He sprinted across the small space and sprang upon the hapless Andrea. Her fearful cries changed in pitch, becoming higher, more strident, filled with horror. Nadia scrambled to the side of the bed and leaned over, staring down at their writhing figures below. “Andrea!”
The girl struggled to hold back the zombie boy, her hands slipping on his flesh. His teeth snapped at her face, his growls desperate with hunger.
“Hold on, I'm coming,” Nadia cried. She slithered toward the ladder then froze when Andrea screamed in pain. Her eyes fixed on her friend's prized book, Watership Down, which had fallen to the floor and flopped open.
Blood spattered the pages, blossoming into red roses. Nadia recoiled and leaped into action. She jumped off the bed and grabbed the boy by the collar. Anger fuelled her muscles and she flung him across the room. He snarled, a crimson river running down his chin.
She stabbed at him with her cross, the blow glancing off his cheekbone. Not pausing for a second, she stabbed over and over until the point slid into his eyeball, spearing the brain.
Flinging the body aside, she rushed to Andrea's side. It was too late. Her friend lay still, blood pumping from a hole in her neck. Already, her limbs twitched with undead life.
With a sob, Nadia ran out of the room. Shouts and cries echoed through the corridor. She paused, unsure what to do. A running figure alerted her, and she prepared to fight.
“Nadia, you've got to run.” The figure turned out to be Elias. “Run!”
“Elias,” she cried. “Where's Brandon? I need to find him.”
“Forget Brandon. He did this.” With wild eyes, Elias showed her the gaping wound on his forearm.
“What?” Nadia shook her head, refusing to believe what he told her. “No.”
Elias grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “It's the truth. You've got to run. The whole place is going to shit.”
“No, I don't believe you.”
Elias shook her again then slapped her across the face when she balked. “Run, damn it. Now!”
He grabbed her arm and dragged her through the house, ignoring her pleas. The sound of rapid footsteps caused him to whirl. Chantelle, a girl the same age as Nadia, sprinted toward them. Her teeth were bared, her eyes empty. He snapped off a shot, and her head jerked back. She fell in a tangle of slender limbs.
Nadia gasped, her mind refusing to process what was happening. Elias yanked her hand, and her feet moved of their own accord. They reached the front door and burst through. It was dark outside, and she couldn't see a thing.
Elias never stopped. He headed straight for the trees, still dragging Nadia behind him. She dug in her heels. “Stop, Elias. Stop. I need to go back for Brandon.”
“Brandon's dead, Nadia. Dead!” he bellowed.
She pulled at her wrist, shaking her head. “No, it can't be. I don't believe you.”
“It's true. There's nothing you can do. They're all dead.” He looked back toward the house. “Come on. We need to get out of here.”
At his insistence, she stumbled along, numb with shock. Behind them, the screams faded until they walked in silence. Stones cut into her bare feet, thorns pricking the skin. She never noticed.
Time passed. The moon set and the sun glowed on the horizon. Still, they walked. Finally, when she could take no more, Elias allowed them to stop in a sheltered spot.
He hunkered down, staring at her when she huddled into a ball, crying. “I'm sorry, Nadia. I really am.”
She stared at him, the reality of it all setting in. Brandon was gone. Andrea was gone. They were all gone.
“What happened?” she croaked.
Elias rubbed his face, eyes haunted. “I'm not sure. Brandon was fine on sentry duty. Laughing, joking, his usual self, you know?” He shrugged and looked away. “Then in the room, he got sick, all sweaty and stuff. Threw up a few times. I thought it was something he ate.”
“Then what?”
“He fell asleep. Or so I thought. I wasn't tired yet, so I stayed up. That's what saved me. About an hour later, Brandon got up and...and he'd turned, become a zombie. He attacked Peter first, tore his throat out. I got out, but he bit me.”
Nadia's eyes dropped to Elias' arm. Blood dripped from the wound. Black lines were already creeping up to his torso.
Elias followed her eyes and swallowed. “It's moving fast. I don't have long.”
