Bleeders

by Max Boone

  "This is Car Six Eight. Control, come in," Miller said.

  "Go ahead, Six Eight."

  "We have one suspect dead, another apprehended but injured. We need an ambulance and a meat-wagon as soon as possible."

  "The wagon I can do. Ambulances are all busy."

  Miller paused. "All of them?"

  "That would be a yes," Control said with a hint of a sigh. The tone didn't sound like police protocol. "It's been a hell of a day, like I said. The best I can do is send a van to your location so you can take them to New York Presbyterian."

  "I'm, uh..." Miller glanced in the rear-view, looking very confused. "We have a guy here who's been bitten, he needs medical sooner rather than later."

  "Sure, he needs help but I don't," I said.

  There was a pause on the line. "Repeat that, did you say bitten?"

  "Affirmative."

  I raised my tied hands and said, "Hey, don't forget me." The big guy looked over at me. I turned to the side to show him my shoulder. He leaned back in his seat with even more disbelief on his face than before.

  Miller said, "We have two individuals with bites. Why?"

  "Orders came in a few minutes ago, anyone sick or bitten is to be taken to Yankee Stadium."

  Miller pulled the mike from his mouth. The big guy and I exchanged looks. Then Miller said, "For what, a hot dog?"

  "It's the Red Flu, they're setting up a treatment center at the stadium for extreme cases, and that includes bites. Apparently it's gotten pretty bad overseas. They're trying to nip it in the bud before we follow in their footsteps."

  "That's gonna be a negative on the stadium, Control, we're way too far from there. New York Presbyterian is the closest to us, we can take the two there for treatment."

  "That's a negative on your negative, Miller, these orders come from the top. I'm afraid it doesn't matter how far you are, Yankee Stadium is your destination. Over." His voice was stern, a little too stern, maybe to cover up his own disbelief of the situation.

  "Okay," Miller grumbled. "Over and out."

  Officer Miller looked uneasy as he mulled over what he'd just heard. I couldn't tell exactly what he was thinking, but I can tell you what I was- New York City was in bigger trouble than anyone was saying. In all the years I'd lived there, including when I was a kid during the time of the terrorist attacks, I had never heard of Yankee Stadium being used as anything but a megaphone for those loudmouth Steinbrenners. If I hadn't spent the last hour in the back of a cop car, I might actually know what was going on out there.

  I kept thinking about those late-night conspiracy shows, how the government has repeatedly lied to the public to protect their own asses, or as they would say, to protect the public interest. I would always ask myself how people were so naive, how they didn't get that terrible things were hidden right under their noses. At first I thought it was because they were like cattle, being led this way and that way, but not everyone they interviewed was as dumb as all that. Then, on a more positive note, I thought maybe it was human nature to trust the authorities, to believe they have our best interests in mind.

  Just then, Diaz came back to the car. "What did Control say," he asked.

  Miller hesitated. "Well," he said, "it looks like you'll get to see the Yanks after all."

  Now I know the truth, why people are so naive: because no one knows they're in a horror movie until it's too late.

  CHAPTER SIX

  On the way to the stadium, what the dispatcher said about the ambulances started to seem actually believable. Emergency vehicles were speeding left and right, lights flashing and sirens blaring through the streets. Traffic was slow as shit. It seemed like everywhere we turned, accidents were holding us back. Even Officer Miller's heavy-handed use of the squawk box stopped working after a while.

  The big guy, Jeremiah, stared down at his hands. At first I thought he had cut himself during the fight, but then I realized what he was looking at- the other guy's blood. Miller and Diaz were talking amongst themselves again, so I took the chance to say something to him. "Hey," I said quietly. "Name's Brody. Sorry about your friend."

  "I shouldn't have helped him. I should have known better." He kept staring at his hands, talking without looking up.

  "We all do dumb shit for our friends. One time I bailed my buddy out of jail for a DUI."

  "That doesn't sound bad."

  "While I was drunk."

