Red Hill

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

  “He’s in the ER,” Angie said. “I heard he’s exhibiting signs of rabies. Several people are.”

  “You don’t think this has anything to do with what’s been on the news, do you?” Ally asked, nervous. “Could it have made it here already from Germany? Could it spread that fast?”

  The room grew quiet then.

  The anesthesiologist had been nervous from the beginning about putting Margaret Sisney under. Instead of playing on his cell phone like usual, he stood over her, focused on every rise of her chest. He looked away every few seconds to focus on the numbers on the monitor, and then returned his attention to Margaret. It was hard to tell with the rest of her under blue surgical sheets, but her face and neck were visibly bluish in color. “She’s cyanotic,” he explained. He adjusted several knobs, and then prepared a syringe.

  “Dr. Ingram,” the nurse said to the anesthesiologist. “The patient’s fingernails.”

  Even through the orange-brown tint of the iodine scrub, Margaret’s nails were blackening.

  “Shit,” Dr. Ingram said. His eyes bounced back and forth between the patient and the monitor. “This was a mistake. A big damn mistake!”

  Margaret’s thumb was on ice across the room, waiting to be reattached. It was cyanotic as well, and Dr. Ferber’s call to take her to surgery when she wasn’t quite stable in the ER was questionable even to a newly graduated X-ray tech like me. I watched as her stats deteriorated, and moved my equipment to the far wall, knowing a code blue was imminent.

  My pager vibrated against my skin, and I reached under my top to grab it from the waistline of my scrubs. “Shit. Angie, I’ve got to set up in OR Four, and then I’m off. I’ll send David up here. He’ll have the pager.”

  “It’s probably going to be a while, anyway, if we do it at all,” Angie said, opening packages and buzzing around the room.

  I rushed to the end of the hall, pushing and pulling heavy X-ray equipment in front of and behind me. The moment I finished setting up for the next patient, the call came over the intercom system.

  “Code Blue. OR Seven. Code Blue. OR Seven,” a woman’s voice droned, sounding calm and apathetic.

  I picked up the phone that hung on the wall by the door, and called down to the department. “Hey, it’s Scarlet. I set up OR four, but looks like seven’s going to be a while, if at all. Tell David to meet me at the south elevator on one. He needs to work this code, and I need to give him the pager.”

  As I walked down the hall, nurses, doctors, and anesthesiologists rushed past me, making their way to Margaret Sisney. I pushed the button for the elevator, and yanked the surgical mask off my face. When the doors opened, I sighed at the sight of the crowd inside.

  “We’ve got room, Scarlet,” Lana from accounting said.

  “I’ll uh . . . I’ll take the stairs,” I said, pointing with a small gesture to my right.

  I turned on my heels, pushed through the double doors of the OR, and then used my shoulder to help offset the weight of the heavy door that led to the stairwell.

  “One, two, three, four, five six . . . ,” I counted quickly, jogging down one set, and then the other. When I pushed my way into the hallway of the first floor, David was already waiting at the elevator.

  “Enjoy,” I said, tossing him the pager.

  “Thanks, buddy. Have a good one,” he said.

  The crowd I’d left behind in the elevator exited, walking as a unit down the hall, in tight formation, their voices low and nervous as they discussed the latest news on the outbreak.

  “Code gray. ER one. Code gray. ER one,” a woman said over the intercom system.

  Anita, the radiology manager, stood in the middle of the radiology hall with her arms crossed. Within moments, men from maintenance and from every other department scurried through the open double doors of the emergency room.

  “What does code gray mean, rookie?” Anita asked with a smirk.

  “Er . . . hostile patient?” I said, half guessing.

  “Good!” she said, patting me on the back. “We don’t hear those very often.”

  “Code gray. ER six. Code gray. ER six,” the woman’s voice called over the intercom. Her voice was less indifferent this time.

  Anita looked down the hall of our department. “Something’s not right,” she said, her voice low. Julian, the CT tech, stepped out into the hallway. Anita waved him to the emergency room. “Go on!”

