Robert W. Walker

by Zombie Eyes

  He’d had a bad reaction to the decontamination unit. The brilliant light colliding with the plate in his head had caused a catatonic response. This had led the others to assume that he had succumbed to the bizarre fate of the others, that he had contracted this vile disease being spread about by the thing on the dead ship.

  Stroud’s EKG reading was the only one in the room that wasn’t damned near a straight line. He now tore away the attachments to the machine, watching the green reading disappear. He snatched himself free of the IVs and threw his legs over the side of the bed, facing Weitzel. He went to the man, the first victim, curious and filled with questions that had no solutions.

  “It is you,” Stroud said with a raspy, dry throat.

  Weitzel lay like a stone, without response. His eyelids were closed. It was that way with all the patients in the room. Some nurse had gone about the silent forms and had placed a gloved hand on the eyelids, forcing them down. Stroud recalled the sensation as if it were happening now to him. Someone had done it for him while he lay in this state as well. Fortunately, for him it wasn’t the same exact state.

  “What’s happened to you, Weitzel? What is happening to you now?”

  Weitzel’s eyelids flipped open, causing Stroud to back off, but not before the man’s left arm had shot up and his hand had wrapped about Stroud’s throat, tightening with the power of a vise, cutting off Stroud’s air.

  Behind a glass, men and women were suddenly up and rushing about, hitting alarms, calling others. Stroud called for help and one of the white-coated men came over an intercom with, “You’ve just come out of a coma! Try to relax. What’re you doing to that other man? Get away from him!”

  Weitzel’s right hand quaked upward, trying to join with his left to strangle the life from Stroud. Weitzel’s body trembled and shook, lifting off the bed, and a strange, eerie, metallic green and blue light discolored the whites of his eyes. His pupils were nowhere to be seen, rolled far back in his head.

  Stroud tore the choking hand from his jugular, coughing and shouting for help. A distortion of Weitzel’s already corpselike features began to overtake the man’s face when a voice came from within Weitzel.

  Weitzel’s lips were frozen, deathlike, but a voice came like a bubble trapped in the body up and up through him with a start and a rumble, a gurgle and an eruption that sent a brown ugly liquid dripping from his lips along with the preternatural voice. The sound was coming from deep within his chest. It was not Weitzel’s voice. Stroud knew this even though he had never known the man, for the voice was far from human in origin. It came from the ship; it came to speak through Weitzel expressly to warn Stroud off. It had the desired effect, for it shook Abraham to his core, and it made the hair all over his body twitch.

  “Stay yourself from my wake, Esruad.”

  “My God,” said Stroud, regaining his composure as much as possible. “Who are you?”

  “Be gone, Esruad!”

  “My name is Stroud.”

  “Esruad.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Stay you from my wake! Run, Esruad, run!”

  “Damn you, what are you?”

  “Life is mine.”

  “Life?”

  “Life to feed on.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Life-taker.”

  “Are you demonic? Are you Satan?”

  Its laugh shook through Weitzel like a kettledrum, and from deep within Weitzel it amassed a vile, guttural sound that brought forth a frothy brown liquid that first dripped and then spurted from the body it inhabited. Stroud stepped back an instant before the viper’s spittle shot across at him, missing him and staining the floor and the bed sheets Stroud had earlier been on. The brown mucus sent up a stench with the gas it created on hitting the air. It burned an acidic hole in the bed sheets and the tiled floor. It smelled of earth, ancient and deep earth, of bog and swamp and sulfuric acid.

  As doctors rushed into the isolation ward in their protective gear, Stroud took hold of Weitzel, causing the fuming, discolored eyes to disappear, shouting at the thing inside him to identify itself. “Who are you, damn you? Who are you?”

  Stroud heard only a psychic whisper then: “Everyman … legions … armies … I am everyman.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Stroud strangled Weitzel.

