Night Zero (Book 1): Night Zero

by Horner, Rob

  …taking two quick steps forward and reaching to grab the cop.

  Cliff backpedaled, no longer thinking about being a kid with a gun but now feeling like one. He also felt like pissing in his pants and wasn’t sure if that happened already or if it was about to happen. All he was sure of was that letting that big guy get his big hands on him was a good way to end up dead.

  Have to help Marcus!

  Fuck that! He had to help himself first and put down the attacker!

  The big guy swung for him and Cliff ducked, stepping out to the left as his right hand fumbled for the safety strap on his Glock. The door to the power room was right there and he grabbed for the handle, feeling the big man turning, knowing he was right behind him. He twisted, sidestepped again, and pulled. The door jolted in his hands from the sudden contact. The dead man—has to be dead, with that throat, just has to be—took the hit somewhere on his arms. It wouldn’t have done much damage to anyone, but it was enough to spin him to the right, giving Cliff enough time to slip behind the door, transfer his grip to the inside handle, and pull.

  Darkness descended on him as the door shut, broken only by faint lights from some of the circuit breakers. Little green indicators, they gave off no illumination, merely provided reassurance that he wasn’t blind as well as going crazy. Marcus screamed again, a sound like madness and terror and horrible pain all rolled into one. Cliff held onto the door handle with his left hand, leaning back, letting his weight settle into his heels, and managed to get his pistol out of its holster.

  The handle twisted in his grip, forcing his wrist down as a great weight pressed on it from outside. Rather than try to resist the handle’s motion, Cliff concentrated on not letting it break his wrist while he focused on not letting the door come open. That was more important. The dead guy could turn the handle all he wanted to, but once the latch was taken out of the question, it became a straight tug-of-war, and he was pretty sure he was stronger than an eighty-year old guy with half a brain and a fucked-up throat.

  Marcus’s scream faded as the door pulled. Cliff issued a small grunt, pulling back and leaning back. Words came to him, whispered sounds like from a kid’s imagination. Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. It took a moment for him to realize he was saying the words, whispering the old phrase under his breath as he fought to hold the door against the face of evil.

  The pull relented. The door thumped slightly in its frame.

  Crap, the old guy had managed to move it a little.

  Then the pull returned, the handle coming alive in his hand, one of those lever jobs that flipped down to open and ran across when it was closed. Cliff’s hand was forced to twist again, down then up, and the door began to move, one inch, two.

  A hand slipped into the room, riding the narrow beam of light coming from the hallway, wedging itself between door and jamb. The fingers were short, the nails smooth and rounded.

  It was the nurse’s hand!

  She was helping the big guy.

  Knowing he couldn’t hold the door against both, Cliff let go the handle, feeling a perverse sense of satisfaction when it slammed open, knocking the big guy ass over tea kettle.

  But the woman was there, all messed up neck and reaching hands and she’d already been shot once, by God, but he was going to shoot her again.

  If the woman had any fear or respect for the firearm, it didn’t show in her face

  Cliff backpedaled and raised his Glock. “Stay back,” was on his lips but he never got to say the words.

  She rushed in and nudged his arm as he pulled the trigger.

  The shot went wild, deafening in the little room. Sparks shot out of one of the circuit breaker boxes, no way to know which one it was, and then her hands were on him, reaching for his throat.

  Desperately he brought his hands down, dislodging the grasping hands before they could secure a hold. One of her nails traced a line of brief fire on the skin of his throat.

  Thank God she didn’t get those claws any deeper, he thought, pushing and struggling and finally able to overpower her and shove her back.

  This time when he lined up a shot, he didn’t miss.

  The blast took her dead center. He saw the dark hole open in front and saw another circuit breaker explode behind her as the bullet tore through. The light from the hallway disappeared. The nurse paused for an instant, illuminated now only by the sputtering sparks of the breaker boxes. It was one split-second where he thought that was the end of it, she was going to fall. But she didn’t.

  Instead she came forward again, hands still out in that classic Romero zombie pose. Cliff raised the gun a few inches and fired again, this time creating a third eye in the center of her forehead.

  She fell forward, toppled, really, and it was all Cliff could do to move out of the way so she wouldn’t bury him under her.

  He turned around just in time for the old man to sweep in, arms more than long enough to grab Cliff around the chest and pin his hands to his sides, more than strong enough to keep them there while the face and head on its ripped neck bent down, teeth biting into the cop’s throat.

  Cliff’s screams echoed into the darkness far longer than Marcus’s had.

  Chapter 23

  It’s like a scene out of some cheap thrills, girl-fight video, except neither girl is naked.

  Before saying a word, that’s the thought that flashed through Buck’s mind as he entered the break room. There was Jessica, backed against the far-left wall, while Kenja struggled to rise from the floor. He didn’t know what had happened in the ten seconds or so since the first scream sounded, but it had happened fast.

  And it was still happening.

  As Kenja pushed herself to her hands and knees, then to her feet, Jessica saw him standing in the doorway.

  “Help, Buck! She’s gone crazy!”

