Fever (Flu)

by Wayne Simmons

  Blake pulled himself slowly to his feet; eyes still fixed on Jenkins as if expecting the dead man to suddenly charge.

  An idea struck the doctor.

  He looked towards the trolley in the centre of the room, next to the gurney. He moved towards it, reaching for the box of needles. Blake retrieved a needle, snapping the first protective cap away before grabbing a syringe from another box. He inserted the needle to the syringe, glancing quickly at the shambling corpse moving towards him.

  Jenkins was almost upon him.

  Blake scrambled for the small bottle of sedative on the trolley. He shook it vigorously and then, after snapping the second protective cap from the business end of the needle, pierced the bottle’s cap, sucking up a healthy dose of sedative. He released the air from the syringe, watching as a little of the liquid seeped from the needle.

  A sound at the door. Blake stared towards it, distracted from the task at hand and the creature drawing towards him.

  It was Ellis.

  “Jesus, Ellie,” he shouted at her, “Get the hell out!”

  But she cut him off, screaming, “Blake, look out!”

  He turned to find Jenkins lunging forward, the dead man’s arms outstretched, clammy hands finding his throat. There was strength in the attack. Inexplicable strength. Blake dropped the needle as he fell to the floor, fighting for breath as Jenkins’ grip tightened.

  He could still hear Ellis screaming at him. There were other sounds too. Commotion from outside, heightened voices, as if a crowd were gathered at the door, watching him struggle like some hapless cage fighter.

  His right hand found the needle again, gripping it tight.

  Blake held Jenkins’ chin with his other hand then attacked with the needle. He found Jenkins’ left eye, teeth gritted as he forced the point through, digging more than injecting. A small jet of yellowish water spurted into the doctor’s face as he forced the needle deeper.

  But Jenkins didn’t even flinch, his grip like a vice. The needle broke, part of it still jammed in the dead man’s eye, the syringe tumbling to the floor.

  “Fuck!” Blake croaked as the cold hand tightened around his throat.

  Ellis hadn’t planned this.

  She wasn’t quite sure what she thought would happen when she entered E21. Maybe she would fall dead right there, succumb to whatever mutated virus was in the air. Maybe Jenkins would turn, growl, then chase her around the room like some kind of B-Movie monster. But instead the dead man had lunged at Blake, the doctor distracted by her entrance.

  Blake was going to die, and it was her fault.

  Ellis hurried to the trolley, a scalpel the first thing she saw. She made a grab for it then rushed to Blake’s aid.

  She grabbed Jenkins by the hair, stabbing the infected man’s neck, blood splashing across the room as the scalpel’s razor-like blade cut into his flesh.

  A low moan escaped from Jenkins’ lips, the infected man releasing Blake in order to reach behind his head. His hands groped for Ellis, but still she persisted, tearing through his dead skin.

  Blake slid himself away, coughing as his lungs refilled with air.

  But still Ellis hacked, screeching as blood soaked her face, spraying from the wounds as she ripped deeper into the flesh and cartilage, the dead man’s head almost removed from his body.

  Finally, Jenkins stopped moving, his body slipping from Ellis’ grip.

  Ellis fell to the floor beside him, Jenkins’ head still in her hands, attached only by the bloated veins running down the remainder of his neck.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  While none of the other witnesses doubted the authenticity of what Blake Farrow relayed, Johnson remained sceptical. He wanted further proof, and he wanted it in the comfort of his own office. And so Abe was forced to link the security camera of E21 to Johnson’s PC. A video recording of the whole terrifying ordeal, from Jenkins’ admission to Ellis’ brutal confrontation, seemed the only way to convince the old fool once and for all.

  Blake stood behind Johnson as the older man worked the mouse on his PC.

  They started with footage from earlier in the day, when Alan Jenkins was first brought in. They watched as Jenkins was led into Room E21 and then prepped for a variety of standard tests, the infected man dealing with several ASOs as well as Blake himself.

  Johnson grew bored, hit FORWARD on his media player.

