“Okay, boys, I’m going in,” I said as I began.
The rain pounded on the windows and the wind howled around the old lighthouse, but I was oblivious to everything but the task at hand. First I had to find the damn bullet, as with no x-rays, I had to rely on eyewitness accounts of the trajectory of the shot, and putting my finger in the wound, which I knew was dangerous as I could dislodge a clot.
The bullet appeared to have entered at a sharp, downward angle to the body, so I hoped there wasn’t any organ damage. I could have just used forceps to reach in and try to grab the bullet, but it appeared as though there had been internal bleeding , so I really needed to see what was going on in there. I tried to forget that this was Cam under my scalpel, but it was no use and I started to have second thoughts. Perhaps I could just get him stabilized until a real surgeon could get here?
I had Buckley get the surgeon at the clinic on the phone. I described in detail what I had found—the location of the wound, the blood loss, the low blood pressure, and the internal bleeding.
“All things considered, Becks, his best chance for survival is for you to perform this surgery and get some blood into him now,” he said, and then told me specifically what to look for, and what to avoid with the scalpel. “You can do it. You have to do it, Becks. Cam’s life is in your hands.”
Great. That’s what I was afraid of.
For a skilled and experienced surgeon, this would have been a relatively quick procedure. For me, it was long and agonizing as I was terrified of making a mistake—a potentially fatal mistake. I finally found the bullet lodged against the top of his pelvis—the iliac crest, if memory served me. The pelvis had a small fracture, but was intact. Fortunately, the bullet was also intact and had not fragmented. And I found an artery that was nicked and needed to be stitched, which was actually something I had practiced on cadaver arteries and was pretty good at. I double checked with another call to the surgeon before closing him up, and then it was just a matter of watching and waiting.
The units of blood soon brought some color back to his cheeks, and as the hours dragged by, his pulse grew stronger and his blood pressure returned to normal. I didn’t want to leave his side for a moment, but Buckley convinced me to finally take a break. I was still wearing those shorts and tank top, which were now covered in dried blood. I took them off and cleaned myself up, and then put on one of Cam’s t-shirts, which was like a dress on me. I bunched up the fabric of the shirt, held it up to my nose and breathed deeply of Cam’s scent. As memories of our good times together flooded over me, I heard Buckley shouting my name.
I ran into the kitchen, not knowing what I would find. There was Buckley and two other men trying to hold Cam down. The damn fool had regained consciousness and tried to get up! I figured if he was strong enough to struggle, he was strong enough to knock out, and a fast-acting sedative put him back into Slumberland. I checked to make sure he hadn’t torn any stitches, and then had the guys carry him to a bed.
The next morning he regained consciousness—and his senses—and although weak, he was stable and seemed to be out of the woods. But I wasn’t taking any chances and watched him like a hawk for three days. When I thought he was well enough to be moved, we brought him down to the clinic. By the end of a week, he was feeling well enough to be a pain in my ass complaining about being cooped up when there was work to be done.
As for the person that shot Cam, some of the guys from the compound tracked him down to a house on North Washington Street. It was easy to find him as he was shooting at them, too. They opened up with some pretty heavy fire power, and when the shooting stopped they went in to make sure the job was done.
What they found was a boy about nine or ten years old, who was completely out of his mind. He was rambling on about protecting his family, that he must keep them safe. He looked upon the men with terror, as if they were zombies. But whatever nightmare and torment had driven this boy to insanity did not last much longer, as he had been severely wounded in the lopsided exchange of gunfire and passed away whispering “must…kill...all zombies.”
From what they told me, every man there broke down in tears. No one wanted to kill a kid, especially one who didn’t know what he was doing—and especially one who had been through what this boy had endured.
While searching the rest of the house, they came upon the bodies of his parents and three siblings. They had once been a family of two boys and two girls—which they determined from photos on the wall. But you couldn’t tell from their remains. From what they could tell, it looked like the mother and three children had been eaten, and the father was shot in the head. It appeared as though the man had been infected, turned zombie, and started murdering his family—until his last remaining child shot him. And even after his entire family was dead, he continued to live in the house with the decomposing bodies. No wonder the poor boy had lost his mind!
We agreed to keep this information from Cam. Instead, I simply told him that the shooter must have been a scavenger who took off. I kind of wished they had told me the lie, as well. After all, how much horror was a person supposed to deal with in one lifetime?
Hope or Hopeless?: About a week later, rumors began to circulate that large packs of zombies were found dead. At first, I had hoped that my infected meat grenades had been the cause, but in addition to sightings along the Thruway, stories were coming out of places like Albany and Westchester, where I hadn’t used any of the grenades. It also seemed unlikely that they had all suddenly dropped dead of starvation, as pack members wouldn’t hesitate to immediately feed on their fallen comrades. Voth wasn’t much help, either. For almost a year you couldn’t shut this guy up, and now he would only say that “things were happening.”