  Issuing no sound other than a wordless snarl, Kenja pushed up, set her feet, and charged for the brunette. Jessica waited until the last second, then dodged aside, not attempting to engage the crazed CNA. Kenja hit the wall, hands out. She pushed off and pivoted, seeking a path to the nurse. Her wordless attacks—and the fact that she hadn’t uttered a single word in her defense, something like No Buck, she called me a Ho and now I need to beat the white off her!—convinced the paramedic that something was wrong with her. Jessica darted around the long, folding table, putting it between her and her attacker. She was working her way toward Buck, and when that happened, he wouldn’t have a choice in whether he helped or not.

  Apparently as direct in attacking as she was in every other aspect of her daily life, Kenja didn’t bother going around. Nor did she jump onto the table and then jump off it. She leapt forward, diving like it was a gym competition and she was going for a high score on a forward roll. Jessica stepped aside, and Kenja hit the floor first, then the counters underneath the sink, striking her head with a dull thunk. If it damaged her, she didn’t show it, immediately struggling back to her feet.

  Buck rushed forward, unsure what he could do to end the madness. He didn’t want to be caught in another situation where he was literally sitting on someone waiting for a drug to kick in, but he didn’t see too many things he could use as a weapon. Maybe the coffee pot?

  The dying Mr. Sprugg flashed through his mind, throat torn out by his partner, Danny. He really didn’t have a choice.

  His hand reached out for the handle of the large carafe. He hefted it and brought it crashing down on the back of Kenja’s head. The industrial-strength carafe didn’t shatter, but a long crack appeared near the handle, connecting the bottom and top of the coffee pot. It wouldn’t survive another strike.

  Fortunately, another one wouldn’t be needed. Kenja flopped onto her face like her arms and legs had turned to jelly.

  “Jesus, Buck. I don’t know how long I could have stayed away from her.”

  “Why didn’t you just leave?” he asked. Buck didn’t want to take his eyes of the unconscious woman.

  “I didn’t want to le
ad her out there with the others. God knows what she might have done.”

  Buck was impressed. Not too many people would have thought about something like that.

  A scream sounded outside the room.

  “Who was that?” Jessica asked.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “But we should go see.”

  “What about her?”

  “Let’s go see if one of the cops will spare a set of handcuffs. If not, I’ve got Zip Ties in the truck. It’s what we use when we have an aggressive or unruly patient.”

  Jessica led the way, reaching for the door.

  The lights went out.

  James screamed as the middle-aged woman bit down on his arm. He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t so much the pain, though it hurt. It was the sheer surprise and absurdity. Here’s a middle-aged woman, stouter than she should be and probably sporting her own sugar problems, hair an unbrushed mess—because what mother would stop to fix her hair before taking her very sick daughter to the hospital—and she’s attacking him!

  He yelled and did the one thing they teach nurses not to do if they are bitten by a patient.

  He pulled his arm away.

  Had he pushed toward Mrs. Burleson, he could have driven her back into the room. He would have forced more of his arm between her teeth, widening her mouth, and thus prevented her front teeth from digging deep and not allowing her to bring the sharp incisors to bear.

  But he pulled.

  Mrs. Burleson, all two hundred-fifty pounds of her, was pulled as well. Her teeth didn’t let go, but parts of the skin of his arm tore beneath the pressure. The pain in James’s arm skyrocketed, and he screamed again. Without thinking, he balled his left hand into a fist and began punching the older woman in the side of the head. Tiffany grabbed the older woman, though whether she meant to pull her bodily or just try to separate her mouth from his arm, he didn’t know. The world shrank down to a ball of pain centered on his right forearm, and all he could do was yell and punch, trying to dislodge her without losing more of his skin.

  Then she let go and he fell back. Josh had a hold of him, pulling him away.

  Mrs. Burleson opened her bloodied mouth and let out a harsh, ragged sound like a forced, open-throat exhalation, a yell without sound. Red spit flew from her lips. In the room behind her, Kristie, still bound to the bed by the four-point restraints, also issued a scream, twisting, turning, and bucking violently.

  The sound was answered from room 6, where Sonny Cranston (now modestly covered with a tie-in-the-back hospital johnny), also struggled. He had the physical strength to shift the stretcher with every heave and thrust, forcing minute motions despite all four wheel-locks being engaged.

  The lights went out, eliciting small shrieks and expletives from several of the nurses around them.

  The emergency lights came on, nothing more than huge battery packs with twin bulbs mounted high on the walls near the ceilings, glowing fitfully with a yellow-orange tint like the old sodium-vapor streetlamps.

  Mrs. Burleson lunged to the side, arms out to grab Angelica.

  Angelica was having none of it. Raised with three brothers, she knew how to throw a punch. It went against everything a nurse is taught about how to handle a patient in crisis.

  But she wasn’t a nurse.

  As the mother came in, Angie’s fist went out, connecting between the eyes and driving the bridge of her nose down and sideways.

  Mrs. Burleson folded to the ground without a sound.

  “Why hasn’t the generator kicked in?” someone asked.

  “Help, back here!” a harsh voice yelled.

  James whipped his head to the left. “That sounded like Gus,” he said.

