“I know, let’s go paint.”
We grab brushes and get to work painting our plea for help on the roof.
Chapter 9
“It’s a bad idea,” Bart answers when I ask if it’s possible to get to a dialysis machine. I haven’t told Grace my plan, knowing she’ll say the same thing, especially since her arm prevents her from coming. But I thought Bart would be fine with it. All he has to lose is another mouth to feed.
He sits at his table in the corner, overseeing the gurneys and his useless communication devices. Bart is a nice guy. He works in the kitchen and checks on everybody twice a day. He’s doing his best and has the circles under his eyes to prove it, but at the moment he’s a pain in my ass.
“We can’t let him die,” I argue. I should have gone straight to Jorge, Keeper of the Keys.
Bart strokes his beard. “Even if you did take the chance, once the elevator doors open, you’d have nowhere to go if they’re right outside.”
“They haven’t made it to the service elevator on the other floors. If it’s the same layout, it’s away from the main corridors.”
“It’s too dangerous. You can’t go alone, and I don’t know that anyone’s going to go with you.”
“How about the fourth floor? That’s empty by the elevators. Someone could take me up and I could walk down the stairs and get the machine.”
“You can’t carry it back upstairs.”
Here I am, trying to do something heroic, and Bart is making it as difficult as he possibly can. I grind my teeth. “Okay, if it’s safe, I’ll move it to the third floor elevators. Then I’ll run back upstairs and we’ll take the elevator down and roll it inside.”
“What if it doesn’t have wheels? How will you move it? Do you even know what you’re looking for?”
I shrug. I’ll find the renal department and go from there. In the movies, dialysis machines look like a medical version of an old-fashioned tape recorder. It probably has a name like Kidney Saver 3000.
“I know where they are,” Maria’s voice comes from behind. “And they do have wheels. I’ll go with her.”
I turn, more than a little relieved to have support with this mission. “Really?”
“I’m not letting a little boy die if we can save him. That’s bullshit.” Maria leans close to Bart’s face with pursed lips. Her accent has deepened. Up until now, I thought she was soft-spoken, but in front of me is someone with a backbone of steel. And she’s on my side. “Figure it out, Capra, because we’re going.”
I stifle my laugh when Bart sinks a few inches in his chair. “All right. Give me thirty minutes.”
He leaves, muttering to himself under the rustle of his FEMA windbreaker, and Maria winks. “I’ve worked with doctors for almost thirty years. Sometimes you let them come to a decision themselves, and sometimes you make it for them.”
Jorge and Clark insist on coming once Bart lets them in on the plan. Jorge has his cleaver and Clark his gun and baton, so Maria and I visit the kitchen, where we choose sturdy knives over Dawn’s protests.
“We’ll bleach them,” Maria says curtly. Dawn backs down.
Now that I hold a thick, shiny knife in my latex-gloved hand, I realize this has gone too far. I’ve gotten everyone hopped up on playing Hero when most likely we’ll be playing Recently Turned Zombies. I find Grace by our plastic mattresses—they brought some down for those of us without gurneys. “Why the knife and gloves?” she asks.
“I’m going upstairs.”
“Where upstairs?”
“We have to get a dialysis machine for that kid, Manny.”
She stands, her face pinched. “Sylvie, no.”
“Grace, he’s going to die. He can make thirty days if he has one. Without it, he’s dead in a week.”
“Really?” she asks. I nod, and she frowns. “I’m coming, then.”
“Um, no you’re not. You need both arms for this.”
“I can go. I’m not staying here while you go up there.”
Grace removed her sling yesterday, but her arm is still tender and the bruise has turned a purple-yellow. I get it. I would want to go, too. But if she dies because of me, I’ll never forgive myself. And Logan will murder me.
“Let me see your arm,” I say.
She holds it out. I poke her elbow with my finger. “Ow!” she hisses.
“Looks like you’re only good enough to get bossed around by Dawn.”
“God, no.” She bangs her head against the wall. “Anything but Dawn.”
“Sorry. Besides, it’s a suicide mission. I don’t even know why I suggested it.”
“Because you’re a good person. And you care, even if you try to pretend you don’t.”
