“How am I?” she asked, not able to meet the doctor’s eyes. She couldn’t bear to see his face if it was bad news.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Considering what you went through, you’re in surprisingly good shape. A few broken ribs, a moderate concussion, and your left eye are the only real problems. I haven’t detected any signs of internal bleeding, thank God.”
Megan swallowed. Their medical facilities were sparse. Major trauma was a death sentence, and would be for the foreseeable future, at least until they found a real doctor and better equipment. She brought her fingers up and probed the swollen skin around her bad eye. She felt a thick line of stitches.
The doctor frowned. “About that...” She understood. The eye was gone.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Jack asked.
“Pringle.”
He and Beth shared a quick glance. “Nothing else?”
“Kevin?” she croaked. “Where is he?”
Beth looked at Jack. “He didn’t make it.”
Megan closed her eye and recited a quick prayer for him. She hadn’t known him very well, but he had seemed capable and confident, a solid addition to the community.
“Alicia?” she asked.
Jack answered with a sad shake of his head. “She disappeared that morning. No one has seen her since that day.”
“Tell me everything,” Megan demanded.
So Jack told her. He started at the point when she, Pringle, and Kevin had disappeared into the building and ended with the moment he found her crumpled on the floor with her life hanging by a thread.
“I can’t believe he did this,” Megan said in a whisper when he finished.
Jack gave her hand a soft squeeze. “I know. Not now.” She wanted to press the point, to get some answers, but she was fading, and all of a sudden, nothing seemed quite as important anymore. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the doctor stepping away from her IV with an empty syringe in his hand.
“No…”
But it was too late. Oblivion wrapped her in its soft embrace, and she was gone before she could finish her thought.
Next
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Robert Frost, Fire and Ice
Thirty-Five
One week later
Megan raised the plastic cup to her mouth and took a sip. She coughed as a stream of lukewarm water went down the wrong pipe. Ouch. She winced and touched a hand to her chest. Her ribs ached. No. Throbbed. Not as bad as yesterday, thankfully, but not much better.
The doctor had said it would be several weeks before the pain went away, weeks until she healed, weeks until she would feel normal again. Whatever that is.
She balanced the cup on her knee and stole a glance at Jack. He sat slowly flipping through one of Cesar’s notebooks in a leather recliner beside the bed. He murmured to himself, lost in his own bubble of concentration, oblivious to her gaze. Megan took another sip, taking care not to choke this time. A child laughed somewhere outside, and she smiled.
Despite her attempts at learning Jack’s story, he somehow managed to always turn the conversation away from himself and back to her, to the community. Something terrible had happened to him, she now realized, something so traumatic it had burned away his capacity for intimacy and left behind a hard, pragmatic core with no capacity for love.
He would heal eventually, she knew. She hoped. In the meantime, she would wait. Still, it pained her to watch him, so strong, yet so distant, trapped inside himself, struggling to exist in a world not of his making. Gone was the shame she had felt the morning before Pringle’s attack. Now, when she gazed into Jack’s eyes, something she did as often as possible, she was overcome with a sense of calm and strength more powerful than any drug. She was afraid she was falling in love. And the timing couldn’t have been worse.
Humanity hung by its fingertips, feet dangling over the precipice of extinction, yet here she was, thinking about this man who had been thrust into her life, dreaming of a future with him despite the staggering odds stacked against them both.
The undead were only a symptom, she had finally realized, a symptom of a broken society that would rather battle each other to the death than compromise for the greater good. It disgusted her.
Megan tried to recall the population of the United States before the collapse. A few hundred million? Maybe more? How many are left now? A soft sigh escaped her lips, and she shook her head in sorrow. It doesn’t matter now. It’s all gone...
Megan could handle the undead. As long as they were careful and avoided drawing any swarms to the community, they would survive. But to be challenged by another group of people? That was beyond belief. It violated everything she had ever believed about humanity. In their time of greatest need, it was inconceivable that they would fight amongst themselves, severing the tenuous thread of humanity that connected them all. It was all they had left.
She drew in a deep breath and tried to push the thoughts aside, to focus on her immediate needs, to trust that everything would work out in the end. It was no use. Her heart pounded in her chest. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. It’s time.
She unfolded her legs and slid to the edge of the bed. Sensing her movement, Jack looked up.
Megan held out her hand. “Could you help me up? It’s time.”
He leaped from his chair, put her arm around his shoulder and gently lifted her to her feet.
“Are you sure?”
Megan leaned her head against his neck, feeling the whiskers of his beard brush against her face. “I’m ready...”
Jack raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. His acceptance was unconditional. Arm in arm, they shuffled down the hall and out the door onto the porch. The courtyard was full. It was early, but already hot. People milled about, sticking to the shadows, dodging the late-morning sun.
She slipped from Jack’s grasp and patted his shoulder. “I can do this.”
“Okay.” He stayed close, shadowing her in case her strength faltered.
In halting steps, Megan shuffled to the railing, gripping the warm tubular steel with both hands for support. She steadied herself, her knuckles blanching with the effort. Cords of muscle stood out on her forearms. She stood there for a moment, surveying the community, taking in the mundane bustle of people going about their daily lives.