  Dr. Adam Crews didn’t start out a privileged son of a rich family. His parents weren’t doctors. His grandparents didn’t create an empire for their progeny to leech from for generations to come. They were Irish immigrants, the stereotypical potato farmers who came to America seeking a better life. His dad was a cop who somehow survived a career in New York with a badge on his chest and retired with just enough set aside to make sure that Adam didn’t have to worry about supporting his parents. But that left Adam to chart his own course after high school. He could live at home while he went to college, but he’d either have to pay his own way through or rack up enough debt that he’d probably still be paying on it today, like so many other professionals.

  Instead, he joined the Army, and got them to pay for his medical school. He gave the service ten years after graduation, and still served in a reserve capacity.

  So, when Mrs. Butler came out screaming, face full of writhing lines, several things happened.

  He immediately recognized the similarity between what he saw on her face and what he’d seen on Danny’s arm.

  He drew the conclusion that whatever was happening was communicable through biting (at least), knowing that she had been bitten on the face.

  He filed away a mental “note to self” that it might be worthwhile to check Danny’s hand more thoroughly for evidence of a similar injury.

  And he told himself that he needed to have a good look at Buck’s ear immediately, because the paramedic had been exposed much earlier.

  All these things happened in less than a second, while the crazed Mrs. Butler looked around, seeking a target. A quick glance to his left showed the attacker from room 15 taking a shot to the face and going down. The woman had been attacked by her daughter at the same time Tonya was hurt. He would have to check on Tonya.

  But first…

  A loud, clunking sound accompanied the sudden loss of overhead lights. For a moment, darkness reigned. Then the emergency lights came on, shining down from their place near the ceiling, offering just enough light to see, but not enough to see well.

  As if the change in lighting was a signal, Tyana Butler lurched toward Dr. Crews, a staggering two-step rush that looked like she hadn’t made up her mind to attack but was pushed to it. Adam side-stepped left, hooking his right arm under hers, then pivoted behind her, securing her left arm, raising both of his hands and interlocking his fingers behind her head. She fought, pushing up, twisting and turning, but couldn’t escape the full nelson.

  “I’m going to need a B-52 over here!” he shouted, just as Tina ran screaming out of room 9.

  The lights went out as Danny’s feet hit the floor. He smiled. It was a ghastly thing, a muscle memory from a time when things happened that seemed fortuitous. Getting the job had been fortuitous. Being paired with Buck “By God” Davis had been fortuitous. Being bitten by Austin Wallace had seemed like a bad thing, but that was before he became.

  Now, booted feet on the floor—because no one had time to change him into paper scrubs and slipper-socks before strapping him to a bed—Danny moved to the door. The emergency lighting that illuminated the hall didn’t penetrate into the room; there were no battery packs or light bulbs up on the wall in here. Let the patients enjoy the darkness.

  There were voices outside the door, the two guards discussing what it meant that the lights were out, and the generator hadn’t come on.

  Danny didn’t know the answer.

  It was fortuitous. That’s all that mattered.

  The guard turned away, raising his radio to his mouth.

  “Cliff, this is Tim. What’s your twenty?”

  The door opened into the room. Danny stepped out. The old security guard wasn’t looking at him, preferring to scan the ceiling as though he could bring the lights to life by sheer force of will.

  The cop wasn’t looking either. But something, call it training or reflex, made him react to Danny as though he both knew the door had opened and that someone had come out.

  The officer first.

  Danny lunged, unsure if the instructions were simply a product of his mind determining the greater danger or if someone else had given him an order. His hands came out as he moved forward. The police officer’s feet weren’t set, caught as he was in mid-turn, and he tripped over himself trying to fall
back. “Sonuva—”

  The radio slid across the floor as Officer Tim went to the ground.

  “Help! Back here!” the old man yelled as Danny reached the cop, toppling him. Strong hands beat at him, grabbing at his clothes, trying to dislodge him, but all Danny thought of was reaching up, getting one hand on each of the cops’ ears. He pulled.

  “Shit! Ow! Shit!” the cop muttered, each word an exhalation, and the hands that beat now rose up to grasp Danny’s wrists, not trying to pull, but rather to hold in place.

  And with the cop’s hands engaged, Danny snapped his head down, breaking the officer’s nose, then again, feeling something give around an eye, the orbit crackling.

  The hands holding his fell away as the cop passed out.

  Other hands grabbed him, the security guard finally getting to his feet and joining the fight. Danny let himself be pulled away, even using his hands and feet to push himself up. Then he spun, his head darting into the exposed throat of the old man. His lips closed over the center, catching wattle and stubble before feeling the hard resistance of the trachea. A second later, mouth once again full of the taste of blood, he rose from the prostate form of the gasping, dying guard and ran, smashing the crash bar, escaping the emergency room and heading into the quiet corridors of the hospital.

  Tina already had a grip on the doctor’s coat, and she pulled with all her strength as her friend—not my friend, not right now—rolled to the side, planted her feet on the floor and jumped. Caught off balance, the doctor staggered a step. It didn’t prevent Tonya from reaching him, but rather than her arms encircling his shoulders that extra few feet meant that she only reached his waist, her face slapping in the region of his bottom. She couldn’t establish a hold and slid to the floor.

  “What the—”