Resurrection (Book 2): Into the Wasteland

by Michael J. Totten

  But what could or would a middle aged postal worker do about someone like Steele that the local police couldn’t or wouldn’t?

  It depended on who else was with him.

  “Who’s we?”

  “Couple of us who’ve known each other a long time.”

  “That’s not an answer. And what do you want help with, exactly?”

  Hughes could use some help, too. He needed Annie out of that hospital and out of Lander, Wyoming. He couldn’t tell Carter, though, or anyone else. Not a single person in Lander would want to cut loose the only naturally immune person in town and possibly in the world. Carter might have a big problem with Steele, but Hughes doubted Carter would disapprove of Annie being kept in that hospital. Not if there was even a smidgeon of a chance that keeping her there might lead to a cure.

  “We want to set things right,” Carter said.

  “You want to take down the mayor?” Hughes said.

  “You bet your ass we do.”

  “I’m not an assassin.”

  “Didn’t say you were an assassin. Not asking you to be an assassin.”

  “What are you planning to do? And why are you telling me about it?”

  “We’re going to fight back. I’m telling you because you’re not from here and because you’ve got friends who also aren’t from here. We can’t trust anyone else to not rat us out. We try to recruit any more locals, we’re dead.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “We’re taking them down.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  Carter just looked at Hughes for a couple of moments like it was his turn to size Hughes up, like he was having a debate with himself. Should he say it or shouldn’t he say it?

  Carter apparently didn’t realize that his hesitation was all the answer Hughes needed. Carter and his friends did indeed plan on assassinating the mayor, and probably Temple, too, Steele’s head of security.

  Hughes squinted at Carter like he was seeing him for the first time.

  He wanted no part of it. All he wanted was out of Lander. If the locals wanted some kind of regime change, that was up to the locals. Getting rid of the mayor would not get Annie out of that hospital. Besides, what did Carter expect? The thought of neighbors spying on each other gave Hughes the willies, but every town on earth that was still standing was most likely run by some kind of a strongman. Hughes doubted democratic institutions were squared away and standing tall anywhere in the world.

  “Can’t help you take down the mayor,” Hughes said. “Not my fight.”

  Carter looked disappointed, but only a little, like he knew in advance that recruiting Hughes was a long shot.

  “Not even after what I just told you about the mayor?”

  “Not even after what you just told me about the mayor. Doesn’t mean I’m with the mayor. Don’t worry. I’m no rat. No one will hear a peep about this from me, not even my friends. We’re good as gone from this town already anyway.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Some place that’s not here.”

  “We can make this place better.”

  Hughes paused before saying anything else. He figured Carter’s odds of doing a damn thing about the mayor and his militia were pretty much zero, but he gave props to the guy for wanting to try, and anyway Hughes was on a doomed quest of his own. What were the odds that he could really get Annie all the way Atlanta? If he did manage to get her all the way to Atlanta, what were the odds that the CDC still existed?

  “We’ll have a better shot if you help us,” Carter said.

  Hughes doubted that, but he said nothing. He didn’t want to piss all over the guy.

  “We can,” Carter said and nodded. “You’ll see.”

  “We won’t be here.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I trust you.”

  “Because I’m not from here.”

  “Because you’re not from here.”

  “But I’m not going to stay.”

  Carter shrugged. “Suit yourself. Change your mind, you know where I live.”

  Hughes respected the guy even if he didn’t entirely trust him. He realized, though, that he had no reason not to trust him. Who else was he supposed to trust in this crazy ass town? “I should get going.”

  “You probably should,” Carter said.

  The two shook hands.

  “Thanks for the hospitality,” Hughes said. “And for letting me know what’s what in this place.”

  “Of course,” Carter said. “And remember what I said.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You watch your ass.”

  “I will. We will.”

  Carter saw Hughes to the door. He looked genuinely disappointed now, but not angry or bitter.

  “I’ll be seeing you,” Hughes said. He wondered if that was true or if he’d just said it because it’s what people said.

