“What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” he asked in a wild-eyed panic.
“The baby is feet first. Actually, one foot first. Anita needs a C-section but I don’t know how to do that. I’m afraid the baby isn’t getting enough oxygen,” I explained as calmly as I could.
“Oh my god, is the baby going to die? Is my wife going to die?” he yelled, grasping the sides of his face.
“I’ll do what I can. I’ll try my best, but there are risks, you understand that?” I asked, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. “And I’ll need your help.”
“Yes, yes, doctor, of course. I’ll do anything.”
I put one hand on Anita’s lower abdomen and one internally. Between the contractions and the one exposed foot, I couldn’t shift the baby’s position. I was truly groping in the dark until I somehow managed to find the other foot, or it was emerging on its own. It didn’t matter, if I could get a hold of both feet I had a better chance of pulling the baby out, but I was so nervous and I couldn’t get a good grip.
Finally, I had a decent grasp of both legs and told Anita to push with all her strength. She screamed at the top of her lungs and pushed and pushed with all the energy she had left.
Is this fucking baby nailed to her uterus?
I was pulling as hard as I dared, she was pushing with all her might, and George passed out on the floor.
Men!
Finally, just when I was afraid I would lose both the mother and child, I felt something start to give. With one more forceful push and tug, a little baby boy slid out into my hands! And wasn’t that wrinkled, gooey little thing just one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen! And thank god everything appeared to be okay and he seemed to be healthy.
Anita was completely exhausted, but glowing with joy when I placed her new son in her arms. And when George got up off the floor, he actually wept in joy and relief. Both of them thanked me over and over, and said that if it had been a girl they would have named her after me. And wasn’t I just beaming with pride and so satisfied with myself, until I turned my back and heard the distinctive click of the hammer of a revolver being pulled back.
In total disbelief, I turned to see George pointing my own gun at me. I had removed my two should holsters during the delivery, and now this son of a bitch was pointing my own gun at me!
“Okay, this must be some sort of a joke, because I just brought your son into the world and I saved both of their lives,” I said starting to step closer to him, but stopping when he raised the gun and aimed it right at my head.
“And for that we will always be grateful. But I have a family to take care of, and we will need your boat and supplies,” he said with no hint of remorse or regret.
“Anita, talk some sense into your husband, please!”
“I’m sorry, doctor, but we have our baby to look after,” she said as casually as if she was dismissing the babysitter.
“So, what, you’re going to leave me stranded here with no food, no water, and no protection?” I asked, hoping that was their plan, and not something more…fatal.
“You can have our boat after we’re gone. I’m sure you’ll be fine,” George replied, tossing me a strip of torn towel to tie around my wrist. After I put my hands on either side of a support column, he tied my wrists together. “One of your friends will probably be along some time looking for you.”
“But that could be days! At least leave me some water and food,” I said, wondering just how cold and callous they were.
“Sorry, but we can’t spare any. We have a baby to take care of, you know” Anita replied, then started cooing and cuddling her son as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
That’s all I needed to know. As soon as George’s back was turned, I dropped down and pulled the knife out of the holder on my left ankle and cut sliced the towel off my wrists. Then I yanked the revolver out of the holster on my right ankle and didn’t hesitate to shoot George in the back. I don’t know if I was so upset my aim was off, or I really didn’t want to kill him, but the bullet went into his right shoulder. He howled in pain, dropped the gun, and dropped to his knees.
I raced over to retrieve my guns, then kicked him down to the floor and told him if he moved an inch I would blow his fucking head off. Anita was screaming that her husband would bleed to death, that I had to help him, and I just looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. I was so, so tempted to just kill them both, but there was the small matter of that little baby I had just helped take his first breath.
I honestly didn’t know what to do, so I called Cam. He told me to sit tight and they would be back in about an hour.
Anita continued to bitch and moan and ask me how I could be so cruel and heartless as to shoot her husband. After all, they had a baby to take of, you know.
“Lady, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I swear I will kill you, your husband, and your baby!” I shouted, trembling with anger. Of course, I never thought for an instant about hurting an innocent child. The parents, however, were another story.
We all sat in silence—except for the baby crying and George groaning in pain—for the next hour. And what a relief it was when I heard the sound of the engine of Cam’s boat. I knew he would find a solution to this mess. The first thing he did when he entered the building was to pull George to his feet so he could punch him in the face and knock him down again. Then he lowered his boot onto George’s wounded shoulder and pressed down until the man screamed for mercy. I had never seen Cam so angry in my life. Anita started screaming again, but one hard slap to her face by one of the other men put an end to that.
The four men then dragged the husband outside and from the sounds of it, they were beating the crap out of him. Normally, I wouldn’t stand for anything like that, but under the circumstances, it was hard to keep myself from joining in the beating. When they were done, Cam came back inside and said I might as well pull the bullet out of George’s shoulder, but not to waste any painkillers on him.
“What do you plan to do with them?” I asked, more out of curiosity than concern
“Because of the baby, and only because of the baby, we will escort them down the river. And if we ever see either of you again we won’t hesitate to kill you,” Cam said, staring directly at the terrified mother so she would get the point.
