The Zombie Uprising Series

by M. A. Robbins

Voices muttered over the phone.

  “Him, too,” Max said.

  Tears stung Jen’s eyes. D-Day’s scowl had morphed into a full-blown grimace.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about your friends,” Max said. “You can pick up the bodies if you can come by within the next few hours.”

  Jen’s eyes stung. Wayne. We never had the chance...

  And—

  “Zeke,” she breathed. He’d saved her so many times, and now he was gone.

  D-Day held the phone up to her.

  “We won’t be able to pick them up,” she said. “What will happen to them?”

  “Placed in a pile and torched,” Max said. His tone told her he didn’t give much of a shit.

  Jen looked at D-Day and shook her head. He hung the phone up. The floodgates opened and tears flowed down her cheeks.

  D-Day pulled her into a hug. “I’m sorry.”

  She laid her head on his chest. “I’ve got to stop this zombie bullshit. Too many people I care about have died, and I can’t take any more.”

  “So we need to find a leader?” D-Day said.

  “Yeah. No more screwing around. I need to talk to Butler and shut this fucking war down.”

  “I asked in the store,” D-Day said. “About hospitals. There’s one less than a mile away. St. Francis.”

  Jen wiped her eyes and straightened. Got to put my game face back on. “How big?”

  “Big enough.”

  Jen stumbled to the bike and climbed on. “Let’s go.”

  D-Day sat in front of her and started the bike. He guided it out of the parking lot and north on South Mt Auburn Road. Minutes later the hospital complex came into view.

  “It’s a good-sized one,” Jen said.

  D-Day parked the bike near the main entrance. “Need a plan,” he said. “They’ll have armed guards ready to take out the recently dead. If they’re like other hospitals, some of those guards will be off-duty cops.”

  “We need to get to the hospice ward,” Jen said. “People are there to die and usually have private rooms. It’ll give us cover from prying eyes.”

  D-Day watched an ambulance scream by. “Can’t just go wandering around in there. We need to look like we belong.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe find a locker room and change into scrubs.”

  Jen rolled her eyes. “Just like the movies, huh? I have a better idea. Follow me.”

  Jen strode into the main entrance and up to the Information Desk. An elderly woman with thick-lensed glasses looked up at her and smiled. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Our relative was admitted to the hospice ward of a hospital in town. We’re from the East Coast and don’t know which hospital it is.”

  The woman pushed her glasses up her nose and positioned her fingers over a computer keyboard. “Name?”

  “Jones,” Jen said.

  The keys clicked as the woman quickly typed. She frowned at the screen. “No Jones, I’m afraid.” She removed her glasses. “Maybe your relative is at Landmark Hospital. Or Southeast.”

  “Could be,” Jen said. “We’ll check there. Thank you.”

  She led D-Day away from the counter.

  “Nice try,” he said. “We can still find some scrubs.”

  Jen went to a map of the hospital. “No one wears scrubs in the hospice ward. They want it as homey as possible.”

  She traced the map until she found what she wanted. “Here. Let’s go.”

  Walking at a clipped pace, she entered a corridor that bisected the hospital. D-Day hurried to keep up. When they reached the other side, Jen surveyed the lobby until she found what she was looking for. “Stay with me.”

  The young man wearing a headset sitting behind the Information Desk looked at her as she approached and put up a finger. “The pharmacy is open until five p.m.,” he said into his mic.

  One of D-Day’s eyebrows rose. Bet he didn’t think they’d have more than one info desk.

  “Thank you,” the young man said. “Have a good day.”

  He took off the headset. “I’m sorry, but I have an appointment and my relief hasn’t shown up yet. I suggest you try the Information Desk by the main entrance.”

  Are you shitting me?

  Jen leaned on the counter. “We’ve driven for hours from the East Coast to get here. We have a dying relative who’s in hospice, but we don’t know if it’s this hospital or another.”

  “You can just go to the ward and ask. It’s on the sixth floor.”

  “Please,” Jen said. “It’ll only take a second.”

  “I’m sorry.” The man stood and put on a jacket. “I’m late for my appointment.”

