by Dana Fredsti
“Well,” said Professor Fraser, “Traditionally zombies were thought to be created through a combination of voodoo and a special powder containing textrodotoxin, the same toxin found in pufferfish. This combination was said to create a state of living death in its victims. The etymology of the word ‘zombie’ is in and of itself absolutely fascinating, and—” I stared at her and she stopped. “Erm, yes. ‘Zombie’ is an adequate term to describe the creatures that attacked you. Although,” she couldn't resist adding, “‘ghoul’ is another popular word in the nomenclature assigned to the reanimated dead.”
Uh-huh. “So you're telling me these things are real. You're not gonna tell me I'm crazy or on crack or whatever.”
Professor Fraser shook her head. “No. You experienced something outside of the norm, but not outside of reality.”
“So … so those were really dead people walking around? Hungry dead people?”
A hesitation, then, “Yes. I'm afraid so.”
I looked at my bandaged arm, felt the throb in my neck and shoulder. I had enough pop culture savvy to know what that meant. “Am I … I'm going to become one of them, aren't I?” She didn't answer right away. I reached out and grabbed her hand. “You're going to shoot me in the head, aren't you?”
“No,” said Professor Fraser, “but that's a very good response on your part.”
“Professor Fraser, tell me! I've been bitten, so I'm gonna die and come back, right?”
“Simone.”
“Huh?”
“My name is Simone.” Professor Fraser gently extracted her hand from mine, but then took my hand in hers and looked at me. “We'll be working together now. Silly for things to stay so formal.”
“Working together?” I had no idea what she was talking about. My head suddenly pounded to the rhythm of my heartbeat, my arm and shoulder throbbed, and I wanted more painkillers. “I'm not dying?”
Professor Fraser shook her head. “No. You need to rest and let your wounds heal, that's all.”
“How do you know?” My face flushed with fever heat as my anxiety ramped up another notch. “How can you be sure I'm not gonna die and try to eat you?” I struggled to sit up, but she placed a firm hand on my uninjured shoulder.
“Trust me, Ashley, I've seen this before—”
She had?
“—and you exhibit none of the clinical indications we've come to associate with eventual reanimation.”
I searched Professor Fraser's face for some sign she was lying, but saw nothing but calm certainty there. I lay back down. “What … what about Matt? Is he here?”
Was it my imagination or did she hesitate before replying? “Yes. He's in another part of the lab.”
“Is he okay?”
A definite hesitation this time. “He's still alive.”
“Can I see him?”
Professor Fraser—Simone—shook her head. “Not right now. You need to rest.”
“But I want to know what's—”
“I know you do. And I'll explain everything to you when you're a bit more up to it.”
The door opened to admit a skinny, ginger-bearded, rodent-featured man in his early fifties. I thought I recognized him too.
“Doctor Albert?”
He jumped a little as if startled. “Erm … hello, Ashley.”
“What are you doing here?”
Dr. Albert smiled soothingly. “I'm the head of University Medical Services.” He took something out of his pocket. A syringe. “Now Ashley, this will help with the pain and let you sleep a bit more.”
Sounded good to me. I'd save the questions, including the one about Dr. Albert's unexpected appearance, for later. He was my doctor, after all, so it made sense for him to be there. I lay still while he administered the shot. The effects hit almost immediately and a welcome wave of numbing drowsiness washed over me. I drifted back off to sleep, content in the thought that I'd see Matt when I woke up.
* * * *
I don't know what Simone shot me up with, but whatever it was, I slept like the un-reanimated dead, a long and dreamless sleep. Waking up this time was better; I could open my eyes without sending ground-glass pain into the lids and sockets. Everything looked much as it had before, except that the chair where Simone had been sitting was currently unoccupied.
The door to my little room was closed, but I could hear an occasional voice and the sound of footsteps. It felt good to know I wasn't alone.