Across the courtyard a young man noticed her. He stopped. The roll of barbed wire he carried tumbled forgotten to his feet. He called out to a cluster of nearby women and pointed in Megan’s direction. Her stomach flip-flopped with anticipation.
Word spread quickly, and within a few minutes, the entire community stood before her. An excited murmur raced through the crowd. People smiled, raising their children on their shoulders and trying to get as close as possible.
Jack’s hand brushed her elbow. He whispered, “They need you…”
Megan scanned the crowd; her eyes slid from face to face until they became one. A hush descended. Feet shuffled on asphalt. Gravel crunched underfoot. Biting back her pain, Megan stood as straight as she could. She cleared her throat.
Then, with a final glance over her shoulder at Jack, she began to lay out her plan to reclaim humanity.
Now
The image comes unbidden: a falling man, upside-down, his hands pressed tight against his body, his knee cocked, casual almost, the crisp white of his jacket in stark contrast to the concrete tower looming behind, a horrific instant frozen for all eternity. His fate is certain. His choice is made. He is free.
I open my eyes and peer over the ledge.
They're still there, of course, twelve stories down. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, mill abou
t the base of the tower, waiting patiently for a meal with a pulse. They don't know I'm here. They don't sense my disgust, my incredulity and abject fury at their mere existence.
They can't. They're dead.
I'm the last person alive on the roof of the Liberty Medical Center, and my time is almost up. Like that man so long ago, events I never could have foreseen have severed the thread of my life, cut short my hopes and dreams, leaving me with but two options: die free or become one of them. If I remain where I stand, the monsters at my back will overwhelm me, consume me whole. Of that I am certain. The only thing holding them back is a two-by-four wedged under a weathered steel door handle. It won't hold. It can't. Not forever.
Black smoke blankets the western horizon, remnants of a fire I cannot see. My house is over there somewhere, three miles to the west. Only a ten minute bike ride. Thirty minutes by foot. It may as well be the other side of the moon now. I wonder what's burning. A small plane went down earlier; a Cessna, I think. It appeared out of the east, flying erratically, wings wobbling and engine sputtering until finally, inevitably, it tumbled into the tree line.
I hear a scraping, a grinding of metal against metal, the soundtrack of my impending doom. The door. Zombies. They're almost through. Despite my better judgment, I sneak a glance over my shoulder. A bloodshot eye meets mine, locking onto me through the finger-sized gap in the door. The owner of the eye, so close to his prize, redoubles his efforts, throwing his full weight against the failing door. Soon. It's only a matter of time.
I spy an empty water bottle, crushed and folded as if it were destined for a recycling bin. I wipe sweat from my forehead. A keening laugh erupts from my throat, a sound I've never made before, never imagined I could make. I clamp my mouth shut and swallow the laugh. This is not funny.
With a soft kick, I send the bottle from the roof, launching it into the air. It hangs in space for a moment, like that old cartoon coyote, waiting for time to catch up. Then, it's gone, tumbling toward the somnambulant mass of creatures waiting below. I watch with detached interest as it spirals to the ground, falling not unlike a leaf, the deformed contours of the plastic bottle triggering unpredictable aerodynamic effects, making it spin and twist in the still, dead air.
The bottle strikes one of the creatures in the head, bounces once, and tumbles to the ground. They react as one. Their sound reaches me a moment later—a deep sonorous moan like a far-off train in the middle of the night. They sense prey. Opportunity. They sense me. Still, they don't look up.
Stupid bastards. The bottle sure got them going. Another laugh escapes.
Metal grinds against metal, making my skin crawl. This is it. I hear footsteps. A roar from behind.
They're out.
My breathing is slow and easy.
I take a step.
A Few Hours Ago…
It's Tuesday morning, and it's almost my turn to give a status report when my phone rings. I twitch in surprise and try to suppress the pleased smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I was hoping for a reason to bail out of this meeting. This may be my lucky day. I make a show of holding up the phone and staring at the screen, not really seeing it but plastering a concerned frown on my face as if I do. “I've got to take this,” I mumble as I push back from the conference table and rush toward the door. My boss raises an inquisitive eyebrow, but I ignore him and slip past.
“This is Chris,” I answer once I'm alone in the hall.
“Mr. Thompson, this is Sergeant McElroy, Houston Police. I'm calling about your—“
“Brother,” I finish. Goddamn it! Not again.
My brother Dave has always been kind of a fuck up, the kind of guy who would jump off a bridge if all of his friends do it, the kind of guy who thinks nothing of risking his life to impress a girl just to get into her pants—an irresponsible kid in a man’s body, in other words. I almost hate to admit it, but I've always been a little jealous of him. While I've got the steady job, the four-bedroom house in the ‘burbs, and a shiny new Acura, Dave does what he wants, when he wants. He's had more girlfriends than I can count, drives a fast black motorcycle when it's not in the shop, and thinks nothing of drinking a beer for breakfast. In short, he lives life on his terms and makes no apologies about it.
