by Gibb, Lew
Something jerked him backward, nearly yanking him off his feet.
“This way,” a female voice said.
Jerry stumbled. He was being pulled into the room with the blonde zombie. He struggled but had no leverage. Grabbing the door frame stopped his backward plunge into the room.
The two zombies were staggering over their comrade and coming his way.
“Hey! Knock it off. I’m trying to help you.” The voice was young.
Jerry lost his grip on the door frame. He fell backward into the room and landed hard on his butt. A slim, blonde girl in a flowered hospital gown edged past him, grabbed a chair, and slid it under the door’s handle as she slammed it closed. She turned and dropped into the chair while Jerry stared. It was the zombie who had made him fall. He saw now that, although her eyes were bloodshot, they weren’t nearly as bad as those of the zombie he had just stabbed. A thought about how the girl might be still be infected and about to turn went through his mind, but the fierce expression on her face stopped it.
“Help me!” she yelled, doing a sort of backward walk that made the muscles stand out on her thighs as she pushed her back against the chair. The bright yellow hospital socks with rubber treads on both sides straining against the tile. “Do you want them to get in?”
The sound of bodies slamming against the door helped his mind catch up with what was happening. He darted to her side and leaned his shoulder against the door. When she looked up, he said, “You’re not a zombie.”
“Duh!” She rolled her eyes and looked at him like he was one of the short bus kids. “Why would I be a zombie?”
“I thought you were one when I saw you before.”
“I thought you were one of them crawling over the wall.”
“Have you been bitten?” Her eyes were really bloodshot.
“As if. You would have heard me screaming like that other guy.”
Jerry frowned and looked away, eyes filling with tears. His emotions had never been so close to the surface. Could he already have PTSD?
Her forehead creased, and her face showed concern. “You knew that guy?”
“Mike.” Jerry took a big breath. He hadn’t even realized when his lungs had started working again. “He was my partner.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just freaked out. I was in my room last night recovering from surgery, and his screaming woke me up. I looked out and saw the zombies eating him.”
“You’re calling them zombies?”
“Duh.” Another eye roll. “Uncoordinated. Not talking. Eating people. What else would you call them?”
“You’re the first person that hasn’t questioned it.”
“Yeah, well. Whatever you call them, we’re still trapped in here without any weapons.” Her eyes flicked up over his shoulder, and Jerry remembered the pieces of sharpened mop handle taped to his jacket. “Who are you supposed to be? Kick-Ass?”
“They’re for stabbing.” He twisted his upper body so she could see the sharpened ends.
Her upper lip curled. “So why didn’t you stab anyone?”
Jerry made an embarrassed shrug. “I forgot.” The constant pounding seemed to reverberate inside his head, and his skull throbbed. If he’d hit his head when he’d fallen, he could have a concussion. He should tell the girl the signs so she could keep an eye on him. He ran a hand over his skull. Didn’t come across anything but a small hematoma at the top of his forehead. If he did have a concussion, or suspected a fractured skull? Then what? Run down to the ER for a cat scan? Schedule surgery?
What the world had lost hit him with the force of being T-boned at an intersection. No more X-rays or radiology. He could manage some stitches and set a broken bone if it wasn’t too messed up. They had antibiotics at the station. But anything serious was more than likely a death sentence. Unless they found a doctor somewhere.
Jerry brooded, and neither of them said anything for awhile, and little by little, the intensity of the attack on the door decreased. In the relative quiet of what sounded like just one or two zombies hitting the door with their fists, the girl looked up at him.
“What’s your name?” she said, whispering right next to his ear.
“Jerry,” he whispered in hers. “What’s yours?”
“Holly. Can I see your arms and shoulders?”
“Why?”
“I need to make sure you didn’t get bitten. That big guy was chewing on you pretty good out there.”
“I guess you’re right. My jacket’s Kevlar though.”
Holly narrowed her eyes. “Better safe than a zombie,” she replied. “I don’t want to end up having a Shaun of the Dead moment, like when the stepfather turned on them in the car.”
“You know that movie?” Jerry shrugged out of his jacket and let her check him. “That was probably made before you were even born.”
“Actually, it was made in 2004, six years after I was born. And why can’t I like a movie that was made before I was born? Did you like Night of the Living Dead?” Without waiting for an answer, Holly continued, “Of course, you did. It’s a classic. And it was made in 1968, at least a year or two before you were born.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t a great film.”
Jerry smiled. Rachel would love the kid. “Good point. It’s just that you’re about the only girl I’ve met who likes zombie movies, never mind being able to cite release dates.”
“I had two older brothers. If I wanted to watch something, I watched what they liked.”
After she pronounced Jerry bite free, they switched positions, and he checked her.
“Oh shit. I almost forgot.” Holly crossed her arms and looked at him. “Pull up your pant legs. People are always getting bitten on their calves.”
Jerry frowned, remembering the guy chewing on Mike, and pulled up first one, then the other pant leg. “So what’s your story?” They were whispering face to face. The volume of the assault on their door had decreased again; there was maybe only one determined zombie left.
