Arize (Book 1): Resurrection

by Nicholson, Scott

  “Wave your arms,” Arjun said. “Act like a scared human instead of a zombie.”

  “That won’t take much acting.”

  They both shouted and waved as they ran toward a main entrance blocked by a metal gate. Arjun was worried about being half naked; the soldiers might mistake him for a zombie anyway. But Sydney was enthusiastic enough for the both of them, twirling around in a wild pirouette and making a crazy ballet leap that no self-respecting zombie would be caught dead doing. By the time they were halfway down the block, the soldiers were shouting back at them, urging them to reach the gate.

  They arrived to find two soldiers parting it to allow them entrance. Arjun was trembling and out of breath. Too much couch surfing and not enough exercise.

  Sydney was likewise exhausted, bent over at the waist gasping for air. As they gaped around wide-eyed at the assembled military equipment in the church parking lot and the teeming tide that had taken refuge at the church, she said, “If I’d have known a zombie apocalypse was coming, I’d have taken better care of myself.”

  A grim-faced soldier whose helmet rim hung down over his cold eyes said, “Are either of you infected?”

  “No,” Arjun said, unsure if he was telling the truth.

  “You’ll have to be checked out by the medics before you can enter the shelter.”

  “Fine,” Sydney said. “Are you guys going to take back the city?”

  “Yeah, once we get our orders.” He pointed toward a white tent that bore a red cross. “Over that way.”

  Arjun followed Sydney, taking in the shattered people who’d found their way here. Families huddled together, sobbing, while others sipped bottled water with dull eyes fixed on faraway places. Cohorts of soldiers ran here and there, seeming to lack purpose, and Arjun realized the military had been taken as much by surprise as everyone else. But the army had managed to bring in a few armored troop carriers, supply trucks, and Humvees, so at least some organization was evident.

  “Arj, look at this,” Sydney said, pointing to the pavement. A puddle of congealed blood glinted in the afternoon sun.

  Arjun noticed several other splotches of brownish red in the parking lot. “Somebody’s doing some killing here.”

  “Yeah. And I hope it’s not zombies doing the killing.”

  Arjun didn’t like the thought of people turning in the closed quarters of the churchyard. But surely some of these refugees had been exposed to the virus or whatever caused the outbreak. Hadn’t the soldier asked them if they’d been infected?

  Arjun suddenly didn’t feel so great about the sweat on his bare chest. “Come on. I need to find a shirt.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  When the zombies tried to push their way into the room, Hannah yanked the mother inside and slammed the door.

  It didn’t close all the way. One arm probed through, flailing and raking even though Hannah heard bone breaking. “Help me,” she yelled at the mother, shoving her shoulder against the door again and again.

  The mother, vacant-eyed with shock, was slow to respond, so Hannah screamed at her a second time. The shotgun was out of reach, leaning against the wall by Ramona’s table. Hannah’s boots couldn’t gain traction on the slick tiled floor, and she was losing ground. The door slid two inches wider, and then a second arm appeared.

  The moist, rasping noises from the other side of the door grew louder. How many were out there? Hannah didn’t think she could hold out much longer. Then the mother jerked back to awareness and pushed against the door with both hands.

  “Harder!” Hannah urged.

  The two boys climbed down from the chair and joined their mother, weak but adding some weight to the tug-of-war. The door slid nearly closed, stopped only by the intruding arms. Hannah grabbed one by the wrist and twisted it back toward her. Something snapped inside and it lolled like a wet rag. The other arm, elbow deep, swung around and brushed the front of her leather jacket but couldn’t get a grip.

  While they struggled, more gunfire erupted deep inside the clinic. Hannah wondered if the police had retreated inside, yielding the outer grounds to the zombies. What had happened to all the people out there trying to get in? And was it any safer inside than out?

  “You’re going to have to hold them off for a second,” Hannah said. “I need to reach my gun.”

  The mother shook her head and mouthed a “No,” but Hannah didn’t give her a chance to argue. She relaxed her stance and swooped for the shotgun, grabbing it just as the zombies shoved their way inside.

