by Jones, K. J.
“Calm down. I need you to be real calm for me. It's not all yours.”
“Whose is it then?”
“I need you to go inside there to your room and get dressed. We gotta go to the hospital now.”
“Am I that hurt?”
“You had a blackout. We don't need you to be having another. Now, Tom got a little hurt during this one.”
Jeremiah's gaze moved to Tom. His expression looked appalled. “I did …?”
“It wasn't you. Just your brain's gone a little haywire from the fever. You’re so hot, I could feel it off you. So I need you to go back in there and get dressed. You need to be at the hospital if this happens again. Do you understand me?”
Jeremiah nodded. He looked lost and confused, but he had total trust in Matt. “Okay. I should pray.”
“Inside your room there, nice and calm, you pray after you get dressed.”
Once Jeremiah went into his bedroom, Matt went to angry Tom. “Let me see.” Tom lifted the paper towels. They tore and stuck to the wound. “Over to the sink.” Matt washed off Tom's arm and saw two deep gashes. “He got you good.” It filled with blood. “Keep it under the water while I get my kit.”
Treating Tom's wound, it was obvious sutures were necessary. The teeth tore the skin. Matt cleaned the wound. The human mouth contained a lot of germs. He applied antibiotic gel. Anything would help the infection the kid was bound to get. He bandaged the forearm with white gauze. Wrapped tight to apply pressure. “Go get dressed. You need stitches.”
“Shit! Fuck! I don't got any money for that. I got a copay on my dad's insurance.”
“Calm down. It's the emergency room, not a doctor. You'll worry about the bill later. One thing at a time. Go get ready.”
Any emergency room in the United States after dark was the Purgatory nuns warned Catholic children about. Tonight, it was the Fifth Ring of Hell. Noises bombarded them as they entered. Every seat filled and people stood along the walls. Kids cried. Adults moaned.
Matt led his roommates to the reception counter.
An exhausted looking woman behind the desk looked at them and said, “Bite or flu?”
“Excuse me, what?”
She said slower, as if Matt was stupid, “Are you here for a bite or for the flu?” She looked at Tom. “He's a bite?”
“Yes. He needs to be sutured. And he –” gesturing to Jeremiah, “ — has the flu.”
“How long ago was this bite?”
“Um.” These questions seemed so strange. Said so routine for something so out of the ordinary. “Within the hour.”
“And you?”
“Just bringing them in. I'm their roommate. I'm a paramedic here.”
She wasn't impressed. “Fill out these forms and bring your insurance card when you’re done.” She handed to Tom a clipboard with an attached pen. “Have a seat and we'll be with you as soon as we can.”
“Okay.” Tom took the clipboard, looking overwhelmed by everything.
“What about Jeremiah?” asked Matt.
“The attendants are on their way.”
“Attendants?” he asked in surprise.
Two burly men came out of the swinging ER doors. They wore white biohazard suits. Faces covered with masks and plastic goggles. Leather padding strapped to their arms, the kind people training attack dogs wore. They wheeled a gurney. It contained a board, straps, and a rolled-up plastic enclosure. Matt recognized the board with straps as the one they used on Zombie drug calls.
“No.” Matt rapidly said to the receptionist. “He's got the flu. He's not on drugs.” He felt panicked as they grew closer. “He's not on Zombie. He’s straight edge. He's a devout Christian. He's not on any drugs, I swear!”
“Matt,” Jeremiah cried. The men took his arms. “Help me, please.” They pulled him to the gurney and pushed him to lie down. “Lord Jesus, please help me.”
“He doesn't need isolation. It's a blackout from H1N3. He's straight edge Christian, for God's sake.”
They strapped him down. Jeremiah whispered a desperate prayer.
The receptionist looked Matt square in the eyes. “H1N3 does not have blackouts.”
“Yes, it does.” His heart raced.
“Matt,” Jeremiah cried. Strapped down at arms, legs, and across the chest, they rolled the plastic over him, making a plastic box around him. “Matt,” his muffled cry. They wheeled him towards the open doors. “Matt!” The doors swung shut and locked.
