Die Another Day (Dangerous Days - Zombie Apocalypse Book 3)

by Baileigh Higgins

  Lenka smiled, testing the tip of his knife with his thumb.

  “Whatever happens, stick together. If we get separated...” There was no need to finish the sentence.

  “Relax, Captain. You know we love you,” Mike said with a grin. “We'll stick as close to you as a leprechaun to his pot o' gold.”

  “If you get your crazy ass in trouble, don't expect me to save it,” Breytenbach replied.

  “Understood, Sir. After all, there be a very pretty lady waiting for you back home.” Mike danced out of reach as Breytenbach swatted at his head. “Let's get going then.”

  With a sour look, Breytenbach unsheathed his knife then strode to the entrance. An ambulance stood nearby, the driver's door open. He moved around the front, checking inside the cab.

  Empty.

  With a nod to the others, they split up, going round the sides to the back. A gurney dangled halfway out. Strapped onto it was the corpse of a woman. She'd been shot through the head.

  Leading away from the ambulance was a trail of dried blood. It led through the double doors into the emergency ward. Breytenbach nudged them with his foot. They swung open with an ominous creak.

  He motioned to his team, and they moved through the opening, two to a side. The entrance hall was empty of life, but death was everywhere. Dried blood spattered the walls, arching as high as the ceiling in places. Puddles encrusted the floors. Bodies were tossed about in attitudes of agony. It was hard to make out any detail, but all shared one common trait; a bullet to the brain.

  They moved through the ER, never staying still for long, operating solely on hand gestures. Everywhere, they encountered the same scenes. Someone had come into the hospital and shot everyone―both the undead and those still living but infected. None were allowed to rise. That meant the people in question had knowledge of the virus and had been sent in to contain it. Perhaps a military unit.

  “It's a tomb,” Ronnie whispered.

  Privately, Breytenbach agreed. The rancid smell of blood, shit, and decay filled his nostrils, while the sight of so many bodies pushed his nerves to the limit.

  Part of the supplies they needed, was available in the ER. Together, they loaded a trolley with portable oxygen, suction, and monitoring equipment. An emergency defibrillator, boxes of masks, gloves, syringes, and swabs followed. They pushed the lot outside, loading it into the Casspir with controlled haste.

  “We done, Captain?” Mike asked.

  “Not yet.” He called them into a huddle and pointed out the stuff they still needed on the list.

  “Ready?” he asked, looking each in the eye. He found himself hoping one of them would back out. That would give him an excuse to call the whole thing off.

  None did. Whatever else they might have been, they were his team, loyal to a fault and ready to follow him to the grave. He steeled his faltering resolve. If they were willing to go on, then he was too.

  Breytenbach propped open the exit doors and those leading from the ER into the rest of the hospital. He had a strong feeling they would be leaving in a hurry. “Ready?”

  The other three fell into place behind him, single file, with Lenka taking the rear. Each had his rifle set on semi-automatic and slung over his back. In their hands, they held a combat knife and a flashlight.

  The hallways were dim. The few windows were stained, blocking the sun from filtering in. The reception wasn't far, and they encountered no infected. Plenty of corpses, but no live zombies. Once again, all sported a neat hole through the head.

  The smell grew worse, the air thick and musty. Dust coated the furniture. The reception resembled something out of the pages of Hell's Interior Decorating.

  A nurse sat in the chair behind her workstation, arms dangling down the sides. Her empty eye sockets stared at them. Another nurse lay slumped across her desk, arms flung wide. Brass shell casings littered the floor. Bullet holes peppered the walls.

  Breytenbach stood frozen, staring at the scene until Mike tugged at his arm. “Over there.”

  It was a board depicting the of the hospital. Breytenbach studied it until he found what he was looking for. “There.”

  He pointed at the operating room, then ran his finger over the fastest route. “We'll need to take the stairs.”

  “Maybe whoever did this, cleared out the entire hospital,” Ronnie said, gesturing at the bodies. “That'll make this trip almost too easy.”

  Breytenbach didn't reply. He hoped Ronnie was right, but every nerve in his body was telling him something was wrong. Horribly wrong. “Let's go.”

