He went back into the tiny bathroom already covered in blood, closed the door, and dropped the toilet’s lid. The shotgun weighed heavy in his shaking hands and he sat with his feet propped on the side of the old claw foot tub in front of him. He didn’t want to die, but he knew he couldn’t live, either. He was condemned and had no intention of putting that fate on his sister. This was too heinous an end for her. The guilt of a thousand bad decisions made him wonder if he earned this. He braced the gun between his boots and lowered his mouth on the muzzle. The metal radiated cold into his teeth. He commanded his finger to the trigger, but it would not obey.
Don’t be a fucking coward, Billy. You can do this.
He closed his eyes and prayed for a misfire to end his suffering.
Please, God, take me.
Tears streamed down his pimply cheeks and his greasy hair fell in front of his face. He bit down until his jaw ached, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. There was another option. He propped the gun against the vanity cabinet. “It’s for your own good.” He wrote the words on the mirror in toothpaste and wiped his running nose on his sleeve. There wasn’t much time. He took the washcloth from the rack by the sink and soaked it with cold water. He held it to his forehead and it quickly became warm. Clean up the mess. Get rid of the infection. It would do no good to leave her and accidentally contaminate her with the blood all over the bathroom. He flushed the toilet twice, gagging as he wiped the bloody surfaces clean, and set the shotgun next to the couch. “Take care, girl.” I love you. Words he’d never said, even once, in his life.
He was going far enough away that he couldn’t hurt her.
He opened the cabin door, stumbled into the storm, and stopped when he realized the van was still there. Grey smoke billowed out of the ailing exhaust.
“What the hell’re you doin’?” He mumbled, sure they had abandoned them.
A pistol pressed to his temple. Frank stepped out of the shadows, his wrinkled face drawn by the thinning hair plastered to it. “What I should have done in the first place.”
Billy closed his eyes. This was the help he had prayed for. “Thank you, Lord.”
He grabbed for Frank’s throat to make him pull the trigger.
* * * * *
The flash of the gunshot illuminated the horde and Miranda had temporary full view of the sea of undead filling the hallway. There were fifty or more infected, an army of patients in hospital gowns and robes—their nursing staff in scrubs. She swallowed the softball-sized lump of fear in her throat and prayed Scott understood why she fired.
“Why the hell did you do that?” Scott took the pistol, grabbed her arm, and dragged her toward the main entrance only feet away.
Miranda momentarily lost her balance, hitting one knee and then recovering. A shooting pain radiated up her leg and a new limp slowed her down “We can’t leave them here,” she pleaded. The sharp ache increased with each step and the closer she got to the door, the nearer the horde became. Lightning flashed through the center’s glass façade, and even though it halted her further, Miranda looked over her shoulder. Each individual infected scrambled for purchase and the lead position in the pack. They snarled and moaned. A young boy, maybe fifteen, clawed past an elderly man and tore off the man’s ear in the fray. The old man was unfazed as the murky blood poured out of the wound.
The flashes of light disoriented Miranda. Her eyes could not adjust to the constant change and when the hall went and stayed dark, her perception was, again, altered. The front door felt miles away and her pace seemed impossibly slow.
Scott was all but carrying her by this point.
Miranda felt the change in the floor texture. The carpeted mat under her feet that would normally have the automatic door opening did nothing in the darkness.
Scott let go of her, grabbed the manual handle, and pulled. “What the…?” The door didn’t budge. He tried the next and the one after than until he came to the fourth in the row. “Dammit, they’re locked.” Scott kicked and crashed into the nearest one with as much strength as he could muster after Reid’s beating. He was in survival mode and, for a brief moment, Miranda thought about giving up.
She closed her eyes to allay the panic of being in forced darkness. She needed, for one minute, to be in control.
Scott pressed the ax handle into her hand. “Back up. Get away from the window.” He fired three rounds into the glass and it barely left a mark. “Bulletproof glass, you have to be kidding me.” He pulled Miranda’s sleeve and headed toward the encroaching horde. “Come on,” he said. “Follow me.”