I pushed myself up to a seated position with much more success than my last attempt. My shoulder and arm still throbbed under their bandages, but other than that, I felt pretty damn good. I was wicked thirsty. I was probably dehydrated from the drugs, not to mention the hundred-yard-chased-by-zombies-dash I'd done, but I actually felt rested, like the first good sleep-in of summer vacation. Except I usually didn't start my summer vacation with chunks of flesh missing from parts of my body. That was gonna suck come tank-top weather.
A glass sat on the bedside table, condensation frosting its sides. I nearly drooled, it looked so good. I reached for it with my left hand, wincing when the movement put pressure on my wounded arm. Ouch. I'd have to watch that. The pain was worth it once I took a swallow of cold ginger ale. The taste reminded me of childhood and being home sick, with my mom bringing saltines and glass after glass of ginger ale to settle my stomach.
My mom.
My thoughts turned to my parents in Ukiah. Was this zombie thing happening all over the place or just around Redwood Grove? Would they be safe? My parents’ house is one of those old Craftsman-style bungalows, lots of windows and no second story. I love my parents, but they have no pop culture sensibility to speak of, so how would they know to smush the heads? I needed to call them, but my iPhone was gone, probably somewhere in the woods or the field, covered with blood and gunk.
I fought the urge to leap out of bed, mainly because I'd most likely fall over in a heap if I tried to do anything quickly. I pushed the blankets off me and very slowly and carefully swung my legs over the side of the bed, pausing to see what the rest of me thought of this movement. My head felt a little woozy and I doubted my bite wounds would like anything at this point, but—not too bad. Encouraged, I set my feet on the ground and stood up.
Whoops.
I held onto the rickety metal bed frame and waited for things to stop spinning, or at least slow down a bit. Closing my eyes helped.
“What the hell are you doing out of bed?”
The voice came out of nowhere: male, angry, and familiar. My eyelids flew open and I let out a startled yelp, letting go of the bed frame. Bad move; things started to go gray and my knees went wobbly. My face and the floor were on a collision course, but strong arms stopped the fall before impact, scooping me up like I weighed five pounds instead of—well, whatever—and carefully set me on the bed while cursing under his breath.
I lay there for a minute until I was sure I wasn't going to pass out, then took a look at my visitor.
Gabriel glared at me, arms folded. He wore green fatigues and a black T-shirt, and looked about ten pounds lighter than the last time I'd seen him in class. The weight loss didn't harm his good looks; his cheekbones were more defined than ever. Too bad his personality checked my pheromones at the door.
Okay. Most of my pheromones.
“What are you doing here?” My voice sounded feeble and kind of petulant even to my own ears.
“Stopping you from hurting yourself, obviously.”
I would have rolled my eyes if I didn't think it would probably hurt. I contented myself with a glare of my own. “I almost hurt myself because you startled me.”
“You shouldn't be out of bed.” Gabriel plunked himself down in the room's only chair. “Professor Fraser sent me to check on you.”
“Why are you dressed like Rambo?” The dizziness had passed. I started to sit up, only to have Gabriel put a restraining hand on my shoulder.
Ignoring my admittedly snarky question, he said, “You need to rest.”
“I've be
en resting for…” I stopped. I had no idea how long I'd been asleep. “I need to call my parents.”
An unreadable expression flashed across Gabriel's face, quickly replaced by a stoic mask. “No phones.”
“What do you mean, no phones?” I knocked his hand off my shoulder and struggled up to a sitting position, ignoring the pain in my arm and shoulder. “There are always phones!”
“Not now, there aren't.”
“That's a shitty answer!”
“It's the only one I have right now.” He crossed his arms and stared straight ahead.
Bedside manner? Epic fail.
Maybe he was pissy because Professor Fraser didn't let him call her Simone.
Whatever.
Son of a bitch.
“I'm going to get Professor Fraser. She wants to talk to you.”
“Wait!”
Gabriel paused, hand on the doorknob.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
Was it just the light or did Gabriel's face just turn red? Yup, definitely some embarrassment going on there. This guy taught classes about all sorts of gruesome diseases, but a mention of basic bodily functions made him blush. Go figure. I wondered what he'd do if I needed tampons or talked about monthly water retention.
