by Gareth Wood
Nobody asked if she might have been mistaken. It really wasn't a possibility. After so long among the dead we could spot them as easily as they could spot us. I still had goosebumps on my arms, and realised I was staring at Nick. What did this mean?
Had the virus, wrath of God, ancient voodoo curse, or whatever the fuck it was, changed? Was this an isolated incident, or would everyone who died from a bite now reanimate as fast as Nick did? Was he just the first in a new wave of terror? As if the hungry walking corpses weren't bad enough?
"Alrighty," I said, amazed at how calm I sounded. "Let's get Nick to the hospital right away."
One of the response team started to object.
"But—" was all he got out. Robyn and I both gave him a look, and he shut his mouth with a click and backed away.
"I got this," Andy said, "if you want to take her down to the truck?"
"Let's get out of here, Robyn," I said to her. "Tell me everything that happened again, from the top," I took her hand and led her through the crowd back downstairs to the light.
CHAPTER NINE
Mission Memorial Hospital, September 6, 2013
Robyn looked up from her clenched hands as Dr. McKinnon walked into the room. He was a tall, middle aged man with thick greying hair, wire framed glasses and a friendly face. He wore locally made blue jeans and a green shirt under a clean lab coat that had been white a long time ago. Robyn had met him many times over the last seven years, either here in the hospital or at the occasional Council meeting. He came to her bed and looked at her chart. He smelled of antiseptic soap, as she did. She'd had an exam and a badly needed shower.
"You are in fine shape," he said. "No need to keep you." His accent was a mild Scottish, enough to be interesting but not so thick that people in the Safe Zone had trouble understanding him.
"Thanks, Doc. I told them I was fine." Robyn sat in a hospital gown in one of the examination rooms. The staff had insisted on checking her out when she had come in with Nick. Her clothes had been taken away to be thoroughly cleaned, and had just been returned a few minutes ago. Her weapons were checked with the security desk at the front entrance.
"Why don't you get dressed then, and meet me in the cafeteria? We can talk about your partner."
"Alright," she said. The doctor left the room, closing the door. Robyn dressed quickly and walked out, making her way to the cafeteria. About half of the light fixtures in the hallways and rooms had working lamps, a luxury these days. Hospital staff moved from room to room checking on patients while armed security walked patrols or helped the medical staff where they could. Roughly half of the hospital was still in use. Many of the old wards had been consolidated together to save space and energy. Supplies were always short, and the hospital was high on the priority list for all salvagers. The small load of supplies that Robyn and Nick had gathered had vanished into the Essential Supplies warehouse, and would make its way here in a day or less, where it would be rapidly used up. It was a never ending cycle of requirement, risk, and little reward.
In the cafeteria she found Dr. McKinnon sitting alone at a table with two cups of real coffee. He pushed one toward her, and she nodded in thanks, sliding into the seat across from him. The table was beside a window, looking out onto trees and a lawn in need of mowing. The light of late evening was slowly fading into darkness, and the room was lit by a few fluorescent lights.
McKinnon had come from the autopsy to see her.
"What did you learn?" she asked him.
"Enough to scare me," he replied. He raised his cup to sip.
"You were right," he went on. "His core temperature when he was brought in was consistent with death less than an hour prior. And yet when I opened him up his organs showed signs of necrosis similar to what a reanimate several weeks old looks like."
Robyn shook her head. "How is that even possible? I mean, I saw it happen. I put him down. What does it mean?"
"Did he exhibit any unusual behaviour?" McKinnon asked, ignoring Robyn's questions.
Robyn thought about it. "Just before he died he ran out of energy really fast. He lay down, and then he was gone. I thought it was shock."
"How long after he was bitten was that?" the doctor asked, gazing thoughtfully into his cup.
"About ten minutes. Maybe less. We had run over from where we left the bikes."
"What about after he reanimated?" he asked, setting the cup down and putting his hands on the table.