  Carter nodded and moved to shut the door, but Hughes held up a hand.

  Carter opened the door a little bit more and raised his eyebrows.

  “How many people do you have, anyway?” Hughes said.

  The corners of Carter’s mouth widened a fraction. “A dozen,” he said.

  Hughes nodded. “Best of luck, man. I mean it.”

  14

  Dr. Frank Nash locked himself in his office at the hospital and tipped a generous pour of scotch whiskey into a plastic cup. He leaned back and put his feet on his desk, taking care not to kick over his piles of papers. His hands shook as he sipped, and he exhaled fully and slowly after he swallowed when the slow alcohol burn warmed his insides.

  Steele didn’t know it, but Nash could not make a vaccine from Annie’s blood. That’s not how vaccines were made. Vaccines were created in labs by growing viruses in a culture, isolating the antigen and adding adjuvant, stabilizers and preservatives. It was a complex process, and Nash was a general practitioner, not a virologist.

  If Annie were at a more advanced hospital, sure, studying her might help a little—maybe even a lot—but she was not at the right kind of hospital.

  If they got lucky, the serum he’d made from her blood might cure the mayor’s kid, and if so the mayor would never let her go—not that it would make any real difference. In a war against nature, nature always wins.

  He sipped from his cup of whisky again and someone knocked on his door.

  “Yes?”

  Nurse Bailey let herself in. “Got a new patient. Thinks he might have the flu.”

  “Has he been bit?”

  “No.”

  “You check him?”

  “He said he hasn’t been bit.”

  Nash sighed and set down his cup. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Room four.”

  The infection’s early symptoms—fever, body aches, extreme fatigue—resembled the flu, minus the respiratory symptoms. Once in a while patients lied about whether or not they’d been bit. It was understandable. Dangerous, but understandable. And human.

  Nash took another swig from the plastic cup and felt the beginning of a soft and warm alcohol buzz.

  Room four was just down the hall. Nash knocked, let himself in and saw Fred Walsh sitting on the exam table.

  Walsh lived just a few doors down on Nash’s street. He’d worked as a loan officer at the credit union on Main before it shut down. And he looked like shit—shuddering, pale and beyond exhausted.

  “Geez, Walsh, you look awful,” Nash said.

  “A good day to you too, Nash,” Walsh said and winced.

  “How long have you felt like this?”

  “I was fine an hour ago,” Walsh said.

  Nash caught his breath.

  “Did anyone bite you?”

  “No, it’s not like that,” Walsh said. “I haven’t even seen an infected person in over a week.”

  Nash narrowed his eyes at Walsh and scrutinized his face.

  “You wouldn’t lie to me about something lik
e that, would you?” Nash said.

  “If I was bit and wanted to hide it, I wouldn’t have come here. I wouldn’t have let my wife drive me here.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I’d get the fuck out of here so I couldn’t hurt anybody.”

  Nash opened a drawer on the far side of the room and took out a surgical mask.

  “Sorry,” Walsh said.

  Nash didn’t mind the profanity. He heard it from plenty of suffering patients. “I need you to wear this.”

  “Shouldn’t you be the one wearing it? You’re the doctor.”

  “The mask is to prevent you from spreading a disease,” Nash said, “if you cough, sneeze or even breathe on anyone else.”

  “I haven’t been coughing or sneezing, but okay.” Walsh put the mask on.

  Nash placed his hand on Walsh’s forehead. It felt as hot as the side of a fresh coffee cup. “You’re burning up. You felt fine an hour ago?”

  Walsh nodded.

  Nash opened another drawer and took out a thermometer. He lifted Walsh’s surgical mask and stuck the thermometer in his mouth. “Sit tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He left the room as casually as he could, as if all was right in the world, and gently closed the door.

  Annie’s room was just down the hall and up the stairs. And she was under armed guard.

  Both guards tensed when they saw Nash hurrying toward them.

  “Guys,” he said quietly so Annie wouldn’t hear. “We have a problem.”