More people came to the desk, wanting the receptionist's attention. Stunned Matt looked at them. A bloodied towel wrapped around a man's hand.
“Who bit you, sir?” the receptionist asked, in the same routine voice.
“Some guy.”
Tom asked Matt, “What did she mean H1N3 doesn't have blackouts? Is Jeremiah on Zombie then?”
Matt's head swam. Everywhere he looked, he saw people with cloth pressed to a wound. Many were beat up. All had a bleeding wound.
“What is this?” he whispered.
It was around midnight when they took Tom in. They did not permit Matt to go with him. As a nurse led him away, she said to Matt, “You can go home. He will not be leaving tonight.”
Tom's head whipped around to shoot a plaintiff look to him.
“For stitches?” Matt asked. The doors were swinging closed. “Wait! For stitches?” They closed. Though he knew they automatically locked, he pulled at the handles anyway. “This ain't right!” But no one paid him any attention. The hours he had spent waiting with Tom told him he was not the first to try the doors or protest the separation.
The doors unclicked and began to swing open. He prepared himself, intending on dashing through. When they opened fully, two armed, big Wilmington PD cops flanked the inside. That plan wasn’t going to work.
A nurse came out and called a name. “Please step to the side, sir,” she said to Matt.
The cops eyed him hard. He knew what that look meant. One was already pulling out a Taser. Matt stepped to the side.
A mother approached with a boy in her arms. The little guy rested his tired head on her shoulder. His face was grayish and running. “I'll take him, ma'am.” The nurse reached out.
The mother backed away. “I can carry my son in.”
“Please, ma'am.”
“Why?”
One of the same burly attendants stepped out. The mother eyed him.
“We'll take the child now,” said the nurse.
“No. I don't like this.”
The attendant put his thick-gloved hands on the child's back.
“Get away from my son!”
Another attendant came behind her. The first man pulled at the child in her arms. The second seized her, pulling her backwards. She screamed and struggled. “Give me my baby!” The attendant carried the now alarmed little boy away. “Mamma,” the boy reached his arms towards her.
The doors began swinging closed. The other attendant held the mother in place. “They've taken my baby. Gimme my son. Oh God, please.” Once the doors locked, the attendant released her. She ran to them and pulled at the handles. She beat her fists on them. Sobbing and screaming, “My baby!”
Matt couldn't bear anymore of this. He hurried out the sliding exit doors into the cold night. Shoving his hands into his jean pockets to warm them, he walked towards the parking lot. He had to park in the back due to lack of space in the crowded front lot. Heading there, the cold wind lashed at his face and neck and cut through his sweatshirt.
He made out the sound of a large refrigerator truck running on idle. He figured it was probably a midnight delivery of supplies or a pick up of biological waste materials. Glancing over at the loading dock, he saw an unmarked truck. Something was wrong. Drop off or pick up, the truck would have a company logo on the side. He looked around to see if anyone was watching him. All clear. He headed towards the truck. At the wall, he squatted down and leaned out. Movement on the loading dock. People wearing the full getup of biohazard suits, hoods and gasmasks. Their gloved
hands hauled up the straps of body bags. Matt’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. He saw dozens of body bags on the loading dock, stacked one atop another like sacks of potatoes. They were being loaded into the unmarked truck.
He grew cold in his soul. He backed away. Once clear, he hurried to his vehicle and got the hell out of there.
6.
Mullen drove home to his parents’ house along Route 421. A long stretch before Snow’s Cut Bridge, connecting Pleasant Island to the Wilmington peninsula.
Route 421 was a straight shot on flat land. As straight and flat as roads got. Gullies flanking either side. A medium of grass and gully. Yet somehow people had a tendency of crashing here. There were only a couple of side streets on the long stretch. No lights or stop signs. Nothing to make people crash. Yet they did. Legend had it that the road went over sacred Indian burial ground. Pissed off Native American spirits made the crashes.