His life isn't perfect, of course. Not even close. Somewhere along the line, he knocked up one of his girlfriends. He has a kid now, a little boy named Max. Max lives with his mom in Dallas, and Dave sees him once a month, or whenever he can scrape up enough gas money to make the trip. He tries to play it off, to act as if he doesn't care, but sometimes I catch a glimpse in his eyes of what the separation is doing to him. He can't help himself, though. He's not cut out to be a father. Hell, if I had little kids, I wouldn't leave them alone with him for a second. I'll never tell him, but I think he'll make a good friend to Max someday. He'll be one of those cool older dads, the kind who lets his teenager drink beer, the kind who recounts endless stories of his wild youth. That's what I hope at least. If not, then I'll really feel sorry for him, and I don't want to go there. Not again.
“There's been an accident,” McElroy says.
This isn't the first time a cop has called me about Dave. The most recent incident was about a year ago when they hauled him in on a drunk-and-disorderly charge. Dave swore up and down he didn't start the fight, that the other guy had insulted his girlfriend or some shit.
“Whatever,” I told him in the parking lot afterward. “The important thing is you didn't get hurt. Or shot.” Houston is like that, thick with wannabe cowboys with serious Rambo complexes.
Dave laughed so hard at that he almost split open the ragged line of stitches in his upper lip. “You worry too much, Chris.” He gingerly traced a finger along his injury. “I would have had him if the cops hadn't shown up.”
The funny thing is, I believed him. Dave is a scrawny little son of a bitch, but when he gets backed into a corner, he turns as mean as a castrated boar. I still have a dent in the back of my skull as proof, payback for screwing one of his girlfriends in high school.
The door opens behind me, and my boss sticks out his head. “Everything okay?”
“I don't know,” I whisper. “Family emergency...”
He gives me a knowing 'aha' and closes the door, leaving me alone again.
“Is it serious?” I ask McElroy.
I hear a mumbling from the other end, as if McElroy is speaking to someone else with his hand covering the mouthpiece.
I sigh, annoyed. “Is it serious?”
“I'm sorry,” McElroy says, returning. “There's something going on over here—a fight in the emergency room. Yes. I mean, no. Your brother is pretty banged up, and he's asking for you.”
I picture Dave stretched out in a hospital bed, a pretty nurse by his side and a fat white cast covering the length of his leg. “He'll live?”
McElroy covers the phone again and shouts something unintelligible to someone on his end. Then, “Yes, Mr. Thompson. He'll live. But like I said, he's asking for you.”
This is better than I expected. Not only do I have an excuse to abandon the meeting, but now I have an excuse to leave work early. An afternoon in a hospital waiting room beats a full day of meetings at work any day.
“I'll be right over.”
I open the door to the conference room and inform my boss I have to leave. I don't give him time to protest.
Five minutes later, I'm ensconced in the leather cocoon of my new Acura, weaving through lunchtime traffic toward the medical center. Traffic is lighter than usual. I pass a cluster of cars on the shoulder. The drivers appear to be arguing with each other, in each other's faces. I don't see any damage to the cars. And then they're behind me.
I pull into the medical center parking lot and find a space. There's nothing near the entrance, so I'm forced to park in the hinterlands. I check my phone for messages as I walk. Nothing. Good.
The hospital lobby is mobbed. People are stacked five deep at the front desk, trying to get the attention of
the receptionist. Two police officers stand beside the Coke machine; they look oddly out of place, nervous, as if they don't want to be here. I can't help but notice that they’re both resting their hands on the butts of their guns.
Taking my place at the rear of the crowd, I gird myself for battle. An undercurrent of tension flows around me, through me, circulating, mounting as I wait. An old lady with a bandage on her hand moves to cut in front of me. Stepping forward to block her, I cast an angry glare in her direction, but she's not paying attention.
This isn't working.
Someone at the front, someone I can't see through the mass of angry visitors, is taking too damned long. I recall a nurses’ station around the corner, a few steps inside the emergency room. Detaching myself from the crowd, I set off to find it.
An oversized pair of swinging doors separates the emergency room from the lobby. Plastered prominently in the center of the door, at head height, is a sign reading ‘Hospital Personnel Only.’ Fuck that. I take a deep breath and push through.
The doors bang shut behind me as I survey the emergency room. Nurses and doctors rush about like rats, frantic expressions, clipboards in hand, in what looks like barely controlled pandemonium.
An exam room door creaks open on my right, and a doctor exits. I do a double-take when I realize that his white jacket is soaked through with blood, as if he was on the losing end of a paintball battle. A second later, a police officer comes out. Like the doctor, the cop is drenched in blood, the light blue of his uniform shirt glistening black under the harsh fluorescent lights of the ER. He takes off a pair of safety goggles and rubs the lenses clear with his thumb.
“It's down the hall,” the doctor says to the cop, pointing in the opposite direction.
“Thanks.” As the cop turns, I catch a glimpse of his name tag. McElroy.
Elements of the Undead - Omnibus Edition (Books One - Three) Page 17