Her knee wanted to buckle, but she ran, ignoring the pain and unsteadiness and choking up on the ax.
Another flash of lightning showed three of the infected breaking out ahead of the pack; two middle-aged males and a teen female wearing a foam neck collar covered in blood. Scott fired four rounds--one miss, one in the girl’s chest, and one into each of the males’ heads. The bodies dropped and the horde climbed over them. The noise had them going insane.
“In here!” Scott opened a door and Miranda ran inside.
Her chest burned, short of breath, and the ache in her leg was on the threshold between extreme pain and numbness.
Scott clicked the lock and pushed his back to the door.
Miranda dropped the ax and put her hands on her knees, drawing several recovering breaths.
“What the hell were you thinking, Miranda?”
She sat on the floor and shook her head. Answering him would only bring an argument so she opted for avoidance. “Back in this goddamned bathroom again.” She flipped open the cell, illuminating the carnage, and rebooting the recent, gruesome memories. “What do you think happened to Billy?” The room still smelled like shit.
Scott squatted down, put his hands firmly on her shoulders, and clenched his teeth as he spoke. “What do you think is going to happen to us?”
She refused to feed into him. Six years of marriage said that one-sided arguments fizzled quickly. She settled on discussing the obvious. “The doors are locked,” she said, weighing her own words. “Bulletproof glass. Nixon doesn’t let anything get out of his control and he knew how dangerous this research was. We’re rats in a maze, Scott. This is some sort of activated contingency plan, it has to be, and we’re stuck. No matter what I did, we weren’t getting out of here.” She dialed the last number in the phone’s call log and held it to her ear.
Scott huffed, wrapping his arms tightly around his ribs, and sat down with his back to the door. He planted his feet firmly against a metal support to the first bathroom stall and groaned. He was coming down off the adrenaline rush, the inevitable soreness of his injuries settling in. “What are you doing now?”
Miranda shrugged. “I’m calling for reinforcement.”
56.
A shot rang out, the echo of which hummed in the dark chapel for several moments after. Zach’s panic increased tenfold. It had to be Miranda. If she was hurt or worse, he’d lost his bargaining chip.
Penny crumbled, their bleak situation whittling her to an annoying, defenseless child.
Even Foster, who in Zach’s mind had been overly compassionate and supportive, was beginning to lose his patience. “Pull yourself together,” he said.
She clung to him, sobbing.
Zach grunted and lifted the end of a heavy, wooden pew they’d used to barricade the door. The scratching and growling had stopped, the gunshot drawing them away toward new targets. Zach made sure his pistol was fully loaded. “It’s now or never. Are you all set?” he asked Foster, nervous to get going.
Foster thumbed two rounds into his clip, Penny’s weeping shaking his arm and making it difficult.
“There has to be another way out of here,” she said. Fear made her voice louder and more shrill.
“Foster, please, shut her up.” Zach swung the pew wide away from the pile. His sweaty hand slipped from the wood and he caught it before it crashed.
Foster took Penny by the shoulders. “There’s n
o other way out,” he said. “We’re going to open this door and I want you to stay as close behind me as you can.” Penny nodded and wiped a clear string of snot from her nose. “The main entrance is at the other end of this hallway. It’s a straight shot. My truck’s not far from the door. End of the first row, Black Jeep Grand Cherokee. Okay?”
Penny sniffled. “Okay.”
“Foster, come on. Grab an end.”
Foster tripped, knocking the pew out of Zach’s hand and sending it crashing into the pile.
“Goddamnit, Foster!” Zach froze and listened for the infected’s return. He pushed the sole of his boot against the bottom of the chapel door, using it as a stop.
Penny covered her mouth with both hands and stifled a whimper.
Zach wondered if he wasn’t better off without them.