  D-Day stepped to the counter, placed his ham-sized fists on it, and leaned forward. “You’ll be visiting your own emergency room if you don’t help us right now.”

  The man froze. D-Day lowered his bushy eyebrows, staring menacingly.

  The young man plopped back into his chair and pulled the keyboard toward him. “Last name.”

  “Smith,” Jen said.

  Fingers flying over the keyboard, the man swore and hit the backspace key a few times before continuing. His right hand grabbed the mouse. “Betty Smith?”

  D-Day straightened. “That’s her. Betty.” He took Jen’s hand. “Let’s go see Aunt Betty one last time.”

  Without another word, he led her to the elevators. When she glanced back at the Information Desk, it was empty.

  The hospice ward had soft carpets, muted colors, and a hushed atmosphere. They checked in with a receptionist and were directed to a room halfway down a U-shaped corridor. In it, a nurse sat next to a hospital bed with a shriveled ancient woman in it. A monitor by the bed displayed her vitals.

  “How is Aunt Betty?” Jen asked.

  The nurse stood. “It shouldn’t be long. We don’t expect her to last another twelve hours.”

  “So sometime tonight?” D-Day asked.

  “Could be twelve hours or twelve minutes,” the nurse said. “I’ll give you some privacy.” She left and closed the door behind her.

  Jen paced. “I feel ghoulish, just waiting for this lady to die.”

  “Don’t let it bother you.” D-Day plopped in a cushy chair and sunk in. “What you’re doing will save a lot of lives.”

  “I suppose,” Jen muttered. She opened the curtains and looked out at a section of roof ten feet below the window. It extended out fifty yards ahead and another seventy-five to the sides. Damn hospital’s big.

  She pulled the drapes wider until the sun sprayed across the old woman’s bed. “If I was dying,” Jen said, “I wouldn’t want it to be so gloomy.”

  The door opened. A cop sporting an M4 locked eyes with her. “There you are,” he said.

  6

  A gunshot boomed just behind Zeke, and an invisible cloud of sulfur burned his nostrils. He clenched his teeth and steeled his muscles. Another shot went off. Then two more.

  “You’re just wasting ammo,” Max said.

  “So what?” Dan’s deep voice cut in. “Makes me feel good.”

  “Captain finds out and your ass is grass.”

  The boot pressed on Zeke’s shoulder. “Need my pistol practice. I’ll just plug a couple rounds into this punk rocker and call it a day,” Dan said.

  Zeke tensed. Please don’t let the bullets go through me and hit Wayne.

  “What are you assholes doing down there?” yelled someone from outside the train.

  “Shit,” Dan said. “Chief’s fucking coming.”

  The two militiamen hurried from the car. “Just finished, Chief. Nothing in there.”

  “Then what the hell were those gunshots?”

  “Not us,” Dan said. “Maybe another car.”

  Their voices trailed off.

  “You can get off me now,” Wayne said.

  “Shh. Not yet.” Zeke waited for several minutes.

  Satisfied, he pushed himself up.

  “Shit.” He stretched his back
and stepped out of the bathroom. “I’d like to kick that guy in the balls.”

  Wayne stood and wiped his pants with his hands. “I need a hot bath.”

  Zeke crept to a window and peeked out. The bulk of the militiamen were gone. “Still a few of them out there.”

  “Then we should wait till dark.”

  “No,” Zeke said. “You heard them tell Jen she had a few hours to get our bodies. Sounds like they’ll clean the cars out before nightfall.”

  A pair of militiamen walked by the open door. One of them said something Zeke couldn’t make out and the other laughed.

  When they’d passed, Zeke crept to the bathroom and retrieved his katana, still in its scabbard. “We might be able to see more if we go to the last car.”

  Wayne pulled out his club. “I’ll lead.”

  “Just a second.” Zeke strapped the scabbard to his back. “OK.”

  Wayne inched to the doorway leading to the next car. He stepped across a body mangled with bullets and slipped, landing on his chest with an oof.

  Zeke grasped his katana’s hilt and listened. “I think we’re good. Keep going.”

  Wayne pushed himself up and padded into the car.