  There were three of them: one in a physician’s coat like Dr. McPherson, another in nurse’s scrubs, and a third in a soiled and torn Easter dress. Hannah didn’t want to fire in the crowded room, because they might all go temporarily deaf, so she leveled the gun with one hand on the butt and one on the barrel. She drove forward, using the weapon as a bar to push them into the hall. They’d been caught off balance when the door suddenly gave way, so she had the advantage of momentum.

  The one in the Easter dress slipped and fell, causing the others to trip backwards over her. Hannah didn’t give them a chance to regroup. She fired two shells into them, aiming for their heads. Brains and blood painted the antiseptic walls.

  She sensed more movement down the hall, where the screams, moans, and gunfire grew intense. Instead of taking stock of the situation, she retreated into the room and kicked the door closed, locking it for good measure.

  Panting, she reloaded, and then draped a hospital gown over the doctor’s face so the kids wouldn’t have to see the corpse. She looked up to find the mother staring at her. “You almost got us killed,” the woman said.

  “We’re dead anyway,” Hannah said. “This place is crawling with them. No window, and no way out.”

  The two boys pressed their faces into their mother’s blouse, and she wrapped them in a desperate hug. Hannah checked Ramona and found no change, although the girl was alert enough to maintain a tight grip on Mister Grizz.

  She caressed the girl’s cheek in reassurance. “I didn’t mean that. We’ll get you out of here.”

  “I know,” Ramona said in a small voice. “You promised my mom.”

  Hannah opened a cabinet and began pulling medicine from the shelves and shoveling vials, boxes, and tubes into her backpack. She didn’t know what she’d need, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a cornucopia of drugs. Maybe you had to hit the Klondike Flu with everything in the arsenal.

  “Hey!” the mother said, her voice rising in alarm.

  Annoyed, Hannah turned, thinking the woman wanted some of the drugs. “What is it now?”

  The mother pointed to the floor. McPherson’s fingers twitched. Relief washed over Hannah. Maybe she’d recovered from her fit.

  Hannah knelt to help her up. The doctor flexed her hands and sat up with the gown draped over her, making her look like a ghost despite the circle of blood that had leaked through. Hannah pulled the gown off from behind.

  “Easy, Doctor,” Hannah said, cupping one hand under the doctor’s armpit to give support. “You had a seizure.”

  The doctor let out a heavy sigh that Hannah took as a sign of pain. McPherson tucked her knees under her, palms on the floor, and then tried to stand. Her head hung down, hair covering her face where it had spilled from the bandage.

  Hannah wondered if the woman was moving too fast after such a seizure. She’d likely be light-headed and should probably lie on the floor for a while. But Hannah had a friend with epilepsy who recovered from fits within minutes, often completely forgetting they’d happened. She’d have to trust that Dr. McPherson was the best judge of her own health.

  The woman stood with surprising energy, swiveling toward the mother and two boys. They all emitted shrill screams that confused Hannah. Weren’t they glad the doctor would be able to help them now?

  But then the doctor lunged toward the chair where the family sat. The mother reared back and kicked up her legs, but the doctor plucked the youngest boy from her grasp, bending down so fast Hannah c
ouldn’t react. The doctor’s head dipped toward the boy’s face and then an even higher scream pealed forth. The doctor pulled back and blood streamed down the boy’s face.

  She’d bitten off his lips.

  Hannah had rested the shotgun beside the door after reloading. She didn’t have time to retrieve it. She punched the zombie doctor in the back of the neck. The deader ignored the blow and grabbed for the other boy. The mother slapped at the doctor in a frenzy, managing to get her hands bitten in the process.

  Hannah looked around and saw surgical implements in a drawer she’d opened. She grabbed a scalpel and plunged it into the base of the doctor’s skull, twisting deep until the blade broke free.

  The doctor dropped like a sack of sand and lay still. Now Hannah could see the flushed, blood-smeared face. The staring eyes were red with viral rage, although their light was rapidly fading. The doctor had died and come back from the dead.