No one moved. Tension, fear, and anticipation took over the room and was only broken when Zach’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Startled, he scrambled to answer it in case it was Nixon. It wasn’t. “Scott, is Miranda okay?”
Penny and Foster exchanged glances.
“Zach, it’s me. I’m fine.”
“Miranda.” Thank God. The tension melted from his shoulders. “Where are you?” He kept his voice low.
“In the bathroom, down the hall. Is Penny okay?”
He wondered that, himself. “She’s fine. What happened to you two?”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re trapped.”
“The main entrance is right there. I’ll try to distract them…”
Penny sobbed louder at his suggestion. “I don’t want to be a distraction. Foster, we can’t.”
Shhh. Zach signaled for her to be quiet. “I can’t hear.”
Foster closed his hand over Penny’s mouth.
“Miranda, are you there?”
“I’m here, but listen to me. We’re trapped. All of us. Scott and I got to the front doors and they’re locked. He tried shooting out the windows, but they’re bulletproof.”
A detail Nixon had neglected to mention.
A loud thud came over the line and Zach heard Scott’s voice. “Get to the point, Miranda. This door isn’t going to hold forever.”
Zach huffed. “Foster, why are the doors locked?”
Foster shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Penny sat down on the floor, pulled her knees to her chest, and rocked back and forth with her fingers in her ears.
Foster paced the floors, stalling in front of the flickering oil lamps. “I have an idea. Tell Miranda I have an idea.”
“Foster has an idea. Sit tight.” Zach closed the phone and reopened it to the last text Nixon had sent. “What’s the plan?”
Foster withdrew a bottle of lamp oil from among the religious paraphernalia in the corner cabinet. He twisted off the cap and soaked a length of torn altar cloth.
Penny made the sign of the cross.
“I’m sorry,” Foster said, eyes lifted.
Zach texted Nixon, careful not to be seen doing it. “How do we get out of here?” His rising blood pressure made his head throb.
Foster assembled a makeshift Molotov cocktail.
Zach rubbed his temples. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s your plan?”
Foster shrugged. “You have a better one?”
Zach checked for Nixon’s response and when none came, he texted again. There was no avoiding looking suspicious, but he had to try. When still the phone stayed silent, he put it away and set to helping Foster. “You know we’re going to Hell for this, right?”
Foster twisted off the metal cap, put the oil-soaked rag inside, and stopped up the hole. “Far as I can tell, we’re already there.”
* * * * *
The security radio crackled and sprang to life. “Reid, come in. Do you hear me?”
Reid’s eyes rolled open and he struggled to take in his surroundings. A searing pain like boiling hot water being poured into his shoulder disoriented him, and for a moment, he didn’t realize he’d been shot.
“Reid, answer me right now!”
Reid slid his good arm down his leg and grabbed the two-way radio. He put it up to his mouth and cleared his throat. “Dr. Nixon.” His voice sounded foreign, even to him. He made a sucking motion and licked his dry lips.
“What the hell happened?”
He thought about that before answering and his confusion turned to pure hatred. Cut plastic tubing and tape lay on the floor at his feet. They must have had a knife. The ax, the phone, and the gun were gone. The heat of the moment’s mistakes piled up. Impatience had made him stupid and now he had to answer for it.
“I’ve been shot,” he croaked.
“And Miranda, where is she?”
“I don’t know.” Reid hated to say it.
“Listen to me carefully.” Anger broke through Nixon’s artificially calm tone. Reid sat up, his shirt sticking in the drying pool of blood. The movement intensified the burn and the room spun. “The center is locked down. The only way out is a roll-up door in Central Receiving at the back of the main floor. The manual override on the wall will allow you to lift the door only enough for you to crawl under it. Do. Not. Let. The. Infected. Out.” He spoke the last words in staccato. “That’s the first thing. The second is, find Miranda Penton. Do you hear me? Find her. No more violence, Reid. Do whatever it takes to get her out safely. She is the most important piece of what’s left of this project and I want her. Once you get her back, you call me and I’ll meet you. If you harm her in any way, there’s a special end for you. One I’m sure you’ll want to avoid.”
