Night Zero (Book 1): Night Zero

by Horner, Rob

  But there was still a lot of the old Lisa within—the sister who cared for her Down Syndrome brother after their mother became too frail, right up until he passed from aspirational pneumonia; the nurse who stayed through budget cuts and administration changes because she loved the city and she loved caring for the patients, some of whom she’d known for over a decade.

  She saw the motion, the lights from the hallway glinting off chrome and steel and reacted before the sense of self-preservation could take control.

  She reached out her left hand and shoved Kenja to the side.

  The tip of the gun emitted a flash of light and fire.

  She saw her brother’s face smiling at her.

  Danny saw the gun and lunged. The word for it was on his lips and about to come out when the nurse did the impossible. She reached out a hand and straight-armed the CNA to the side. She was taller, maybe that’s why she had the leverage.

  The gun went off and the nurse went down, blood spraying from a gaping wound in her neck.

  The sound shook the emergency department, one of those things that never happens. And once it does, the world is changed forever.

  Even ready to share as Danny was, the core of him understood that a change had occurred.

  The CNA drew in a breath to scream.

  A second had passed.

  The man in the bathroom was moving the gun, tracking the motion of the CNA, about to fire again.

  He didn’t seem to realize Danny was coming.

  Danny charged into the bathroom, hands out, lips peeled back from his teeth in a skeleton’s smile.

  His left hand grabbed the old man’s right wrist and he twisted, hearing/feeling the snap of frail bones like a carrot being broken for the stewpot. The old man let out a surprisingly forceful yelp of pain.

  But that wasn’t enough.

  The gun fell from nerveless fingers. And that wasn’t enough either.

  Danny looked at the man who was maybe a few inches taller than him, unbowed by his age, and drove forward, teeth leading now, like a starving vampire ready to break his fast.

  His mouth closed on the old man’s throat.

  This was right.

  This was personal.

  This was how you shared.

  The CNA screamed.

  Chapter 14

  The gunshot stunned Buck, though he recognized it immediately for what it was. The sudden sound caused the old lady in the room to issue a short shriek, while the man began trying to extricate himself from the maze of cardiac wires and blood pressure cuff tubing. It wasn’t clear if the gentleman wanted off the bed to protect himself, or to protect his wife, but Buck was willing to bet on the latter. Derek was that kind of man.

  I guess I am too, Buck thought, darting out of the trauma room. He took a moment to grab the large, sliding curtain and pull it closed, followed by the heavy sliding glass door. It wouldn’t stop a man intent on getting into the room, but it removed the temptation of two visible, easy targets.

  A woman screamed.

  Buck turned, seeking the source.

  There were three or four people huddled in the nurses’ station, peering around the corners. The chubby nurse who’d checked him in, Tonya, had the phone under the desk with her, no doubt calling the police. A flash of movement showed a large form, probably Brandon, ducking into a patient’s room. He’d be shutting all the doors, urging people to stay put, huddle in place, do not come out or attempt to flee.

  It was surreal, in a way, but it was also right.

  This was a public place full of normal people who no doubt saw the news and were aware of the increasing number of rampage shooters, both with a political or religious agenda and those without one. But no one panicked. They huddled as they’d been taught, called the people they were supposed to call, and did the things they needed to do.

  Buck took a step to the right then looked left, down the crossing hallway. The pretty, young CNA with the big eyes was on her back, scuttling backward through a spreading lake of blood. Lisa, one of his favorite nurses, was down. It was her blood. Had to be. Her eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling while red pumped in ever-weakening arcs out of her torn throat.

  Got to get to her. Got to help her!

  He resisted the impulse to rush in. That was how first-responders got killed.

  Assess the situation.

  One visible casualty. His heart ached to help but experience taught him that she was beyond saving. That wasn’t a small puncture on her throat; the right third was missing. Grabbed, gouged, torn, cut, or blasted open by a bullet, it didn’t matter how it happened at this point. There was no stopping that arterial spray.

