If someone was coming he had to get Adam out of sight.
No one would understand what he’d done.
As much as he hated to do it, the sedative made Adam compliant. He gave him enough that he could be safely handled, unfastened the leather restraints, and was about to lift him when a green-eyed man with short, blond hair appeared in the doorway and held him at gunpoint.
“Get away from the baby.”
“Please, I can explain,” Michael said.
The man lifted Amelie from the bassinette and folded her small, quivering body into his chest. “Who are you?”
Amelie’s crying subsided.
“Michael.” He stuttered. “Dr. Michael Waters.”
There was a hint of recognition in the man’s expression. “Miranda’s doctor,” he said. “Interesting.”
Michael was too concerned for his son to inquire or fight back. Adam moved on the table and he reached for him slowly. He closed his shaking hand around his wrist and prayed he’d be still. “What are you going to do with the baby?”
The man looked around him at Adam and raised his eyebrow. “Maybe the same as you were planning to.”
“Please, don’t hurt her.” Michael’s hand was sweaty and he repositioned himself to get a better hold and to hide Adam’s face.
“What’s wrong with the boy?”
Michael raised Adam’s hand and showed the man the bandage. “He was hurt and needs stitches.” The lie came out fluid, like truth and he would have thought the man believed it until he went around the far side of the bed and stared into Adam’s eyes.
“Looks like a cut is the least of his problems.”
“Wait, you don’t understand.” Michael stepped between the man and his son.
“He’s infected. What is there to understand?” The man lifted his pistol and was about to shoot when the power went back out.
CHAPTER 67
Miranda startled awake to the low humming of tires on asphalt. Heat poured, full blast, out of the old truck’s vents and she shivered, despite the fact that she was covered with a heavy blanket.
She looked around, disoriented by the miles of bare trees and unfamiliar, abandoned houses, which stretched as far as she could see. Only when she saw the blue “H” sign did she realize the direction they were headed.
Fear caused her to tremble. She adjusted her position in the seat and blood sloshed on the plastic beneath her. “Where are we going?” Knowing the answer didn’t stop her from asking the question.
Scott chewed his bottom lip and his brow creased with worry. “The bleeding isn’t slowing down. You need a doctor, Miranda. We’re going to find Michael.”
Something moved in her periphery and she looked over her shoulder to see John huddled up in the bed of the truck behind them.
“How do you know where he went?”
Scott accelerated, the truck nearly bottoming out as it crested the large hill. “Because he needs lab equipment at a bare minimum. Where else would he go besides the center?”
“And if Nixon’s there, too?”
“Then we let you bleed to death and wait for Amelie to come home on her own? There aren’t a lot of options here, hon.”
She was nervous enough without the sarcasm. A deep sense of dread and the fear of a bad end for all of them took hold.
A sliver of unfiltered sunlight broke through the clouds and she tilted her head back, letting its rays warm her face. Making the final turn, she realized that no matter how hard she tried to avoid it, all roads led back to the Nixon Center.
She drew a deep breath and set her hand to the wrinkled flap of excess skin that replaced her formerly toned belly. Milk leaked through her nursing pads and she knew wherever Amelie was, she had to be hungry. The pain of the build-up was excruciating.
The access road wound through the trees, past a guard shack and the employee lot from which certain staff were shuttled.
“Look.” Scott nearly slammed on the brakes.
Miranda caught sight of the white Yukon barely visible through a row of Arborvitaes. “You were right,” she said, though the only comfort she took from that was the thought of finding Amelie inside.
Scott hit the brakes, rapped on the truck’s back window, and waved for John to jump out.
Miranda could see his reluctance.
Scott rolled down the window and handed a loaded rifle from the gun rack to John. “Shoot twice at the first sight of anyone and get the hell out of here, you hear me?” John nodded. “This isn’t your fight.”
John shrugged. “Wasn’t my fight last time, either.”