“I’m a king among men,” I say with an eye roll. “Promise you’ll kill me when I’m a zombie.”
“Just please be careful.”
“I will. I’m leaving my bag here. You can have the Twix in there if I die.”
“You have a Twix and didn’t tell me? Now I’m not sure whether to hope you die or not.”
I laugh. She’ll spend the entire time we’re gone pacing and dosing herself with Rescue Remedy, but right here is why I love Grace. “I have two. We’ll split one upon my triumphant return.”
She gives me a hug and then pushes me toward the elevator. “Then hurry the fuck up, woman.”
Chapter 10
Kearney catches up to us at the elevator, metal pipe in hand. “Want some help?”
“The more, the merrier,” Jorge says, way too cheerfully in my opinion.
I can’t fathom the reason Kearney’s volunteered. In the past days, all he’s done is stalk the room and cast the evil eye at people. He killed the zombies outside the cafeteria with no shortage of courage, but that was to save his own life. I don’t think he cares all that much about anyone else’s. He doesn’t cook, he doesn’t clean up. He seems to think being a cop in a room full of sick people who can barely stand contributes enough. Clark, on the other hand, is his polar opposite. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s helpful and sociable when he does. I think Olga the nurse has a crush on him even with the wedding ring he wears.
It’s a short ride, but it gives me plenty of time to berate myself for insisting on Operation Dialysis Machine, also known as A Sure Way to Die. My mouth is arid; every drop of water in my body has converted into icy perspiration. To call myself shaky is an understatement—I’m vibrating with fear. Maybe I’ll have to face the zombies at some point, learn to kill them before our thirty days are up, but I’m all for putting that moment off as long as possible.
At the fourth floor, we walk down the corridor. The stairway door reveals an unoccupied fourth floor landing that’s almost disappointing. If blocked, we’d be able to say we’d done our best and return to the basement. An image of Manny rises in my mind. I sigh. There’s no way I could look into his puffy face if I didn’t try. I clench the handle of my knife and file into the stairwell.
Clark is first down the stairs. We turn at the landing between the floors, and, at his noticeably shaky thumbs up, tiptoe halfway down the next flight. Kearney takes short breaths. Maria’s eyes are gigantic. I feel better I’m not the only one who’s nervous, but I’m definitely not feeling any smarter for getting us into this in the first place.
There are five silent winces when the third floor door squeaks. We’re ready to bolt until we’re sure nothing has noticed. The door clicks behind us.
“This way,” Maria whispers, knife held in front of her like a serial killer.
We stop at the doors to the main corridors. Unfortunately, these have no windows, and everyone takes a turn pressing an ear against them and shrugging.
“To the left,” Maria says, “then through the waiting area.”
I feel ridiculous when I lunge into the corridor with my knife aloft only to find it empty, although I’m not the only one who does. We creep past doors and stop where the hall widens into a waiting area. Jorge peers around the corner and then turns with a nod that sa
ys we’ve reached zombies. His hand comes up, all five fingers extended, and I think not so bad. Then he raises all five again, drops them, and adds one more for good luck.
Eleven.
I try for a breath, but my hammering heart takes up all room in my chest. It’s not too late to turn back, but I’ve never backed down from a fight. Not even in eighth grade when Esmeralda, who by all appearances should’ve been in college, called my mother a crackhead. I jumped her after school, and she deserved every bruise she got. I got more than my share, too. Mom didn’t notice my black eye until it’d turned yellow.
We step into the room. Eleven corpses stand among uncomfortable-looking chairs set into square groupings. A U-shaped reception desk sits against the right-hand wall. A man with a long beard, now coagulated into a bloody dreadlock, looks up and grumbles. It prompts all eleven to walk in our direction. Jorge barrels toward the groaning crew, and his cleaver slices into the side of one’s head. Brown liquid sprays into the air. He climbs over a chair and swings again while I circle a group of chairs to avoid the man and woman coming my way.
I can’t take them both at once. Esmeralda had me on height and girth, as do these two. I scramble onto the reception desk much as I did a park bench in eighth grade. The man, wearing only underwear with intestines spilling over top, hits the edge of the desk. His corroded purple lips head straight for my thigh.
