring her blood-soaked pants, and looked over her shoulder. “Pray with me?”
Zach’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he held his hand against it to quiet it. “Go ahead, Foster. I’ll watch the door.”
Foster knelt next to Penny, his hands together, head down, and eyes closed.
“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,” Penny started.
“Courage to change the things I can,” Foster joined her in the serenity prayer.
Their voices chanted in unison.
Zach moved as far from them as he could and opened his still-ringing phone. “Hello?” He whispered. He didn’t recognize the number and expected either Miranda or Scott. Someone sniffled and for a moment, the line was silent. “Hello, who is this?”
“You have to do what he says.” Sobs punctuated the terrified plea.
Zach’s breath caught and his stomach clenched. “Allison, where are you?” The line went quiet. “Allison?” Please don’t be gone again.
“Listen to me.” Nixon’s voice replaced Allison’s.
A shiver ran through Zach and fear seized him.
“Are you listening, Zach?”
“Yes.” His heart hammered.
“Is Miranda with you?”
He considered lying and thought better of it. He wouldn’t risk Allison’s safety and there was no telling what Nixon knew already. “No, she isn’t.” He cupped his hand around his mouth as the others continued to pray.
“Do you know where she is?” Nixon asked.
“Yes,” Zach said. “She’s not far.”
“Can you get to her?”
Something crashed in the hallway and startled him. Penny and Foster turned around.
“Who are you talking to?” Foster asked.
“It’s Scott.” Zach lied. A chorus of moans and shuffling footsteps moved in their direction. “I don’t think so.”
A thud came at the chapel door and pushed it part way open. Foster caught it with his shoulder and forced it closed, but not before Zach saw what was on the other side. You have to help him. Instinctively he knew it, but he couldn’t draw himself away from the call.
“Zach, are you there?” Nixon asked.
A sea of infected clamored at the sound of their voices. “I can’t talk,” he whispered, not that he didn’t want to. He’d have given anything to hear Allison’s voice again.
Foster’s feet slipped, but there was more to be afraid of than the horde. Losing Allison struck the deepest fear in him. Foster recovered. He kept his back to the door and dug his heels into the thin, beige carpet. A film of sweat covered his face and his glasses slid down his slight nose.
“Zach, help!”
“I have to go.”
“The price for Allison is Miranda’s return,” Nixon said. “Get her and I’ll be in touch.”
Zach shoved the phone in his pocket and ran to help Foster. He was distracted and terrified, but relieved to know that Allison was still alive.
The horde pounded and kicked, attempting to force their way in.
Zach had even more reason now not to let them.
54.
The wipers swept aside the rain, their rhythmic back and forth motion barely keeping the windshield clear. Strong gusts of wind bullied the van in and out of its lane. A radiator leak had the engine borderline overheating.
Frank drove a steady thirty miles an hour, fifteen under the posted speed limit, with his knuckles white as he held tight to the wheel. He had to get Billy away from him and the others and an accident would make that impossible. Anxiety squeezed his chest and he rolled down the window a crack to let in fresh air.
Amy slept in the passenger’s seat beside him, the painkiller lulling her to a rest that was anything but peaceful. Her fevered chills shook her to the point of near convulsing. She moaned, involuntarily, between snores.
Billy sat against the back wall, his knees drawn up, a syringe of tainted blood in one hand and a pistol in the other. He shook, teeth chattering, from either the infection or the layers of soaking wet clothes. No one would get close enough to find out.
“We’re just about there,” Frank said. The storm nearly washed out the gravel driveway to the cabin. He maneuvered slowly, but one of the wheels caught in the mud and pulled the van sideways. He held his breath and looked skyward. Please don’t get stuck.
“Should I push?” John asked.
“You’re not going anywhere.” Billy’s labored breathing grew louder and raspier. A plastic cover clicked, and against Frank’s advice, he injected another dose.
“Amy, wake up.” Carlene shook her. “Amy, do you hear me?”
The tires spun and dug deeper. Come on. Frank slammed into reverse, then drive, then reverse again, rocking until, by the grace of God, the tires gained traction and the van lurched forward. Thank you. He sighed.
“Amy, come on. We’re here.” Carlene lifted Amy’s eyelid and her eye rolled up. “She’s out.”
Frank pulled in to the clearing and parked. He reached for the door handle, but Billy squeezed between him and Carlene and grabbed his wrist.
“You’re stayin’ with us,” he said, keeping his head down.
“That’s not part of the plan.” Frank tugged his arm free. “I have my daughter to bury and you have your sister to take care of.”
“You have my sister to take care of. I don’t know how.”
Carlene pulled back as far from Billy as she could.
Frank kept his eye on the infected syringe. The blood had been in there a while, but with no way of knowing how long the virus lived outside of the host, he was careful not to push it. “Let’s get her inside. Can we start there?”
Billy backed away and lowered the needle, but already Frank knew what needed to be done.
Carlene exhaled, taking immediate advantage of the space.