  “I would have called you,” Blake said, as they watched the footage speed up on screen. “But you never seem too interested in the affairs of the lab at the best of times. Always wrapped up in your paperwork.”

  Johnson shot an acidic glance at his colleague then returned to his PC, clicking the footage back to NORMAL speed.

  He clicked on PLAY, leaning closer to the screen as Jenkins took his last dying gasps. There was no sound on the recording, but Johnson could see the infected man’s face change, the laboured coughing and wheezing giving way to stillness.

  An ASO hurried into the room, checking Jenkins’ pulse. Blake was then called to confirm the infected man’s death. In the recording, Blake looked at his watch and called time, then left the room. Johnson looked to the timer on the screen, checking it against the notes from his clipboard..

  More time passed, the body lying perfectly still on the gurney. Johnson clicked on FORWARD again, speeding the video footage until he saw Blake Farrow return to the room, this time readied for autopsy. He watched as, onscreen, his colleague made the first incision into Jenkins’ chest.

  “You’re in trouble,” Johnson said to Blake.

  “What do you mean, in trouble?”

  “Dammit, man, you opened his body up! You’re not a surgeon here! That is not the protocol, and you know it!”

  “Fuck protocol!”

  Johnson sighed, rubbed his eyes.

  As the footage continued to play, Blake leaned in closer. “Watch this bit,” he said to Johnson, pointing to the screen. “His eyes open. Just as I remove the heart, his goddamn eyes open. Can’t you see that?!”

  Johnson said nothing.

  Onscreen, Blake was backing away from the gurney where Jenkins lay. Soon the dead man had pulled himself upright and was clambering onto his feet. He stumbled, fell clumsily to the floor like some old drunk.

  Johnson laughed humourlessly. “This can’t be happening,” he said. “It makes no sense!”

  “Of course it makes no sense,” Blake said, his face deadly serious. “Dead men don’t open their eyes. Dead men don’t stand up and walk around the room and attack you. It’s nonsense! But you can see it as clearly as I can, Johnson. The video doesn’t lie. This happened just as I’m telling you it happened. And you know it!”

  “M-maybe it’s some sort of joke,” Johnson barked, furiously pointing his finger at Blake. “Maybe you’re trying to make a fool out of me. You and the rest of them!”

  “Why the hell would I do a thing like that!?” Blake yelled. He strode across the office, his face tight with anger. “You’re impossible!” he said to Johnson. “You were there, right outside the door. You saw it, just like everyone else.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s impossible; all of this,” Johnson said.

  He fiddled with his pen nervously. The pen slipped from his hand, colliding with the picture of his wife and kids, knocking it over. Johnson immediately righted the photo.

  “Well it happened. Bottom line,” Blake said. “And you have to—”

  “I have to do what?” Johnson cut in. “Report it to the funders?”

  “Yes,” came another voice. Both men looked in its direction.

  Ellis stood by the door to Johnson’s office. She wore clean scrubs. Her face was dry and sore from rubbing so hard with a cloth that the skin had peeled away. But she needed to get every trace of Alan Jenkins from her body. God knows, there was enough of the dead man left imprinted in her mind...

  “Damn it!” Johnson fumed, slamming his fist on the desk. He glared at Ellis. “Do you know how vital this contract is to us?”

&nb
sp; “Sir,” she began, coming through the door, “I hardly think that’s—”

  “All of our jobs are on the line here,” Johnson cut in.

  Ellis fixed him with a cold, hard stare, “This is a lot more serious than jobs,” she said. “We had a dead man walking around the room where his autopsy was held, for God’s sake!”

  “The cadaver was mobile, but we can’t be sure it was alive in any other sense,” Johnson countered.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Blake protested.

  But Johnson ignored the other man, rising up from his seat to confront Ellis. “You’re right,” he said. “It isn’t just our jobs we’re talking about; it’s much more serious than that. Each and every one of us will be dragged through the courts for this, hung drawn and quartered! Those of us lucky enough not to do jail will never work again.”