Holly told him she had been admitted the day before to have an ovarian cyst removed. The next thing she knew, she’d woken up to Mike’s screaming. “I saw them take him down and then pushed the bed against the door and spent the night waiting for them to climb over. I mean, just because the movies only have them stumble around doesn’t mean they can’t climb. I was trying to figure how to get the window open when I heard you in the ceiling. You’re lucky I didn’t stab you.” She pulled a plastic knife from the pocket of her gown and smiled.
“Thanks.” Jerry smiled then gave Holly a quick summary of everything that had happened to him. Then he told her about the ambulance waiting around the corner. “I think we could tie some sheets together and slide down to the ground.”
“Sounds good to me. Hold the door for a second.” She walked to the other side of the bed and bent down. When she stood back up, she had an armful of bedsheets. They bulged with knots. “You can drop me off. My house is on the way.”
Babysitting a teenaged girl during the apocalypse wasn’t something he had ever thought about, but this girl seemed to have it together. Probably more than most people, even himself. While Jerry was worrying about his wife and what he had lost, Holly was making her own bedsheet rope. “What about your surgery? Can you move without tearing your stitches?”
“I don’t have any stitches. They took it out with one of those scope things. And anyways, the doctor said I would be able to move around normally after.”
Finding her parents alive didn’t seem likely, but he really had no choice. And it wouldn’t hurt to have another pair of eyes watching his back. She was about five-foot-six or seven. Slim and athletic-looking with long legs and broad shoulders. He hoped she wasn’t lying about the running. “Okay, where are your clothes?”
“Oh man! I never even thought of that. Maybe they’re in this closet.” Holly opened the faux cherrywood cupboard beside the bed. “All right!”
Holly changed into jeans and a sweatshirt with
battered running shoes while Jerry looked out the window, appalled again by the carnage. Not a single living thing moved on the lawn or in the surrounding parking lots. There were just dead and ravaged bodies wherever he looked. He couldn’t believe the world he knew could have disappeared so quickly. When he turned back around, he realized Holly had no jacket. Once they made it to the ambulance, if they made it, Holly could use Mike’s. At least it would do someone some good. He thought again about how if Mike had been a little less hard-headed, he would be with them. Then Jerry wondered if anyone he cared about was still alive. The dream about Rachel had seemed so real he was still having a hard time pushing the image out of his head.
Jerry pried the stop off the window frame using a set of forceps he’d found in a drawer. The multi-tool had a set of pliers, but it was stuck in someone’s head, and he wasn’t going out there to get it. Fifteen minutes later, after many muttered curses and a couple of bruised knuckles, he had mangled the window frame and the forceps, when the stubborn bolt finally popped off.
After checking the knots on Holly’s rope, Jerry secured it to the bed, tossed the other end out the window, and turned to Holly. “I’ll go first. Don’t start climbing till I hit the ground.” Holly nodded. “If any zombies come, I’ll lead them away from the building, and you run around to the ambulance at the ER entrance. It’s blue and white with a number ten on the side. Get in the passenger seat and lock yourself in. When you see me get close, unlock the door on the driver’s side.”
Holly nodded and held out her hand. “Keys.”
Jerry was about to object when she stopped him with a palm in his face and shook her head. “Look, if you’re going to go all hero and get eaten, I don’t want to have to dodge a bunch of zombies and rummage through your bloody clothes for them before I can leave. Plus, if you don’t die, I can pick you up.”
Without another word, Jerry shook his head and handed her the keys. Falling out of the ceiling might have been the best thing he could have done to increase his chances for getting home alive.
Climbing down was uneventful. A couple zombies were inside one of the rooms as he climbed past, but they were staring at the opposite wall and didn’t notice him. He jumped the last five feet, and by the time he scanned the area, Holly was already a third of the way down. She wasn’t slowing him down yet.
Holly dropped to the ground beside him. Someone started pounding on one of the ground-floor windows. They both flinched and jogged toward the corner of the building. Jerry took the corner wide to avoid any zombies that might be lurking around it.
As they rounded the corner, a sound like giant metal fingernails on a chalkboard came from behind them. Jerry looked back. Three zombies were coming their way. Their shambling gait was much faster than that of a standard zombie.
“Time to use those track skills,” Jerry said, and sprinted for the ambulance.
Holly wasn’t lying about her speed. She passed him halfway to the ambulance and hit the driver’s side door ten yards ahead of him. She yanked it open and dove in just as he arrived. He followed and slammed the door.
A loud bang made him jump.
Holly let out a yelp.
The lead zombie was pounding the window while pulling on the side-view mirror. More were flowing around the corner of the hospital. Many more.
“Where did they all come from?” Jerry said.
Holly punched him in the arm. “Drive!”
She had already put the key in the ignition. Jerry shook his head once and started the engine. He yanked the shift lever, and they shot out of the ambulance bay with a roar. Jerry looked in his side-view mirror.
“Holy crap!” Holly yelled. She was looking out her side window as well. Zombies were shambling through the ER’s broken sliding doors, and bunches of zombies were coming from everywhere—all focused on the ambulance.