  Zeke watched his feet as he crossed between cars. Bloody half-eaten organs, slimy and still fresh, littered the passageway. Bodies lay strewn across the aisle.

  They skulked through the cars, each one a canvas of gore painted in crimson splashes and body parts. Not one damn car escaped the infected.

  Wayne stepped into the last car and froze.

  “What’s up?” Zeke asked.

  His brother didn’t respond.

  “Wayne?” Zeke pushed past him. He gasped.

  The back half of the car was piled to the ceiling with the dead. With nowhere else to flee, the passengers had sealed their own fates.

  The bodies seemed to be quivering. Zeke approached the pile and choked. Flies. The corpses were infested with them. Shimmering wings pulsated to create the illusion of movement.

  Zeke took a deep breath and almost fell over. The air, thick with blood and slaughter, gagged him. He stumbled out of the rear car, dropped onto a seat, and put his head between his legs until the nausea passed.

  Wayne, white-faced, plopped down across from him. “That’s more death in such a small place than I imagined could ever exist.”

  “I’ve seen a lot,” Zeke said. “Thought I’d seen everything, but this one caught me by surprise.”

  Footsteps sobered Zeke up. Someone was on board. He pulled his feet onto the seat and peered down the aisle.

  Someone moved several cars away. Is he walking to us or away from us?

  Wayne stared at his brother, wide-eyed.

  “Out the door, now,” Zeke whispered.

  He slipped into the aisle, still crouched, and duck-walked to the door at the front of the car. Sliding down the stairs, he stuck his head out and looked both ways.

  Two militiamen exited a car halfway up the train. They carried a dead body between them and swung it several times until they released it. It flew in an arc and landed on top of a small pile of corpses.

  Wayne pressed against Zeke. “What’s going on?”

  “When I take off, you follow close behind,” Zeke said. “Don’t stop for anything, even if we’re spotted.”

  “Right.”

  The two militiamen climbed back into the car. Zeke hopped to the ground and dashed across the open area to the end of a tall apartment building. He ducked around the corner as shouting erupted from behind. Wayne slid in behind him.

  “They’ve seen us,” he said.

  Zeke peered around the corner and a bullet zinged off the building mere inches above his head. He pulled back and drew his pistol, then stuck it out and fired blindly. “Too many of them.”

  Wayne leaned out and fired. A flurry of rounds answered him. He barely pulled back in time.

  Zeke glanced behind them. “Give them a half dozen rounds to think about then follow me.”

  Wayne nodded and moved to the corner. Zeke sprinted down the sidewalk. He came out at a four-way intersection surrounded on three sides by skyscrapers. Wayne was still twenty yards behind, so Zeke aimed past his brother and waved him on. A militiaman broke cover and Zeke shot. The man ducked behind a tree.

  “Across the street,” Zeke said as Wayne approached. “Don’t stop.”

  Wayne zipped by him, and Zeke shot at the tree then followed his brother.

  With no traffic in sight, they crossed the road and ran down Grant Street. They’d just passed a hotel when five militiamen fired from behind.

  Zeke passed Wayne and cut through an alley then burst onto William Penn Place. He took a left and then a right onto Seventh Avenue. A single car streaked past.

  Wayne pulled up beside him and bent over, his chest heaving. “Can’t run much more.”

  Too much open street when there’s no traffic. Zeke scanned the block. That’s it. He dashed to a clothing store across the street and pulled on the handle. It opened and he waved his brother in. “Quick.”

  Wayne stumbled in and Zeke pulled the door closed. He ducked behind a display just as three militiamen rounded the corner and raced up Seventh Avenue.

  Zeke sat on the floor and held a hand to the stitch in his side. “Think we lost them, at least for now. We need transportation.”

  “I need a damn shower and a change of clothes.”

  “Right,” Zeke said. “We’ll take care of that first, then we’ll get out of here.”

  “How?”

  “Howell. Got to get back to Jen. If Dickson and Thurmond were going to kill us, what are they going to do to her?”

  “Dr. Cartwright wouldn’t let that happen,” Wayne said. “I think Jen’s safer than we are.”