My knife hand shakes. I use my left hand to steady it and bring the blade down two-handed. It bounces off his skull and almost out of my grip, but it also drives his head away before his mouth connects. Zombiehood hasn’t softened his skull any. He lunges. I stumble back, almost off the desk.
I knew I’d have to kill them, but I couldn’t foresee the reality. Up close, the stench is pungent. His intestines leak shit. His skin is cracked and veined. The idea of touching him is revolting, but I have to—and I have to do it before the woman’s presence makes it impossible.
On his next lunge, I push at his forehead with my left hand and shove my knife into one of his yellowed eyes. The steel grates on bone. I yank it out before it gets stuck, sure I haven’t gone deep enough and dreading a repeat performance, but he collapses as though I’ve flicked a switch. One down.
The woman digs her fingers into my leg. My first instinct is to shake her off, but I wrap my hand in her long hair and yank back to raise her face. She gurgles, cracked lips leaking black liquid. I send my knife toward her uvula. The crunch when my knife breaks through the back of her throat travels straight to my gag reflex. But I hack deeper. I don’t back down from fights and I’m not about to start now, when the stakes are so high—one tiny cut and I’m dead. The woman drops. The thud of her chin on the desk is loud in the now quiet room.
Maria rises from her knees. Her face is speckled with brown. Eleven bodies in various stages of decay leak reddish-brown fluid from their heads. Jorge spins slowly, the same fluid dripping from his cleaver. “Everyone all right?” he asks.
Everyone is, and we step over the bodies toward our goal. Now I know I can kill them if necessary, but I’ve had enough for today—for a lifetime—and I fervently hope those are the only ones. I’m disappointed but not surprised at the sight of more in the next corridor. They stand between us and the Promised Land: a room with an overhead sign that reads Dialysis.
Kearney mutters, his nostrils flared and mouth meaner than usual, and then races toward them. He stops at the closest zombie and swings his pipe with such force its skull is crushed down to eyeball. He rams it into the next one’s eye. His yell is vicious, but nowhere near as vicious as the damage he inflicts.
He’s using it—the frustration, the anger, maybe even the fear. All the emotions that give me pause have spurred him on. I don’t like him, but he’s on to something. This isn’t going to get any easier if I pussyfoot around the creatures that want to eat me alive.
I run for a tall doctor with horsey teeth. I hate those teeth. I hate his noises. I hate his smell. I hate that he scares me. I sidestep his hands and grip under his chin, repulsed by the feel of dead flesh through my glove, then shove my knife upward—a move I regret when copious amounts of muck gush onto my arm and shoulder.
Hands tug my arm. The woman attached to them spins me around. I elbow her to the floor, pleased by how easily I can, and then kneel to shove my knife under her chin. This time I pull back faster. When I stand, Jorge, Clark and Maria have taken care of the others.
We run for the dialysis room. Lights hum over the line of empty beds, each with its own large rectangular machine by its side. Jorge rolls one to the door.
“We need these.” Maria hands the rest of us translucent jugs of liquid from a closet. “Okay, let’s go.”
A few zombies amble down the hall, but we’re faster. Kearney and I trot backward, jugs sloshing, and turn once we’re through the double doors. Jorge runs upstairs for the elevator while distant thumps on the doors become a steady bassline.
The elevator doors open to reveal Jorge. His hair is half out of its ponytail and his clothes in complete ruin, but his face glows under all the muck. We pile in with our loot, and he pats the dialysis machine with a wild laugh. “We did it.”
Maria leans against the wall with a grin. Clark lets out a whoop. I forget Kearney’s a jerk and beam at him, and he responds with a smile that looks out of place on his features. I don’t care—I’m so happy I could kiss that jerk.
We’ve saved Manny. We can’t do a thing about the other nine million problems that wander around outside, waiting to steal our futures. But, at the very least, Manny has a chance at one.
Chapter 11
After a marvelously hot shower on the pediatrics floor—which alone makes killing zombies worth it—I change into the stylish outfit of a long-sleeved shirt under scrubs, then stop in Manny’s room. My euphoria has faded to fatigue. I’ve averaged a few hours of fitful sleep a night and the crash is coming.