  Ellis felt her eyes water. She blinked, but Johnson had noticed. He drew closer to her, right up to her face. She could smell his sweat amongst the expensive aftershave; could see the short white chest hairs under his thick gold necklace.

  “What age are you?” he asked, and a faint smile crossed his lips. “Twenty? Twenty-one? Barely out of college, all excited about your new career in research.” He straightened, clicked his fingers. “A career that could be snuffed out like a fading match.”

  “Stop it,” Ellis said, pulling away.

  Her eyes were drawn to Johnson’s PC screen. She watched herself come into Room E21, searching for the scalpel and attacking Jenkins, hacking at the man’s throat until his head all but cut away from his body. She watched herself scream silently, the blood from the wounds she inflicted on Jenkins showering her, soaking her clothes, her skin, her hair.

  She looked to Blake, tears breaking across her face. Blake’s eyes lit up in anger. He lunged for Johnson, grabbing the older man by the collar.

  “No, Blake,” Ellis said. “Leave him! He isn’t worth it.”

  Blake released Johnson, turned away and leaned against the door. His shoulders were shaking, and Ellis could see that he was tired, emotional.

  She went to comfort him, but he resisted.

  “Blake, please—” she said but he opened the door and left.

  She looked back to Johnson. “I should have let him rip your head off.”

  “L-like you did to Mr Jenkins?” Johnson laughed, straightening his tie.

  Ellis seethed, went to follow Blake out of the office. “That’s right,” Johnson chided. “Run along after your boyfriend.”

  Ellis paused, looked back.

  “Yes, I know all about that,” Johnson said. “The sordid little affair you’re having.” He smiled piously. “Have you met Mrs Farrow?” he said, reaching again for the photo of his own family. “A very pleasant lady. Sophisticated. Elegant...” He raised an eyebrow. “All the things you aren’t, dear child.”

  Ellis grabbed the door handle angrily, intent on leaving before she did rip the old codger’s head off. But the door held firm. She tugged it again to no avail.

  She looked to Johnson quizzically.

  He pushed past her, tried the door, pulling it hard. But still it held. They were both somehow locked in.

  Johnson returned to his computer. He swore and then began feverishly punching at the keys, all the while looking nervously to the screen.

  “What’s happening?” Ellis asked.

  He ignored her.

  She drew closer to him, standing by his side as he continued to bang the keyboard. The company logo receded from the screen, basic white lettering taking its place, reading: QT SHUTDOWN.

  “What is this?” Ellis pressed.

  But Johnson didn’t look at her, still hammering the keys uselessly. “This isn’t right,” he said, more to himself than to Ellis. “This shouldn’t be happening without my authorisation.” He pulled away from the computer. “It’s Farrow,” he said. “It must be. He’s shutting us down!”

  “What!” Ellis cried.

  She ran back to the door, tried her card. It was useless, not even registering. She tried the handle, desperately trying to pull it open. Beat her hands upon the glass, calling Blake’s name.

  The lights went down.

  Ellis startled, feeling around in the dark, finding the edge of a desk. She clutched it as if expecting the floor to give way next.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Like a dream. Like a nightmare. Like some sort of hallucination. That’s how Ellis saw the world now, her mind’s eye filling the dark with its own creations, dancing to the steady beat of Johnson’s fevered breathing.

  Time passed. She didn’t know how long. Hours? Days? A week?

  She found a torch, clicking it on and off to save the batteries. Darkness or partial darkness.

  She huddled in the corner.

  Johnson remained on the other side of the room.

  He’d been coughing, wheezing. Crying out for help.

  The storeroom door hung open nearby, its contents strewn across the floor, Johnson no doubt trying to find something that would help him escape.

  But there was no escape, their only exit still locked tight.

  Ellis would have called for help, phoned someone, but everything was dead. The power was gone, the phones cut off. Their access cards were useless. No computer or internet. She’d left her mobile phone in her car. Not that it mattered: she couldn’t get a signal down here even at the best of times.