Frank unclipped Amy’s seat belt. “Hey,” he said. “Amy, wake up.”’
Amy awoke and her stare was vacant.
Carlene opened the passenger’s side door and the dome light came on. The rain poured down on her, soaking her through to the skin, and for a minute she just let it.
Something had her attention.
Frank turned to look at what she was staring at.
Billy could barely control himself. His fingers twitched and his arm contracted.
“We have to hurry.” Frank stayed inside and lowered Amy down to Carlene, ignoring the ache in his legs and the burning in his chest. He stepped down and, once he got Amy’s feet firmly under her, gestured for Carlene to close the door. Billy was preoccupied enough for Frank to make a move. “Keep the van running.” he whispered to John.
John climbed in the driver’s seat and ducked down to avoid being seen.
Billy let out a frustrated growl and after several failed attempts, pocketed the lethal syringe in the scrub’s chest pocket. Frank slipped Amy’s arm around his neck and Billy did the same, leaving most of the weight on Frank.
Carlene stepped in to help. “Here, let me.”
“I got ‘er,” Billy
said and shuffled toward the cabin.
His staggering gait made it hard for Frank to walk and they jostled Amy from side to side. She let out a moan and Frank readjusted her. “A few more steps,” he said.
Billy’s foot hit a slippery spot on the sodden ground and he toppled, pulling Amy down on top of him. She howled and clutched her breast.
Carlene scrambled to get between Billy and Amy. “Are you all right?” She helped Frank lift Amy and took Billy’s place beside him.
“We’re okay.” Frank eyed the pistol Billy didn’t notice he had lost in the patchy grass.
Billy got to his knees, caked with mud and delirious with fever. He hurtled forward, dry heaving as he went, and clawed at the unlocked front door knob. The door opened and he ran to the bathroom.
Carlene and Frank helped Amy to the couch. Frank covered her with a wadded up afghan.
“We have to get out of here.” Carlene cringed at the violent splashing of solids on liquid.
Frank nodded, solemnly. Leaving meant Amy was alone with Billy. Another loss and the possible spread of infection. He had a daughter to bury and he was determined to do it. Billy was an unsalvageable loose end. “Come on.” He led Carlene out the front door and snatched the gun from the lawn. “Go to the van. Tell John to turn facing the road and wait for me there.”
Carlene tilted her head and rain ran into her eye.
“Go,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
“What about the others?”
* * * * *
The storm raged, the rain against the windows making it hard to hear. Thunder rolled and a fork of lightning split the sky. The power flickered and Miranda jumped, the thought of the horde in darkness bringing on palpitations.
Scott sat on the edge of the hospital bed, his one good eye on the door. He held the pistol steadily at arm’s length, despite his injuries.
Miranda put the cell phone into her shirt pocket and hoisted the ax so the handle rested against her shoulder. She shuddered and tried not to be sick. How was Scott keeping so calm? If Reid dominated again, Scott was dead for sure.
“We could’ve run by now,” she said.
“We could’ve and we’d have lost the advantage. What’s out there is more dangerous than Reid and he thinks we’re tied up. He all but handed us the element of surprise. I don’t intend to waste it.”
She hadn’t considered that, but he was right.
Heavy footfalls eclipsed the sound of the storm.
“He’s coming,” she whispered. She licked her lips, suddenly aware of how dry her mouth was. The lingering taste of Reid’s kiss disgusted her.
Please let this work.
The doorknob turned and Miranda held her breath.
Reid appeared and Scott fired three shots before he could even react. At least one of them hit him.
Miranda let out a compulsory scream, her ears ringing from the gunshot as Reid hit the floor. Reid’s phone fell from his hand. Scott smashed it with the heel of his boot and kicked the battery down the hall when it came loose.
“He won’t be making any calls with that thing.”
Miranda called on her courage and bent down to disarm him. She cringed at the corpse-like stillness as she took the two pistols off of him. One, she handed to Scott. The other she kept as a noisy, if not effective back-up plan.
Scott scanned for infected. “I’m sure they heard the gunshots. We have to get out of here.”
Scott looked around, his swollen right eye twitching as he tried to force it to open. “Are there other stairs?”
Miranda double-checked that Reid was still down. He lay in the half-open doorway and blood pooled beneath him. “This way.” For once, Scott allowed her to lead. She shivered in a cold sweat. Her damp, bare feet slipped on the floor tiles and made it difficult to run. Scott lumbered along behind her, his gun in one hand and her medical file in the other.
Only four flights of stairs stood between them and freedom.
“Let me go first, just in case.” Scott tucked the bulky folder into the back of his waistband and stepped into the stairwell. “It’s quiet,” he said and reloaded his pistol.
Even injured, he was the better shot.
Miranda followed him down, her stomach hollow and her hopes high.
Three.
Two.
Halfway between the second and first floors, the power went out.
“Scott!”
He was several steps ahead of her. “Miranda, stop.”