Reid briefly considered the options. There were worse things than death, Nixon had taught him that. He opened his eyes wide and blinked until his vision cleared. No more violence. He scoffed. He’d never wanted to kill two people more in his life. He moved his wounded arm and let out a pained growl.
“Reid, do you hear me?” Nixon hadn’t finished.
“Yes, sir.” Whether or not he’d be able to do what Nixon asked was a different story.
Reid got to his feet and the bleeding increased from the movement. A flood of fresh, wet warmth spilled down his side, bringing a new blaze of pain. He needed to stop the flow. He emptied a glass jar of gauze and packed the wound, unsure of its extent. He felt around the back of his shoulder blade. The shot was not through-and-through which meant the bullet was in there. The hemorrhaging came quickly under control. He fashioned a sling out of a length of bed sheet and went for his pistol.
Shit.
He had pockets of ammunition and no gun.
At least he still had the knife.
57.
Foster’s radio silenced, the conversation between Nixon and Reid ending with an instruction for no more violence—a request that contradicted Reid’s disposition. Intercepting the call was the first bit of unexpected fortune in an otherwise luckless night.
Zach sighed, relieved to be off the hook. If Nixon answered him with the way out, he no longer needed to explain how he knew. “We’re going to be all right,” he said.
Foster put down his radio. “At least now we know how to get out of here.”
Penny sniffled and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “What can I do to help?” she asked.
Zach handed her a bottle of oil and the last few lamps. “Unscrew the top, soak this, tuck this in here and tighten.”
She nodded and set to work.
Zach helped Foster dismantle the blockade at the door. “Listen,” he whispered, “Penny’s functioning now but we both know if there’s trouble, she’ll crumble. I’ll clear a path if you’ll get her through it. Head for Receiving or for the van if possible. I’ll grab Miranda.” Getting her away from Scott when they all had to go out the same door wouldn’t be easy.
Foster swung the last pew out of the way and sighed. “Are you ready for this?”
“I’m ready.” Zach checked his clip, his pulse racing not out of fear of the horde, but because if he lost Miranda, Allison was as good as dead. It had been a join
t decision them coming to the center, but he couldn’t help feeling guilty for the suffering she was enduring in her final days. He tucked his pistol in the back of his pants and took three lamps from Penny, careful not to spill the oil on his clothes.
“Here,” Foster handed him a lighter from the supply cabinet.
Zach nodded and turned the knob. “Follow me,” he whispered and pulled the door open. Sweat slicked his palms making it hard to hold the lamps. He stepped out into the hall and drew shallow breaths. The stagnant air forced the acrid taste of decay down his throat and he stifled the urge to cough as he moved along the wall.
Penny whimpered. “I can’t do this.”
Foster shushed her.
The shambling, moaning, and banging echoed down the dark corridor. A wide fork of lightning crossed the sky and beamed through the lobby windows. There were more infected than he thought. His hand itched to draw his weapon, but there was no way he could shoot them all. The noise would cause a frenzy and he’d end up becoming one of them, locked in the center and waiting to starve. Allison would be as good as dead. He stopped, within throwing range of the pack sooner than he expected. “Foster,” he whispered, “we can reach them from here.”
Foster ushered Penny inside an inpatient stay room. “I’m going to leave the door cracked. We’ll be right in, but if anything happens, you close it. Lock it if you have to. We’ll find another way out. You understand?”
Penny sniffled and nodded.
Foster followed Zach into the hall.
Zach readied his thumb on the lighter’s wheel, and after a long, deep breath, lit the first wick. The cotton went up with a whoosh, the light and sound catching several of the infected’s attention. Please let this work. He launched the lantern and the glass shattered against the tile floor sending a sea of flames rippling through the right side of the horde. The infected flailed and shrieked. Those that were not on fire ran from those that were.
CURE (A Strandville Zombie Novel) Page 22