  The CNA appeared unhurt. Splattered with blood, yes, but probably from the initial injury to the nurse. She inhaled to scream again, then her wild eyes saw him standing there and she checked herself.

  There was movement of some kind in the small bathroom, but the angle was wrong for him to see inside.

  “Where is he?” Buck asked, meaning the shooter.

  “The…he…shot—”

  “Is the shooter inside the bathroom?” Buck tried a softer tone.

  The CNA squeezed her eyes shut for a second, like she was trying to calm herself.

  A door farther along the hallway edged open. The break room. A blond head poked out and blue eyes locked on him. The door began opening farther.

  Buck made pushing motions with his hands. Wait, those motions said. Stay there. It’s not safe yet. The head eased back, and the door closed.

  “It was…Mr. Sprugg,” the girl said, each word a short exhalation. “Mr. Sprugg shot Lisa. Then the…the other—”

  “The other what?”

  “The other guy…your guy…he rushed in.”

  “Danny’s in there?” Buck asked, and now his training fled. One of his own was in danger. He stepped forward.

  “He broke Mr. Sprugg’s arm. I heard it. Made him drop the gun. Then he…God…it was awful—”

  Buck didn’t hear. He reached the door and pulled it open.

  Then he stopped, his eyes going as wide as those of the young girl beside him. An awful crawling/churning started up in his stomach as saliva flooded into his mouth.

  He was going to be sick.

  And suddenly he was back on his first real trauma call, a head-on collision between two cars on a tired, dark, two-lane in the northern hinters of Cherokee County up by the North Carolina line. One driver was seat-belted and fine, saved by the airbag in her newer Toyota. But the other one, a middle-aged man who’d been driving a beat-up pickup truck, had gone head-first through the windshield. He was on the ground a good fifteen feet from his vehicle, crawling aimlessly, trailing blood and muscle and little glistening bits that were parts of his intestines torn and shredded by the sharp stalagmites of remaining windshield glass. He was as good as dead, but too stubborn to just lay down and admit it. Buck’s trainer rushed in, gloves on and ready to help, but all he could do was stare at the trail of gore as wide as the guys hips. It was the first and only time he’d thrown up on the job.

  Growling through the nausea, Buck turned and spat, willing himself to be strong.

  Danny was in there. And it might not be what it looked like.

  What it looks like is Danny’s in there giving the old geezer the world’s biggest hickey! Or maybe he’s bobbing for the guy’s Adam’s apple.

  The old man was pushed back against the wall, arms limp and eyes closed. And Danny… Danny was right up against him, head turned up slightly and face pressed into the man’s throat. His mouth was…

  My God, he’s chewing on him!

  …moving. It was moving, but whether he was chewing or not wasn’t clear. Danny’s hands were in the guy’s armpits, supporting him, keeping him upright against the wall, allowing him to continue… And there was blood. Not as much as surrounded Lisa, but still enough to have run down the front of the old man’s hospital gown.

  Swallowing a second flood of spit, this time with an acidic tin
ge, Buck reached into the bathroom.

  “Danny?”

  Kenja heard the question, “Danny?” as big Buck leaned into the bathroom. She continued backing away, not stopping until she hit the wall on the other side of the hall, at which point her legs started working again, gathering under her, pushing her up. Now she couldn’t see into the bathroom, not past Buck’s broad shoulders, but she saw him yank his hand back. She heard his voice change to something very close to fear, maybe disgust. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Then he yelled. She wouldn’t call it a scream. A big man like that, with those sexy eyes and strong arms, he wouldn’t scream.

  Her feet were beneath her, and she used them, lunging away from the bathroom for the locked door of the break room. No one would be able to get her in there. Only the hospital workers knew the combination.

  She fumbled the digits the first time, hand leaving a bloody smear over the pushbuttons.

