Arize (Book 1): Resurrection

by Nicholson, Scott

  This drew Ingram’s interest. He could find out about this alleged resurrection for himself. “Bring her to my office.”

  Ingram checked the monitors again and saw little change in the surrounding neighborhoods. The crowds had reached the gates and armed guards allowed them entry. Sporadic gunfire erupted as the undead pursued their quarry. As bodies collapsed on the street, Ingram watched for a moment, but none of them seemed to be arising to walk the Earth once more.

  The fire at the capitol was spreading, though. If the wind shifted, Promiseland might be threatened. But flames were part of the prophecy. He’d have to trust the Lord.

  His bodyguard, Cyrus, was waiting with the woman in the hallway outside his office. She’d pulled herself together a little, brushing the worst of the tangles out of her hair and shucking the shredded hose. She’d secured a pair of red sneakers from somewhere that clashed with her business attire.

  A soldier was with her, a Hispanic with spatters of blood on his fatigues. Ingram had no personal fear of infection, believing in his sacred protection, but others might be weaker of spirit and thus susceptible. The woman introduced herself with a familiarity she hadn’t earned.

  Ingram opened the door for Sonia Thorpe. When the soldier tried to follow her in, Cyrus blocked his way with a burly arm.

  “No guns inside,” the bodyguard said.

  The soldier glowered with defiance but Sonia said to him, “It’s okay. Wait outside.”

  When the door closed, Sonia said to Ingram, “He saved my life, and now he thinks he’s responsible for me.”

  “Well, he needs to see his commanding officer. Too much freelancing going on around here. That’s no way to run the apocalypse, am I right?”

  She gave a tired smile. “None of us drilled for this. And our established protocols went all to hell when—oh, sorry, Reverend, I didn’t mean to curse.”

  “‘Hell’ is written in the Bible,” Ingram said, sliding behind his oak desk and motioning for her to sit. “And apparently walking the face of the Earth now.”

  “Our emergency plans called for public shelters at the university gymnasium, the football stadium, and the state motor pool. So we were all surprised when the president granted you regional authority over emergency management and made this our base of operations. A ‘Zombie Czar,’ I believe the media called it.”

  “The president is a wise man. My understanding is he recently recommitted to his faith.”

  “I don’t want to be disrespectful, Reverend Ingram, but we’ve developed a series of plans based on public-sector resources. Turning to the church in a moment of crisis throws all of us off track. Not to mention a constitutional problem of joining church and state.”

  “Take a look outside, Miss Thorpe. This moment is why the church exists.”

  “Theology isn’t going to save lives.”

  “Perhaps not,” Ingram said. “But it will save souls, and that’s more important.”

  Ingram was used to the look of secular frustration on her face. He’d stood strong against plenty of politicians, academics, scientists, and atheists in his day, following in his father’s tradition. He didn’t openly oppose other viewpoints, but to him, all human knowledge was subjugated to the biggest mystery of faith.

  “Since the president declared a federal emergency, I fall under your authority,” Sonia Thorpe said. “I won’t make any trouble. We’re all in this together.”

  Ingram nodded. “I wish the military officers had your attitude. And I can tell you’re a believer.”

  Sonia’s mouth opened in surprise. “But I don’t…I mean, I haven’t been to church since…” She trailed off, unable to finish her confession.

  “It’s quite simple, Miss Thorpe. You haven’t turned into one of those things. Therefore, you are elected in the eyes of the Lord.”

  “So all those deaders out there, they’re people who haven’t been saved?”

  “Don’t look so shocked. After all, so it is written.”

  Sonia stood, wringing her hands with nervous energy. “I’d better check in with the military command and get organized.”

  “Cyrus will show you the way,” Ingram said, not bothering to rise and escort her. He turned on the widescreen television mounted on the wall. With news of the carnage playing in the background, he set to work on a Good Friday message for the faithful.

  He was still uncertain of the purpose of God’s gift to him, or how he was supposed to use it. Perhaps through prayer he could understand why he had the power to heal the afflicted.