George passed out as I removed the bullet from his shoulder, then stitched him up. I splashed a little rubbing alcohol on the wound and the various fresh cuts on his face—particularly on the “Z” that had been gouged into his left cheek. When I heard Anita screaming in pain, I knew she was also receiving the telltale brand that would alert other survivors that she was not be trusted.
Despite everything that had happened, and the fact that they had both been willing to leave me to die, I was concerned about sending a newborn away so soon after the difficult delivery, but Cam insisted that we not waste another minute on these worthless people. While Cam held a gun to George, I carried the baby, and the three men carried Anita to their aluminum boat. I did give them some food, water, medicine, and a couple of towels and blankets, even though Cam protested.
We tied their small boat to the back of Cam’s, and I followed them as they were towed downriver. I hadn’t been south of Nyack in a long time, and I was shocked when the George Washington Bridge came into view, with its entire center span missing. There were curls of smoke rising from the city—bonfires for the dead, or campfires for the living? There was the occasional car alarm echoing through the streets and across the water, and once or twice I thought I heard a distant gun shot. But there were no clear signs of life.
There were plenty of signs of the dead, however. Through my binoculars, I didn’t just see packs of zombies, there were hordes of them, armies of them! Sections of the Henry Hudson Parkway were jammed with zombies, shuffling along shoulder to shoulder, like in some grisly parade. I couldn’t imagine how anyone had managed to escape from Manhattan—or was now managing to survive. After a while, I couldn’t even look a
nymore; it was way too depressing and upsetting. If only I had a few of those infected cow brains with me to toss to the hungry masses!
But first things first, there was the matter of sending a family off to face god-knows-what with a newborn baby. When we got as far as lower Manhattan, Cam cut the rope, told George to start his engine, head south, and never return again. George didn’t say a word, but Anita started chirping again about this cold, cruel world, and how could people be so heartless as to turn out a family to face certain death? The last words I heard as they sputtered off in their tin can boat were, “We have a baby to take care of, you know!”
As if that excused all sins! As if bringing one new life into the world meant you had the right to forfeit other lives. As if it gave you carte blanche to mistreat and deceive everyone else for the sake of one life. I prayed that if that baby somehow managed to grow up, he wouldn’t be anything like his parents.
For all the good we had done at the clinic, and all the good will and positive feelings it had generated overall, I came away with a single thought—never, ever, turn your back.
Thanksgiving, Apocalypse Style: Thanksgiving at my house was always filled with the delectable aromas of my mother’s cooking, the Macy’s parade on television in the morning, football in the afternoon, and relatives I both liked and disliked. In short, it was just like millions of other American Thanksgiving days.
When I awoke this Thanksgiving morning in Cam’s arms (we had been too exhausted for sex, so it was just snuggling), for a moment the wonderful smell of food in the air made me think I was back home with my mom in the kitchen and my dad getting in the way, trying to sneak a taste of everything. That illusion quickly vanished, but the aromas did not.
“What are they doing out there that smells so good?” I asked Cam as I stretched my aching muscles and tried to shake some life into my left hand, which was still asleep.
“We are having a feast, my Lady. If the pilgrims and Indians could do without supermarkets and microwaves, than so can we!”
I took a quick shower and got dressed, then went outside to see if I could help. Well, actually, with my culinary ineptness, the best way I could help would be to stay out of everyone’s way. The first thing I noticed was that in addition to all of Cam’s men, there were also some women, and I recognized several from Fort Ace. There were also some children and some other men I didn’t recognize.
I wondered how they were going to feed all these people, until my nose led me to several deer and wild turkeys being roasted over an open fire. There were also big pots of vegetables cooking, and wood-fired brick ovens baking bread and pumpkin pies. Oh, how I missed my mom’s fresh bread! Just give me homemade bread and water (and chocolate, of course) and I would be a happy woman.
While I was content to simply sit and watch the feast preparation, a woman immediately handed me a knife and a bowl of carrots. I honestly did try my best, but the third time I cut myself she grabbed the knife away from me and told me to go carry firewood. Maybe it was just a mental block, perhaps if she had given me a scalpel I would have had better luck with the carrots, but I didn’t protest and was happy to carry wood, instead.
By late afternoon, the dinner bell was literally rung at the dining hall of the former resort. The kids had made orange and brown construction paper chains to hang along the walls, and had also colored pictures of pilgrims and turkeys, although I couldn’t quite tell which was which! After we all gathered around the long tables placed end to end, Cam proposed a toast with fresh-pressed apple cider,
He spoke of the trials we had all faced, but emphasized our resilience, ingenuity, and determination to survive. He actually had us all believing that we should be thankful, that as long as we were together (and he looked right at me when he said that), we gave each other strength and hope. It was an inspiring speech, until he ended with, “Now let’s pig out and get drunk!”
I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten that much. It was probably last year’s Thanksgiving. I had forgotten the simple pleasures of home-cooked food. In the middle of my second piece of pumpkin pie, I also remembered the discomfort of overeating. I just wanted to curl up and go to sleep, until someone yelled that the football game was starting.