And why was I was thinking about trivial shit like this when I'd been attacked by frickin’ zombies?
“Professor Fraser said you needed to stay in bed.”
OMG, it was like talking to a call center in Bangalore. You just knew they were reading from scripts no matter what you said to them.
“Look, I need to pee, okay? I'm not going to rest until I do, so unless you have a bedpan handy, I really need to get to a bathroom now.”
Gabriel opened his mouth to argue, came to his senses and snapped it shut again without further argument. When I started to stand up, he helped me to my feet.
Does it make me a shallow person to admit that the sensation of his unarguably muscular arm around my shoulders felt really good? Maybe it was just because his strength was a momentarily safe haven against the uncertainty now rocking my world.
He opened the door and led me out into a hallway. Down at one end a pair of double doors swung open and I could see the make-shift medical ward, people in Hazmat suits and others dressed like Gabriel bustling around, a low hum of continual conversation clearly audible.
I also heard moans and screams. Disturbing splashes of red were clearly visible on the floor and bedclothes.
“Come on.” Gabriel steered me down the other end of the hallway, lined with doors with the little view-panels like the one to my room. At the end were the restrooms, clearly marked with the ubiquitous man-in-pants and woman-in-dress outlines. Gabriel stopped outside of the women's room. “Will you be okay on your own?”
I nodded and stepped away from the security of his arm. I wobbled slightly, but used the door handle to steady myself before he could grab me again. I didn't care if I passed out; no way I wanted him coming in with me. There are some things a girl has to do on her own, especially when a cute guy is involved, even if said guy is a jerk.
I did my business as quickly as possible and washed my hands thoroughly, as if to scrub away what had happened. Splashing water on my face, I made the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror above the sink. Wow. I could model for Helmut Lang's next heroin-chic photo shoot, at least from the neck up. I thought I'd looked bad after my bout with swine flu. Hell, I had looked like America's Top Model in comparison to the ghastly pale creature with hollowed eye sockets staring back at me now.
The bandages on my shoulder were flecked with red at the point of the wound. Not too badly. Just a few dots of blood soaking through the gauze to remind me of what lay beneath.
I poked experimentally at the dressing covering my arm. Yes, it still hurt, but no blood came through. I flashed back on the moment when the fat zombie had sunk his teeth into my flesh. At the time it'd felt like he'd torn away half my arm, but maybe it really wasn't so bad.
I shivered, noticing my backside and legs were colder than the rest of me. That brought the realization I was wearing one of those flimsy hospital gowns that tied in the back, leaving the butt hanging out when the two sides inevitably flapped open. And at some point or another someone had removed all of my clothes, leaving only my Victoria's Secret pink lace thong. Which meant Gabriel had probably gotten a good view of my rear in the last five minutes.
I spent about thirty seconds being embarrassed before realizing a) the odds of Gabriel checking me out were slim to none; b) I had a nice butt, so no big deal if he did look; and c) honestly, why the hell did it matter whether or not anyone looked at my butt when zombies wanted to take a bite out of it?
The human mind really does work in mysterious ways.
A fist pounded on the door, sending a surge of adrenaline through me.
“You okay in there?” Gabriel's voice, sounding more impatient than concerned.
Jeez frickin’ Louise, couldn't a girl pee in private? “Yeah, I'm fine. Give me a sec.”
I could practically feel the impatient vibes thrumming on the other side of the door, which naturally brought out a perverse desire on my part to take my sweet time. I needed to lie back down, however, so I stifled my petty impulse and rejoined Gabriel in the hall.
He put a pseudo-solicitous arm around my shoulders, but I could tell he couldn't wait to dump me back on my cot and leave. I felt like I had cooties or something. I thought of Lucy from Peanuts: “Eew, dog germs!” Except in my case it was “Eew, zombie germs!”