  And then would come the trials.

  Oh, indeed, they would come.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Hannah Resnick idled her Kawasaki Ninja, the twin-cylinder engine thrumming as she sized up the vehicles jamming the entrance to the clinic.

  A pair of ambulances was parked nose to nose, effectively blocking traffic from the emergency entrance. A frantic crowd gathered in a human tide and attempted to push its way inside. A row of police officers protected the entrance, but some were backed against the bricks and glass. One of them fired a warning shot, silencing the crowd for only a moment before the angry, scared voices resumed their desperate pleas.

  Hannah made sure Ramona was secured in place behind her and gave the throttle a twist. The bike accelerated along the perimeter of the parking lot, passing the bodies of zombies along the sidewalk and street, their heads riddled with gunshots.

  A man nursing a deep wound in his shoulder looked up from his desolate perch on the curb. She ignored him. Too many damaged people to help them all.

  Her plan was to try a service entrance, maybe from the rear. She imagined all the doors were locked, but she might have better luck persuading someone to let her in if she only presented one patient. She imagined the medical staff was overwhelmed with cases of the viral infection. She wouldn’t be surprised if some of the patients had turned into deaders.

  A chain-link fence stretched along the rear of the clinic, which explained why no one else had attempted Hannah’s plan. A gate closed off the narrow drive that featured a loading dock piled high with cardboard boxes and laundry bins. A man in filthy blue nurse’s scrubs smoked a cigarette in deep, hasty puffs, one foot propping open a steel door. Hannah stopped the bike and called to him. He flicked the cigarette onto the pavement and slipped inside, slamming the door behind him.

  “Hang on, kid, I’m getting you in there even if I have to drive through this fence,” Hannah said to the child nestled behind her.

  She wasn’t even sure what had compelled her to rescue the family back at her apartment complex. She’d stuffed her backpack with granola bars, a change of clothes, and a box of shotgun shells with the idea of heading for the coast. She figured the Outer Banks would be relatively zombie-free, especially if she was able to catch a ferry to one of the remote islands. But when she saw the mother and two kids, she forgot all about escape and sprang into action.

  Now she’d taken on the responsibility of this child’s life.

  Ramona.

  Knowing her name made the mission even more important. Hannah rolled down to the far side of the fence where a row of metal utility buildings led to the next property, which featured an office park. The first floor of the clinic was devoid of windows on the far side, although a couple of emergency exits were spaced along the brick wall.

  A cluster of people trailed along the lawn, evidently giving up on the emergency room and seeking another way inside. When one of the doors swung open, they ran toward it. Hannah cut a donut, smoking rubber off her rear tire, and raced toward the opening. She was twenty yards away when she slammed the brakes, digging a groove in the manicured grass.

  The first person out the door wore scrubs beneath a white jacket, a stethoscope dangling against her chest, but her wide, frightened eyes belied her professional look. A zombie had her by the blond ponytail, slowing her escape. The physician’s mouth opened in a scream, but Hannah couldn’t hear it over the engine. Hannah shrugged the Weatherby se
miautomatic down her shoulder, struggling with the sling. The butt became tangled in the blanket. She fumbled with the knot of fabric at her waist, trying to free the shotgun.

  The people who’d approached the door now backpedaled and fled in horror. The zombie dragged the doctor to the concrete stoop just beyond the door, and a couple more zombies spilled from the clinic. Hannah guessed they were patients who had turned while undergoing treatment. Both sported blood on their clothes and their pallid skin bore a corrupt greenish tint.

  Hannah released herself from the blanket, leaning the semiconscious Ramona against the backrest. She left the engine idling as she dismounted, ready for a fast getaway. The shotgun was level with her hip as she trotted toward the doctor. The zombie that had taken the doctor down dragged itself up her back using her ponytail as a rope. The doctor clawed at the concrete, trying to squirm away, but the two-hundred-pound predator kept her pressed into place. The other two deaders crouched and joined the feast.

  “Help!” the doctor wailed, reaching toward Hannah, desperation in her eyes.