  They moved on, setting a brisk but cautious pace. The rest of the building mirrored the reception, and they reached the stairs without mishap. They were blocked. Breytenbach swore, eyeing the pile of furniture. “Shit. We're going to have to remove this.”

  They worked fast, dragging out desks, chairs, and cabinets, all the while mindful of the racket they made. When the opening was cleared, Breytenbach wiped the sweat off his brow. “Someone didn't want anything to get up to the other floors.”

  “Question is...who?” Ronnie answered.

  Breytenbach cautiously shone his light up and down the stairwell. “Looks clear, but be careful.”

  They moved up the flights with caution. Their footsteps echoed through the gloom, a hollow sound that unnerved them all. On each floor, they stopped and carried out a quick inspection. Each time they found nothing. No infected, no living people. Only bodies.

  “Whoever these guys were, they were good,” Lenka grumbled, a hint of envy in his voice.

  When they reached the correct floor, at last, Breytenbach headed to the operating rooms. “Please, let this go off without a hitch.”

  “Captain,” Mike said. “Look.”

  At first, Breytenbach couldn't see what Mike pointed at and grew impatient. “What, Mike? Spit it out.”

  “No bodies, Captain. No blood either.”

  Breytenbach stopped in his tracks. Mike was right. The hallway looked nothing like the rest of the hospital. It was clean. There was no smell. He'd been in such a rush, he'd failed to notice.

  He unslung his rifle, flicking off the safety. The others followed suit, and they moved forward slowly, clearing each room they passed. The yellow glow of their flashlights revealed pristine surroundings. At first, it was mostly storage rooms, filled with medical supplies. Then they turned a corner in the corridor and saw something unexpected. Light. Artificial light.

  Breytenbach turned to Ronnie and Mike. “You two stay back. Don't be seen. Lenka and I will go on alone. Got it?”

  They nodded.

  “Search the floor. I want to know what's going on here.”

  “Got it, Captain,” Ronnie replied.

  The two disappeared into the gloom and Breytenbach continued down the hall. He approached the lit room with caution, gun held at the ready. Lenka followed on silent feet, his presence reassuring.

  Breytenbach entered the room and froze. A young woman with frizzy black hair and cut-off jeans was dusting the furniture. She hummed beneath her breath, her voice sweet to the ears. The scene was one of surprising normality, rooting him to the spot.

  At that moment, she turned around, and her eyes fell on him. With a cry, she jumped back, knocking over a trolley. The contents clattered to the floor, creating an awful racket. Her mouth opened, and she screamed. Breytenbach raised his hands, trying to calm her down, but to no avail.

  From behind him, a gruff voice commanded, “Freeze,” followed by the unmistakable cocking of a gun.

  Breytenbach stilled, grateful when the woman stopped screaming. Then he heard Lenka say, “I got him, Captain.”

  He turned around, moving with care. In the hall, stood a man of stocky build, pointing a gun at him. Lenka had not been caught off guard, however. His rifle pointed at the stranger's stomach.

  The stranger studied them both, his eyes a deep inky black that showed little emotion. “Seems we're in a stand-off.”

  “Seems so,” Breytenbach agreed.

>   “What do you want?” the stranger asked.

  “We came here for supplies. Equipment. We had no idea there'd people here.”

  “Well, now you know.” He jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Get out.”

  “Not without the things we need.”

  “Get it somewhere else.”

  “No.” Breytenbach kept his face stony, refusing to back down. The stranger likewise stood his ground.

  “M...Michael, perhaps you should take them to the doctor,” the woman interrupted, her voice soft and halting.

  Michael seemed to consider this. “Fine. Follow me.” He shot Lenka a cold look. “Don't try anything.”

  Lenka flashed him a contemptuous look.

  “Nombali. Come with us,” Michael said.

  “All...all right,” she replied, falling in behind the trio.

  Breytenbach studied her. Her eyes were wide, honey brown against her coffee colored skin. She seemed frightened, terrified even. Not a fighter then.

  Unlike Michael. Breytenbach had seen his kind before. The sort that made bad enemies and good friends. The man moved with ease, his posture and alertness speaking of combat experience. Soldier, maybe?