  Exhausted, Hannah slumped down beside Ramona while the mother mopped at her son’s torn face with a white towel.

  “Is the doctor bad?” Ramona asked.

  “Not anymore, hon,” Hannah said.

  “Who’s going to help the sick children?”

  God, Hannah wanted to say, but the kid was too young for such bitter cynicism. Instead, she said, “I’ve got some medicine. We’ll try to find your mom and maybe she’ll know which ones to take.”

  The sobbing mother picked up her wounded child and went to the door, fumbling with the handle. The other boy trailed right behind her, pale-faced, his cheeks flushed. Hannah wondered if he was about to turn, too.

  “Don’t go out there,” Hannah said.

  “My son needs help.”

  “You saw what’s out there. You won’t make it—”

  Before Hannah could get off the examination table to stop her, the woman had opened the door and carried her injured son into the hall, dragging the other one along by the arm. By the time Hannah reached the door, the family was down the hall.

  And heading toward a horde of blood-streaked deaders that sensed fresh prey.

  Hannah almost risked her life in a futile rescue attempt, but the mother didn’t retreat. Instead, she ran faster, as if she thought she could slip past them before they reacted. She almost made it, too, but one of the zombies caught the older boy by the leg. The boy kicked and struggled but the zombie dragged the young meat into its jaws and dug into his calf.

  The mother might’ve escaped with the smallest boy if she’d let go of her other son’s hand. But as she tried to tug him free, a pack of deaders swarmed them all.

  Hannah closed the door against the screams and hurried over to Ramona. “Hang on to Mister Grizz. We have to go now. I want you to keep your eyes closed, no matter what. Can you do that for me?”

  Ramona nodded. Hannah slung her backpack over her shoulder, followed by the Weatherby, and then lifted Ramona against the other shoulder. Hannah wouldn’t be able to use the shotgun in this position, but fighting was hopeless anyway. Their only chance was to escape while the zombies were occupied.

  She opened the door, made sure the zombies were fully engaged—the phrase “Waste no part of the animal” flitted unbidden across her mind—and sprinted toward the door through which they’d entered. Someone at the far end of the hall fled into a room and slammed the door. Around the corner, a gun barked with steady precision as another person stood their ground in a world shifting beneath their feet. The gun suddenly fell silent, followed by a shriek of agony.

  Hannah hustled through the alcove and gave only a glance into the side yard before she pushed open the emergency exit. An alarm blared behind her. She almost laughed.

  Then she was out in the afternoon sun. Her Kawasaki was still parked by the door, although more bodies covered the grass. A zombie in the adjacent parking lot saw her and shambled forward, but she was already mounted on the motorcycle and levering up the kickstand.

  She started the engine and balanced Ramona on the seat in front of her, holding her in place with her knees. “Hang on, hon.”

  The Kawasaki sped across the lawn, churning up grass and chunks of mud. Hannah didn’t know where she was going next, but she was giddy with joy to be in motion again.

  If you kept moving, they couldn’t catch you.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The roar of the motorcycle rose above the scattered gunfire and the distant screams and sirens.

  “It’s Hannah!” Jacob said, pointing toward the edifice of the clinic. Meg turned her attention from the zombies around them and watched the bike peel across the lawn and head up the street. She was relieved to see Ramona was still with Hannah, but that meant they weren’t able to get inside the clinic. Judging by the bodies around the building and the emergency vehicles blocking the entrance, she imagined the facility was in chaos.

  “They must be headed for the church,” Meg said.

  “If we go after them, we might miss Dad,” Jacob said. He stood up beside the Honda CRV they’d crouched beside for concealment.

  Meg pulled him back down, whispering, “Dad wouldn’t try to go inside with all the deaders walking around.”

  “He would if he thought we were in there.”

  That was true. Meg dug her cell phone out of her pocket and speed-dialed Ian, but again she got an out-of-service message. “We’d better head to the church and hope he meets us there. Hannah must know it’s an emergency shelter.”