  Julian obeyed, the ever-present bored expression momentarily absent from his face. As he passed, Anita gestured to the women’s locker room. “You better clock out before I change my mind.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.” The keypad beeped after I pushed in the code, and then a click sounded, signaling me to enter. I walked in, noticing I was alone. Normally the room was abuzz with women opening their lockers, pulling out their purses, laughing and chatting, or cursing about their day.

  As I spun my combination lock to access my locker, another announcement came over the intercom.

  “Code blue, ER three. Code blue, ER three. Code gray in the ambulance bay. Code gray in the ambulance bay.”

  I grabbed my purse and slammed the door, quickly making my way down the hall. The radiology waiting room was on my way, separated from the hall with a wall of glass. The few patients inside were still focused on the flat screen. A news anchor was reporting with a scowl, and a blinking warning scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Most of the words were too small to make out, but I could see one: EPIDEMIC.

  A sick feeling came over me, and I walked quickly, on the verge of breaking into a sprint for the employee exit. Just as I opened the door, I heard a scream, and then more. Women and men. I didn’t look back.

  Running across the intersection to my Suburban in the south western lot, I could hear tires squealing to a stop. A nurse from the third floor was fleeing the hospital in a panic. She was afraid, and wasn’t paying attention to the traffic. The first car barely missed her, but a truck barreled around the corner and clipped her body with its front right side. The nurse was thrown forward, and her limp body rolled to the curb.

  My training urged me to go to her and check for a pulse, but something inside of me refused to let my feet move anywhere but in the direction of the parking lot.

  Angie, the circulation nurse from upstairs, appeared in the doorway of the employee exit. Her surgery scrubs were covered from neck to knees in blood, her eyes wide. She was more cautious, dodging the traffic as she crossed.

  “Oh my God, is that Shelly?” Angie asked. She rushed to the curb and crouched beside the woman lying lifeless. Angie placed her fingers on the nurse’s neck, and then looked up at me, eyes wide. “She’s dead.”

  I wasn’t sure what expression was on my face, but Angie jerked her head forward to insist I respond. “Did you see who hit her?” she asked.

  “I don’t think it’s going to matter,” I said, taking a step back.

  Angie stood, and looked around. A police cruiser raced toward downtown. Other employees of the hospital began to filter out of the door, racing to the parking lot.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered, pulling her scrub hat from her short blond hair.

  “Your scrubs,” I said. A dark red streak ran down the front of her green standard-issue surgery scrubs. Her neck and cheek were also splattered with crimson.

  “Mrs. Sisney flat-lined, and then woke up,” Angie said, her face red and glistening with sweat. “She attacked Dr. Inman. I’m not sure what happened after that. I left.”

  I nodded and then backed away from her, toward the parking lot. Toward my Suburban. “Go home, Angie. Get your daughter and get the hell out of town.”

  She nodded in reply, and then looked down at the blood. “I should probably just go back in. I don’t know how contagious this is. Kate’s with my dad. He’ll keep her safe.”

  Her eyes left her blood-saturated clothes and met mine. They were glossed over, and I could see that she had already given up. I wanted to t
ell her to try, but when the faces of my own children came to mind, my legs sprinted to the parking lot.

  I threw my purse into the passenger seat and then inserted the key into the Suburban’s ignition, trying to keep calm. It was Friday, and my daughters were already an hour away, at their dad’s for the weekend. Each possible route flashed in my mind. Scenes from post-apocalyptic movies with vehicles lining every lane of highways for miles did, too.

  I pulled out my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Andrew’s number. It rang, and rang, and rang, and then a busy signal buzzed in my ear instead of his voicemail. “It just started,” I said quietly, putting my phone in the cup holder. “I can still get to them.”

  I tossed my phone into my purse, gripped the steering wheel with one hand, and shoved the gear into reverse with the other.

  A part of me felt silly. The logical side of my brain wanted to believe I was overreacting, but there was no music on the radio. Only breaking news about the epidemic, the rising death toll, and the ensuing panic.