  Buck yelled again, and there was another sound, a low-wordless growl like from a big dog but not quite. Maybe a man with a deep voice trying to sound like a big dog. It was hard to explain. Having grown up with big dogs, she knew there was a language to their growl, slight intonations that probably held a world of meaning for other animals but were just nonsense to her. This growl had none of those inflections, just a continuous expiration of air through clenched teeth and vibrating vocal cords.

  And it scared her to death.

  She got the buttons right on the second try, yanking the door open and stumbling inside.

  “Kenja what?”

  “My God! Are you hurt?”

  “Were you shot?”

  “Who’s out there?”

  “Is Buck okay?”

  The flood of questions struck her like a splash of cold water. As shocking as Lisa’s death had been, as brutal and horrendous as the paramedic’s counterattack, she was a grown woman with a job to do, not a little girl who could afford to go all to pieces and stay that way while the grownups dealt with the problem. She might not be able to help, but she could do a lot more than just get in the way.

  She could tell the night shift nurses what was happening.

  So that’s what she did.

  “Danny?” Buck asked, his right arm reaching for Danny’s right shoulder. He pulled, and when Buck pulled, things moved. Danny was no exception. His upper body came away from the old man’s, but the younger man compensated by craning his head forward, keeping his face pressed against the patient’s throat for as long as possible. When he could maintain the contact no longer, his teeth clenched, latching onto a piece of grizzled, wrinkled skin like a puppy on a shoelace, so that as his face was pulled away, the strip of skin like pale jerky came with him.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” The words exploded out of Buck.

  Danny dropped his hands. With nothing to support him, Mr. Sprugg slumped to the ground. Buck wanted to check on him—there wasn’t too much blood, so maybe the old guy was still alive—but he couldn’t take his eyes off the young EMT.

  “What did you do?” he asked, dropping his voice. There was a look on Danny’s face that said loud noises might not be appreciated. It was the look of the rabid fox, not yet completely gone over, weighing the benefits of attacking versus running away.

  The strip of flesh, no more than three inches long and narrow, dangled from his clenched teeth, though the mid-point appeared glued to his chin, stuck in the tacky mess of blood that covered him to the neckline of his uniform shirt. His eyes stared unblinkingly. Buck had read books about a light in someone’s eyes that said whether they were crazy or not. He didn’t see a light. What he saw was the thousand-mile stare of an unmedicated schizophrenic, listening to a dozen voices arguing. He hoped the nice voice won out.

  Danny grinned, a ghastly upturning at the corners of his mouth. The piece of flesh dropped from his teeth and dangled from its middle for a second, still stuck to his chin, before falling to the floor. A low growl started in his throat, not animal so much as a diaphragmatic push of a continuous “err” sound that lasted as long as a grown man could maintain it before running out of air. He inhaled sharply, then lunged for Buck.

  Buck yelled in surprise, falling back as the smaller man quick-stepped out of the bathroom, bloody hands tensed into claws reaching—what the hell’s wrong with his right hand?—like a zombie in a horror movie, but one of the newer ones, so much more terrifying because they moved fast and with purpose.

  Lisa saved him.

  Danny rushed at him and tripped over one of Lisa’s sprawled legs. Buck managed to put another few feet between them, backing up until he felt the wall against his shoulder blades. Danny’s second foot came down, one of those hard plants to save a fall after a trip, but it landed in the mess of Lisa’s blood and couldn’t find purchase. Top-heavy with forward motion, his plant leg slid back toward the bathroom, and Danny went down. His outstretched hands saved his head smashing into the floor, but at the cost of at least a broken wrist, maybe an elbow or a finger or two. Buck heard several snaps and cracks as Danny went down, though the only noise he made was a whooshing grunt as his air blew out of him.

  Moving quickly now, much faster than people ever believed he could, Buck lunged forward and pinned Danny to the floor.

  He’s not your co-worker, not right now. Have to treat him like a psycho. You saw that piece of skin. He’s not normal. Not right. Maybe he snapped because of the gunshot, the stress. It happens. Doesn’t matter. Get him secure. Hold him until help arrives. Figure it out later.