  Zeke peered down Seventh Avenue again. No one. “All I know is Jen is safest when she’s with us.”

  Wayne straightened. “True.” He scratched his head. “I could jack a car, but we’d still have the gas problem.”

  “Even then, we still have to find Jen.” Zeke rubbed his chin. “We need to call Howell back. If anyone can get us to her, he can.”

  Wayne stood and brushed himself off. “They’ve got a men’s section here. Let me wash up and change first.”

  “Make it fast,” Zeke said. “Never know when these guys are going to come back.”

  7

  Jen fought the urge to pull her pistol on the armed cop. Time to play it cool.

  “You were looking for us?” she said, “Sorry, but we’re all out of doughnuts. You might want to try the cafeteria.”

  The cop, a twenty-something with close-cropped blond hair, displayed an easy grin. “Doughnut jokes? Going for the low-hanging fruit, aren’t you?”

  Jen’s heart hammered her chest. This guy isn’t here to arrest us.

  “Name’s Grimes.” He put his hand out to Jen. She shook it, and he approached D-Day and shook his hand. “I’m infection control this shift.”

  He stopped at the bed and looked down at the old lady, then at Jen. “I’m sorry about Mrs. Smith.”

  “Thanks.” Jen crossed her arms. “Aunt Betty lived a good life.”

  Grimes nodded and took on a serious tone. “I’m required by law to give you a briefing on the infection control procedure.”

  D-Day stood next to Jen.

  “First,” Grimes said, “Mrs. Smith is hooked up to monitors that will alert the nursing desk when her vitals have deteriorated enough to indicate an imminent death. Sometimes it happens like that—”he clicked his fingers—“but often, it’s a process.”

  I can see this guy’s going to be a pain in the ass and screw up my chances to get on the Zombie Psychic Hotline with Butler.

  “When the alarm goes off, I come in,” Grimes said. “If she’s flatlined, you will clear the room immediately. Failure to do so is a felony.”

  He took in a breath and let it out, giving Jen a sympathetic gaze. “She’s gone when that happens, so there’s no use in you staying. Trust me
, you don’t want to be here when I do my job.”

  “What if she isn’t flatlined?” D-Day asked.

  “Then you can stay until she does,” Grimes said. “But I will be here with you until it’s time for me to do my job.”

  “Understood,” Jen said.

  Grimes looked from Jen to D-Day and back again. “Good. Please let me know if you need anything in the meantime. I’m at the nurse’s station unless there’s another patient in their last moments.”

  “Thank you,” Jen said as Grimes left the room and eased the door shut behind him.

  She turned to D-Day. “Well, that’s a big-ass problem. What are we going to do with Barney Fife just outside the damn door?”

  D-Day examined the doorknob. “Door locks from the inside. Not industrial strength, but could be enough to keep him out until we’ve done what we’ve come for. How much time will you need to make contact?”

  “Assuming it works at all, who the hell knows?” Jen said. “In Rhode Island, it only took seconds. It’s not like talking, but more like seeing a movie of what’s in his mind.”

  D-Day grunted and plopped onto a cushy chair next to the bed. The old lady’s chest rose as she struggled to take a breath. Jen rushed to the bedside. The lines on the monitor scribbled wildly like a toddler with a crayon.

  D-Day launched from the chair and reached the door just as a red light on the monitor blinked and an alarm buzz sounded from in the hallway. He flipped the deadbolt and pointed to a huge solid oak dresser in the corner. “Help me with this.”

  The door handle jiggled. “Open up!” Grimes yelled.

  D-Day tilted the dresser and it fell to its side with a boom. Jen positioned herself next to the biker, and they pushed it in front of the door.

  “Open up before it’s too late.” Pounding rattled the door, but it remained closed.

  The old lady’s chest heaved and her eyes opened with only the whites showing. Jen rushed to her side and took her hand. “I hope this doesn’t drag out.”

  Struggling for breath, the woman arched her back. Jen’s pulse picked up. I hope she’s not suffering.

  Multiple fists pounded the door. “They got a battering ram or something?” Jen asked.