Route 421 had a lonely feeling late at night, as if Mullen was the only person in the world right now.
But lonely meant no witnesses.
His hand opened the ashtray. He glanced from road to ashtray as he took out a joint. His phone pumped out music via a Bluetooth connection with the radio. Clawfinger cranked out Do As I say. Steering with his knee, he lit the joint with a lighter.
Inhale. Hold.
His eyes slightly closed as the marijuana’s effect washed over him, relaxing his tension of a hard day.
His head bobbed to the music. Seat back, his arm fully extended as his wrist rested on the top of the steering wheel.
“Yeah. Do it my way,” he yelled with the song.
In the headlights, a woman stood directly ahead of the speeding hatchback.
“Shit!”
His foot slammed the brake down. The tires screeched. His hand yanked the wheel to the side. The car turned sharply to the right while continuing in speed. The brakes locked.
He saw pine trees illuminated by his headlights, just before the world lifted.
“Nooo!” His arms raised to protect his head. He clenched.
Conflicting gravity G-forces as the car rolled. Breaking metal, shattering glass, and splintering hard plastic. Jolts to his body.
Then black.
Things smelled funny. Plastic. Motor oil.
Slowly, Mullen opened his eyes.
No clue where he was, or what had happened. But everything felt wrong.
His face felt tickly. He tried to swipe at the sensation. Only then realizing he was upside down. Something blocked his hand from moving.
He screamed.
Both front airbags had ejected. The smell of plastic came from the airbag in front of him. His seatbelt hurt his chest and thighs. It held him suspended. Turned out, when upside down, one's face hung below the airbag.
He blew at the tickle. But that relieved nothing on his sweaty face. The tickle went in a line from his nose to the inner corner of his eyes. His lips throbbed. His whole body hurt. Particular areas throbbed more. He feared he was permanently crippled.
“Keep calm, dude,” he instructed himself. He needed to hear a voice to distract him from some weird ticking sound coming from the engine. “Think, man. Upside down. Okay. Upside down, yeah. What's got me here?”
After a list of deductions, his hand found the seatbelt lock.
In loads of movies in which people ended up upside down, the seatbelt never unlocked. The person drowned. Or blew up. Or got eaten by something. Or somebody did some frantic cutting the belt itself with a glass shard.
He pushed the button, expecting it to not work.
The lock gave.
“Ahhh,” he screamed. He fell straight down onto his head. “Shit.”
“Okay.” He squirmed right-side up. “Neck obviously not broken.”
Sitting on the upholstered ceiling, the interior light was under his right butt cheek. He inventoried his situation, beginning with potential major injuries. Legs worked; toes wiggled. Arms rotated, as did wrists, and fingers moved. Neck cramped a little. Holding his head crooked to avoid the upside-down seats wasn't helping. No blood gushing out of anywhere. The tickle on his face turned out to be a nosebleed. He figured the airbag had done that.
Body checked, he looked around at his environment.
“Oh. This so sucks.”
His parents were going to be pissed. How much did insurance go up when the car has flipped a few times?
Dad would kill him.
“Think about Dad later.”
“Okay. Get out. Okay.”
In every direction, the windows had cracked, but holding in place. It would be difficult to squirm around the inverted seats. The big back window of the hatchback would be the best bet.
911. It occurred to him. He scanned for his phone, realizing the music had been silent since he came to. The cell wasn't where he had left it, so it had flown and bounced around. It had to be around here somewhere, amongst his displaced possession. He yelled, “Okay Google.” No electronic response. “Hey Google.” Nothing. “Crap.”
Looking at the windows, he wondered how hard it would be to knock them out. He spotted two bare feet walking towards him. Smallish feet. Thin. Female feet, he thought.
“Hello?” he called. “Can you help me?”
The feet stopped at the side of the car.
“Ma'am, could you call 9-1-1 for me, please?”
The car rocked as if she shoved it.