A low hum caught Miranda’s attention and she rolled down the window to get a better listen. “What’s that?” she asked. She felt woozy, lightheaded from blood loss, and wondered if she was hearing things.
John tilted his head. “Sounds like a generator.”
One by one, the lights of the Nixon Center came on, the last of them being the enormous light-up sign at the end of the main lot.
“Looks like Michael made himself at home.” Scott waved John away and drove up to the front door.
Miranda swallowed her fear. Amelie needed her and Scott was right, she needed Michael to stop the bleeding.
Scott opened her door and she eased out in small steps, bleeding through her clothes as she shuffled toward the main entrance. The automatic doors spread open and Miranda’s whole body went tense.
Two men wearing Nixon Center Security uniforms appeared in the hallway.
“Don’t move!” A middle-aged guard held them at gunpoint. The more muscular of the two secured a pair of trunks stocked with weapons. Both men were covered in blood and gore, making their ability to kill obvious.
“We don’t want any trouble.” Scott stepped in front of Miranda and reached back to hold her hand. “My wife needs help.”
“Interesting choice of words, Mr. Penton. Nuptials resumed, have they?” Dr. Howard Nixon emerged from a small room behind them, his dark eyes like two pieces of coal against his white skin. Blood covered his bandaged hand and spattered his lab coat. He pushed a wheelchair to the entrance and gestured for Miranda to sit. “Welcome back.”
She stared at the chair, the dizziness moving it in a way that would make it impossible not to fall. “Not him,” she whimpered, hating the way Nixon looked at her.
Nixon tilted his head and drew his eyebrows together. “Who were you expecting?”
“Anyone else.”
It seemed he knew nothing about Michael or Amelie.
“She needs help,” Scott said. “The bleeding’s getting worse.” He held Miranda’s hand tighter, “I’m not leaving you alone with him. You helped people once,” he said to Nixon. “Help her now.”
Miranda started to cry. “Not him, Scott. Please. I’m going to be fine. Let’s just go, before this gets worse.”
Scott lifted her chin and held her close. “I can’t risk losing you. If the bleeding doesn’t stop, you will die.”
She knew he wasn’t just speaking for himself. As much as she hated the idea, she’d become weak and felt life draining from her. “You’ll stay?”
“I promise.” He eased Miranda into the wheelchair and a pool of blood filled the seat. “This is your fault,” he said to Nixon. “Help her.” He pulled his pistol and aimed at his head.
The guards closed in and Nixon stopped them. “I’m as curious about what went wrong as you are eager to stop it. I’ll help her, in exchange for a favor.”
Nixon pushed the elevator call button and gestured for Scott to move closer.
Miranda squeezed the wheelchair’s armrests. “I don’t want to go back down there.” She put her feet out to stop the wheelchair. Even with Scott in some sort of control, they were outnumbered.
“Relax,” Nixon said, “We’re going upstairs.”
“I’m not going to let him hurt you,” Scott said, but he didn’t know Nixon like she did. She knew enough to be afraid of this favor.
“How long ago did the bleeding start?�
�� Nixon pushed the button marked “2” and moved aside for his guards to join them.
“Why are they here?” Miranda looked over her shoulder at the blood-soaked men. “If you’re going to help us, it should be alone.” Her heart beat in her ears.
Nixon set his bandaged hand on her shoulder. “They’re just in case, Miranda. My team has swept the place, but there’s nothing saying we got them all.”
Them. She wondered if he meant infected, intruders, or both.
“How long have you been bleeding like this?” Nixon asked.
She shrugged. “Since last night, I guess.”
“And the baby?”
She locked eyes with Scott. “The baby didn’t make it, just like I told you it wouldn’t.”
“I see. Let’s set her in there.” Nixon pointed at a nearby room.
Scott wheeled her inside and lifted her onto the bed.
“I’m going to have to put in an I.V.”
Miranda crossed her arms tightly over her chest.
“You’re going to have to trust me enough to let me help you.”
“Trust is earned,” she said under her breath.
