Pestilence: The Infection Begins

by Craig A. McDonough

  Delaney got halfway up the stairs when she heard a clanging sound below her. She skipped—two steps at a time—down to the landing, gun drawn, expecting the worst, but was relieved to found Tilford slamming his mop into the number pad of the keycard lock.

  “You’re getting pretty handy with that,” she said.

  “I’ve always been pretty handy with tools.”

  “I bet you—”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt your tête-à-tête, but what if there’s more infected on the roof and we have to run back down?”

  It was a good question and one that neither of the two most cognizant of the group thought of. Delaney paused before answering her, she wanted to appraise Sanders’s condition. Her pupils had contracted to normal and she didn’t seem as hyper. Good signs to have, good signs indeed.

  “Well I’m going to go out on a limb here,” Delaney began. It was far from a perfect answer and that bothered her. “I would presume all the interest for these infected would be patients and staff members, none of whom would be on the roof. And I’ve got a whole box of ammo here!”

  “I’d agree with that assumption, but let’s get up there. I can hear some banging on the door below.” Tilford motioned below with a flick of his thumb. No one needed to take a second guess as to who it would be, and they headed for the rooftop door. At the top of the stairs was a small landing that led to a red door with roughly a two-foot-thick window in the center.

  “Let me look…” Tilford ran to the side, thrusting his shoulder into the frame before taking a peek. He ducked his head out, looked then pulled it back just like he’d seen in the movies a dozen or more times. Bending over, he skirted to the other side of the door and did the same. “I can’t see anyone at all, I think we’re good.”

  “Okay, you ready, Beth?” Delaney waited until she received a positive acknowledgement. “Let’s go then!”

  As before, Tilford pushed the door open and let Delaney burst through. She held the revolver in a two-handed grip, her elbows slightly bent and level with her shoulders, ready to fire.

  “Clear!” she called. A combat veteran would have been proud.

  “You look pretty comfortable with that thing.” Tilford.

  “Are you two at it again? For God’s sake, we’ve got uncontrolled beasts roaming the hospital and all you two are concerned with is getting laid?”

  Delaney didn’t think their conversation said anything obvious, but according to Sanders it was.

  Delaney avoided the comment and concerned herself with the rooftop. The only sight was the of Des Moines skyline that surrounded them and the river of the same name, barely visible in the distance. The brightness of the midafternoon sun took them by surprise in more ways than one. First, their eyes weren’t used to the light after the low-level emergency lighting inside. Secondly, they’d forgotten about the time. From the first attack on Dr. Tilford by the patient with the enticing tits to their escape to the roof, less than four hours had passed.

  “Okay, what now?” Sanders looked around the desolate rooftop, which seemed as barren as the Sahara.

  “Can that door be locked?” Delaney asked Tilford.

  “Not from here, no.”

  “Okay splinter off that mop handle and jam it into the door crack. Keep doing it until you run out of handle.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  “Nurse Sanders and I are going to figure out a way of getting off this fucking roof, unless you’d like to stay here?” She gave Tilford a “play along” wink, which he did. Delaney deliberately mentioned Sanders. She believed including Sanders in more decisions—or at least giving her the impression she was included—would benefit the morale of the three, otherwise it could lead to a division; and that usually spelled trouble.

  “Right then, I’ll leave you to it…” He made it appear as if he’d just been given an order he didn’t like but wasn’t about to question, either. He began breaking the mop handle in a way that would leave it sharp and pointed at one end.

  Tilford left the two women and headed over to the door. It looks like a stake to drive through a vampire’s heart, Tilford thought as looked at his handiwork. In this case it was infected hospital patients, technically—he had supposed—still alive, but they still wanted the same thing.

  Blood.

  He had just jammed the second jagged piece of handle into the crack of the door and wedged a few quarters in the gap between the door and the frame, when he heard it. A helicopter.

  “Look, look!” He turned and saw Sanders pointing about thirty degrees above her shoulder line. “There, it’s a helicopter,” she screamed, “a fucking helicopter! We’re saved!”

  When the story broke out in the midmorning news that Riverside Hospital had an outbreak of Legionnaires’, it was news but not big enough to displace the main stories: the quarterback for the Chicago Bears’ knee surgery; the latest celebrity admitting to drug addiction, appearing naked at a party or in a music video, coming out as gay, or having a complete or partial sex-change operation. Most of which had becoming trite and boring. But when the CDC, backed by the city police and the National Guard, sealed the hospital, it became big news. A partial state of emergency had been called by the governor, an action most in the media had never heard about. Every electronic news outlet sent reporters to the scene, with the TV news teams jostling against one another for the best and first footage of the area. It was these first crews who took the police and National Guard by surprise and filmed the staff members smashing through the windows to escape the horror within. The hazmat-suit-wearing CDC men took them into custody for “a routine checkup” soon after and prevented the media from uncovering the true horror that lurked within. Now that the authorities had regained control at the front of the hospital and forced the film crews back, the TV station sent in helicopters.

  “There’s three people on the roof, over there,” the chopper pilot said over the comms.