The cafeteria was becoming more crowded now as people came in, either looking for food or to just be in a lit place with other people. About every third person was armed. Sounds and smells from the kitchen reminded Robyn that she hadn't eaten since a quick bite while riding much earlier in the day. Hunger gnawed at her stomach.
"I don't know," she said. "He was really fast to reanimate and to function, really aggressive too. He ran at me, but that part might be a little iffy. He didn't have a lot of room to move around in, and I shot him right away, so that could have been adrenaline making me think he was faster than he really was."
The doctor leaned back, lost in thought for a few moments. The smells from the kitchen distracted Robyn again, and she looked longingly at the line of people waiting for a plate of steamed vegetables, bread, and beef stew. The doctor looked at her, saw the direction of her gaze, and guessed what she must be thinking. He took off his lab coat and hung it on his chair.
"I'm sorry," he said, "you must be very hungry. Let's get some food."
They stood in line, got a plate each of eggs and sausages and potatoes, and returned to the table, eating in silence until they pushed empty plates away. Robyn sat back and smiled in relief. She'd burned a lot of calories today, and was probably going to eat more once she arrived home.
"There is no way to tell how fast he might have been from the autopsy," McKinnon said, "but have you seen any others like that? Faster than usual?"
"No," she said. "That is a truly terrifying thought."
"I agree. Please, let me know if you do see any faster than usual."
Robyn leaned forward and put her face in her hands, suddenly feeling quite tired.
"What are you going to do with his body?"
"Once I'm done, a full report will go to Council," the doctor said. "And then complete cremation. I think that's best."
Poor Nick, she thought. She could feel it coming on, the survivor's guilt. It was a familiar companion, one she'd learned to live with over the years. Especially after escaping from the UBC grounds.
"I'll take his ashes when you're done."
"I'd like to be there when you take him to the bridge, if that's alright."
"That'd be fine. Thanks." Robyn got up, held out her hand to the doctor. He stood up as well and they shook.
"I need to go home and sleep, Doc. Thanks."
"With any luck this is an isolated incident," he told her, smiling sadly.
"God, I hope so." She smiled unconvincingly, then made her way to the security desk to collect her weapons, and finally outside. The darkness was broken only by a few distantly spaced streetlights, and the buzzing of night insects was the only sound.
After the rescue outside the Wall, Nick's body had been placed in the back of the truck. The bikes and supplies were retrieved, as was her rifle, and then Robyn and the body were dropped off at the hospital. She vaguely remembered Amanda and Andy taking the supplies away to the warehouse. Nick went to the morgue, while a swarm of nurses and doctors had surrounded Robyn. She'd been stripped and bathed and examined head to toe, and then ignored for several hours until Dr. McKinnon had come along.
She headed for home. It was still warm and breezy, though the light was gone. Robyn passed the well-lit hospital checkpoint, said hello to the guards and told them where she was going. About seven blocks later, nearly halfway home, a truck pulled up beside her. The burned woman, Amanda, was behind the wheel.
"Want a ride?"
Iron Maiden was quietly playing from inside the truck cab, Bruce Dickinson singing ab
out being caught somewhere in time. Robyn pulled open the passenger door and climbed in, sighing in exhaustion as she settled into the seat. She set her rifle between her knees.
"Thanks for earlier," she said, "for the rescue, and helping with Nick."
Amanda smiled, the burn marks on her face stretching a bit. "No problem. Where are we headed?"
Amanda put the truck in gear and edged forward. Something rattled in the cargo area, and Robyn glanced back, spotting the two bikes and the cargo trailer.
"Uh, about eight more blocks ahead, and one up," Robyn said.
"Alrighty." Amanda drove slowly through the streets. Her fingers reached for the CD player, turning the volume down a bit. Neither woman said anything for the remainder of the short trip. Robyn merely stared out the window into the dark streets, seeing the occasional light on in a house, or someone standing on a porch watching them pass.
The truck pulled over beside a single-story house on the corner of the block. It was in good repair, the yard was neatly kept, and there was a detached garage behind it.