“I need to start an oxytocin drip to stop the bleeding.” He blinked several times and wiped his sleeve across his damp forehead. “I need to get your uterus to contract.”
Miranda narrowed her eyes and stared at his injured hand. “What happened to you?”
Nixon set up the supplies and showed the label on the smaller of the two bags to Scott. “Oxytocin, right? Just like I said.” He took a step toward the bed and teetered.
“Why won’t you answer me?” Miranda said. “I asked what happened. What’s under the bandage?”
The two guards watched with piqued curiosity.
“I fell, upstairs in my office, and caught my hand on a sharp piece of a metal filing cabinet. Now, please, give me your arm.”
A thick clot slipped from inside of her and painted the white bed sheet red. She held out her left arm and waved for Scott to move closer.
Nixon was proficient for a physician working with primarily one hand. He wrapped a tourniquet around her arm, plumped up a vein, and inserted the line. He hung two bags of fluid on the pole attached to the bed and adjusted the drip.
“I’m going to massage your stomach to help speed this up.”
Miranda tried to relax, but it was impossible with two armed guards at the door and Nixon’s hands all over her. She watched and waited for the familiar leather restraints, wincing when a stabbing pain tore through her belly.
“Interesting,” Nixon said.
Warm milk soaked the front of her already soiled dress. She crossed her free arm over her breasts, embarrassed. The pressure only made matters worse. “What’s interesting?” she asked through clenched teeth. The cramps were debilitating, but the bleeding had slowed already.
“You don’t normally see this problem in breastfeeding mothers.” Nixon sighed. “I’m only going to ask one more time, Miranda. Where’s the baby?”
CHAPTER 68
Intermittent darkness blurred Reid’s vision and made it impossible to see more than a foot ahead of him. He maneuvered through the small space above the drop ceiling and hoped that the virus would hold off. His shoulder burned and his hand was numb, making him wonder if he’d dislocated it again hauling himself up and away from those who killed Frank.
They were Nixon’s men, they had to be, but he didn’t wait around to I.D. them.
Air moved through the ductwork and blew dust from a faulty seal into his eyes. He reached up to wipe them and nearly fell through the tiles. He had to get down sooner than later. Another injury, especially one to his legs, meant he might as well surrender. He listened for voices, though his mind had already started playing tricks on him. The ventilation whispered and the shadows threw their heads back in laughter.
“You can’t beat this,” he said, but refused to believe it.
Frank’s last words were that the cure was there.
Whether he meant at the center, or in Strandville, Reid didn’t know, but if he could get to the last few shots in the basement, it might buy him the time he needed to find it.
He pushed aside the craziness--the echo of crying babies, the sounds of gunfire, and idling chainsaws--and listened to what was really around him. He laid, face-down, on a large, metal pipe and wrapped his legs tightly around it. The ceiling tiles, a half a foot below him, were just within reach and he moved one aside far enough to see an empty inpatient room below. He moved the tile a little farther to see that the door was closed.
He fought the contractions crippling his good hand and willed it to hold him steady as he turned around and lowered his feet through the hole. There was no other way down and he hoped the bed would break his fall. His stomach cramped and he waited for the worst to pass before shifting his weight and letting go.
He caught the elbow of his injured arm on the edge of the ceiling frame and let out a howl. A pain shot up his arm and nearly brought tears to his eyes. He landed on his knees and grabbed the mattress to keep from bouncing off of it.
Sweat poured down his back and he waited for the worst to pass before moving.
His legs felt rubbery as he slid off the edge of the bed and walked toward the door. White light saturated the formerly dark spaces and he prayed the power would stay on long enough to get to the basement.
He staggered in the direction of the first floor elevator, knowing that if he came across a single person he was as good as dead. Nixon didn’t need him to find Miranda now, not with the size of his entourage, but he enjoyed the game too much to stop it. His debt to Nixon hung over him like a sentence and, standing out in the open in front of the elevator, he waited for it to be carried out.