If I hadn't needed Gabriel's arm for support, I would've shoved it off. But I could tell my recovery would be a lot like a bout of flu, with brief periods of deceptive strength followed by total exhaustion. It wasn't fair. Food poisoning, Walkers flu, and zombie bites, oh my.
Before we reached my room, the double doors at the end of the hall swung open and a gun-toting, Hazmat-suit-clad soldier burst into the hallway. “Captain! We have a situation!”
Captain? Since when did a teacher's aide rank—well, a rank? I filed this away for later examination.
Gabriel's arm immediately dropped from my shoulders. “I'll be right there.” He turned to me. “Ashley, go back to your room.”
Not bothering to wait for an answer, he took off after the soldier through the still swinging doors, leaving me swaying unsteadily in the hallway.
I wanted to lie down and should have gone back to my room. But I've never been much for following orders, especially with so many questions left unanswered. So I waited a moment, then followed him into the makeshift medical ward.
Chapter Six
The screams I'd heard from the hallway amplified in volume the second I slipped into the ward. Eerie moans echoed above the screaming, a real-life chorus of the damned. The smell in the room was thick, coppery, and rancid. I did not even want to know what went into this particular olfactory mix.
The dozen or so cots were occupied by thrashing, feverish people. None of them looked good. Sallow, greenish-yellow skin tone, like jaundice with a bad case of mold. Blood and other fluids leaking from mouths, noses, and ears. Some had raw wounds on their arms or legs while others had bandages seeping through with blood—or in some cases, nasty, foul-smelling blackish ooze. Most of them had restraints strapped across their arms, waist, and legs, along with metallic collars around their necks. I thought the straps were there to prevent the patients from hurting themselves, but still, it was totally disturbing. And the collars? Just plain creepy.
There was a commotion at the far end of the room, lots of shouting and drawn firearms. Most of the Hazmat brigade were down there along with Gabriel, who, as far as I could see, was the only person in the room besides me not strapped down who wasn't wearing protective gear. I briefly wondered why, but then the woman in the cot nearest me started convulsing and I forgot everything but the horror show in front of me.
Dark blood poured from her mouth and nose in scary quantities. Her eyes snapped open and for an instant
we locked gazes. The whites of her eyes looked like bloody egg yolks: sickly yellow streaked with red veins. Tears of blood oozed out from under her lashes and trickled down her face. She opened her mouth and croaked out something. I think it was “Help me,” but a fresh flow of blood caused the words to rattle and distort in her throat.
“I … I'm sorry…” I backed away from her, wanting only to escape from the horror of the moment. My legs hit cold metal and I nearly toppled back onto another cot, this one holding a skinny African-American kid covered in blood-soaked sheets. His eyes and mouth gaped open, blood oozing thickly from the corners. I would have thought he was dead, except for the occasional tremor wracking his body.
Pressing a hand to my mouth to force back the bile rising in my throat, I stumbled to the middle of the room, trying not to look any more as the grotesque sounds of throats closing up even as they vomited out blood reached my ears.
Why wasn't anyone doing anything for these people?
Something or someone at the far end of the room growled, a guttural, feral sound. My attention snapped back there in time to see one of the Hazmat guys raised his gun, tugging back on a lever that made a nasty ch-chak, like the sound a shotgun makes in the movies when they rack a shell into it. A real “gonna shoot you in a sec” kind of sound.
“Hold your fire.” Gabriel barked the order in a tone that cut through the chaos. “We need to contain as many of these specimens as possible.”
Specimens?
“Use the poles. Just keep away from its teeth.”
I slowly approached the cluster of soldiers and medics. The soldiers had poles, about six feet in length, with spring loaded clasps on the end. No one noticed me; they were too busy trying to hook the clasps of their poles into one of several metal rings on the blue metal collar around the neck of what had once been a good-looking guy in his twenties. He wore torn, bloody remnants of jeans and white cotton button-down shirt. I could see wounds through the shredded fabric, deep gouges in gangrenous sallow-green flesh.
“Matt…?” My voice came out as barely a croak, but still audible.
