I expected that he would tell me to go to hell, and that he wouldn’t risk his people for a stupid clinic, but apparently they were all as anxious to get out and do something as Cam’s men. Of course, it would be interesting when the white supremacists met the black gang members, but I got assurances from both Cam and PayRay that everyone would be on their best behavior. I just prayed that their best would be good enough.
The date the clinic was to open was November 21. I wasn’t sure how to spread the word, but somehow the Voice of the Hudson learned about it (how did he know all this stuff?) and he made several broadcasts. On the 19th and 20th, Cam’s men brought generators and supplies to build some temporary structures on the island. I spent night and day gathering and organizing all my medical supplies. There was a constant buzz of activity, and I was excited to see if anyone showed up so I could have a chance to practice real medicine again.
Some of PayRay’s people had checked out Cornwall and “kicked some zombie ass” to secure the docks there, but no one had checked out Newburgh yet. I needed a break, so I volunteered to see what shape that town was in. Cam did not like the idea of me going alone, but we honestly couldn’t spare anyone who was building the clinic buildings (which were really just sheds) and planning security. I promised him I would just be taking a look.
The majority of the docks below Broadway in Newburgh were broken and splintered, the result of one, large motor yacht whose infected captain, in his delirium, had misjudged both his speed and trajectory. The yacht, with several gaping holes torn it its sides, now rested on the muddy bottom of the shallow marina amidst large heaps of shattered planks.
Someone with a sense of humor had hoisted a bed sheet on its mast, with the hand painted words, “S.S. Minnow,” but Gilligan’s Island never had a zombie problem like this. There was a season three episode where the Professor was turned into a zombie (don’t ask me how I remember this embarrassing fact), but he was very much alive the entire time, so it was more like being under a spell.
What would have been more realistic, would have been if radiation from all the atomic bomb tests in the Pacific had caused similar parasitic mutations in the waters around Gilligan’s Island, and they had all become infected. Naturally, Ginger would have been the first to be eaten, but the Professor would have then quickly synthesized an anti-parasitic serum from coconuts and fermented seaweed and saved everyone else.
(Wow, did I just write that? Just goes to show the effects of spending too much time alone.)
Anyway, there was still one intact length of dock on the south side of the marina, where I tied off at the point farthest into the water. Before heading into town, I spent some time prying up planks to create a few three-foot gaps. If any zombies did have the cojones to chase me out over open water, they would never be able to traverse the gaps with their limited mobility. In other words, “Dead White Men Can’t Jump.” (Or any other color or gender, for that matter.)
My primary mission was to assess the zombie population to see if this was a safe and viable location to pick up people for the clinic. I promised Cam that the instant I saw any large packs of zombies I would run back to the docks, but I found myself heading farther down Broadway with no sign of zombies. Actually, that wasn’t true. There were plenty of zombies, it’s just that they were all dead.
Someone had been eradicating piles of them with sharpshooter-accurate head shots. I found stacks of relatively fresh kills placed on the side streets just off Broadway. I knew they were fresh kills, as other zombies hadn’t started eating them yet. That was one thing a zombie was good for—consuming every last little bite of flesh so there wasn’t the constant stench of rotting corpses everywhere.
I should have made some cautious attempts to find the person or persons responsible for this efficient zombie reduction policy, but that day I was feeling lucky and decided to throw caution to the wind—for the most part. From the cover of a couple of overturned cars, I shouted out my name and said that I wanted to help people at a clinic on Bannerman’s Island. I would be happy to help anyone who needed it, and I would be even happier to have the assistance of someone who could shoot so well.
There was no response. I moved carefully down another block and repeated my message. Still no response. I was definitely not comfortable with how far I had come from the docks—especially being alone—and I decided not to press my luck any longer. As I was about to start heading back to my boat, I heard an odd squeaking sound. The sound echoed between the buildings and I couldn’t place the source at first. Then I saw a sight I never expected in a million years.