  “What’s going on?” said the guard nearest him. Nash did not know his name.

  “Got a patient in room four,” Nash said. “He hasn’t turned yet, but I’m pretty sure he’s infected.”

  Nash led one of the guards downstairs while the other stayed at his post outside Annie’s door.

  “The patient appears to have advanced flu symptoms,” Nash said on the way to room four, “but said he felt fine an hour ago.”

  “He been bit?” the guard said.

  “He said he hasn’t been bit,” Nash said.

  “You check him?”

  “No, but I believe him.”

  “Then how come you think he’s infected?”

  “No one gets this sick this fast from anything else.”

  Nash opened the door to room four and saw that Fred Walsh had collapsed face-first onto the floor. The thermometer that had been in the patient’s mouth was on the other side of the room.

  “He was sitting up a minute ago,” Nash said.

  “Time to follow the procedure,” the guard said.

  The hospital had a straightforward procedure in place for infected patients. Wait for them to lose consciousness, suffocate them with a hospital pillow, then burn the pillow. Waiting kept them from suffering, suffocation kept them from turning, and burning the pillow kept the disease from spreading through the patient’s saliva.

  “I’m not entirely sure he’s infected,” Nash said.

  “You’re gonna need to update that procedure then,” the guard said. “Shit. We’d better restrain him. I have some zip ties.”

  The guard bent down and grabbed Walsh’s wrists. “A little help here, doc?”

  “Of course,” Nash said. “Sorry.”

  Nash propped Walsh against the exam table while the guard removed zip ties from his pocket and secured Walsh to the leg of the table.

  Walsh’s head lolled forward. He was stone cold out.

  The guard tried to lift the exam table. He couldn’t. It just slid across the floor a few inches. “It’s solid. He’s not going anywhere. No way could he lift that. With his ass on the floor, he’s got no leverage. Zip ties don’t look like much, but he’s as good as chained to that table.”

  “Now what?” Nash said.

  But he knew. If Walsh was really infected, he’d turn. And it wouldn’t take very long either. The guard would have to shoot him. Suffocating Walsh with a pillow would be too dangerous if he woke up infected. It only worked with unconscious patients. And Nash still wasn’t entirely sure he was infected. “Help me check him for bites.”

  It was easier to remove Walsh’s pants than his shirt since Walsh’s wrists were zip-tied behind his back to the table leg, so they started there. Nash and the guard removed Walsh’s boots, socks and pants but left his underwear on. Nash made a quick check of Walsh’s legs and feet and found no bites or injuries of any kind.

  Nash unbuttoned Walsh’s shirt and found no bites on the stomach or chest. “His back is going to be trickier.”

  “Watch his mouth,” the guard said.

  Nash scanned the room. There were two socks on the floor. He stuffed one of them into Walsh’s mouth.

  “Can he breathe?” the guard said.

  Walsh’s chest rose and fell.

  “Nasal passages are clear,” Nash said. “He’s breathing just fine. He won’t be able to bite anything but that sock.”

  The guard lifted the back of Walsh’s shirt, but Nash couldn’t get between Walsh and the exam table, so he felt Walsh’s back with his hands. He slid his hands from the small of Walsh’s back all the way up to the nape of Walsh’s neck, almost as if he was caressing a lover. Their faces were close. Nash could feel Walsh’s breath on his neck. Nash could have kissed Walsh right on the nose.

  He felt no bites on Walsh’s back and even checked beneath Walsh’s underwear just to be sure. There were no bites anywhere on his body.

  Nash stood and backed away. Poor Walsh was in his underwear with his legs akimbo. Nash was accustomed to seeing his patients in embarrassing positions, but this was something else.

  “Let’s get his pants back on him,” Nash said, “and give him a little dignity.”

  Walsh’s head sprang up and his eyes slammed open.

  “Watch out,” the guard said and yanked Nash back like a parent pulling a kid out of traffic.

  Nash took another step back. “Walsh? How are you feeling?”