  "Hmm. Well it's not like that. I...I owed him one."

  "I guess I can understand that."

  "What did they pick you up for?"

  "I killed my boss."

  "The American dream."

  "Only if you get away with it. But it wasn't planned or anything. He went nuts. I had no choice."

  "What do you mean by 'nuts'?"

  "Like he was eating the cleaning lady."

  His eyebrows shot up. "Red Flu?"

  I nodded.

  "There's something they're not telling us."

  "Yeah, I'm getting that vibe, too." I checked to make sure the two officers weren't listening. "Listen. This thing, it's not the flu."

  "I know, that's what we've been saying."

  "What I mean is, I don't think you catch it the same way. There's no sneezing, no touching a doorknob and touching your face. I think...I think it's through the bite."

  Jeremiah's face went slack. He looked at my shoulder, then his arm.

  "I got mine a few hours ago and I feel something happening. I get these, these waves of sickness like I've never felt."

  Jeremiah thought about it for a minute. Then he leaned in and lowered his voice. "I'm not going to that quarantine."

  "They said it's a treatment center."

  Jeremiah snorted. "Open your eyes, son. That stadium is nothing but a trap to give lost causes a place to die."

  "You're telling me. I used to work there."

  "For the Yankees?"

  "One summer. It wasn't glamorous."

  "You cleaned the toilets, huh?"

  "Yup."

  "Well I don't do quarantines. People don't do anything but die in those things."

  Like magic, the traffic ahead began to move again. "Hallelujah, we are saved," Miller said sarcastically as we got back up to a more normal speed. I can't say I was happy to be heading to the stadium any quicker, but the bumper-to-bumper had made me a bit claustrophobic. When I looked back at Jeremiah, I saw him reach deep down into his boot. He was so slick about it even I barely noticed, and I was sitting a foot away. He came back up with something between his fingers.

  It was a knife. He motioned for me to be quiet while he began sawing at the plastic tie around his wrists. I felt my heart pound in my chest as I tried to act like shit wasn't about to hit the fan.

  I'd seen them search Jeremiah. Either they didn't do a very good job of it, or he was damn good at hiding a weapon.

  Something weird came over the radio, some kind of garbled voice that cut in and out. "What is that," Diaz asked. He turned up the volume to hear it better, but the noise didn't come again. There was only radio fuzz, so he turned it back down.

  "Probably interference," Miller said.

  "For a second there, I thought I heard..." Diaz trailed off, looking worried.

  "What?" Meanwhile, Jeremiah was busily sawing at his restraints, already halfway through.

  "Never mind, you'll just laugh."

  Miller chuckled. "No, seriously, what did you hear?"

  "It sounded...well, it sounded like- hey, watch it!"

  Out of nowhere a speeding bus roared at us from the left side and clipped the front of the squad car. Everyone lurched in their seats as we smashed into another car and spun sideways, then hit something else. We were tossed around inside the car like goddamn Yahtzee dice until it finally slid to a stop a few, metal-grinding seconds later.

  It took me a few seconds to come to my senses. My head was all screwed up and it felt like my ears were on mute. When the sound started to come back to them, all I could hear was a dull r
oar like distant ocean waves.

  But it wasn't the ocean. It was fire.

  The car was on fire.

  Jeremiah frantically searched for the knife he dropped during the crash. He didn't seem too worried about being discrete about it this time. Officer Miller was slumped up against the driver's side door which had crumpled halfway open, his arm bent at an impossible angle. He wasn't moving. Diaz was unconscious, held in by his engaged seatbelt. A trickle of blood had started pooling in his ear.

  The hood was gushing smoke, and it was getting worse by the second.

  I didn't want to wait around to find out how bad it would get. I knew the door wouldn't open from the inside, so I pushed my back into the seat and started kicking the Plexiglass as hard as I could. My feet slammed the barrier again and again, but it held.