  Danny made no sound other than his breathing, which was rapid but not desperate. Even with Buck’s much-heavier weight pushing down on his back, the big hands securing his arms—the right elbow made a disgusting grinding noise as it was brought back, the joint moving in a way that said it wasn’t as stable as it should be—he offered no protest, no sounds of pain. It was like he’d lost the ability to speak or feel pain, Buck thought, which didn’t make any sense. Even a full-blown psychotic could speak, though what they said often made no sense, words tangling over one another, thoughts linked by no coherent means.

  Just like I’m doing, he realized.

  “Shooter’s down!” he yelled. “I need some hands over here!”

  Running right over his words came the overhead announcement, “Code Black, ER. Code Black, ER. Code Black, ER.”

  Buck didn’t know all the various codes in every emergency department, nor did he need to. But he knew that Code Black was an active shooter in CURMC. It meant the front desk of the hospital was aware of the situation, and the hospital would soon be in full lock-down mode, if it wasn’t already, all doors into and out of the building locked. The interior doors that gave access to the ED would also be secured. Not even the ID card scanners would work. A security guard would have to let people into and out of the department, and only hospital employees with an actual need would be allowed through. It also meant that every person in the waiting room would be stuck there until the police arrived and interviewed them. They would be free to leave the hospital after that, or they could choose to wait for the ED to re-open, though that could take hours.

  Danny struggled beneath him, but whatever had happened to his mind, it hadn’t given him the strength to throw off the heavier paramedic.

  “What the hell, man?” Buck whispered fiercely. Even with a fractured elbow, the right arm continued to fight, pulling against his grip. It felt wrong in his hand, like grabbing a bundle of cables that moved loosely in their sheath, rather than being tightly bound. When he looked down, all he could see were twisting lines of dark red and dark blue, like a writhing mass of snakes, that stood out from the skin. The entire arm felt hot, a pus-filled abscess surrounded by otherwise-normal skin, as though a massive infection had set in sometime between when they met that morning and now.

  The door to the break room opened and seven or eight people spilled out. One was the CNA, so that was good. He’d lost track of her after seeing Danny. He recognized most of the others to
o, regular night-shifters here. Marcus and Billy immediately came over. There were more voices speaking at the nurses’ station on the other side of the wall, and soon there would be more people to help.

  “Oh my God-”

  “Is that Lisa?”

  “What happened to—”

  “Who’s that—”

  “No pulse,” Marcus said, stopping briefly to check on Lisa.

  “I figured,” Buck replied.

  “That the shooter?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I think it was the guy in there.” Buck indicated the bathroom with a nod of his head.

  “That’s old man Sprugg,” Billy said. He was a good enough nurse, but young. Buck sensed that he was smarter than his job and knew it, like he was biding his time to build a work history before applying for a higher degree. Marcus, on the other hand, was rock-steady, always the right guy at the right time. Like Brandon, he played for the other team. Unlike Brandon, no one knew that unless he chose to reveal it. “There’s a gun on the floor in here. I think it’s Jessica’s. How’d he get that?”

  The look Marcus shared with Buck said Wrong question, wrong time, and Buck agreed.

  Danny writhed again, trying to get his legs under him.

  “This is Danny,” Buck said. “He’s one of mine, a rookie. I think he disarmed the shooter and then, I dunno, snapped.”

  “What d’you need?” Marcus asked.

  What did he need? If they were in the field, they’d have the police to help. A violent psychotic arrived at the hospital in handcuffs. All he had were Zip Ties, and those were on the truck.

  “We need to secure him,” Buck said. “I think he…he hurt the old guy.”

  “Tore his fuckin’ throat out,” Billy said from inside the bathroom. “He’s still alive though.”

  Footsteps, a lot of them, came around the corner. Buck couldn’t see who was behind him, but on the Room 9 side, near the break room, he saw Dr. Patel and Dr. Crews—he must have made it in before the lockdown—as well as Tina, Josh, and Jessica.