  Hannah couldn’t fire the shotgun—the twenty-gauge would probably knock the zombies off her, but the stray buckshot would kill the doctor in the process. The metal door swung closed but didn’t latch because of the bodies blocking the entrance. The zombies bumped and writhed against one another in their hunger, their uncoordinated attack the only thing preventing the doctor from being torn to shreds. But Hannah only had a few seconds to act.

  The zombie gripping the ponytail wallowed into biting position. In life, it had been a man who probably woke up this morning with a mild fever and headache, not knowing his life was changed forever. Hannah didn’t understand the science of the infection—the news and official bulletins had been thinly veiled bullshit as far as she could tell.

  But the facts before her were clear enough. These people were no longer people. They were inhuman bastards that slavered over fresh meat.

  She waded into the melee just as the male deader sank its teeth into the back of the doctor’s scalp. The bite didn’t penetrate deeply because of the skull, but the zombie yanked out a small flap of skin and a skein of hair. As it raised its gory lips for another bite, Hannah swung the gun’s butt flush into its face. It landed with a satisfyingly sickening crunch as bone gave way. She delivered a second blow, cracking the wooden stock as the zombie’s skull split like an egg.

  The other two deaders growled and flopped forward, driven by the scent of torn flesh. They were probably related while alive, bearing similar curly dark hair and prominent noses. They pushed at the deadest zombie blocking their meal, a brother-sister tandem that showed little awareness of anything but their craving. Hannah tucked the broken gunstock against her right elbow, curled her finger inside the trigger guard, braced for the recoil, and fired.

  The blast ripped away great slabs of their faces, eyeballs bursting like boiled grapes. The impact knocked them back inside the clinic, where they wriggled in involuntary spasms as their nervous systems shut down for the second and final time. Hannah shoved the sole of her boot against the zombie with the crushed skull and rolled the corpse off the doctor’s back. She knelt and helped the woman to her hands and knees, moaning in shock and pain.

  “I know it sucks bigtime right now, but we have to get you inside,” Hannah said. She glanced around but no one else was in sight.

  The doctor nodded and rose unsteadily to her feet, swaying against Hannah for support. Hannah read the name on the ID badge pinned to the woman’s coat. “Dr. McPherson,” she said. “What’s going on in the clinic?”

  McPherson wiped a trembling hand across her lips. “’m-m-mergency cases,” she stuttered. “Too many. Fever, vomiting, flu. Then they…”

  Figures approached from the office park, and judging from their gait, they weren’t out for a morning stroll. “Wait here,” Hannah said.

  She ran to her bike, killed the engine, and pocketed the key. She rolled it near the door and dropped the kickstand, steadying Ramona atop the seat. The girl opened her bleary eyes when Hannah lifted her off the bike.

  “Where’s Mommy?” she asked with a thin wheeze.

  “She’s coming, honey. Right now we need to get you in to see the doctor, m’kay?”

  Hannah bundled the girl in the blanket and carried her to the door, where the doctor stood inside slumped against the wall. McPherson closed the door once Hannah was inside. They were in an alcove that branched off a main hallway, and a frantic din reverberated throughout the building—shouts, screams, a gunshot. A distraught voice came over the P.A. system, paging a nurse.

  “Are you okay?” Hannah asked McPherson.

  She put fingers to her scalp and looked at the blood on her fingers. “I’m going to need stitches.”

  “Find us a room, and I’ll help. Then you can check on Ramona here.”

  “Do you have any medical training?”

  “Girl Scout babysitter certification.”

  The doctor nodded, calmer now. “You saved my life. I’ll help her if I can.”

  “Good. I know all hell’s breaking loose here, but I promised her mother.

  “No firearms allowed in the facility,” McPherson said.

  “Those deaders came from this clinic,” Hannah said. “Unless you plan to strangle them with your stethoscope, you might need somebody riding shotgun.”