  It was a cop car, for Christ's sake. I knew it was built to hold up to exactly what I was doing, but with fire spreading through the engine and no one to pull us out I was desperate to try anything. I checked to see if there was anyone I could scream to for help, but the few people I could see on the street were keeping their distance. I can't say I wouldn't do the same.

  Jeremiah got through his restraints. He cut the plastic tie free and pulled his hands apart, then he tried his door but not surprisingly it didn't open. Meanwhile, the smoke up front was getting worse. It started to leak through the air vent and fill up the front of the car.

  The smell of it must have woken up Diaz. He started to stir in his seat.

  "Fire," I shouted, "Wake up, asshole!"

  "Let us out," Jeremiah joined in.

  Diaz's eyes fluttered. He woke up with a start, confused for a second but quickly realizing how bad the situation was. The smoke was growing thicker by the second. He pulled Miller off the half-open door and back into his seat. He shook him, trying to wake him up, but the officer just flopped around.

  "He's dead," I said. Diaz jerked in his seat to look at me. "And if you don't hurry the fuck up and get us out of here, we'll all be dead." I pointed out the windshield, where flames were starting to flicker through the black smoke.

  Diaz looked at the fire. He looked at me and Jeremiah. He looked at Miller. He snapped out of it, undid his seatbelt, threw his door open and hustled out of the car. All I could think was, Thank God.

  Then Diaz ran.

  "Hey!" I shouted at the fleeing bastard to come back and help us, but he didn't stop.

  "Looks like we're on our own," Jeremiah said. With the knife he started sawing at my restraints, trying to free me.

  "No, it looks like we're screwed. You really think we're getting out of here?"

  "There's a way out of everything," he said calmly.

  "I appreciate the can-do attitude, but I don't think you get it. They make these cars to keep people in. We're going to die in here." Up front the fire was starting to eat through the dashboard. The smoke was thick. It started to make its way through the air-holes in the Plexiglass and into the backseat. The horrible smell of burning plastic stung my nose.

  Jeremiah finished cutting through the plastic tie. He held up my freed hands and said, "See?"

  "See what," I laughed nervously.

  "Now you can die with a little dignity," he said. His face was relaxed, like he was poolside at a resort, and his voice was smooth as glass. I didn't understand how he could be so calm in the face of what was obviously our unavoidable, screaming death. There was more to this guy than he let on.

  "How did you hide that knife, anyway? I saw them search you."

  He smiled. "I guess they didn't search me well enough," he replied. He was a bad-ass, for sure, one of those guys who has everything figured out. Except, you know, the whole homeless thing. For a second I actually felt a little sad that I'd met him so close to the end. The smoke was getting thicker now, and my lungs were starting to feel it. The fire was quickly spreading to the front seats, the crackle grown to a roar, the air getting hot.

  There was a click sound. Jeremiah and I looked at each other, confused. The door behind him suddenly opened.

  It was Miller.

  "Come on," he shouted, motioning for us to run. In all the smoke and roaring fire, we hadn't seen him come to and slip out of the open driver's side door. We were stunned, but we weren't about to wait for a second invitation.

  Jeremiah jumped out of the car and I followed behind him a second later. The air was immediately better, and I sucked it down greedily. It felt amazing to stand on the street, but there was no time to stand around enjoying it, we had to get clear of the burning car before the gas tank caught fire. I glanced back briefly as we ran and saw the fire had already made its way into the backseat.

  Ten seconds more, and we would have started to cook.

  We ran from the burning car as fast as we could, dodging around a few of the cars that had been involved in the bus crash. Weirdly, they had no drivers or passengers, just abandoned cars in the middle of the street. There weren't any pedestrians around, either, though shouting and honking were coming from somewhere nearby.

  Screams, too.

  "This way, this way," Miller shouted. He was limping badly, but he didn't let it slow him down much. As we got a safe distance from the car, a middle-aged woman came around the corner and spotted Miller. She didn't seem to care that he was beat up, she just saw a cop and ran toward him. She looked desperate. Whatever she'd been through had left her with bloody hands.