With supreme effort, Nadia got up and approached him. Tearing a strip of cloth from her shirt, she tied up the bite then sat back down, staring at the ground. “What about the others?”
“Brandon got Joshua. I saw him go down. He got Linah too.” He shook his head. “Peter turned, and I saw him bite Chantel. She turned pretty fast.”
“I saw Andrea die too,” she whispered. That left only Harry and Donya. I hope they got out.
“I don't get it. How did Brandon turn? He wasn't bitten,” Elias mumbled.
“I know.” It hadn't taken long for Nadia to figure out the truth. She knew what had happened to him. The only link between him and the infection...was her. She turned her eyes to Elias. “It's me. I did it.
***
Nadia stubbed out the cigarette and eyed the box, wanting another. With reluctance, she pushed the cigarettes away. Logan would kill her if all the smokes were finished when he got up. I ought to get my act together. Stop the cutting, smoking, and pills. If only it were that easy.
She looked down at the clothes Logan had gotten her. After washing, she'd put them on. Her old clothes were just too grimy to tolerate against her clean skin.
They felt strange. Another person's identity. A hot pink t-shirt with long sleeves and a black hoodie that zipped up. Skinny jeans. Ballet pumps. Cotton underwear―real girly stuff with hearts on them. She imagined him blushing while he picked them out, trying to guess her size. Poor guy.
At least, she still had her piercings, but she needed to dye her hair soon―it was growing out―and her face felt bare without its usual make-up. I look like a kid.
Nadia looked down at her hands, the nail polish chipped and scarred. Maybe it's time for a change. If I'm going to fit in with other people it might be best if I look normal.
The question was: Did she want to be normal? And was it even possible?
12
Chapter 12 - Breytenbach
The moment his legs gave away, sending him crashing to the floor, was the moment Breytenbach finally admitted to himself that he was ill. While he'd felt increasingly sick over the past three days, he'd pushed onward, performing his duties without complaint. His team needed him. The camp needed him. They all needed him.
But such thoughts were pushed aside when his body gave up on him, his head landing on the floor with a dull thud. Pain lanced through his brain, adding to his disorientation. Shocked cries surrounded him; hands pulled at his shoulders, trying to rouse him.
Try as he might, Breytenbach could not respond, sinking deeper into the pit of darkness that dragged at his limbs, weighing him down. He felt himself being lifted off the ground and carried before blacking out completely.
What might have been minutes or even hours later, he awoke, only to find himself trapped within the shadowy confines of his own mind. His body had become a furnace, fire raging through his nerve endings. He tried to speak, to ask for water, to lift his head but found himself unable. The smell of antiseptic hung in the air. The clinic. I'm in the clinic.
Across a vast distance, he heard the calm voice of Jonathan directing the storm of activity of which he formed the center. “Hannah, look at his hand. That cut is infected.”
“Are you thinking sepsis, Doctor? It would explain his symptoms.”
“It does, Hannah.”
His hand? Was that what had caused all this? That tiny little cut?
“Sepsis? What's that? Is he going to be okay?” That voice belonged to Julianne. She sounded frantic, each syllable pitched higher than the last. “Tell me he's going to be okay!”
“Julianne, please. You need to calm down,” Jo
nathan said.
“Calm? How can I be calm? Is he dying? Tell me!”
“Mom, please. Let's wait outside and...”
“Leave me alone, Max. I'm not going anywhere.”
Always the fighter, Breytenbach thought ruefully.
“Julianne.” Jonathan's voice held a note of exasperation. “Sepsis means that the chemicals released by his body to fight the infection are causing an inflammatory reaction.”
“What does that mean?”
Breytenbach felt himself straining to hear Jonathan's reply.
“It's a serious condition, Julianne. One that needs immediate treatment. So you can either stand there and delay me further with your questions, or you can wait outside with Max.”
“But...”
“No buts. I need you to leave immediately.” Jonathan's voice had become stern, uncompromising. “Now.”
“Come on, Mom. You heard him.”
“I don't want to leave. Let me stay by his side.” Julianne's protests grew fainter as Max presumably dragged her outside.