She couldn’t breathe. Blood rushed in her ears, making her dizzy, and her hope of escape bottomed out. A flight and a half of stairs was all that stood between them and leaving this nightmare. Where was the generator power? She waited for emergency lights that never came.
The fireman’s boots made a distinct sound as Scott climbed. “I’m coming up to you. Stay put.”
Miranda held tight to the railing, listening to Scott draw closer. His warm hand found hers and her body went rigid for the second it took him to reassure her.
“It’s me,” he said. “Come on.”
All of a sudden, the weight in her pocket registered. Scott’s phone. “Hang on.” She flipped it open and blinked to adjust her eyes to the harsh orb of white light surrounding it. “Twelve missed calls,” she whispered. They were all from Zach. She lowered the volume as low as it would go and depressed the “1” to get the voicemails. Scott was never one for remembering passwords and programmed the phone to call voicemail automatically.
She listened as Zach’s barely audible, but frantic sounding voice detailed his situation. “They’re trapped. Him, Penny, and Foster in a chapel on the first floor.” Penny was crying in the background. “A horde is blocking the door.”
Scott took a deep breath. “Give me the ax. Maybe they are far enough apart that I can get through them without drawing attention.”
Miranda reluctantly held out her hand, the weight straining her bicep. Scott tucked the pistol away and the cell phone light went out.
She pushed a random key and the backlight came on again. “What’s the plan?”
“Same as before. If the infected are outside the chapel, we might have a clear shot out. We need to keep quiet and head for the main entrance.”
“We can’t leave them.” Miranda was only half-stunned that he’d suggested it.
“I’m not going to argue with you. We’re getting you out of here. If I can, I’ll come back for the others. Right now, you’re my priority.”
Neither said a word as they descended and this time, when the phone backlight went off, Miranda kept it off. She felt her way down the railing, careful so that if Scott opened the door the light wouldn’t catch the zombies’ attention. Darkness heightened Miranda’s other senses even as her eyes struggled to find shapes in the blackness. Their footfall was heavier, the metal railing colder, and the moans louder when they reached the last door standing between them and the exit. There was no way of knowing how many infected there were, but from the varying tones and shuffling footsteps it was clearly quite a few.
Miranda pressed herself to Scott’s back, holding his shoulder. She was sweat-soaked and felt like her heart was leaping out of her chest.
“Are you ready?” he asked, his hand on the doorknob.
“Ready.” She took a slow breath.
The catch released. Scott pulled the door open and Miranda held tight to him, his breathing and heartbeat steady compared to her own. The air was thick with feces and decomposition and it was hard to breathe. There was no moonlight, no power, not even a strike of lightning with which to gauge the horde’s numbers. The lingering thought of Penny’s desperate mother at Porter’s returned. Miranda intended to see the girl home. If there were a clear path to the front door, Scott wouldn’t let that happen.
He was going to leave them behind.
She had to do something.
She lifted her pistol and fired.
55.
The toilet water turned cranberry red. Liver-like clots sank to the bottom an
d blood dotted the white plastic seat. Billy curled forward, pressing his hands into the cold tile floor, and braced himself for another round of vomiting that never came. His insides were dry and his body ached from the thrust and force of what felt like being turned inside out.
Part of him wanted to die. The rest believed he was dead already.
His fever spiked and his clammy skin ran the gamut between extreme heat and freezing cold. He had so much to be sorry for, but there wasn’t time to repent. Staying at the cabin put Amy in danger and the last two injections had no effect on the virus. A torturous bout of cramps and raging hallucinations replaced the temporary relief he’d come to expect after taking them. He staggered to the sink and stared at his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. Flakes of skin fell from his face and hands like snow. His lips receded, the muscle and tissue dissolving as if by acid, leaving him a gaunt, haunted, undead thing. It was a terrifying look into his future. He’d have screamed if he thought it would help, but there was someone else to consider. He looked through the doorway at Amy, the one person he’d ever sacrifice himself for. Asleep on the couch and covered in blankets, she was fighting a different kind of infection. One she could recover from. Billy stumbled into the living room, grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the end table, and sat on the floor by her side. A disturbing new craving emerged when he lit the match.
He blew it out and held Amy’s hand to his lips. Bite her. He imagined her pale flesh between his teeth, the satisfaction of ripping through it, tasting and turning her. His love for her overtook the primal urge and he let go of her arm, horrified by what he’d been thinking.
Amy startled, but didn’t wake up. She drew a deep breath, and in that moment, he knew he couldn’t be trusted to care for her.
His eyes wandered to his grandfather’s shotgun propped against the wall in the corner. A box of shells collected dust on the shelf above it.
It was only a matter of time until he was dead anyway. Better that it happened on his terms.
He pulled the blanket his grandmother had crocheted up to Amy’s chin, grabbed the shotgun, and struggled against his tightening hands to load it. He was taking control before it was no longer an option and briefly considered the best place to do it.
CURE (A Strandville Zombie Novel) Page 21