  Except that she didn't look scared. She looked angry.

  "Hold up," Miller ordered, slowing down as she got close.

  I saw her eyes too late.

  With crazed, blood red eyes the woman slammed into Miller and tackled him to the street. Before he could push her off, her mouth went to his neck and tore into the skin. Miller shrieked as the woman pulled back, bringing a massive chunk of his neck with her.

  Jeremiah ran to their side to stop the woman from biting Miller again, but she was too fast. The way she moved was just how Peter had moved, twitch-fast and crazed with adrenaline. It reminded me of tweakers I've seen coming home late at night. Like they'd made themselves into permanent pinched nerves. Her red eyes were wild as she went in for more.

  She tore out Miller's throat, cutting out his scream at the source. He started to choke, gargling on his own blood. The sound it made was nothing I'd ever want to hear again.

  Angry as hell, Jeremiah kicked the woman off of Miller and started stomping her ass. She writhed and squirmed under his kicks but she didn't seem phased by the pain. In fact, I don't think there was any pain for her at all. Not anymore.

  The nearby screams were getting closer. We needed to get out of there immediately. I could see the inevitable coming. The woman would get a hold of Jeremiah's leg, give him another bite, maybe two. He'd kill her, but he wouldn't be able to run, and I'd be forced to either drag him along out of guilt or leave him behind and feel bad about it for the rest of my life, however long that turned out to be. At the moment, neither option sounded too great.

  So, I did what had to be done.

  As Jeremiah kept kicking her I moved around to the side of them, and with as much force as I could give it, I stomped on her head.

  The woman was stunned for a moment. So was Jeremiah.

  I stomped her again. And again. I didn't stop until I heard a crunch and felt the skull crack under my work shoe. Then I stomped her again.

  Jeremiah eventually pulled me off her, saying, "She's done, she's done," and I looked down and saw that Officer Miller was done, too. His eyes were staring up and his breathing was so shallow I could barely see it. The blood flowed down from his throat in slower and slower gushes.

  Closer now, probably right around the corner, the screams were clearer, and it was becoming obvious they weren't screams of terror at all- they were the angry shouts of more of those goddamn things, whatever people were becoming. Down the block I noticed a roadblock had been put up across the road.

  "That's why the street was so empty," Jeremiah said. "The cops blocked it o
ff."

  "I guess Miller and Diaz didn't get the memo."

  We gave Miller one more look. He may have been an asshole, but he saved our lives in the end. My shoulder was on fire. I didn't know how much longer I could go on without someone looking at it. My head was pounding and my face felt swollen and hot. Jeremiah seemed to have the same idea.

  "We need antibiotics," he said. "The pharmacies will be mobbed."

  I sighed. "There's a clinic in Harlem we can try. I know someone who works there."

  "Why don't you seem happy about it?"

  "Because," I said, "I'm probably the last guy she wants to see."

  As we took off in the opposite direction of those angry screams, we passed the bus that had crashed into us. It was wedged into a traffic light, one deflated tire up on the curb. Half the windows were splattered with blood. One window had a bloody hand pressed against the glass and wasn't moving that I could tell.

  At the front of the bus, the driver was being eaten by two passengers.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  New York had lost her mind.

  Once we got past the roadblock, the chaotic, overcrowded city I knew so well came crashing back, but there was a new anxiety in the air. People were packing up their cars and closing up shops everywhere we looked. New Yorkers don't have a reputation for being the friendliest people to begin with, but there was a sense that everyone was keeping their distance from everyone else, and you approached them at your own risk. There was no music playing in car radios, only news reports, and every one of them sounded grim. We saw three fights on the way, one of them between two people who didn't even speak the same language.

  The small orange and tan building I'd been to so many times was mobbed with people looking for help. They were lined up out the door and spilling past the small, black metal gate out front to wait for booster shots and magic vaccines that didn't exist. I overheard a Caribbean woman talking to another woman about Santeria and how she just needed to rub certain herbs on her head.