  Sleep finally came. And with sleep came dreams. Ellis dreamed of monsters. She dreamed of Jenkins. She dreamed of her school days, of exams she hadn’t worked for, formulas she couldn’t understand, biology terms she no longer remembered.

  But then the lights came back on.

  The air was misty around her, but she could see.

  Ellis looked over to Johnson, but he wasn’t on the floor. Instead, she found him floating in the air, his nails scratching into the wall, blood flowing down like thick red paint.

  He turned to look at her, and his eyes were hollowed out, worms crawling through.

  And then he said her name.

  ***

  Ellis woke with a start, eyes flicking open to find darkness again. Her hands fumbled along the floor for the torch. Ellis switched it on, gripping the damn thing tightly, searching the room with its narrow beam. She aimed at each wall, then towards the door.

  She reached her free hand to her mouth, gasping. The door was open.

  Johnson?!

  She shone the torch around the room again, finding him on his chair by the computer. His body was still. His hands were hanging off his gold chain. Scratch marks ran up his neck. His eyes rolled back into his head. Ellis knew that he was dead. She didn’t have to examine the body to know that.

  But dead men sometimes move again...

  Ellis slid up against the nearest wall. She shifted away, still keeping her back against the wall, torch fixed firmly on Johnson’s body. She inched towards the door, her foot colliding with something on the ground, kicking it across the floor. Her beam followed the hurtling object. It was just a cup.

  A shuffling sound.

  Ellis whirled around, the torch’s beam finding Johnson’s chair. He was still there.

  She found the open door with her beam, made her way carefully to the exit. She paused before leaving. Shone the torch back towards Johnson.

  He was gone.

  Ellis gasped, a cold sweat breaking across her back.

  She searched the room frantically, finding Johnson on his feet, creeping towards the storeroom. He stopped. Turned. Looked to the light.

  Ellis backed out of the doorway, into Corridor A1. Johnson began his slow and steady pursuit, his movements encumbered.

  “Johnson?” she said, her voice but a rasp.

  He didn’t answer. Nor would he ever answer. Johnson was dead. Dead like Jenkins, the man Blake had called time on. The man with no heart or lungs but eyes that flicked open. The man who lunged for the doctor even though it was physically impossible for a dead man to move, let alone attack with suc
h aggression.

  Ellis tried to flee, but her legs seized up, her joints stiff.

  She reached forward, pushing Johnson away with as much strength as her worn-out body could muster.

  He fell backwards, tripping clumsily on the clutter strewn across the floor. He hit the ground and lay there for a moment before pulling himself up.

  He came towards her again.

  “Jesus,” Ellis whispered, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus...” She looked around for something to use.

  A trolley stood parked in the corridor. A flask and some cups rested upon it.

  Ellis sat her torch on the trolley, careful to aim its light towards Johnson, then took the flask in both hands and waited.

  Johnson reached for her, but she stood aside, the dead man tripping again, this time over her outstretched foot. He hit the floor hard and Ellis followed through, bringing the flask down hard on his head. She hammered again and again, Johnson’s skull caving in, blood and brain seeping out onto the tiled floor.

  Ellis dropped the flask and grabbed the torch. She fell back against the corridor wall, allowing herself to slide down against it.

  She took deep breaths. Felt herself gag. Dipped her head between her knees and threw up.

  And then she was still, her heavy breathing the only sound within the empty corridor.

  But then...

  A sudden screeching noise. It seemed to be coming from C Block, the next block across.

  That’s where the animals lived...

  CHAPTER NINE

  There was no sign of life in A Block.

  With the exception of Johnson’s mutilated corpse, there was no sign of death either.

  In the cold silence, even her flat shoes pounded hard against the tiled floor as Ellis moved down the corridor. Every step she took seemed to echo.

  Another screeching sound. Definitely coming from the Animal House in C Block.

  Ellis wondered just how long the poor little things had been left alone.

  She thought of little Ginger, so young and innocent. She wanted to hold him, pull him close. In the icy chill of the powered down lab, Ginger’s warmth would be very welcome.