  The Suburban stopped abruptly, and I turned around, seeing Lisa Barnes, the employee-health nurse, gripping her steering wheel, her eyes bulging. I’d backed up while she was pulling out of her parking spot, and we’d crashed into each other. I pushed open my door, and ran over to her.

  “Are you okay?” I said, hearing the subdued panic in my voice.

  “Get out of my fucking way!” she screamed as she gripped her gearshift and threw it into reverse.

  Just then a pickup truck barreled through the lot and slammed into my Suburban, taking it all the way to the street.

  Standing still beside April’s sedan in shock was the only thing I was capable of in that moment. My brain refused to process the surreal scene in front of me until I caught a glimpse of a crowd of people pushing through the side entrance, and fanning out into the street, joining others who were from other parts of town, running for their lives, too.

  Drew Davidson, the human resources director, stumbled and fell. He cried out in pain, and then looked around him, reaching out to those passing by, screaming for help. No one so much as paused.

  A pair of wild eyes stood out from the mob. It was Mrs. Sisney. She was moving quickly, into the dispersing crowd. She crossed the road and finally caught up to Drew, who was still on the ground, reaching for his ankle.

  I watched in horror as Mrs. Sisney charged Drew, leaping on top of him and grabbing at his expensive suit while opening her mouth wide. Drew was pushing back against her, but she was a large woman, and eventually her body weight helped to press Drew’s arms down enough for her to take a bite of his shoulder.

  Drew’s cries attracted someone else—whom I recognized as Mrs. Sisney’s son—and another woman in scrubs. They ambled over to Drew’s flailing legs and began to feed.

  April’s screams matched Drew’s, and then the crumpled front end of her sedan flew past me and toward the road as she left me standing in the parking lot to witness the horror alone.

  A loud boom sounded in the distance. It was then that I noticed several pillars of smoke in the sky, the newest in the area of the blast. Gunshots added to the noise, both close and far away. The chaos was confusing, and happening so fast I didn’t have time to be afraid.

  Shiny silver keys lay fanned out on the grass a few feet in front of Drew. He’d just bought a Jeep Wrangler the month before. I had only paid attention because I’d just lamented over that Jeep in the showroom of the local Dodge dealership during lunch, and Drew had been sitting at our table. Not a week later, when arriving for my shift, I saw that Jeep in the parking lot, and Drew Davidson stepped out of it. He thanked me for the tip, and that marked the first and last time he’d ever spoken to me.

  Taking even one step toward that scene was terrifying, but I found enough courage to scoop up his keys and run for the Jeep. My fingers pressed the keyless entry. I yanked the door open, praying that the gas tank wasn’t close to being empty. Mrs. Sisney was still consuming the meat of Drew’s neck and the others were slowly gnawing on Drew’s now lifeless body. He definitely wouldn’t need his Jeep again, I thought as I ripped out of the parking lot.

  Speed limits and red lights were irrelevant. I glanced from one side to the other at each intersection, and then blew through them until I reached the main road out of town. Surely most people would head for the interstate, I thought, but I was wrong. Wrecks peppered the old two-lane highway toward Kellyville.

  I kept the gas pedal pressed against the floorboard, trying to stay away from traffic jams and buy myself some time to think of what I should do. People, alive and dead, were running around. Gunshots could be heard from all parts of town as people shot reanimated corpses from their vehicles and porches.

  A blinking sign signaled that I was entering a school zone. My stomach instantly felt sick. The children had been picked up more than an hour ago, thank God, but mine were so far away. If the epidemic had spread so quickly, the girls were probably terrified and running, too.

  I had to get to them. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel. If it was the end of the world, I wanted to be holding my babies.

  I turned up the volume on the radio, hoping for some clue how to get out of town and to my children. Instead of reporting safety procedures or anything else helpful, the DJs were struggling to remain professional while one gruesome report after another came in about people being attacked, car accidents, and mayhem.

  The one thing they weren’t talking about was where the epidemic had originated. If either of the coasts had been struck first, it would have given me more time . . . and time was the only chance I had.