Right down the middle of the street came a grizzled old man in a wheelchair. In a wheelchair! He had a red bandanna on his head, with tangled masses of white hair spilling out from under it. He was wearing sunglasses, had a beard down to his belly, a leather vest and gloves, and a pair of tattered American flags waved at each back corner of the chair. As he rolled his way toward me, the wheels of the chair squeaked and squealed as if they hadn’t been oiled in ten years.
I stepped out into the middle of the street and walked toward him. The closer we got, the more details I could make out; like the scars all over his arms, and the blood-stained tears in his jeans. He had a pistol on each shoulder and a beautiful, old M21 sniper rifle across his lap. Could this man be the zombie assassin whose victims lay in heaps around us?
“You’re a doctor?” he asked as if it was impossible. Why didn’t anyone ever believe me?
“Yes, I’m Dr. Rebecca Truesdale, and I’m starting a clinic over on Bannerman’s Island,” I replied with a smile, hoping this guy wasn’t crazy, and dangerous.
“Why?” he asked with a scowl, which was plainly visible even with all the hair.
That was a question I didn’t expect.
“Uh…because…I want to help other survivors. I’m sure people are sick and injured, and I have some medicine that will prevent infection. I’d be happy to give you some,” I said, cautiously putting my hand in my pocket while I held my other hand in the air. I didn’t want him to think I was drawing a gun.
“Don’t need any of your damn pills. And I don’t need no damn doctor.”
“But if you take one of these within 24 hours of getting infected it will cure you,” I said slowly and loudly, in case he hadn’t heard what I said the first time.
“I ain’t deaf, and I ain’t stupid. And I don’t need no damn doctor. I been bit by these unholy bastards and I ain’t got no infection,” he said, thrusting his arms forward to show me that the wounds and scars on his arm were clearly teeth marks. As some looked as though they had healed months ago, the parasites should have had plenty of time to zombify him.
“How long ago? And how many times have you been bitten?” I asked in the same incredulous tone in which he questioned my medical degree.
“First time was back in July, and by my own girlfriend, for Christ’s sake! Sure did hate to put a bullet in her head. You should have seen the rack on that woman! Bless my soul, but she was well endowed. Don’t rightly know who all the others were who bit me, but it’s been a total of 27 times. That I do know,” he said running his fingertips over one of his scarred forearms.
“That’s impossible! They couldn’t have been zombies! You would have been infected!”
“Don’t you go telling me who I have or haven’t been bitten by, woman. Don’t you think I know a damn zombie when I see one? And what would regular folks be doin’ goin’ around biting an old man in a wheelchair? What kind of fool doctor are you, anyway, one of them worthless psychologists? Or maybe one of them bogus foot or ass doctors?” he said, smiling for the first time, and chuckling with a deep, throaty, two-pack-a-day laugh.
“I am NOT an ass doctor—I mean a proctologist,” I said, completely indignant and flustered. I was about to inform him of the areas of my medical expertise, when he swiftly raised his rifle and ordered me to hit the dirt.
I didn’t argue and flattened on the pavement like a pancake. An instant later he squ
eezed off a round from the M21 and then let out a howl of delight.
“Damn, there ain’t nothin’ like the smell of a spent shell in the morning,” he said, already wheeling passed me to attend to the body of the zombie he had just taken out at a distance of at least 300 yards.
I had to run to keep up with him, but he wouldn’t answer any questions until I helped him drag the body of the male zombie onto one of the piles.
“Lot easier with help. At least you’re good for something, even if you are a lousy ass doctor,” he said with a wink, as I finally realized he had been yanking my chain.
We then went into a building that used to be a store, which turned out to be one of many fortified safe houses he had created up and down Broadway. How he managed all that from a wheelchair without any help was simply astonishing.
“So, doctor, you want to hear why I think I don’t get infected?” he said, popping open a beer, but not offering me one.
“I’m all ears.”