  The doctors tore Stroud from Weitzel. The struggle took Stroud to the floor with a couple of orderlies while some of the others stared in horror at Weitzel. The old man’s body rose from the bed, levitating, convulsing before it collapsed onto the covers again and the straight line on the EKG signaled that he was no longer in coma but dead.

  “Damn! Damn! Damn!” a female voice shouted from inside one of the space suits. She came to Stroud and shouted, “Just what the hell do you think you were doing?”

  “You must’ve heard the voice? You must’ve seen—”

  “We heard nothing.”

  “We saw nothing,” seconded another of the suits.

  “I just held a conversation with something inside here, inside of that man.”

  “Hallucinating,” said one of the doctors. “Not uncommon in people coming out of coma, Dr. Cline.”

  “Dr. Stroud,” she said, “I am Dr. Kendra Cline, Centers for Disease Control, Atlanta. You might be interested to know, sir, that you are the only man to come out of this thing. As for Simon Weitzel, you’re welcome to look at the monitor tapes. He never regained consciousness; therefore, you could not have held a conversation with him.”

  “It wasn’t Weitzel I was talking to.”

  “Are you sufficiently calm, Dr. Stroud, to allow us to release you now?”

  “Yes, please let me up.”

  As Stroud regained his feet, he pointed to the soiled bedcovers and the tobacco-like stain on the floor. “Have your lab people determine the content of that substance, Dr. Cline, and handle it with the greatest care.”

  “What is it?” asked the second doctor.

  “It came out of Weitzel, just before he died. Ectoplasm of some sort.”

  “You don’t really expect us to believe that, do you?” asked Dr. Cline.

  Stroud stared through the thick protective glass mask that she wore and into her deep, probing gray eyes. She was a beautiful woman, he thought. “Believe what you wish. I guarantee you one thing, Dr. Cline.”

  “And that is?”

  “You won’t have any other explanation for how it got here. Now, I want out of here.”

  “You don’t expect us to let you go without running some tests, Dr. Stroud.”

  He stared again at her. “Tests? I don’t have time to play guinea pig for you, Dr. Cline.”

  “I can have you restrained, if I must!”

  “Really? And how exactly would you do that?”

  “With the help of these men.”

  The orderlies moved in on Stroud again, threateningly. “All right, all right … a few blood tests, serums, but that’s it, and then I’m out of here. I’ve got to get back to the museum, help Dr. Wisnewski and Dr. Leonard, if we are to beat this … this thing.”

  “I’m afraid I have bad news for you regarding Drs. Wisnewski and—”

  “No, no!” He wanted not to hear this. “Tell me they are not dead.”

  “Dr. Leonard is over there,” she said, pointing to the last man in the row of thirteen that lay on one side of the spotless ward. “In deep coma, like yourself until now. We can only hope—”

  “And Dr. Wisnewski?”

  She drew a deep breath, and even through the mask, he could see the concern on her features. “I’m afraid Dr. Wisnewski is under arrest and—”

  “Under arrest?”

  “Aggravated assault,” the male doctor beside him said.

  “Wisnewski? That’s impossible! That’s madness!”

  Dr. Cline calmly said, “He attempted to murder you, Doctor, with a pickax. I’m telling you this bug—whatever it is—is—”

  He cut her off, going over to Leonard’s body and staring down
at the poor man. “Where is Wisnewski being held?”

  “Bellevue lockup, psychiatric ward.”

  Stroud drew a deep breath, trying to comprehend the far-reaching effects of their having entered the dangerous archeological site. It must have been filled with the spores of the creature, and the little bastard rat things saw to it the infectious bacteria of the monster got into their protective wear.

  “We must know what brought you back, Dr. Stroud, if we are to help the suffering whose number is doubling, tripling each hour!”

  “Whoa, hold up … I am not the answer to your prayers, Dr. Cline.”

  “That’s apparent! But the contagion is spreading, rampant—”

  “My God. How long have I been under?”

  “Sixteen hours.”