  The reporter from the news leaned forward for a better look, then tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Thanks, Mike.”

  “Richard,” the reporter moved one side of his headphones from his ear and called to his camera operator, “can you get a decent shot of those people?”

  Richard took a look at the roof of the hospital, hoisted the JVC camera to his shoulder and took a look through the viewfinder. He gave Steve Donalds, the adventuristic reporter—at least in his own mind—a thumbs-up sign, then twisted in his seat and began filming. As he did the three people on the rooftop jumped and waved to the chopper.

  “They’re going away… What’s wrong, can’t they see us?” Sanders panicked.

  “They’re circling, just circling, they can see us all right.” Tilford started doing jumping jacks, to make sure the chopper did see them.

  “Over here, over here,” they yelled, elation and relief all rolled into one.

  Delaney stepped back from the other two and cocked her head slightly. Aside from the thumping woff-woff-woff of the helicopter’s engines, she was sure she heard something else, something closer. She turned toward the door that led to the roof; she didn’t want to look, but she had to, there was no choice.

  “OH SHIT, THEY’RE HERE!” Her scream was louder than the incoming chopper. She was just in time to see the red door being forced open about a foot or so. The quarters jammed underneath prevented it from moving farther. Three blood-soaked men scurried like rats from a sinking ship in their effort to squeeze through. The Two at the bottom were in blue scrubs, while the other, who was trying to crawl over the top, wore a white coat over his shirt and tie; obviously he’d once been a doctor. All three had the unmistakable blood-coated eyes.

  “Isaac, Isaac!” Delaney panicked. The excitement of the chopper, so close they were… so close.

  “Shoot! Shoot them while they’re stuck in the doorway, Grace. Shoot the fuckers!”

  She shook her head to snap herself back to reality; the arrival and noise of the chopper had her confused. She pulled the .38 out fro
m the top of her pants and took aim. Her first shot from shaky hands was wide and high, the second wasn’t much better.

  “Get up close and blow their fuckin’ brains out, Delaney!” Sanders commanded, excitement and fear on the edge of her voice. They were all so close, but if the chopper didn’t get here soon, it wouldn’t matter.

  Twelve

  “Steve, Steve,” the chopper pilot called to the rear and pointed to his headset when he finally got the reporter’s attention.

  Steve pulled the headphones over his ears and was now able to hear the pilot.

  “Go ahead, Mike, what is it?”

  “There appears to be some others trying to get through the access door on the roof.”

  Steve had to take a long look before he saw it, then gave Mike a thumbs-up. He tapped his camera operator on the shoulder, then pointed to the doorway area, jabbing his finger in the air.

  “Okay, I’m on it!” Richard yelled, then returned to his filming. “Holy shit!”

  Steve didn’t hear him but saw his reaction. “What happened?” He put his mouth to Richard’s ear.

  “There’s a woman,” he pointed in the direction of the rooftop, “a redhead, she just started shooting at some others in the doorway!”

  “Did you get it?” Steve shouted. Video of an incident of that nature would give his career a substantial lift. “Please tell me you got that.”

  “I got it for you, boss!” Richard raised his fist, thumb extended skyward.

  Steve patted Richard on the shoulder for a job well done.

  “Great, make sure the station gets it pronto! He next adjusted his headset so he could converse with the pilot once more.

  “What do you think, should we pick them up?”

  “Pick them up, are you crazy. They might have this Legionnaires thing?” Mike half turned in his seat to look at the reporter.

  “That’s possible but from here they look like hospital staff and they might have information to share.”

  Mike nodded to Steve and turned back to the controls. He knew the reporter couldn’t give two knobs of goat shit for what they knew. It was all about him getting an exclusive. He didn’t care for reporters, the TV station or people in general; not that you could tell from his expression. Like all good chopper jockeys, his face was covered by a ball cap, mirrored aviator-style sunglasses and a thick mustache that Sam Elliot would envy. The job was good, he got to do what he did best, which was fly choppers, and unlike in Iraq, was able to do so without being shot at.

  “Just circle around the building for a minute or two. Richard told me one of them has a gun and—”

  “A gun?” The chopper bucked to one side when Mike turned to face the reporter.

  “Holy shit!” the camera operator had to grab the back of the seat to prevent himself from sliding out the open door.

  “I think they’re doctors and desperate to get out.” Steve said after the chopper steadied.

  “Okay, but the first shot in our direction, I’m taking this bird down.” Mike placed a hand over the mic at his mouth and muttered an obscenity. He was sure this reporter was more concerned with getting the big story than rescuing these people on the roof; if that’s what it was. Flying over a city area, a pilot couldn’t afford an error or a lapse in judgment, and neither of these would be helped if someone began shooting at the helicopter. As he circled Riverside Hospital, he received a call from air traffic control informing him of two more approaching helicopters. The difficulty of the safety factor just multiplied.

  “Okay, let’s get this done and fast!” Mike yelled to no one in particular.

  “What, get what done?”

  “Pick them up! We’ll pick them up, okay?”

  Steve answered with an exuberant nod and a thumbs up.

  My God what a dork! Mike said to himself.