“The name’s Smokin Rhodes, by the way. First name is really Reginald, but seeing as I hated it and I was known for smokin’ the enemy, that’s how I came about the name. Anyway, I completed 43 successful kill missions behind enemy lines in Vietnam,” he began with extreme pride, “and didn’t get a scratch. Then when I was finally shipping out the damn chopper crashed. My spinal cord was severed and I been stuck in this goddamned chair ever since.
“And you know what happened to me when I landed back on U.S. soil? This fuckin’ patchouli-smellin’ hippie in his tie-dyed, mother fuckin’, shirt, walks right up to me and spits on me. And he says it’s too bad I didn’t die. So I grab the hippie prick by his balls and squeeze til I felt somethin’ pop. Then I spit on him and thanked him for his warm welcome home.”
At this point, he stopped and looked at me as if waiting for some reaction. I had none. I was truly speechless, so he continued.
“So there I was back in the ungrateful country I served, gettin’ jerked around by Uncle Sam and the VA hospitals for decades, and feelin’ pretty damn bitter about life. Then this whole zombie shit comes down, and I realize that the chopper crash ended up saving my life!”
He stopped again, as if his explanation was complete.
“I’m sorry…but I’m missing your point,” I said, wondering if I was dense or he was just insane.
“Guess you ass doctors don’t know shit about these zombie parasites,” he said, as my temples began to throb in anger.
“I beg your pardon, but it just so happens that I am an expert on—”
“So as I was saying,” he continued as if I hadn’t even been speaking, “this chopper accident saved my life by severing my spinal cord. You see, the little bastard parasites take over your body after they weave their web from the top of your head to the bottom of your tailbone. If they can’t complete the circuit, so to speak, I guess they just curl up and eventually die. Do you get it now, or do I have to draw you a picture so you can understand? ”
I didn’t respond, as the squeaky wheels in my brain were spinning. Of course! Just as the I-ZIPs created gaps in the parasite network, this man’s injury prevented him from being killed and turned into a zombie! I didn’t exactly know if or how I could use this information, but it was fascinating.
“Remarkable!” I finally said, and then was interrupted by a sat phone call from Cam, worried as to what was taking me so long.
While I could sit there all day and listen to this unique character talk—even if he did repeatedly insult me—I really did need to get back to Bannerman’s Island and get back to work. I invited Smokin to come with me, although I had no idea how I would get him to my boat, but he flatly refused. But he did agree to keep “an eye on folks” who were headed for the docks and try to keep the streets clear of those “undead pricks who were almost as bad as hippies.”
I told him I would check on him again in a few days, then jogged quickly back to my boat. When I returned to the island, I related my unusual encounter with the irascible Vietnam vet. Some of the men promised to also look in on him, and bring him a couple of cases of beer and cartons of cigarettes. He may not need a damn doctor, but those were two essentials I’m certain he couldn't live without.
The Truesdale Clinic: We all worked late into the night of the 20th making last minute preparations. Now all we needed were patients. I hoped it wouldn’t be like the Halloween of 2011, when a freak Nor’easter snowstorm two days before had brought down trees and power lines throughout the northeast. My parents and I always went over the top decorating the lawn and house with ghouls and ghosts, but after all of our hard work, just a handful of kids came trick-or-treating. It was just too dangerous to send kids out on the streets under those conditions. It was very disappointing, although it did leave a pumpkin-shaped bucket full of chocolate bars for me!
I spent the night on my boat, as I always enjoyed the gentle rocking. I was sound asleep when Cam shook me awake shortly after dawn.
“Why are you getting me up so early?” I grumbled, rubbing my eyes. “Do we have a patient already?”
“I think you had better get up. There’s something you have to see,” he said with an enigmatic smile.
I had been so exhausted that I had fallen asleep in my clothes, so I just threw on a jacket and climbed topside. I was certain I must be dreaming when I looked up and down the river. A line of every kind of boat imaginable stretched both north and south. From luxury yachts to rowboats, and cigarette boats to rubber rafts, a sea of humanity surrounded Bannerman’s Island.