  “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “We need you here, Doctor.”

  “No, I’m needed out there and at the dig.”

  “Are you crazy? You can’t go anywhere near there again; at least not until we can determine the medical causes of this epidemic.”

  “Medical causes … What if I told you there were no medical causes, Doctor? Suppose the entire episode was beyond human medicine and technology? Suppose I told you it has to do with the supernatural?”

  “Then I’d have to say you should be kept longer for observation. This thing drove Wisnewski into madness. Perhaps you have overcome the effects of the coma, but not the madness.”

  “All right,” he said, “run your tests as quickly as possible. Then I’m out of here, and for God’s sake, get me out of this death camp, and do what you can for Dr. Leonard.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Stroud,” she said, indicating to the others to ready the next room for Stroud’s tests. “Perhaps there is some antibody in your blood which withstands the assault, and if so, Dr. Stroud, we must begin work on isolating this defense and using it as rapidly as possible. Is there anything about your blood or body chemistry, that you know of, that might save us some time?”

  “X-ray my head if you like,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The only difference between me and these other men is that part of my skull is metal.”

  “A steel plate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Vietnam?” she asked.

  “Again, you are right, Doctor.”

  He could tell she wanted to rub her chin to help her thoughts move along, but she couldn’t touch the cute thing within the space suit. “And you think the metal somehow protected you? Has some sort of immunity properties?”

  “No, I don’t know that. All I know is that I have had a history of seizures since the plate was installed. I don’t believe it has any immunological qualities with relation to the comas induced in the others.”

  Stroud did wonder at the back of his mind, however. Perhaps the mixed blessing of the plate had saved him in a roundabout manner. Perhaps the blackout, happening when it did, had had the effect of short-circuiting any hope on the creature’s part of putting him into permanent coma as it apparently had with the others.

  “You don’t sound very convincing, Dr. Stroud.”

  “I don’t believe that the plate itself has any inherently useful properties to combat this thing. However, it’s simple enough to test, and you have a room filled with guinea pigs. The plate is made of a simple steel alloy, the sort used in any medical facility for the purpose of bolting a crushed skull together.”

  “We’ll liquefy it and try it in cc’s in the bloodstream.”

  “Whose bloodstream? Dr. Leonard … start with him,” said Stroud.

  “It could be dangerous.”

  “I made Dr. Leonard a promise before this happened. If there’s a chance.”

  “We’ll do it.”

  For the first time since meeting her, he saw her face relax. She was a sharp-minded, strong woman, he decided. New York was lucky to have her.

  “In the meantime, we’d like to run extensive tests on your blood and serums, Dr. Stroud, just the same.”

  “But you’d be pinning your hopes on the wrong man, and wasting valuable time if—”

  “Whatever this thing is, Doctor, it’s transmitted easily and fast, through touch, through the pores, from victim to victim, and it’s spreading across this city like wildfire.”

  “Then get your lab people to work on that brown gunk that Weitzel spewed up. Find out what properties are—”

  “What do you think we can learn from vomit, Dr. Stroud?”

  “It’s not every day you see a comatose patient’s body lift off the bed, is it?” He didn’t expect an answer, so he barged on. “Or talk without regaining consciousness.”

  “I admit there are incongruities here, but when you’re dealing with an unknown disease … perhaps once we isolate the cause, we will be able to explain the … the…”

  “You did see the body levitate, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Good, at least you acknowledge that much.”

  “Come with me, Dr. Stroud,” she said, holding a white-gloved hand to him. “Please.”

  “On one condition.”

  “All right.”

  “That you have someone contact Commissioner James Nathan at once to apprise him of my … my recovery.”

  “All right,” she replied, and he followed her lead.

  Stroud sat through test after test—blood serums, urine, skin, body and CAT scans, the gamut. The entire time he was listening to an inner voice, one that had come to be well known to him by now: his dead grandfather’s voice. It came at first like a faraway bird calling to its mate, deep within. It was telling him there was no time to lose.