He held the wall and pressed the call button.
The elevator strained open and he pushed the “B” button for what might well be the last time in his life. Blood caked every surface of the cramped car and maggots squirmed along the corner of the carpet where the carnage had been the worst. The smell bordered on unbearable, but it was and always had been, the only way down.
He held his breath as the car descended and the next wave of cramps nearly drove him to his knees. He held the hand rail and gasped for breath when the door opened to a scene not much better than the one he was in.
He’d been to the basement a dozen times in darkness, but had never realized, other than from the smell, that things down there were so bad. The scene was pure carnage and death, worse than even the most graphic horror movie.
He stumbled out into the hallway and leaned against the wall until he was steady enough to walk. Blood and gore dripped, pulsed, and seeped toward him. The narrow space had its own heartbeat, one which he felt through his entire body. His peripheral vision went dark and the distance to the next lab seemed to stretch on for miles.
The power flickered off and when it came back, the auditory hallucinations returned in the form of a male voice.
“Come on,” it said. “It’s all right.”
Reid doubled-over, tightened his arm across his stomach, and headed toward the lab.
“It’ll be all right,” he whispered. His voice cracked and his mouth was dry. He reached for the door knob and wondered if he was hearing things after all.
CHAPTER 69
Michael’s heart raced with panic. He looked under the table, inside the cabinets, and behind anything with a space large enough for Adam to have fit. Three sweeps around the room yielded nothing to indicate Adam’s whereabouts. The lights had only been out for a minute or two, but it was long enough for the man who stole Amelie to disappear and for Adam, who had been unrestrained, to go into hiding.
He must’ve followed the man out.
It was the only logical explanation and Michael went out in the hallway after him.
Blood covered the white tile floors and walls. Castoff sprayed the ceiling. He maneuvered through human remains, both intact and amputated, and when a door slammed, he chased the sound.
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“Adam, buddy. Stay where you are.”
The thought of someone else finding his son first had Michael nearly breathless.
He pushed open the nearest closed door and let it shut behind him. A low, wheezing sound came from a partially opened cabinet beneath the lab’s sink.
“Adam, it’s daddy.”
Michael slowly pulled the door open. Adam was curled up inside. He had gnawed the bandage from his thumb and had the stump in his mouth. Blood covered his lips, but he didn’t attack the way Michael expected him to. Adam kept his face turned to the side and the shadows made it hard to get a look at his eyes.
“Adam, come on out of there, buddy.”
Michael reached in with both arms and prayed he was making the right decision as he eased the boy onto the floor. Catatonia replaced the feral expression that Michael had become use to and afraid of. Adam’s chest rose and fell as he drew ragged breaths, a sign of life Michael hadn’t seen in days. Michael took a stethoscope off of the counter and listened to Adam’s chest. Beneath the liquid sounds of lungs struggling to expand and contract was the faint sound of a heartbeat.
Tears spilled down Michael’s scruffy cheeks and he lifted his boy to his chest.
It had been days since he’d been able to hold him. Adam’s arms hung limp at his sides and the thumb wound bled from his recovered pulse.
It was going to be all right.
Michael, though more of a scientist than a spiritualist, read Adam’s return as a sign that Ashley was still with them.
He lifted the boy’s wilted body onto the examination table and scavenged the supplies he needed to tend to the bleeding. The skin left on Adam’s thumb wasn’t enough to cover the bone and even with power restored, medicine had been thrown so far backward that grafting was out of the question. Michael didn’t have the skill set for that kind of work and there just weren’t the supplies or surgeons to help him. Amputation was the most likely fix, but he’d have to wait until Adam was stabilized for that severe of a procedure. All told, the loss of a thumb was nothing compared with the alternative. Michael reapproximated the skin, restoring it to as close to its original position as he could, and applied a compression wrap and tape to hold it in place. He checked Adam’s eyes for the film that had, so far, left him.
Afterbirth: A Strandville Zombie Novel #2 Page 23