I was in my lab one day when I heard people shouting. Then I heard a sound I hadn’t heard in ages—a helicopter! I raced outside with everyone else and we stared in fascination and excitement as a helicopter came south down the river, circled the island once, and then continued south. It was a military helicopter for sure, and everyone started cheering and waving their arms as if we were being rescued after being shipwrecked in the middle of nowhere.
We waited outside for an hour—many for much longer—for the helicopter to return. It never did. Some thought for sure that naval ships would come up the river at any moment. They never did. A few were certain a major land offensive was taking place and that troops, tanks, and armored vehicles would soon appear along the shores. They never did.
The sight of the helicopter was the cruelest trick of all. It was false hope, which can be worse than no hope at all. When a full week had passed with no other sightings of anything but packs of zombies relentlessly hunting, the mood at the clinic was dark…until a small military vessel approached the island early one morning.
Chapter 18
Phase 18: An Offer I Couldn’t Refuse: As the military craft approached Bannerman’s Island, The General placed her security team on Code Red. We had no idea of this vessel’s intentions, or if they were even genuine military personnel or raiders who had stolen a boat and uniforms. As the boat drew nearer to the dock, the men on board saw all of the guns pointed their way, and suddenly stopped their approach.
The General grabbed a megaphone and asked the nature of their business.
“Isn’t this the clinic?” an officer shouted back, clearly surprised at our display of firepower.
“Don’t tell me the Army needs the help of the Marines again?” The General said as she stepped out into plain view to reveal her uniform, which she always wore. Always.
“We are looking for Dr. Truesdale,” the officer replied, ignoring the insult. “Is she on the island?”
“If she was, what would you want with her?”
“We want to offer her a job.”
The General allowed the boat to dock, and then carefully studied everyone’s credentials. When she was satisfied that they were legit, she led the officer and one of his men toward my lab, under guard, of course. A big crowd
of doctors and patients had formed and excitement was high, but with just a mere wave of her hand the crowd parted and made way for The General.
The first I knew of what was going on, was when one of the nurses rushed into my lab talking 90 miles-an-hour about the Army, and how they wanted to speak to me, and that this must mean that things are getting better and they are preparing an offensive, and did I think we could all go home soon? Before I had a chance to ask her what the hell she was talking about, The General and the two men had arrived. I immediately recognized the officer as one of the Army doctors who had been working in ParGenTech, although I couldn’t recall his name.
“Dr. Truesdale, I am Captain Jenkins. Perhaps you recall that I was working on the ZIP project at ParGenTech,” he said, extending his hand and flashing a very white smile.
Who the hell had the luxury of getting a teeth-whitening treatment in the middle of a zombie apocalypse? As I shook his hand, I also noticed his smooth, manicured hands, and the fresh scent of shampoo and soap. I was embarrassed by what must have been my dirty and ragged appearance, but as I couldn’t recall the last time I even looked in the mirror, I didn’t know just how bad I really looked.
“Yes, I do recall that you were with the group of those sons of bitches who packed up and left us all to fend for ourselves,” I replied with considerable venom. I surprised even myself by the level of bitterness I was harboring. I guess fighting for my life all these months did not improve my social skills.
“Dr. Masterson warned me that you might not give us the warmest reception. In fact, I think the exact term he used was ‘hellcat,’ in reference to your proclivity for venting your displeasure,” the captain said as his white smile expanded until I thought I would need sunglasses.
“Phil? You’ve spoken to Phil!?” I asked as the bitterness melted away and bubbled up into excitement. I hadn’t heard a word from Phil all winter, and since spring arrived, I had been too busy to go up to his farm to check on him.
“He and his son are at West Point now. He’s working on the project again and he specifically asked us to try to find you. Of course, you have been on our radar for some time now with your work here at the clinic, and your impressive I-ZIP modifications,” he said with an altered smile—something I would categorize as sly. He clearly wanted to establish the fact that they had somehow been keeping tabs on what I was doing. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of showing him that I was rattled by the information.
“So, what, you’re here to get samples of my I-ZIPs and copies of all my lab notes?”
“No, Dr. Truesdale, we are asking you to return to the project. And I think you’ll find the special research facilities at West Point to be slightly more advanced than the shacks you have been working in. There are many promising developments in fighting the infection and eradicating the zombies,” the captain replied, his smile gone. “You can play a vital role in this battle for mankind.”
I was silent for a few moments while a million thoughts raced through my head. I could continue to be a bitch about all of this, but the truth was I would give my right arm to get back into a decent lab.
“Yes, I would love to return to the project. I could arrange my schedule so that I spend a few days a week here, and then a few days at the lab,” I said, thinking of the joy of being in a proper lab again, surrounded by scientists, and actually being able to take long, hot showers!
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible,” the captain said with an even more serious look.
“But…you just said…you said you wanted me back on the project,” I stammered, completely bewildered.