"Home, sweet home," Robyn said.
"I'll help you with the bikes," Amanda offered. Together they pulled the bicycles and trailer off the truck, collected Robyn's rifle, and took everything into the garage.
"Are you alright?" Amanda asked, leaning one of the bikes against a wall.
Robyn sighed, shook her head, not knowing what to say.
"Come on," Amanda said to her, "let's go inside." Robyn let herself be led into her own home. It was strange, the detachment she felt settling in. Part of it was exhaustion, but at the hospital she'd been in control despite being tired. Able to focus and react properly. Not like now.
A numbness she recognized was pushing her emotions down so that she could function a little longer. Below that was the grief, guilt and anger, waiting for a chance to surface.
Poor Nick, she thought, placing her rifle in its case in the living room near the front door. Amanda followed her into the kitchen as the stars emerged in the night sky outside. They lit several candles, and Robyn checked the small fire burning inside the wood stove.
"So," Amanda asked, a concerned quirk on her lips, "were you guys an item?"
"What? No," Robyn replied. "No, he was just my partner. It was his first time out."
"I'm sorry," Amanda said. She sat down at the small table in the kitchen, looking around. Robyn knew what she was seeing, the maps on every blank wall, maps of the cities and towns in the area, full of push pins that marked food stores, pharmacies, weapons, police stations, sporting goods stores, and military detachments. Robyn had gone through several old Yellow Pages from 2003 and painstakingly marked the locations of as many of these places as she could. There were thousands of push pins in the maps. The places Robyn had been were marked with little squares of tape on the ends of the pins. They were vastly outnumbered by the places she hadn't been.
"Wow," Amanda said. "That's a lot of work."
"You want a drink? I have half a bottle of good Cuban rum left, and a can of Coke."
"Really? I wouldn't say no."
Robyn took two glasses out of a cupboard and placed them on the table with a bottle of brown Bacardi rum and the unopened can of Coke. It was the last can she had, and she hadn't seen any others in over three years. She poured a decent amount into each glass, then added a small amount of rum. She held one glass out to Amanda and picked up the other.
As she stood there, drink in hand, the emotions swept over her all at once. The numbness fled, replaced by a raw guilt and an equally raw relief that it wasn't her lying on that table, cold and naked, and forever silent. Tears welled in her eyes, and her lips trembled. Amanda started to get up, but Robyn held out a hand, waving her back to her seat. She collected herself, and raised the glass.
"To Nick," she said, "may he rest easy now." They clinked glasses together in the candlelight and drank.
CHAPTER TEN
Mission Safe Zone, September 7, 2013
Shakey woke up in the darkness to the sound of laughter and a loud thumping noise. He woke up instantly, a habit he had acquired over the last nine years. More laughter, and the thumping continued. Was it coming from Amanda Martin's place next door? He listened, but there were no screams or shouting. He didn't smell the stink of death.
Feynman padded into the room, alert but not anxious, and sniffed at Shakey's hand. She was a very good indicator that there was probably nothing really bad going on. If there had been any undead nearby she'd have been growling quietly, baring her teeth and pacing back and forth anxiously. Instead she looked at Shakey with big brown eyes, and licked his fingers. He looked over at his wind-up alarm clock. It was 4:42 in the morning, less than an hour until sunrise.
The thumping went on, and Shakey pulled himself out of his warm bed. He didn't want to get up for another two hours, but this needed investigating. He sat on the side of the bed for a moment, cursing the stiffness he always felt in the mornings. One of the downsides of living this long, he supposed. He pulled on a threadbare green robe over his pyjamas and took his handgun off the nearby table. He checked the safety, but kept the gun in his hand. He slid his feet into slippers, then went to his emergency closet and took out a flashlight. It was a battery powered light, and he kept a small supply of solar powered rechargeables.