They had set up a big screen television in the rec room, with a generator outside to run it. Someone had brought a DVD player and the boxed collector set of Super Bowl XLII—when my beloved NY Giants beat the previously undefeated NE Patriots 17-14 in one of the greatest games in history, and one of the happiest moments of my life. I had probably already seen the game ten times, but it is something I never get tired of watching. And it never failed; as many times as I watched, I was still afraid that the “Miracle Catch” would never be thrown because Manning would be sacked, or Tyree would drop the ball, or it would be ruled incomplete. It was amazing how that single play still had the power to raise my heart into my throat.
In other words, with all the food, football, and friends, it was all a fabulous day. In fact, even with the shit storm sweeping across the world, I was happy and content. I knew I may never live to see another Thanksgiving, that everyone here might be dead by then, but in the live-for-the-moment world of the zombie apocalypse, this was a damn good moment. And it got a lot better when I slid into bed with Cam, and we both decided we weren’t that tired.
Seasons Eatings: In a hostile world, being somewhere safe with someone who loves you should keep you firmly anchored to that place. Then there was me.
After a couple of days at the compound, I grew restless. There were people to help and zombies to kill, and I couldn’t do either where I was. The day after Thanksgiving we had a few inches of snow, but it quickly melted. But the clock was ticking on the weather, and I may only have weeks, or days, to travel on clear roads.
As usual, Cam was completely perplexed by my decision to leave. But as usual, he knew there wasn’t anything he could do to stop me. Which isn’t to say he didn’t try. He told me how much everyone needed me, how much everyone cared about me.
“Even Smokin has stopped calling you the ass doctor and started calling you the doctor with the great ass!” he said, thinking that would convince me.
“Look, I promise, just a couple of weeks, tops,” I told him as I packed my gear into the Humvee. “There’s some things I have to do, and I need my lab.”
“Okay, I give up! I can’t keep up with all your science stuff. I never could,” he said with such an air of sadness that it made me kiss him.
“Two weeks. I promise,” I shouted out the window as I drove off.
It was only about 20 degrees that morning, and I didn’t see any zombies out and about the entire way home. They clearly did not like the cold, and there were stories about them huddling together in basements all night, and not emerging until it warmed up later in the morning. That was good to know, and I began to hope that any zombies caught outside this winter might perish.
After all, in every other regard they were still human, and freezing to death was just as good as a bullet—or an infected cow brain.
Which was the main reason I returned to my house in Nyack—to produce more infected meat grenades. I had been haunted by the scenes of the thousands of zombies packing the streets of Manhattan, and I just had to do something. A few dozen meat grenades might just start a chain reaction that would seriously thin the herd. I don’t know why anyone from West Point hadn’t distributed some cow brains in the city yet. Maybe they had, and there were just too many zombies to have a significant effect.
To keep warm in my house, I had the woodstove going almost constantly. Every other day, though, I would get one of the generators going just as a splurge to heat the entire house with the furnace, and to heat some water for a bath and to wash my clothes. I suppose I could have managed by heating water on the woodstove, but I needed some moments of indulgence now and then. One day I even tried to bake a chocolate cake, but that didn’t go so well. The infected meat grenades I was producing probably tasted better.
> After about a week, I had cases of grenades prepared and ready to launch—literally. Inspired by the innovative weapons makers of Fort Ace—and having watched several seasons of Punkin’ Chunkin’—I had devised a little trebuchet that could throw a lot farther than I could. I had tried it out in my backyard with some rocks, and was quite pleased with the results. This way, I could keep my distance to the shore and still have the ability to deliver my deadly presents. As it was Christmas time, I had indulged in a bit of foolishness and tied some green ribbon around each glass jar. It just looked so festive with the blood red contents!
Anyway, the day I had planned to make my deliveries was cold and it was sleeting, so I postponed the trip. The next day was in the 50s by mid-morning, which was much more hospitable weather, for both me and the zombie hordes. The way was clear down to the dock where I kept my boat, and I took some satisfaction that perhaps my Halloween meat grenades had been effective in reducing Nyack’s undead population.
I loaded the cases of grenades in a few minutes, but it took much longer to get my trebuchet assembled on the boat. I had kind of misjudged the dimensions of the boat, and the device just barely fit. In retrospect, I should have had Cam make it—but then I would have had to tell him what it was for, and he never would have approved of such a harebrained scheme.
The river was a bit choppy, but all in all it was a beautiful day for poisoning zombies. I had no specific launch points in mind; I would just go where the most zombies were and fire away. I kind of wish I had thought to wear my old pirate costume.
My first stop was just past what was left of the GW Bridge, to about 168th Street—where I should have been practicing medicine in Columbia. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, because it reminded me of everything I had lost. And as I didn’t see any concentrations of zombies near the riverbank, I quickly continued heading south.
As I was much closer to the shore than I had been on my last trip, I could see things flapping on the sides of many of the buildings. Through the binoculars, I could see that they sheets on which people had written things such as, “Don’t Abandon Us,” “We Are Still Alive,” or just plain, “Help!” Some of the sheets were torn and tattered by the wind and the lettering was streaked from rain, so there was no way of telling if the people who made these signs weeks or months ago were still alive.
HVZA (Book 1): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse Page 24