  “This way.” The doctor paused at the intersection of the alcove and the hallway. A couple of attendants raced by, wheeling a stretcher. The patient was strapped down, blood soaking the white sheet. He glanced at Hannah, who saw pain and bewilderment in the man’s eyes.

  She was already hardened to the violence. She didn’t like it, since she considered herself a sensitive person despite her façade of a tough tomboy. But the world was rapidly dividing into those who got real and adapted and those who ended up as zombie bait. She didn’t plan on going to the other side if she could help it.

  The doctor led them to the first available examination room, which was already occupied by a mother and her two boys, all of them showing effects of the flu. They sat in a chair in the corner, the boys in the woman’s lap. Hannah laid Ramona on the examination table that was covered with sanitary white paper.

  “The nurse told us to wait,” the mother said. “But it’s been an hour.”

  “I’ll check you,” McPherson said. “But I need to stop bleeding first.”

  She showed Hannah some antiseptic cleanser and cotton pads. “This is going to sting a little,” Hannah quipped as she soaked a pad.

  The doctor winced when Hannah applied the antiseptic. “How does it look?”

  “I can see bone, but it’s a clean tear for the most part.”

  “Scalp wounds always look worse than they really are. At least my brains aren’t leaking out.” She handed Hannah a roll of cotton gauze. “Wrap me up like a mummy.”

  After the makeshift patch job was finished, McPherson told the waiting mother that Ramona was an emergency case, with symptoms more advanced than those of her two sons. While McPherson checked over Ramona, Hannah made sure the door was locked. Outside, something large thumped against the walls.

  Hannah pulled the box of shells from her backpack and reloaded the Weatherby, ensuring four shells were in the magazine. The mother started to say something and then thought better of it, pulling her children closer in a hug. Hannah wondered how they’d made it through the gauntlet of cops that barred the main entrance. They might’ve arrived in the middle of the night, when most people were dutifully obeying curfew, and had been left unattended in the confusion.

  The doctor was taking Ramona’s temperature with an ear thermometer when she suddenly froze, dropping the digital device to the floor. She turned to Hannah with a quizzical expression, and at first Hannah thought shock was setting in. After all, the woman had just been attacked by a pack of living-dead humans who’d tried to eat her flesh. But something in her eyes changed, pupils narrowing, veins swelling, and the sclera going cloudy.

 
“Doctor?” Hannah said as McPherson swayed back and forth. Hannah moved to catch the woman, expecting her to pass out. But as soon as Hannah came within reach, the doctor gripped her forearms with a startling ferocity.

  Her mouth opened and closed like that of a beached fish. She twitched as if suffering an epileptic fit. A red blotch appeared in her bandages as the tremors intensified. Then she let go of Hannah and her body went slack while Ramona screeched weakly in dismay.

  Hannah caught the doctor and laid her on the floor on her back. She shook McPherson, hoping to revive her, but the doctor didn’t respond. Hannah then put two fingers to the woman’s neck. No blood pumped through her jugular.

  Hannah’s training kicked in and she immediately administered CPR, pumping the doctor’s chest. “Get help!” she yelled at the horrified mother.

  Just as woman opened the door, Hannah realized that might’ve been a mistake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Meg pulled Jacob into the middle of the crowd, keeping a tight grip on his hand.

  The people around them bumped and shoved as they made their way down the street. The human stream parted for abandoned vehicles and collisions and then reconvened as if flowing toward a single destination. The man to her right carried a handgun and nodded in admiration when he saw Meg’s firearm.

  “Taking care of business,” he said.

  “I’m taking care of my family,” she replied. “If I can find the rest of it.”

  “Mine’s down in Charlotte. I’m hoping to get out of this hellhole and find some open road.”

  “I doubt any routes are open. The zombies hit the stalled traffic on Hillsborough Street. None of it will be moving anytime soon.”

  He gave a slight shake of his handgun. “If those deaders behind us catch up, you and me are taking target practice.”

  “I just want to reach the FirstCare clinic.”

  “That’s where somebody took my sister,” Jacob said to the man. “She’s sick. And I’ll bet my dad will head there when he finds out we left the car.”