  Chapter Four

  Miranda

  “We’re not going to die,” Cooper said. “Try to stay calm.”

  He had his arm wrapped around my older sister, Ashley, in the backseat, his eyes dancing as he watched the chaos surrounding my VW Bug. He leaned against Ashley when yet another person ran by and bumped the door.

  “Damn it!” I said, frowning. “They’re going to scratch the paint!”

  Ashley watched me in disbelief, but I couldn’t help but allow a little irrational anger to rise to the surface. My brand-new, shiny white Volkswagen barely had time to let the custom paint dry, and these assholes were rubbing up against it every time they passed.

  “We’re at a standstill,” Bryce said, trying to see ahead. Bryce’s tousled brown hair grazed the fabric of the Bug’s convertible top. He’d wanted to drive his Dodge truck to my dad’s ranch, but Daddy was a fan of Ford, and I wasn’t going to listen to them discuss Rams vs. F-150s all weekend. “If you let the top down, I can get a better look.”

  “Well that’s just stupid,” I said, my face scrunching in disgust.

  My comment pulled Bryce’s attention away from the frightened pedestrians outside. “What?”

  I pointed over his shoulder. “There is a reason they’re running. I’m not going to expose us to whatever that is.”

  Traffic slowed down to about twenty-five miles per hour no more than ten miles after we merged onto the interstate to take a weekend road trip, and less than five miles later we were halted to zero miles per hour. That was half an hour before, and we still hadn’t moved. Not even when people started getting out of their cars to make a run for it.

  “Just drive, Miranda. Get us the hell out of here. I don’t want to know what they’re running from,” Ashley said, fidgeting with her long, wavy hair. She was beautiful like my mother: tall, thin, and delicate. Her dirty blond hair cascaded down each shoulder, reminding me of that girl from the Blue Lagoon movie. If Ashley didn’t have a shirt on, it wouldn’t matter. With a few well-placed dots of Elmer’s glue, her tits would be completely obscured by her hair.

  Growing up, I used to be jealous of her natural beauty. My five feet, five inches made me look dumpy next to her. I looked like my father: round face, dull brown eyes, and auburn hair . . . well, Daddy’s was reddish before it turned white. Bryce preferred to call me athletically built, but what did he know, he
was six feet and six inches of meager man-child. His basketball coach worshipped him, but when we were together, his tallness only made my shortness seem more obvious.

  “You know what they’re running from,” I said, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. Only those in denial weren’t aware of what was happening.

  News reports about a viral outbreak were the reason afternoon classes were canceled. Ashley had the bright idea to drive to Beaver Lake for the weekend and had invited her boyfriend, Stanley Cooper, to come along earlier in the week. Not wanting to be the odd man out, I asked Bryce, although once he knew about Cooper coming along, Bryce would have come whether I’d invited him or not. Especially once Daddy found out Mom was out of town and insisted we stay with him for the weekend. Bryce knew my relationship with my father hadn’t been all that great lately, because Bryce knew everything about me. We had voluntarily tolerated each other since our sophomore year of high school. We traded off doing horrible and wonderful things for each other: He’d taken my virginity and helped me get through my parents’ divorce, I’d wrecked his first truck and given him my virginity. Bryce was fiercely protective, and that is exactly how we ended up at the same college. His protection wasn’t fueled by jealousy. It was more like he was protecting me from me. Bryce worked double duty as boyfriend and conscious, and I had never denied that I appreciated both.

  Just like everyone else, we continued with our weekend plans, never truly believing something so frightening and dangerous would reach us all the way in the middle of the country. Nothing ever happened here. The worst thing that had happened to Ashley and me was our parents’ divorce. Other than that, our lives had been fairly boring and worry free. It was a running joke with us. We would listen to our friends’ stories of their brutal childhoods or how they were bullied in high school, how their father was a drunk or their mother was overbearing. Our mom and dad never fought in front of us. Their divorce was a complete surprise.

  Another runner bumped the paint. I honked the horn. “Dick!”