  Three doors down, they entered an operating room. Bright fluorescent light streamed onto gleaming metal trolleys that boasted an array of instruments. The air smelled of antiseptic and decay. A peculiar mixture.

  Strapped to a gurney with thick leather straps was a zombie. Its mouth was taped shut, silencing it, but it struggled against its bonds, fingers clawing at the bare mattress it lay on.

  A man wearing spectacles and a lab coat was drawing blood from its arm with a hypodermic needle. Thick black sludge filled the syringe. It looked like oil, and the rotting flesh puckered around the surgical steel.

  The Doctor paused when they entered, his brow furrowing in a quizzical manner. “Michael? What's this?”

  “We have visitors, Dr. Lange.”

  “Visitors?” The doctor blinked, seemingly at a loss for words. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, and his sagging jowls spoke of a chubby past.

  “Yes. Nombali suggested I bring them to you.”

  “Well, well. This is a surprise.” The doctor put down the syringe, peeling off his gloves. “Forgive me. Where are my manners?”

  He stepped forward and shook Breytenbach's hand, then offered it to Lenka who refused.

  “Don't mind him,” Breytenbach said. “He's not a people person.”

  “Ah. Much like our dear Michael here.” The doctor proffered a small smile. “So. To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure? I assume this isn't a social visit.”

  “Not quite. We're looking for medical supplies.”

  Dr. Lange nodded. “I see. Anything specific? ”

  Breytenbach handed him the list, showing him what they still needed. Dr. Lange read the paper then turned to Nombali. “Load these items onto a trolley, dear. And pick two of the best gurneys. No wonky wheels.”

  “Yes, Sir.” She took the list and rushed off.

  He looked at the brooding Michael. “Please assist these gentlemen in any way you can, please.”

  “All right.”

  “I assume you have a vehicle of some sort?” Dr. Lange asked Breytenbach.

  “We do.” Breytenbach hesitated, then smiled. “And thank you. We really appreciate your help.”

  “No need to thank me. You must need the equipment or else you wouldn't be here,” Dr. Lange replied. “You have people to care for?”

  “Yes. A group of us are living not far from here.”

  “I'm glad to hear there are survivors. Sometimes I forget there's a world outside these walls.”

  “May I ask what you're doing here?” Breytenbach asked, eyeing the zombie. On a table next to it were several vials, each filled with blood.

  The doctor took off his glasses, polishing the lenses. Purple shadows underscored his eyes. “I'm a scientist, a researcher if you will. And I'm trying to discover a vaccine to this curse afflicting the human race.”

  “A vaccine?” Breytenbach asked. “Wouldn't that take years?”

  “It very well could, but I'm doing my best.”

  “Alone?”

  Dr. Lange sighed, and his shoulders sagged. “Come. Follow me. We might as well sit while we wait for Nombali.”

  Breytenbach hesitated, thinking of Ronnie and Mike, then nodded.

  The doctor led them through an interconnecting door to another operating room. The floor was crowded with the evidence of Lange's research. Breytenbach squeezed between a trolley and table, pausing when he felt something nick his skin. He raised his hand, frowning at the droplets of blood welling from his palm. His eyes fell on the scalpel that had cut him, gleaming silver in the light.

  “Oh, dear. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't leave these lying around. I get careless, working on my own,” Dr. Lange said. He hurried to a cabinet, fishing for a clean bandage and alcohol swabs. With deft moves, he disinfected and bandaged the cut. “Luckily, it isn't deep.”

  Breytenbach glanced back toward the infected tied to the table. A stab of fear caused him to swallow hard. His eyes jumped from the scalpel to the doctor. “It's not infected, is it? With the virus, I mean.”

  “What?” Dr. Lange looked from Breytenbach to the zombie, realization dawning. “Oh, no. No need to worry. I sterilize all my equipment directly after use. The virus cannot survive contact with disinfectant.”

  Breytenbach blew out a relieved breath. “Good to hear.”

  The doctor chuckled. “You won't be joining the ranks of the undead quite yet, Captain.”