  ”Damn, this is gonna be a big story all right”. Steve said aloud. Neither the pilot nor the camera operator could hear him. He could see himself walking to the stage to receive his IRE award for investigative journalism.

  He, along with the other two in the chopper, had no idea just how big this story would be or what their future role would be—or if he would live to tell it.

  The camera operator was the only one to clearly see Grace Delaney’s execution—style shooting of three people as they attempted to squeeze through the door, through the aid of the viewfinder. What wasn’t quite picked up in the lens of the camera, however, was that the executed, were no longer people in the strictest sense of the word.

  After missing with her first shots, Delaney moved forward, encouraged by Nurse Sanders, who was showing signs of a relapsing back into shock. Delaney loaded the revolver one shell at a time as she moved forward; she didn’t have the luxury of her speed—loaders she used at the gun range. It was a difficult task with her trembling fingers and dropped several shells. Tilford followed behind and picked up the fallen bullets.

  “All right, all right!” Delaney yelled, her voice high pitched and nervous. She closed her left hand over her right in a double-handed grip on the revolver when she got near the exit door. Her call was an incentive to push herself further into actions she wouldn’t normally take but had to—if she were to survive. It wasn’t perfect, and that was the hard part. This entire situation was far from perfect.

  The three infected who struggled to get through the partially open door became more frenzied when they saw Delaney standing in front of them. They snarled and lashed out at her but didn’t seem to show any recognition of the gun in her hand.

  It was still hard. Apart from the pale skin, the animal like snarl’s and the blood-filled eyes, they still looked human, disease ravaged, and plague—infected, but human.

  She took aim, took in a deep breath, let half out—then fired. One round each to the forehead. The impact wasn’t like the movies; there were no exploding craniums, just a puff of pink mist as the bullets made contact. The heads of all three jolted backward, one after the other before they collapsed like wet rags. Their hands had shuddered for a good while before they went limp. They died rather quick.

  Maybe they’re out of their misery too, Delaney said to herself, hoping to ease her conscience.

  She looked down at the gun in her hand as the wash from the chopper’s blades blew her hair in all directions and ruffled her white coat.

  “That’s four!” She turned to Tilford and held the finger of her left hand outstretched.

  “Four? What, I’m sorr—”

  “I’ve shot and killed four people in a few hours. I never shot anything but paper targets before, never.”

  “You had no choice!” Tilford came closer and grabbed her shoulders. “You had no choice Grace, but we have to go. The chopper’s about to land.”

  “Well let’s get out of here I’m done with this mess!”

  Tilford took her hand and led her to the heliport where, along with Sanders, they shielded their eyes from the turbulence as the chopper touched down. All three noticed the camera straightaway, the lens pointed directly at them. They were destined for prime time TV news.

  A helicopter landing on the roof of the hospital heliport wasn’t an unusual sight by any means, but when the hospital has been sealed off from any and all exits, the chopper belonging to the TV news station raised more than a passing interest from the authorities on the ground.

  “Look, there’re more people in the chopper now!” a police officer out in the hospital parking lot called. He and his crew were situated a bit farther back on a rise near the access road and afforded him a clear view.

  “Call the station,” he yelled to an officer inside one of the squad cars. “Tell them what happened and the name of that news chopper. We’ll find out where their landing pad is!” The wheels were now in motion. The chopper spirited the three escapees from the rooftop, while the police concentrated their efforts on finding the location of the chopper’s landing. NSA eavesdroppers meanwhile passed on the information to the State Department, the FBI, and the FDA and,
of course, to Calgleef.

  “Right, thank you so very much.” Calgleef sounded in control as he answered his contact from the NSA. The grim news of three more escaping from the rooftop of the hospital, aided and abetted by a TV station helicopter, had him fuming inside. “We are certain it’s only three?”

  “Yes, sir, Director Calgleef, just three, one male and two females. The Des Moines police have established contact with the chopper as we speak and have confirmed as such.”

  “Names?”

  “No, sir, not as yet, but as soon as they land the police will take them into custody and—”

  “Don’t take them directly into custody,” Calgleef jumped in. He remembered Moya’s admonishment for not taking the first of the escapees into quarantine—and he knew it wasn’t over concern for the public’s safety but more a prevention of the flu from breaking out too soon, before they were ready. These three had been inside the hospital longer, and their exposure was greater, as was the risk. They had to be picked up by one of the CDC special security teams, who were specifically trained for just this purpose and were armed. “Leave that up to my people. We’ll have to take them for routine examinations and hold them until we’re satisfied they aren’t infected.”

  “So it is this flu from Europe that’s broken out inside the hospital?” the NSA contact asked Calgleef. He hadn’t been briefed on anything more than a “possible outbreak,” but now with the need to isolate people becoming a reality, he had to find out for his own peace of mind.

  “We can’t be sure until we test the first group who escaped earlier, but in my opinion it appears to be.”

  “Strictly between the two of us,” the government agent said in a hushed voice, “how was this flu able to take hold so rapidly? I mean, wasn’t this supposed to be a vaccination program aimed at preventing it from getting a foothold in this country?”