I put a hand on his bed so I don’t topple over. “Hey, buddy. I didn’t bring you a chocolate bar this time, but I promise I will next time.” I look to where the nurses ready his machine and whisper, “But you can’t tell them.”
A nurse titters. The grandmotherly nurse squeezes my arm and then crosses the room to open one of the jugs. She stares down at the liquid, shoulders quaking. It takes me a moment to realize she’s crying, and then I have to blink a whole lot in order to stave off my own tears.
“Thank you, Sylvie,” Manny says. His eyes are so lively now, even before dialysis, that I have a hunch he might have known his fate and not let on. That spark is even better than my hot shower.
“No problem. Just get well. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I give his ankle a squeeze and leave for downstairs. I tell Grace what transpired while I eat my half of the Twix, then curl up on my thin mattress.
When I wake, I’m starving for the first time since I came to the hospital. I wash up and find Grace in the kitchen. “Good morning,” she says.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, it’s tomorrow. You slept all night. You needed it.”
I know I needed sleep, but anything could have happened while I was comatose. As much as I hate insomnia, being awake means I don’t miss anything important.
“Everything’s fine,” Grace says. “When we brought up breakfast this morning, Manny looked so much better.”
I sit on the counter and try not to be too pleased, but I want to jump in glee and high five everyone.
“Could you get off my counter?” Dawn asks.
Except for Dawn, who will get a punch instead of a high five.
“Could you get out of my business?” I ask, which sends her to the fryer after mumbling what sounds like bitch. It isn’t the first time I’ve heard it, so I don’t bother to reply. Nothing can bring me down.
“Don’t start fights,” Grace whispers while she cuts apple slices. “She’ll spit in your food.”
“The problem with people like her is that they think they can get away with being dickheads,” I say loudly, “but t
hey only can if you let them. She’s a kitchen dictator, and this, my friend, is a democracy. We shall rise up against our oppressors and fight for our freedom.”
“Nice speech, Che Guevara.”
I pop an apple slice in my mouth and raise a fist. “Power to the people. What else is there to eat besides apples?”
“What, too healthy?” Grace hands me a bowl of cold French fries and gravy. “I saved you breakfast.”
“This is breakfast?”
“It is now. The gas is off. Everything is now microwave or fryer. And no more hot water.” I heat the bowl in a microwave and, while I eat, reflect upon my luck that I had a shower yesterday. Grace chops her apples and asks, “Are you proud of yourself? You should be.”
I concentrate on my fries. I am proud, but it’s not as if I’m in line for sainthood. And I had a lot of help. “Maybe a little.”
The chopping stops. I look up and into Grace’s smirk. “I know you are. God, stop bragging and get to work, Che. You think this is a hotel or something?”
I whack her on my way to the knives. After we’ve finished, I bring our second meal upstairs to find Manny looking a good deal less puffy. I can see cheekbones. His eyes are round and brown, and I hope the light in them is as permanent as the nurses seem to think. He licks his lips at the Hershey bar I tuck under his blankets, and I don’t feel the least bit guilty about taking it from downstairs. Kearney will probably lock me in the slammer if he finds out.
“Feeling better?” I ask.
“They let me get up to play today. I got to play with the Xbox.”
“What’d you play?”
“Resident Evil.”
“They let you play that here? What kind of hospital is this?”
Manny giggles. “They tell us to imagine it’s our disease and we’re beating it.”
I pat his shoulder; he’s one of those kids I like, snotty nose or not. “You’re beating it. In fact, you’re gonna kick its ass.”
Score one for humans.
Chapter 12
The week we’ve been in the basement feels more like a month. Twenty-three days to go. I repeat it like one of Grace’s chants. Twenty-three days until freedom. I don’t know what that freedom will look like, based on the fact that the view from the roof is the same, only less smoky, and the emergency broadcasts have stopped. But, with the zombies gone, we’ll collect Grace’s family and figure it out. Maybe we’ll stay in the city. Maybe we’ll go to the country, which is where Maria’s daughters are supposed to have gone.
The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious Page 6