Serena Rogue (Book 1): Zombie Infestation

by Bushman, LJ

  I shook my head to get rid of the scenario. There was no point thinking how it could have been worse while it still could get worse. My head pounded, the sirens didn’t help. The adrenaline that had been pumping through me for a couple hours had receded, leaving me tired and in need of fuel. Not the best timing. Maybe I should start carrying around Power Bars. This was getting ridiculous.

  The ambulance slowed and made a few turns before stopping. I looked at the paramedic, who rapidly prepared Joseph to leave the ambulance. He pushed me to the side with a professional, “Excuse me.”

  The back doors opened. They wheeled Joseph into the hospital on the gurney.

  I hopped out of the ambulance and jogged to keep up with them. As nonchalant as the paramedic had seemed in the ambulance, he was all business now. They moved Joseph onto a hospital bed. The on-call staff started working on him. I turned away and leaned against the wall just outside his room.

  I slid down the wall as exhaustion took over. Thighs to my chest, I wrapped my arms around my legs and leaned my forehead on my knees. The cadence of the doctors and nurses’ voices rolled over me. They were speaking too fast for me to understand everything.

  Soon I heard another nurse come in and tell them the operating room was ready. I tried to stand, but was too low on fuel and got a head rush. I sat back down. Let them think I was an imbecile. It was better than creating an emergency when they were on their way to the OR with a man on the brink of death.

  After the team rushed out the double doors leading into the bowels of the hospital, I weakly stood. I moved slowly, pushing against the wall for purchase.

  “Excuse me,” I said to a passing nurse. “I need sugar. Now.” I let her assume I was a diabetic. It really didn’t matter. I just needed some liquid carbs in me right now. They asked me to sit, but I shook my head no. “Just some juice, if you can. Please.”

  I noticed a little talking between the nurse and one of the doctors, who looked me up and down. Nope, he wasn’t hitting on me. He gave me a very professional assessment. In short order, I’d been given a wheelchair to use. Well, given wasn’t quite the right word. A drill sergeant of a nurse stomped over and sat me in it. One may think she was the type who didn’t take no for an answer. She was the type who didn’t even ask the question. She pointed and I sat. Done deal.

  They wheeled me into an exam room a few doors down from where they’d assessed Joseph’s condition, and began firing questions. At first I was confused. Bloody leg? New cast? Then I remembered, I hadn’t cleaned up after the kidnapping. I also hadn’t had enough fuel for my body to do any effective healing. This was going to be fun.

  They gently moved me and started stripping off my leathers. My shirt wasn’t a problem yet, they didn’t see any signs of seepage through my shirt from the stomach wounds. Hopefully, they’d healed better than my legs. Something in Andrea’s drugs must have inhibited the speed of my healing. Usually, I didn’t heal this slow. Or maybe being undernourished and constantly attacked left my resources low. A pair of nurses raised my leg to cut under it and disposed of the flapping pieces of pants Andrea had mutilated earlier. My feet were bare. Bloody bare feet. I remembered the gun I’d put in the back of my pants. And the knife I’d dropped somewhere at the warehouse. Shit. Now the FBI had my prints—if they thought to run them before Raphael, or rather, the Deputy Director cleaned his knife.

  I waited for the doctors and nurses to leave for a moment, and through some fancy maneuvering—involving me looking like a circus freak show—I was able to get my gun tucked into the back of my sports bra. As I leaned back and felt the cold metal push into my spine, I realized it wasn’t my piece. It was Robins’. Shit, fuck. I sat up again and pulled it out. I put it under the sheet so the nurses didn’t freak when they came back.

  The drill sergeant nurse came in first. Just fucking peachy. I nearly held onto the gun in a fit of nerves. But I’d never allowed myself to be a ninny and I wasn’t about to start now. “Um, nurse?” Okay, a little afraid was fine.

  “What?” No nonsense and brisk. I could take it.

  “I have a gun.” Good going, Serena. Why don’t you just yell fire into a crowded room? Sarcasm, the shield of idiots everywhere.

  “I see. And what do you plan on doing with that gun?” One eyebrow rose, but that was the extent of her response to my announcement. Well…

  “I need to make sure it gets back to the FBI. The man in here with the gunshot wound is with the FBI. He was saving me when he got hurt.”