Breytenbach found himself touched by the depth of her concern. After he'd told her he was done waiting, he'd hoped she would come around. That hadn't happened. Instead, three days had passed, three tortuously long days spent without her warm smile.
The growing heat that sizzled through his flesh drove aside all further thought, searing his skin and bursting his lips. It consumed him from within until he thought his bones would melt.
“Get him on an IV drip now, Hannah. Hurry.” Jonathan's voice remained calm, but it contained an edge that was unmistakable. “Blood pressure low, temperature rising. We need to get him on fluids and antibiotics right away. Where's that IV?”
“Here.” A rush of cool air as Hannah swept past him, her familiar lavender scent replacing the sting of disinfectant. Seconds later, a sharp pinprick in his arm told Breytenbach the needle was in.
“I'm administering a sedative, and we need to get him out of these clothes. Hand me the scissors.” Snip, snip, snip. “Sorry, Captain. Guess you'll need a new uniform after this.”
Ah, damn. Where will I get another?
The confines of the clinic faded away as the sedative took hold, the fire diminishing to a distant glow. Instead, Breytenbach found himself swept back to a scene from his past.
The tall grass crackled when he shifted his body into position, resting his gun barrel on top of a termite mound. The sun rained down heat, each ray a droplet of lava hitting the skin. Breytenbach licked his lips with a tongue that felt like a stick of wood.
To his left, the faint outline of Johan's large frame was visible. To his right, the tip of Ronnie's rifle appeared through the brown stalks of dry foliage. Breytenbach waited, counting down the minutes until he was sure the platoon was in position.
In front of him and slightly downhill, lay a small stretch of brush, the dull green of the leaves faded and washed out after the hot summer days. Inside that strip, hid a group of enemy soldiers, waiting to ambush the next convoy that passed by on the road further downhill.
Breytenbach was determined not to give them that chance. He lined up his shot, sighting along the barrel until he zeroed in on what he was sure was a shoulder. Aiming slightly to the side, he squeezed the trigger. The sharp report was followed by a barrage of fire as the platoon let loose.
This brief period of one-sided fighting ended when the enemy scrambled to return fire. The sharp whine of bullets cut through the air above Breytenbach's head. Dirt exploded from the termite mound, and he leopard-crawled into a swallow depression.
One of his own men tossed a grenade. Shocked cries were followed by a loud boom as it detonated, the earth erupting upwards. A sudden scream rang out behind him, laden with pain. Corporal Smith. Breytenbach snapped off a few more shots then crawled towards the agonized sounds.
Corporal Smith lay on his back, clutching his stomach. Dirt and sweat streaked his face and blood squeezed out between his fingers. “C...Captain,” he gasped.
“Shit,” Breytenbach swore, taking one look at Smith's twisted features. “Medic!”
A figure slithered through the grass towards them. Medic Swarts. After a brief examination, Swarts shook his head. “This is bad. We need a casevac.”
Breytenbach nodded, crawling through the grass until he reached Ronnie, tapping his shoulder. He had to yell to make himself heard. “Ronnie, radio for a casevac!”
Ronnie looked around, mouth compressed into a grim line. “Will do, Captain.”
He turned away, fumbling for the equipment in his backpack. Another eruption of earth sent him ducking, this one far too close to be one of his own team's grenades. His heart hammered in his chest, and his ears sang.
Johan's blunt features appeared next to his shoulder, lips moving. He heard nothing. “What?”Another explosion. “Shit!”
“We need to pin down these fuckers down, Captain. They're...”
The smell of antiseptic drifted into Breytenbach's nostrils, pulling him away from the scene and back into the clinic. How much time had passed? Minutes? Hours? Days? He had no way of telling.
“His vitals are stable, Doctor,” Hannah said.
“Thank God,” Jonathan replied. “It seems he's responding to the antibiotics.”
A languid feeling had taken hold of Breytenbach's limbs. Every muscle was relaxed, the feverish burning replaced with a slight chill, the chill of the evening air. Outside, crickets chirped, confirming his suspicions that night had fallen.