  Jacob’s face pinched with confusion. “You’re just going to leave him out here?”

  “He can take care of himself. Ramona is our main concern right now.”

  Despite her reassurances, she was alarmed by the increasing numbers of the infected. Although their bodies were strewn across the streets, sidewalks, and parking lots, more strolled along in their lost, crooked gaits. Some of them bore deep bullet wounds, splotches of red soaking their clothes. Even as she scouted a path around the gathering horde, she considered the scientific implications of the transition.

  Meg could almost understand a viral infection that caused a walking coma. But she didn’t understand how the body could continue functioning in an advanced state of morbidity. Most of these wounds should’ve been fatal, and the central nervous system should’ve shut down, including all autonomic responses. If they managed to find a cure, what would they do about all the dead people who refused to die a final time?

  Gunshots reverberated through the upper floors of the clinic. A body fell from a shattered window, flopped onto the ground, and seconds later rose up again, limbs twisted at impossible angles as it lurched along.

  “That way looks clear,” Jacob said, pointing to an alley between a Starbucks and Subway that led to an adjacent street.

  A car pulled out of the clinic’s parking lot, squeezing through the abandoned vehicles, and headed their way. Meg flagged it down, but it accelerated past her. The noise garnered the attention of half a dozen zombies, who changed direction and launched into a futile chase. Although they couldn’t catch the car, the pack was headed right for Meg and Jacob.

  “Go! Now!” she said, motioning Jacob toward the alley.

  She kept her weapon at the ready. If they were trapped in the alley, they were done. The remaining two rounds would not help at all against such numbers.

  A dark thought consumed her. She could use one on Jacob and the final round on herself.

  No. She’d never be able to go through with it. As long as there was breath, there was hope.

  And she’d never abandon Ian and Ramona that way. She followed her son.

  Although slight of build, Jacob was athletic, bent low as he sprinted. Meg struggled to keep up, wishing she’d chosen better shoes. She glanced behind her. More of the zombies had noticed them, but they were at least the length of a football field away.

  “They’re herding,” she said, fighting for breath, fighting for hope.

  “Because we’re the only thing on the menu,” Jacob called without slowing.

  As they entered the alley,
Meg surveyed the various trash cans, HVAC units, propane tanks, and other obstacles that might conceal a deader. So far the infected exhibited no cunning or intelligence, just instinct, but she took no chances. She told Jacob to let her take the lead when they reached the adjacent street. The gunfire grew louder, popping in the distance in an unsteady percussion.

  The church was visible two blocks away, its high white cross dominating the skyline, a lurid sunset painting the sky blood-red behind it. A gated entrance was jammed with vehicles, but there was an opening in the center as if the sea of metal had been parted. The cars were dented, their windows smashed, and some sat on flat tires. If the church was indeed a shelter, it didn’t seem too inviting.

  The sinking sun didn’t seem to touch the edifice, with its brick walls steeped in stark shadows and its high windows glinting like murky eyes. Although a series of maple trees lined the surrounding wall, the foliage looked withered despite the recent spring rains. Armed men were arrayed along the top of the wall, and they appeared to shoot at anything that moved as well as some things that didn’t. But the facility was safer than any other building they’d encountered, and at least it projected a semblance of organization and order amidst the chaos.

  “How do we get in there without getting shot?” Jacob asked.

  “The old-fashioned way,” Meg said. A dirty hand towel hung from a trash can behind Starbucks, probably left by an employee on a smoke break. She plucked it free and fluttered it in the air. “We surrender.”

  She stuck the pistol in the waistband behind her back. She wanted to be able to retrieve and employ the weapon if necessary but didn’t think carrying a gun was sensible given the trigger-happy atmosphere. She told Jacob to stand behind her and follow as she stepped onto the sidewalk waving the makeshift flag. Glass shattered nearby as a storefront collapsed but she remained rigidly upright. She feared that if she dropped into a crouch or shuffle, she might be mistaken for a zombie.