None of the police seemed to give two shits about them, even though the black man had been yelling for help for the last ten minutes. There were only three cops visible in the station, and this alone told Zeke how bad things had become. By now, with all of the things that he had seen and witnessed, the entire police force should be up and running. His black friend had been right; the shit was most definitely going down.
The fourth man on the bench was kicking at the man next to him, fending off his clumsy attacks, but he wasn't long for the world. He was old, overweight, and out of breath, and you could see each shove become slightly weaker than the last. Zeke kicked the bar again. Concrete dust tumbled to the ground, and he could see the bolts wiggle in their moorings.
He looked over his shoulder. The three cops, the chief and the two that had brought him in, were covered in bites, but they seemed to have the situation mostly under control. The bites were not good, and at this point, all he wanted to do was break the bar and run out the front door like a madman. When his black friend turned to yell at them, Zeke shushed him, "Don't even bother. They're dead already."
The man's eyes showed his understanding, and he redoubled his efforts, kicking at the bar furiously. The bolt on his side was loose, but was it loose enough? Zeke squatted down and indicated for his black friend to do the same. They sat down on the floor, their legs in the air, their arms wrapped awkwardly around the brass bar. With their legs they pushed against the wall, pulling on the bar with their arms. The concrete on Zeke's side cracked, and the bolt came loose. His black friend wasn't so lucky.
The bolt caught against the concrete, waving around loosely, but showing no signs of coming free. Zeke removed the loose bolt from the bar, and with a little painful maneuvering, managed to slip his handcuff past the square nub of metal where the bolt had secured it to the wall. His blood dropped to the floor, but he was able to slip the handcuff off the bar. He was free.
His friend looked at him, pleading in his eyes. Zeke felt the cold in his heart, the empty place where a lifetime of service had burned out everything that he had once been. He turned to leave while the cops were still busy with their friends.
He could hear his friend kicking as he slipped out the front door.
Chapter 33: The Last Tear
The pounding on the door hadn't slowed down or stopped. Each thump jarred Katie a little less, until it became more of a background noise than anything else. The human body can grow accustomed to anything, even the incessant pounding of an ill child who seems to want to kill people. No wait. He wasn't ill; he was dead. She knew that now. Even if she hadn't known it, she wouldn't have cared. He was as dead as dead could be, and her life would never be the same.
She had helped the old man to his bed, though he had screamed in agony in the process. There would be no running for him. She had to stifle a laugh when he told her that his name was Fred... Fred Walker. The irony was too much for her. That's when she knew her brain was changing, transforming into something alien... something better able to cope with the impending death that seemed to wait for her on the other side of the door.
Fred had an old, pea-green telephone sitting on his night table, but when she had tried to use it to call for help, there was nothing but a busy signal. They must have knocked the phone in the living room over in all of the commotion. She sat on the bed, heavy-hearted and trying to adjust to the new reality.
His covers were rumpled, and the old man grimaced in pain every time she shifted on the lumpy mattress. A picture of an elderly woman sat on the nightstand in a black metal frame. She smiled at the camera wanly; a younger version of Fred had a yellow sweater on, his arm loosely draped over the woman's shoulder.
"Is that your wife?"
The thumping at the door continued. "It was," Fred replied.
"Is she dead?"
The old man's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat before he answered, "Darla passed away a few years ago now. Cancer. She was fine one day, and then she got diagnosed. A couple of months later, and she was gone."
A tear found its way out of Katie's left tear duct. It would be the last one she ever shed. "Do you miss her?"
The old man sighed heavily. "They say it gets better as time goes on, but I won't lie. There isn't a damn morning that I don't wake up and miss every little thing about her. The smell of her hair. The warmth next to me." Fred laughed a little. "Hell, even the morning breath. I'd trade it all just for one whiff of that god-awful breath." His eyes drifted towards the ceiling. "Yeah. I guess I still miss her."