  “All right, you’ve had your tests and you’ve found nothing whatever unusual about my blood or my immune system that would be of help to those poor devils in there,” he told Dr. Cline when she entered and as he began to pull on a shirt.

  She looked at the other doctor in the room and waited for him to leave before she spoke, her full, deep voice filling the room. “So far, Dr. Stroud, there’s no evidence that you are carrying any sort of contagion, but all the tests aren’t in yet.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “But we’re dealing with something totally alien here, a contagion of comas?” Her sparkling gray eyes narrowed, reflecting her confusion.

  “Finally,” he said with a smile.

  “What?” she asked.

  “We agree on something.”

  She nodded, looking at him as if for the first time. “I’ve read about you, Dr. Stroud.”

  “Nothing flattering, I’m sure.”

  “On the contrary. At any rate, won’t you consider staying a little longer so that we can—”

  He was shaking his head before she had time to finish. “I’m done playing pincushion to your people, Dr. Cline.”

  “But, Stroud.”

  He pushed past her, going for the door. “I’ve done my part for you, and it’s been only a waste of time for the both of us. I’ve got to get to Dr. Wisnewski.”

  She stopped him at the door. “Please come to my office and let us talk, Dr. Stroud.”

  “About what?”

  “About Dr. Wisnewski, for one thing.”

  She walked out ahead of him and together they went down the hall to the office that had been given over for her use. She asked him to sit down. He declined, remaining on his feet. She sat behind her desk, breathed deeply and looked tired.

  “There has been no sign of this epidemic slowing, Stroud.”

  “I am aware of that, Doctor.”

  “We need your help, Stroud. If it was the steel plate in your head that kept you from going comatose for as long as the others, then perhaps we can learn something from you and—”

  “You can’t implant metal in every patient you’ve got in there. There must be twenty-five now that Weitzel is dead.”

  “There are hundreds, Dr. Stroud.”

  “Hundreds?”
<
br />   “All across the city, every hospital.”

  “It’s really becoming an epidemic.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Now, will you please listen to reason?”

  “No, I mean … I have to find Dr. Wisnewski. See if there is anything I can do for him.”

  “There’s nothing you can do for Wisnewski, but here you might possibly—”

  “You’re wasting precious time studying me. I’m not the cause or the cure of this thing! Don’t you understand that? As for Dr. Wisnewski, the very idea of his attacking a man … well, it’s entirely impossible, out of character.”

  “But it happened. Do you suppose that he is somehow manifesting the disease in another form entirely? He never went into coma as you and Leonard did.”

  “Mine was a blackout, pure and simple.”

  “You’ve suffered such attacks before?”

  “Since the war, yes.”

  “I see. Then it was just a coincidence of sorts, and we were wrong to place you in with the others.”

  He paced before saying another word. “Part of this madness unleashed by that pit—that’s what Wiz’s strange behavior is. Something … some thing that is diabolical spoke to me through Weitzel and—”

  “I must say you’re persistent, sticking with that story. Do you really believe there is some … some supernatural force at work here? Do you believe there is a supernatural power behind the misfortunes of those who—”

  “Who is to say? You saw the body leave the bed. You haven’t the experience with the supernatural that I have. I have seen and struggled with vampires, Dr. Cline, and with werewolves. Yes! Werewolves. And now this…”

  “Do you really expect me to believe you?”

  “Believe what you wish.” He spoke now as if to himself. “It must have somehow taken hold of Wisnewski.”

  “The man tried to drive a pickax through you, Stroud, and you’re building a ‘Satan-made-me-do-it’ defense for him?”

  “Wisnewski could never kill a man.”

  “But he attempted just that, before witnesses.”

  “Some evil was unleashed through him, something that goes for the control mechanisms—the center of consciousness—”

  “Whatever it is, it goes right for the brain like ants to a feast; shuts it down tight. It’s really a horror.”