“You, of all people, Dr. Truesdale, are aware of the security measures we must maintain at such a high level research facility. We can’t allow you to risk your safety by being out here, and we also cannot risk contamination of the facility by having members of the research team bringing in god-knows-what from out here. I’m afraid that once you enter the facility, you will be there for the duration.”
His demeanor and the manner in which he spoke his words indicated that this issue was not negotiable. My first instinct was to tell him to go to hell, that the army abandoned all of us and left us to die and it was just too bad if they needed my help now, and that I was needed here to help the desperate survivors, and that I would never leave my patients or my friends. The captain could tell by my demeanor and silence that I was not exactly thrilled with the offer. He asked to speak to me in private.
Once we were alone, he told me about the work they were doing on Eradazole, which was now effective if taken up to a week after infection, not a mere 24 hours, and they were hoping to have something effective up to two weeks very soon. As for the QK drugs I was using, they were now considered crude and outdated compared with what they had now.
And there were other anti-zombie technologies they were working on at West Point. One project employed new sonic devices that repelled zombies. Several had recently been deployed around Kingston, Harriman, and Suffern. The goal was to drive large packs out into the open on the Thruway, away from any survivors, where the army planned to test several new chemical agents on them.
“Imagine our surprise when we discovered that most of the zombies were already dead,” the captain said with one of those sly smiles, waiting for the light to dawn in my eyes.
“That was me? I mean, that was because of my infected meat grenades?” I asked proudly.
“Startlingly effective,” he replied, not masking how impressed he was. “We collected samples and began using your I-ZIPs in other parts of the region, and in Manhattan, as well. Only instead of just poisoning meat, we are in the process of creating a method to dispense it in an aerosol form.”
There were many other projects underway at West Point, and other military bases and protected research facilities across the country, and around the world. But for all the good news, he made in quite clear that the human race was on the ropes. The zombies outnumbered us by staggering amounts, and even with the new medicines and weapons under development, it could all be too little too late.
“But I, for one, would rather go down swinging. And I believe you feel the same way,” he said, taking the liberty to put his hand on my shoulder.
I agreed, but I told him I just couldn’t abandon my work at the clinic. Sure, there were other doctors, but no one else had the expertise to treat cases of infection. The captain countered by informing me that even as we spoke, an aid station and medical facilities were being constructed on the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge. He explained that due to their aversion to water, zombies hated bridges. The location would also be ideal for survivors on both sides of the Hudson River who did not have access to boats.
“But my friends…”
My voice trailed off as I struggled to deal with the idea of leaving Cam and not being able to be with him again for a long time.
“We do still have telephones and video chatting, you know,” he responded, and then carefully chose his next words. “Things are…a lot different at West Point than they are out here. And yes, just for the record, I do feel guilty about being safe and secure all these months while all of you were thrust face-first into this zombie hell.”
We talked for a long time about the various projects, the plans to finally offer some help to survivors, and the chances that we would ever be able to live normal lives again. We both agreed that it was way too soon to even contemplate that last thought, as there was still the matter of a few billion zombies around the world. But if there was something within my power to do to end the zombie apocalypse, how could I say no?
“All right, Captain Jenkins, I am convinced,” I finally said, shaking his hand again to seal the bargain. “This is an offer I can’t refuse. But I do have some conditions…”
Where Things Now Stand: It’s summertime in the Hudson Valley, and while I don’t know the exact date, I know that we have passed the one year anniversary since the zombie infection began. I’ve been working in the research facility at
West Point for a couple of months now, and I’m proud and happy to say that we have developed many things that will give the human race a fighting chance to survive.
I had negotiated to allow Cam and his men to live in the protected towns of Fort Montgomery and Highland Falls, but being the stubborn, pigheaded survivalists that they are, they chose to remain at their compound. However, they have joined the military on several operations throughout the region, along with the people at Fort Ace, who also turned down the opportunity to move to a safer location. If I learned anything throughout this entire ordeal, it’s that people are willing to fight and do whatever they must to protect their homes and the people they love.
From what I hear, large populations of zombies still roam the Hudson Valley and travel is extremely dangerous on most local roads, although the military now patrols the major highways. Food is scarce, but farms are in full production and gardens are springing up everywhere. Someone said that seeds have replaced beer and cigarettes as the most sought-after commodity, but I find that very hard to believe. (Maybe they meant seeds for tobacco and hops!)
The latest batches of Eradazole (effective for up to two weeks) and QK drugs have drastically dropped infection rates. We have a sign on the wall of our lab that reads, “We have a zero tolerance policy against all zombies.” I’m not saying no new zombies are being created in the Hudson Valley, but that’s the goal we are working night and day to achieve.
We also have some delightfully nasty new biological and chemical weapons. Unfortunately, the problem still remains in finding a foolproof way of using these weapons while guaranteeing that no survivors are harmed as a result. As it turns out, the two most effective methods of killing zombies remain infected meat and a bullet to the head.
HVZA (Book 1): Hudson Valley Zombie Apocalypse Page 31