  Lange led the way to a cluttered office littered with papers and empty cups. An overflowing ashtray and the scent of stale tobacco told a story of late nights and countless hours spent pouring over research. The exhaustion lining the doctor's face began to make sense.

  Dr. Lange motioned for them to sit down and cleared his throat. “The Premier of the Free State put together a research group when the outbreak hit. We were sent here with a military squad for protection.”

  “Why here?”

  “It was reasoned it would be safer. Compared to Bloemfontein that is. The population here is much smaller, and the hospital is reasonably well equipped.”

  “You're responsible for all the bodies?”

  “Yes. When we arrived, the virus had already taken hold. Half of the staff and patients had turned. And the other half...” Dr. Lange looked at his folded hands. “It was too late to save them. Nombali and one other were the sole survivors.”

  To Breytenbach, the picture was becoming clear. He could well imagine the chaos, the screams of the injured. Some would have begged for their lives, not knowing they were already dead, doomed to turn.

  “Afterward, we cleared this level for our research and settled in with supplies,” Dr. Lange continued. “We had enough to last for years if need be.”

  “What happened to the others?” Breytenbach asked.

  “Somehow, one of the doctors became infected and kept it a secret. He turned during the night.” Lange shook his head. “It was a bloodbath.”

  “You three are all that's left?”

  Dr. Lange nodded.

  “Why don't you leave?”

  “And do what?” Doctor Lange shrugged. “My place is here. Perhaps, I can discover the vaccine on my own. Improbable, I know, but I have to try.”

  “What about Nombali and Michael?”

  “Michael is loyal to me and his duty. He will not leave. Nombali, however, is just a girl. She should not be stuck here for the rest of her life.” Dr. Lange leaned back in his chair. “Would you be willing to take her in?”

  “If she agrees, yes,” Breytenbach replied. “It remains her decision, however.”

  “Of course. Tell me what it is like. Will she be happy? Safe?”

  Breytenbach filled him in, and a few more minutes passed before Nombali arrived with the news that everything was ready.

  “Thank you, my dear. Now while t
hese gentlemen are busy, I'd like you to pack your things.”

  “Doctor?”

  “You are young, Nombali. Too young to be stuck here within these walls. I'd like you to go with these people.”

  “But...”

  “It is for the best dear. They have a safe home, with many other survivors. Even women and children.”

  Her eyes widened. “Children?”

  “Yes. You could have a life again. A better one than putting up with a crusty old man.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes, and she extended a hand to Dr. Lange. “I shall miss you, Doctor.”

  “And I you.” Dr. Lange squeezed her fingers then cleared his throat. “Now run along before I change my mind.”

  Accompanied by a stoic Michael, they loaded the last of the equipment and supplies into the Casspir. Breytenbach radioed to Kirstin to wait in the passenger seat with Nombali, while he said farewell and fetched the still missing Mike and Ronnie.

  Back inside the hospital, he shook Dr. Lange's hand. “Thank you for everything. If you should ever change your mind, you're welcome to join us. I gave Michael directions to our camp.”

  “Thank you for the offer, Captain, but I shall stay.”

  Breytenbach smiled. “Understood. We'll get out of your hair now. As soon as I find my other men.”

  “Other men?” Dr. Lange asked, his brow furrowing.

  “Yes, I told them to scout the rest of the building while I spoke to you. I wasn't sure if you could be trusted.”

  The doctor's face filled with alarm, and he turned to Michael. “Check Ward C. Now!”

  Michael ran down the hall, one hand on his gun. The feeling of wrongness Breytenbach had experienced earlier, returned. “What's going on?”

  A single gunshot echoed through the halls, cutting off the doctor's reply. Shouts followed, then the sound of running feet.

  Michael burst through the door, shadowed by Mike and Ronnie. “Run. Get out. Now.”

  Dr. Lange paled. “What? I can't. My work.”

  “You must.” Michael grabbed the protesting scientist by the arm, dragging him out.

  Breytenbach and his team followed, tumbling into the hall just a few feet in front of a crowd of infected. Their feet slid on the tiles, the squeal of their rubber soles matched by the snarls of the zombies. Ronnie and Mike snapped off a few quick shots, dropping two. More appeared to fill the gap.