“Ah, ma'am? Are you doing that?”
It happened again.
“Really not helping, ma'am. Could you stop, please?”
The car vigorously rocked.
“Stop! What's wrong with you.”
He heard a maniacal laugh, followed by a screech.
“Dear God, you're possessed!” He screamed towards the other side, “Help!”
He realized it was the woman in the road who had caused him to crash. No wonder she was standing in the middle of an otherwise deserted road late at night. Devil possession made people do crazy things.
Or mental illness.
Same difference.
Mullen screamed for help until his throat hurt.
Feet shuffled from the other direction.
“Thank God. Help me, please. She's crazy.”
The much bigger feet came to the opposite side of the car from crazy/possessed girl. Men's feet.
“Help me, please.”
Crazy/possessed girl stopped shaking the car. Mullen looked over at her side. She peered in at him, looking full blown devil seized. She gave an evil grimace smile with insane eyes. Mullen screamed like a horror movie blond, much higher pitched than he should have been able to achieve post-puberty.
“Jesus compels you,” he yelled at her.
To the other side, hoping the man would be his salvation, he saw clearer through the cracked window. The man had a sock on one foot. The other bare.
Who the hell walked around on a road in January that way?
“Really?” he protested at the feet.
A ghoulish face suddenly came down. The man was devil possessed too.
“Oh, God!” He squirmed away.
Unlike devil girl, devil guy punched the window. It folded in reaction. His hands easily peeled it apart. Unbothered that he was cutting his hands and bleeding.
Mullen high pitched screamed again.
The car resumed rocking, accompanied by maniacal laughter.
On all fours, Mullen three-sixty turned on the upholstered ceiling. He searched for a way out. He spotted a third set of feet out the hatchback window. Another ghoulish face. The devil man punched the glass. It easily gave.
The two men crawled through windows. Mullen hit them with anything he could grab. He batted away their hands.
A loud firecracker pop sound came from somewhere outside.
“Come and get me,” a man's voice yelled.
The devil men withdrew.
Panting, Mullen three-sixty turned again to see where the danger would strike next.
Another firecrac
ker pop. He saw one of the devil men fall onto the blacktop.
Two more pops. The other two dropped.
It occurred to Mullen that the sound was most likely not fireworks.
He watched two black boots walk towards him, and he felt grateful for normal footwear. He sighed with relief and smiled. A savior.
“Do you want some help getting out?” The man's accent sounded Northern.
Wait, Mullen began to think. Who goes around, armed, shooting people? What if this man was a psychotic just waiting for a good opportunity to kill people?
“Uhm,” Mullen responded to the man's question. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Hope not.”
Not a reassuring answer.
The man squatted down. His face appeared in the empty window. He didn't look like a mass murderer.
But mass murderers never looked like mass murderers.
“Come on.” The man reached his arm in.
Not presented with many other choices, Mullen grasped the hand and let the man pull him.
Face-to-face with his rescuer, potential murderer, Mullen found himself confronted with another of his greatest nightmares. The guy was six foot something, wearing a t-shirt. It showed the V-shape from shoulders to hips that men were supposed to have but so few really did. The t-shirt was blue, which drew out the guy's blue eyes. Great hair. The walking epitome of how life was unfair.
“You all right?” the guy asked.
“I think I might be sick.” Mullen doubled. Gravity played a dizzying trick on his head.
As the wave of nausea subsides, he looked around, and bolted upright. Three dead bodies. Granted, they were devil possessed people, but dead people none the less.
“You … ah?”
“If you're all right, let's get out of here.”
The guy walked towards a red, soft-top Jeep. The I'm-a-fun-adventurous-person vehicle. Perfect for the guy. He probably tanned well too. Never burning into pink blotches.
Mullen looked at his turned over hatchback. “I should wait for the police.”
“Did you call them?”
“No. Didn't you?”
“Uhm, kid, I just shot three unarmed people for you. Would really prefer it if the police weren't involved.”
Mass murderer sprung up again.