  Walsh looked up. He had just a flat expression at first, like he wasn’t thinking or feeling anything in particular. He didn’t seem to realize he had his arms around his back, a sock in his mouth and no pants. He didn’t seem to know or care where he was.

  “Walsh?” Nash said.

  Walsh narrowed his eyes at Nash.

  The guard grabbed Nash’s arm again and they both took another step back.

  “Talk to me, Walsh,” Nash said, but Walsh couldn’t talk. He had a sock in his mouth. Nash needed some kind of response. A moan of pain. A nod of the head. A gesture of some kind. Anything.

  “Sorry about the zip ties and the sock,” Nash said. “You’re showing signs of the infection and we can’t take any chances.”

  The muscles between Walsh’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward as far as the zip ties would let him and screamed into the sock. He kicked his bare feet and thrashed around like he was having a seizure.

  “Walsh!” Nash said. “Calm down and we’ll untie you!”

  Walsh kept screaming into the sock and kicking his legs. He squirmed to get his wrists free, but couldn’t. If he twisted himself around any harder he’d cut his wrists open on the ties, and he’d break his heels if he didn’t stop kicking the floor backwards.

  “Walsh, are you understanding me?” Nash said.

  He kept thrashing and screaming into the sock.

  “Annie’s gonna hear this,” the guard said.

  Nash didn’t care.

  “How can he be like this if he hasn’t been bit?” the guard said.

  “I have no idea,” Nash said.

  His throat tightened up. If Walsh caught the virus without getting bit, how many other people in town were catching the virus without getting bit? And where were they catching it from? It couldn’t have gone airborne. Viruses that spread through bodily fluids don’t suddenly become airborne no matter how much they mutate. Something else was going on.

  “We’re gonna have to put him down,” the guard said.

  “Not yet,” Nash said. “We’re not 100 percent
sure.” But Nash was 100 percent sure at this point. He was 99 percent sure before he’d even gone and fetched the guard.

  “Look at him,” the guard said. “He’s obviously infected.”

  Walsh’s eyes were bulging now as he screamed into the sock. He’d lose his voice if he kept it up much longer.

  “Take the sock out of his mouth,” Nash said.

  “Are you kidding?” the guard said.

  “Just pull it out fast. He won’t be able to bite you.”

  “He’s obviously infected, doc.”

  Nash knew the truth, but he fought it. He had to. The implications were overwhelming. If Walsh was infected, anyone and everyone could become infected.

  The guard knew it, too. Nash could see it in his eyes. He was afraid. Not of Walsh—who was a frightening sight, to be sure. No, the guard was afraid because the implications had to be just as obvious to him. They’d be obvious to anyone and everyone.

  Nash had to remove the sock from Walsh’s mouth. Not because it would actually do any good, but because it would give him more evidence—although at this point, he didn’t need it—and because it would buy him and the guard another few moments to process what was happening.

  The thermometer Nash had stuck in Walsh’s mouth before he passed out was on the floor. He picked it up and handed it to the guard. “Use this.”

  The thermometer extended the guard’s reach by a good four inches and protected his fingers. He used it to flick the sock out of Walsh’s mouth.

  Walsh screamed.

  “Walsh,” Nash said. “Can you hear me?”

  Walsh screamed like a rabid animal.

  We’re dead, Nash thought. We’re all dead.

  “Walsh’s gone,” the guard said and then shot him.

  Annie didn’t hear much that happened downstairs, but she’d heard enough. An infected man had checked himself into the hospital and turned right in front of Doc Nash and one of her guards.

  She could hear him screaming clear through the floor, and she was surprised at the delay between the screams and the gunshots. These people were amateurs.

  Doc Nash should have put down his patient the minute he passed out. Wasn’t that obvious? Didn’t he have some kind of procedure in place for infected patients? What would he have done if two guards hadn’t been posted outside her door? She imagined the doc cowering in the bathroom or his office while an infected man ran loose and bit God-only-knew how many more people.