Katie had heard enough, "Do you have a cell phone? Anything?"
Fred shook his head. He had never felt like buying a phone. Truth be told, he didn't have a whole lot of people to call.
"Does that radio work?" she asked, pointing at an old digital clock radio. It must have been from the '80s. It had a nice fake wood finish, some dusty buttons, and a bright red, digital display.
"Every morning for the last 25 years or so."
Katie began to fiddle with the radio. She turned the dial, inching it along until she found something that wasn't music, or what passed for music on the radio these days. The first station she found was a religious channel. The man on the radio was rambling about Judgment Day, sinners, and hellfire... it was business as usual. The second station she found was a little better. It was a news report.
The man on the radio spoke in his news reporter voice, confident, deep, and somehow soothing. She took a deep breath as she caught the flow of his words, the thumping on the door almost fading into the background completely.
"Reports of widespread violence are dominating the headlines this morning. Some doctors are reporting some sort of plague..."
The reporter marched on, speaking of disaster after disaster. The names of the towns were numerous. The entire country seemed to have woken up crazy, almost overnight, but it wasn't just the good old U.S.A. that was having trouble. Canada, Europe, and even Asia had all experienced their fair share of horror stories. Each description seemed more shocking than the next, but perhaps the most disturbing thing for Katie was the fact that no one seemed to have any idea what was going on.
They brought on a scientist to pontificate on the nature of this new disaster, and all he did was make educated guesses about what could possibly be going on. In short, he knew about as much as Katie did. All she knew was that the situation was sounding pretty damn grim.
"Do you have any weapons in the house, Fred?"
Fred smiled, his yellowed teeth gleaming in the dark. "Now what kind of lonely old man would I be if I didn't have a gun stashed away somewhere?" He raised one of his leathery arms off of the bed and pointed to his closet. "There's a safe up there. Top shelf."
Katie walked over to the closet which was full of a lot of flannel, jeans, and some old dress clothes shrouded in plastic. Up top she saw a safe with a combination lock. The combo was simple enough. It was his wife's birthday. Once she dialed in the third number, she lifted the handle and swung the door open. Inside was a silver handgun and a box of ammunition. She handled the weapon awkwardly, not used to its deceptive weight and the impending doom that could burst forth from the barrel at any given second.
"Don't worry about it. It's not going to go off. I never keep the thing loaded, and there's a lock on the trigger. Bring it here."
Katie brought the gun to him, her hands shocked by the weight and the coldness of the handgun. Fred reached into the nightstand next to his bed and pulled out a tiny key on a silver, beaded chain. He unlocked the trigger lock and set it down on the nightstand. Carefully, he opened the cylinder, "You see? Like that." He then popped the cylinder back in place and handed the gun to her, butt end first.
The handle was black and criss-crossed with diamond patterned plastic. She held the gun in her hand, and fumbled with the revolver until she managed to pop out the cylinder.
"Now look on the left side of the revolver. You see that lever?" She nodded her head. "That's the safety. If you're running around and
you don't want to shoot your foot off, it's best to have that in the on position. Get used to the feel of it."
Fred fumbled with the box of ammunition. On it was the image of a bald eagle, soaring through the air, claws extended and wings spread wide. He pulled six brass cartridges from the box, and handed them to Katie. "Load it up."
Katie did as she was told. On the radio, the newsman droned on, "Reports from England claim that they have shut down all international travel. Whether this is a quarantine measure or a result of a collapsing infrastructure is still unclear..." Katie slid the last bullet home and then closed the cylinder.
Katie jumped as the thumping at the door became louder. It sounded like there were two people outside. The door shook in the jamb.
Fred smiled at her. "It looks like we've got a decision to make."
"What do you mean?"
"I ain't goin' nowhere. Not like this. But that's not the question. The question is, 'Are you going somewhere, and if so, are you prepared to do what you have to do?'"