Avoiding an abandoned car with a massive twist of the wheel, Jerry jumped the curb. The ambulance bucked and rocked into the landscaping. The wheels spun, and they plowed through plantings of yellow flowers and some waist-high bushes. Holly pressed both hands against the ceiling, holding herself in the seat as they crashed through a section of split-rail fence. They bounced back onto the road, and Jerry pointed the ambulance toward the main road, hoping they hadn’t gotten a flat tire. The highway heading north was clogged with cars. Hundreds of zombies were moving toward them from every direction, including the surrounding buildings and houses.
“These things are everywhere,” Jerry yelled, swerving to miss two zombies running directly at the ambulance.
Holly looked at him. She had just finished strapping herself in. “Duh!” she yelled over the engine’s whine. “It’s the zombie apocalypse. That’s how it works.”
Jerry shot a look her way then jerked the wheel to miss another suicidal zombie. She seemed to be taking things in stride. The thing he might need to worry about now might be slowing her down.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rachel had learned a ridiculous amount of what she thought was useless knowledge from Jerry over the years. Ever since they were first dating, when he was in paramedic school, he’d talked to her about everything. One of the ways he’d fixed the things he was learning in his mind was by talking about them out loud. “Adrenaline is an amazing thing,” Jerry had said one night out of the blue. “It’s produced naturally by the body, but we can use it to treat all kinds of emergencies. From allergic reactions to cardiac arrests—respiratory problems, too.” He went on to detail the ways he used it on the ambulance and how the body reacted. Rachel hadn’t tried to memorize anything, but it seemed like she had retained more than she realized.
That was how she knew the adrenaline surge from the fight with Barry and Steve—she couldn’t believe she’d had the guts to actually stab those two misogynistic shit-bags—was wearing off. She had also known where and how to stab and had reacted in the moment, without thinking about. Doing whatever she had to, just like Jerry had said she would. But adrenaline could only carry her so far, and as she leaned against the mansion’s front door with the pack pushing her into an uncomfortable hunched over position, she had to clasp her hands together to slow their shaking. The terror of being chased for the first time by honest-to-god zombies might have been causing some of the shaking, too. Thinking about what would have happened if the driveway had been asphalt instead of gravel—and the fat man’s footsteps had been silent—made her want to puke. Blood from the two tweakers covered her hands and spotted her clothes. They’d said something about being bitten.
Rachel felt as if the thought flipped a switch that sent electricity charging through her muscles. She scrambled to her feet and sprinted for the kitchen, banged through the swinging door and rushed over to the big clean-up sink. Jerry had said something about rabies being transmitted through saliva, but she wasn’t sure what that meant. Was it only saliva? How much? Did you have to get it in your mouth, or could you absorb it through your skin? Rachel wasn’t taking any chances. She kicked her boots off and stripped down to her underwear before climbing into the big sink. She used the hanging sprayer to hose herself down, then squirted dish soap onto herself from head to toe and scrubbed every part she could reach with a green scrubbing pad that left her skin raw and stinging. She paid careful attention to the ear Brian had whispered into, imagined she could still feel his slimy lips brushing against it. For good measure, she made a diluted mixture of bleach and water and doused herself and her clothes, including boots, with it. When the mixture hit the knife wound on her shoulder, a scream escaped her lips before she clamped her mouth shut. Rachel looked at the cut. It was about an inch and a half long, and the scrubbing had caused a fresh trail of blood to ooze down the outside of her tricep.
“I guess that’s the price I pay for keeping my knives so sharp,” she muttered as she dabbed blood from the area with a dish towel. She climbed out of the sink, and after dressing in a clean t-shirt and jeans from her emergency kit—that left her with only one pair of pants and two shirts
—she dressed the wound with a piece of a clean dish towel and wrapped it with a couple feet of duct tape. She also covered the tear in her jacket with more layers than were absolutely necessary, but she wasn’t going to be the one who died because she didn’t want to waste duct tape. The thought that they wouldn’t be making any more of it made her pause for a second before she shook her head and thought of more important things. There was no telling how long the zombies would be occupied with the tweakers, but it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to hang around until they remembered there was someone in the house.
The motorcycle suit was still damp when she pulled it on and slung the pack over her shoulder. The moisture was already soaking through her shirt when she reached the back door. She couldn’t see any movement in the mansion’s backyard as she eased the door open with one hand, ready to yank it closed at the slightest sign of trouble, and gripped her chef’s knife with the other.
The large manicured yard seemed empty except for the massive planters and decorative rocks that could hide several families of zombies. The scale of the backyard landscaping was incredible. Grecian urns nearly as tall as a person overflowed with festive arrangements of mums, and decorative cabbage and pansies lined the serpentine path to the back fence. The sun’s rays sparkled on the surface of a kidney-shaped koi pond the size of her entire apartment. The scene looked almost peaceful. She could imagine enjoying a cocktail at one of the five umbrella-shaded picnic tables scattered throughout the massive flagstone patio—if only there wasn’t the threat of zombies or psychotic drug addicts lurking in the manicured bushes dotting the area.