In the background, a woman moaned, arousing his curiosity. Was someone else sick as well? His question was answered when Jonathan said, “Can you keep an eye on him, Hannah? I need to get back to Erica.”
“No problem, doctor. Please call me when you need me.”
“That might be sooner rather than later. If she doesn't dilate fully within the next few hours, we're looking at an emergency C-section.”
Jonathan sounded tired, and Breytenbach imagined he hadn't been getting much sleep with two patients demanding his care.
“Why don't we ask Dr. Lange to assist?” Hannah asked.
“I have, and he refused.”
“Let me speak to him. Perhaps, I can persuade him.”
“You're welcome to try. God knows I need the help.”
For a time after that, Breytenbach lay, his thoughts drifting in circles. He felt curiously detached, unable to summon up the will to move or speak. Must be the drugs.
Erica's cries grew steadily louder, and Breytenbach felt sorry for the poor girl. Her suffering was undeniable, fear evident in her voice. Neither her husband nor Jonathan managed to console her.
“Please don't let my baby die,” she begged nonstop. Her plight aroused long buried memories within Breytenbach. Memories he'd rather forget.
Hannah abandoned him at one point, either to speak to the mysterious Lange or to help Jonathan, and he was left alone. He tried to swim up through the cobwebs created by the drugs pumping through his veins but failed. Instead, he drifted off to sleep only to awaken in a haze of confusion. The fever was back, running through his veins like poison.
“Doc, blood pressure is dropping.”
“Damnit, I don't understand.”
Rustling sounds.
Swearing.
“I think he's going into septic shock. Get Dr. Lange. Maybe he can...”
The scene faded, replaced by his old bedroom. The walls were freshly painted, the smell lingering in the air. Cream. That was the color she'd wanted. A neutral palette to provide a backdrop for the striking hues of purple and vermilion that comprised the decor. He didn't care for it. To his eyes, the colors clashed. But it wasn't up to him. As long as she was happy, that was all that mattered.
“Christo?”
He turned. Nadine leaned against the doorjamb, one hand resting on her distended belly. Sweat matted her hair to her forehead, and her cheeks were flushed. A smear of dirt from the garden decorated one cheek.
She was so beautiful.
“Who
was that?”
He glanced down at the phone sitting on the bedside table, and she read the answer in his face. “Who was it? The army? What do they want?”
A note of hysteria crept into her voice.
“They need me. It's important.”
“When?”
The clock on the wall ticked.
“Now. I leave today.”
“Now?” Both hands flew to her belly. “You can't leave now. What about the baby? I'm due any minute. You said you'd be there...I need you!”
Breytenbach grabbed her hands, squeezing her fingers. “It's only for a few days. I'll be back in time for the birth.”
“How do you know? How can you be sure?”She shook her head, tears running down her cheeks. “I can't do this alone.”
“You won't be alone. I'll make it back in time, I swear.”He pressed his lips to her forehead before sliding his mouth down to her ear, breathing in her warm scent. “I promise.”
The room shifted, the shapes and colors blurring, reforming to show a different picture. He was sitting on his bunk bed inside the barracks, boots resting on the floor. His dog tags swung back and forth as he hunched over, elbows resting on his knees.
In his hands, he held an envelope, return address unknown. The paper crackled when he opened the flap, sliding out the letter. The easy banter of his fellow soldiers flowed around him.
His attention focused on the embossed page in his hands, the official letterhead of the army's headquarters glaring at him.
We regret to inform you of the unfortunate passing of your wife, Nadine Breytenbach. To the best of our knowledge your wife went into early labor on the...uncontrollable hemorrhaging...infant stillborn....
The words on the page blurred into a meaningless swirl of ink, the world around him receding into the background. His hands shook, his heart hammered, threatening to burst free from his rib cage.
“No.”
“No, no, no.”
I promised.
Everything faded to black. Breytenbach found himself drifting in a great black void. It mirrored the despair that swirled through him, the pain as fresh and keen as a knife edge. Like it was only yesterday.
Dangerous Days (Book 3): Die Another Day Page 10