Katie looked at the door. It rattled some more, and the wood in the middle of the door began to splinter. She looked at the gun in her hand, hefting it. She could end it all here. The safety was off. It wouldn't be that hard.
A fist thrust its way through the door, catching on splinters that scraped the flesh off the arm. She recognized the wedding ring on the grasping hand. A simple gold band, cutting into the swollen dead flesh of her husband's hand. The creature that was her husband pulled the hand back and there was more pounding. Katie moved to the far corner of the room, away from the door.
The lock splintered, and the door flew open, and standing before her was her former family, her former life, mocking her with blood-stained shirts, gnashing teeth and outstretched hands. She lifted the gun with both hands and pulled the trigger.
The first shot tore through the drywall to the right of the door. She didn't know if she had missed on purpose or because she wasn't ready. The sound was deafening, and the kick of the gun caught her by surprise, but she managed to keep from dropping the gun. She fired again, punching a hole in the stomach of her husband, but he merely advanced as if nothing had happened.
With her ears ringing, Katie fired again. This time it hit her husband in the chest.
"Go for the head, Katie," Fred said gently as he pulled himself to the other side of his bed, as far away from her family as he could.
Katie lined up the shot, and squeezed the trigger. She screamed as the bullet entered her husband's forehead. He fell face forward onto the floor, exposing the spot where the back of his head should have been.
Her hands jittered as she tried to line up Kevin for the same fate, but her next shot went wide, grazing his neck. Kevin didn't seem to care. Painfully aware of Kevin's proximity and the fact that she only had one bullet left, Katie took her time lining up the next shot. The bullet shattered Kevin's chin, and left a gaping mess hanging there, but Kevin kept coming.
Kevin reached the bed and crawled after Fred who thumped onto the ground on the other side at Katie's feet. Katie wasn't aware of Fred's screams of pain as she popped open the cylinder and dumped the empty cartridges onto the ground. She grabbed the box of ammunition and began trying to stuff a random bullet into the cylinder. Her fingers were clumsy and the cartridge fell out of her hand as Kevin reached for Fred, shreds of flesh hanging from his missing chin.
Fred's screams intensified as Kevin pounced on him. Katie grabbed another bullet and finally managed to drop it in the chamber. She stalked over to Kevin as she slammed the cylinder closed. She pulled the trigger but nothing happened. Kevin was grinding his upper jaw into Fred's defending forearm, as she cycled through the empty chambers in the gun. Finally, she hit the right chamber, and Fred's face was splattered with the blood of her two-times dead son.
The room was silent but for the continuous drone of information from the clock radio, "Some reports are claiming that... the assailants appear to be reanimated corpses."
Katie walked quietly into the living room to see the door thrown open. As she walked over to close the door, she saw that there were more people in the street, and they were walking towards the house. She closed the door, as quietly as she could, but the handful of people in the streets were slowly making their way towards the house and the lock on the front door was busted. They knew they were there, hiding inside the house. There were only two ways this was going to play out.
Katie hung up the phone in the living room, before she went to check on Fred. She popped open the cylinder easier this time, and as she began stuffing bullets into the revolver, she said, "I got some good news, and I got some bad news."
Fred, lying on the floor and nursing his arm, laughed, "There's good news?"
"Well, relatively speaking."
Fred sat up and groaned in pain. "Alright, let's hear it."
"The good news is that there are no more of them in the house. Whatever they're talking about on the news is obviously happening here. The bad news is that there were more of them in the street when I looked outside... and they're headed this way."
Fred's smile finally faded from his face. Katie watched the wheels turn in his head, and then he made his decision. "Hand me the phone."
Katie picked up the receiver and handed it to him. He dialed 911, and waited patiently. There was no answer, just a recorded message that had been heard a thousand times already that night.
In the other room, the front door banged open. Fred's head sagged, before he said, "You have to go."
Katie didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say.
Fred looked around his room, "I can't say I'll miss the place."