He paused at the front of his shop to look out through the curtains. On the step of the house next door two figures were pounding on the door. Feminine laughter rang out loudly. Shakey was convinced that there was no danger now, just some foolishness.
"Alright, girl, let's see what the fuss is all about," he said.
Seeing nothing else moving Shakey opened his front door. Feynman slipped past his legs and darted outside, ears perking up at the laughter. She began to sniff around the front yard, a black shape barely visible in the darkness. Shakey stepped outside and flipped on his flashlight, spotted two bicycles lying on Amanda's lawn.
"What the devil is going on over there?" he called, walking toward the noise.
The thumping stopped, and the two laughing figures staggered off the front steps, supporting each other. One was Amanda, and the other was a young woman with long dark hair. Shakey had sold her ammunition several times, but couldn't recall her name. She had the lean and hard look of someone used to the harsh world beyond the Wall, and Shakey immediately guessed she was a salvager. They were dressed casually, both wearing jeans and t-shirts. Amanda's black shirt had a picture of a ghoul in chains on the front under an Iron Maiden logo, while the younger woman wore a white shirt with the Hello Kitty logo.
"Nobody's home," Amanda said. Shakey could smell alcohol on her, on both of them. The women burst out laughing again.
They were both totally shitfaced. "What are you talking about?"
"Robyn is very sad," Amanda said seriously while the other woman, presumably Robyn, giggled and snorted. "Nick died. We went to the hospital. So, drinking. Then, bicycles."
"What are you talking about? Were you at The Step?"
The Thirteenth Step was the locally owned and operated drinking hole. Barely tolerated by the Sheriff's office and the Council, it was a rough place. The Council let it operate under the theory that people needed a place to blow off steam. The Sheriff had sent deputies there a number of times to break up fights and to escort the waitresses home if the customers got too grabby. No guns were allowed on the premises. Shakey hated the place passionately.
"An' rocks!" Robyn slurred, "Don' forget rocks!"
"Oh, and rocks," Amanda carefully showed her left hand to Shakey, which was streaked in drying mud. Shakey shook his head. He did not imagine that the hangover from this was going to be pleasant.
"Why were you banging on the door?" he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb.
"Nobody's home," Amanda said, eyes wide.
"Amanda, that's your house."
Amanda gasped, then dug her hand into her pants pocket. She retrieved a key and held it up like it was a magica
l sword she had just pulled from a boulder. Both women staggered with laughter again.
Shakey reached out and plucked the key from her hand, slipped his gun into the pocket of his robe, then took her by the arm. Robyn grabbed onto his other arm, and he led the two drunk women toward Amanda's house. With only minimal changes in direction he got them back up the steps. Shakey slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open.
"Where we goin'?" Robyn asked.
"You two are going to bed," he said, guiding Robyn to the couch.
"Whoo, bedtime!" Robyn declared. She sank down, and he led Amanda to her bedroom. He made her sit on her bed and said, "Wait here."
He went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of water. He took one to Robyn and made her drink it, then took the other glass to Amanda. She was trying, and failing, to get undressed. Her arms were tangled in her shirt, which was halfway over her head. Shakey shook his head at the sight, but got her sorted out, pulled her boots off her feet, and handed her the water. Amanda looked at it and said, "To Nick!" She drank it all down. Shakey didn't even bother trying to imagine who Nick might be.
Shakey tipped her into her bed then by simply pushing on her forehead, then pulled the covers over her. She was still giggling when he left the room.
He found a few blankets and a pillow in the hall closet and brought them to Robyn. She was already asleep, so he pulled her boots off as well, slipped the pillow under her head and covered her with the blanket. He then let himself out, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket. He chuckled to himself and called Feynman, who was sniffing around the bikes. She ran to him and fell in by his side, tail wagging in delight. As he walked home he remembered his own drinking adventures as a younger man. He smiled thinking of one time with his wife, on the beach a few years before she died. At least he had some painkillers left that he could bring to the two women once they woke up. He chuckled again, and Feynman looked up at him hopefully.