“Holy shit! I didn’t know this many people were still alive!” I said, jumping onto the dock and heading up the path to the makeshift medical facility.
“They started arriving a few hours ago. Some of the men have already been going up and down the line getting names and complaints, and handing out filters to test for infection. Most everyone is clean,” Cam said, handing me a clipboard with sheets of patient lists.
I was simultaneously elated and petrified. What had I gotten myself into! I hadn’t even practiced medicine yet as a full-time doctor, and here I now had hundreds of people depending on me. I stopped short and grabbed Cam’s arm
“I can’t do this alone! I’m not qualified for this! I just thought I would stitch up a few wounds and hand out pills,” I said, breaking into a sweat.
“Trues, Trues, Trues, of course you can do this! And you won’t exactly be alone,” he said pointing to a group of men and women with clipboards and stethoscopes.
“Who the hell are they?”
“Other doctors who want to help. And there’s also a dentist, and some nurses and paramedics inside,” Cam said, pointing up to a sign nailed to the top of the largest building. “They all heard about the Truesdale Clinic.”
Someone had taken half a sheet of plywood and in fancy lettering written “Truesdale Clinic” with red crosses in white circles on either side. It brought a tear to my eye, but I knew I would have to bust my butt to earn that honor. Taking a deep breath, I marched right up to the other doctors and introduced myself.
They all congratulated me on having the guts to undertake such a mission of mercy, and I profusely thanked them for helping me—as I was obviously way in over my head. There were three general practitioners, a pediatrician, a neurologist, two surgeons, an ob/gyn, and—would you believe it—a proctologist! A world-renowned cardiologist from Westchester Medical soon joined us after his multi-million dollar yacht anchored nearby. An acupuncturist came ashore in a kayak. A chiropractor even arrived later that morning, Dr. Art Donohue. He had reached our Cornwall ferry location after a twenty mile trip from Chester, on his bicycle! Talk about dedication!
There was also a woman, Lieutenant Susan Groff, who had been a nurse with the Marines in Iraq and Afghanistan. She asked if would be okay if she “organized and prioritized all the patients and sent them to the most appropriate physicians for consultations and treatments.” My grateful response was simply, “Semper Fi!”
It was amazing how quickly eve
ryone settled into a clock-like routine. Cam and PayRay handled all the security and ferries (although PayRay spent as little time as possible on the water as it made him queasy). The seasoned medical staff was a wonder to behold, as despite being in crude cabins on a windswept island in the midst of a zombie apocalypse with limited diagnostic tools and supplies, they went about their business as if it was just another day at the fanciest medical center. And as for the patients themselves, they were remarkably orderly and well-behaved, considering most of them were undernourished and suffering varying degrees of post- traumatic stress syndrome. To our relief, many only wanted their quota of Eradazole (four tablets per person) and then left.
The Marine nurse, who we all quickly began to call “The General,” relegated my role to cases of infection, which made the most sense and was clearly in my comfort zone. My shed/office was away from the others, and came to be called the ZIP Zapping Station, which I didn’t particularly care for, but it beat being called an ass doctor. Fortunately, most people who believed they were infected were not, and were just suffering from ordinary backaches, sore necks, or indigestion.
Any uninfected people with spinal issues were sent to the chiropractor tent (we didn’t have enough buildings). In fact, after hours on my feet I reported to Dr. Donohue’s tent, as well, for a quick adjustment. All the indigestion cases were issued some antacids. It was impossible to tell those people to avoid stress and watch what they ate, because everyone was stressed and ate whatever they could find. If you happened to have a case of cans of extra spicy chili, you considered yourself lucky.
There were 14 treatable cases of infection, and I still had plenty of QK drugs at my disposal. Of course, the treatments would necessitate them spending several days, so the building crew immediately began erecting an “Isolation Ward” with a woodstove at each end, as the nights were now often well below freezing. The General assigned one of the nurses to the isolation ward to give me a hand, which was a lifesaver given the number of patients.
HVZA (Book 1): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse Page 22