Chapter 34: Quarantined
Clara sat in her room examining her surroundings. There wasn't much to examine. Her mind wandered to Joan. The plans that came to her mind were violent, brutal. She wanted to smash her face in. She wanted to see her lying on the ground bleeding. Most of all, she wanted to be out of the room. Clara could hear banging on doors, and a couple of minutes ago, she could have sworn that she had heard gunshots coming from somewhere in the hospital.
No one had visited her for hours. Clara had no idea what time it was; she had lost all sense of time when she had fallen asleep. She didn't feel like she had slept for long, but she had slept long enough to dream. They hadn't been good dreams either. Courtney was in them, only it wasn't Courtney; it was the monster that he had become.
The door to her room, her cell, opened and a man in a biohazard suit came in with a tray full of food.
"What's going on out there?" she asked him. There was no answer, just an implacable stone-faced disregard for her that made her barely contained rage rise to the surface.
The man placed the tray on the bed table, and then made to leave.
"Where is Joan? I need to talk to her." The man hesitated at the name of Joan, but then he walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. For a second, Clara had the desire to throw her food at the door like some sort of petulant child who had not gotten her way. But that's not what she needed at the moment; what she needed right now was a plan and some food.
She looked at the tray of food. It was hospital food, but it was good enough for her. She sat in a chair next to the table and picked up a grilled cheese sandwich. It wasn't as good as her mother had made, but it did the job. The tomato soup was a little watery for her taste, and what she really wanted was a beer. She made do with the tiny cardboard carton of chocolate milk, which made her feel like she was back in elementary school.
She was onto the second half of her sandwich when she heard more gunshots, only this time they were closer. They sounded as if they were right down the hall. She wished her room had a window. She stood next to the door, listening to the sounds in the hallway. There was shouting but she couldn't make out the words. She knew this would probably be her best chance to escape.
Clara stalked over to the bed table and dumped her food on the floor, sparing a second to bemoan the image of the secon
d-half of the grilled cheese sandwich lying on the speckled, white linoleum. The tray was hard tan plastic. It wouldn't be as good of a bludgeon as a steel tray, but that might be part of the reason why they didn't use metal. She hefted it in her hands. It was awkward, but it could do some damage if she swung it right.
More gunshots. Clara could hear her pulse in her ears as adrenaline kicked in. She shook while she waited. The shouting was clearer now, she could almost make out words.
The door sprang open and Clara brought the tray crashing down on the intruder's head. It broke in half and Joan tumbled to the ground unconscious.
Clara spared her a single glance, and successfully prevented herself from kicking Joan's teeth out of her now bleeding skull. It was hard, but she needed all the time she could get.
She poked her head into the hallway to see what was going on. A group of men or women in biohazard suits, it was hard to tell which, were standing shoulder to shoulder firing into a group of people. Clara's hand flew to her mouth at the callousness of the act. She had to get out of there now. But, as she stood in shock, she couldn't help but notice that the patients that were advancing upon the group were not falling down dead. Wounds appeared, fingers and hands flew off, bullet wounds blossomed on their chests, but they kept coming.
Unfortunately, they were also blocking off the exit. She looked down the other direction and saw nothing of promise, just more rooms with doors. Courtney was behind one of those doors, but she suspected that he was lost to her forever. Of course, if she didn't figure a way out of here, she might be lost forever as well.
At her feet, Joan groaned as she sat up. She wobbled to her feet and then fell over. Clara did not lend her a hand. "Do you know of any other way out of here?"
Joan stood up groaning and stumbled to the doorway. She looked out into the hallway where the men in the biohazard suits were busy trying to fend off at least fifteen patients who seemed to want nothing more than to kill them. Clara cringed as she saw one of them go down under the weight of three patients. His suit was shredded and ripped in no time. It was great at keeping out bacteria and viruses, but a human hand intent on destruction was no match for the thin material.
This Rotten World (Book 1) Page 12