  “He’s in no condition to take care of the gun. It’s evidence, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. Yes, I supposed it technically was evidence.

  “Then you’ll have to hold onto it. Put it back where you had it before. I’ll make sure no one else sees it. I’d keep that announcement to myself around the other nurses, though.”

  Okay. I’d officially lost it. Maybe I dreamt all this. I looked at her questioningly.

  “I’ve been a medic overseas during battle. Weapons don’t frighten me. You’ve obviously been tortured. You might not be safe, even now. Hold onto it. A chain of evidence type of excuse is what I’d used if you’re caught with it. It’s noted that you came in with the wounded FBI agent. Just try not to let anyone else see it. We’ll keep you overnight after we get your wounds cleaned.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Yeah, I didn’t feel safe. Not with Andrea and her minions on the loose. I was pretty sure hospital policy didn’t include schlepping patients with their weapons from room to room, but now I was grateful for the drill sergeant nurse.

  “Thanks,” I said as something occurred to me. “What was your rank when you left?”

  Her lips moved up in what might have been a grin, but definitely counted as a smile of sorts. “I’m a sergeant now, still in the reserves.”

  My surprise must have shown on my face. She laughed outright. The laughter softened the lines of her face, exposing the nurturing side of her as much as the take charge side.

  “Suits you,” I said with a grin. Another nurse arrived with my juice. I swallowed it gratefully. “I need more food. Please. It’ll help more than anything else you can do right now.”

  The nurse looked to the sergeant for permission, then left presumably to find me some food.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Fiona.”

  “No. Way. As in the Shrek Fiona?” Too funny. My kids’ favorite movie was Shrek when it first came out.

  She laughed. “Yes, but I came first, remember. However, it’s helped me with kids who come and are frightened of this place and what’s happening to them.” She helped me tuck the gun into the back of my pants.

  “I hate to do it, but we should cut your pants off above the knees. Depending on what the doctor sees, we can probably allow you to keep them on under your gown. Which would be best with the protection you have.”

  I groaned. My pants were already ruined, it didn’t matter how much more she cut off. Andrea paid in the end for ruining my pants. The memory gave me some satisfaction.

  “Whatever brought on that smile, I’m glad I’m not your enemy,” Fiona said, grabbing my attention. “It also tells me I read you right. You can handle yourself. I hope you don’t need your protection while here,” she said as she cut the pants.

  It was the second time she referred to my gun as protection and I finally caught her point. This way, if someone overheard us, it could mean anything.

  The doctor came in and gingerly poked at the cuts on my legs. Thanks to my lack of food—that’s my story and I’m sticking to it—they were still pretty fresh-looking. God help me if it turned out to be due to some drug she’d fed me.

  “Been through the ringer, have you?” he said a little too jovially.

  I sighed. “Obviously. Just fix it, get me some food, and let me sleep.”

  Bedside manner should be taught as a continuing education. If this was his way of figuring out if I’d been tortured without actually saying it, he failed miserably. I didn’t know t
he laws exactly—what injuries they were required to report—but surely he’d had some experience at extracting information.

  “Look, if you’re fishing for information, contact the Deputy Director for the FBI’s El Paso office. One of his men is driving my car. I came in here with an FBI agent. I’m tired and hungry.” My bitch factor crept up. Being tired, hungry, hurt, and annoyed would make anyone cranky.

  He looked taken aback by my abruptness. I didn’t give a damn. I needed fuel and rest more than I needed him. The only reason I agreed to the overnight stay was to be near Joseph. The doctor could take a flying leap for all I cared.

  He told the nurse to clean my leg with antiseptics and call him when she finished. It took about an hour and a half. When they were through, I had pain meds—which I took to make them feel better, not myself, food—which did make me feel better, umpteen stitches, and a room number.

  They took me up to my room. I was careful to keep my back away from the nurses; didn’t need them fainting at the sight of my gun. I waited for them to take my temperature and blood pressure and fuss over me, and assured them I was fine. After things quieted, I got up and looked for a phone book on the stand holding the cheap hospital phones.

  The phonebook was an old one, but should have the FBI phone number in it. I called and got through some after-hour rigmarole bullshit before reaching a person. “FBI. Do you have a crime to report?”

  I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. It was a natural reaction when dealing with these guys. If I had a crime to report, I would’ve chosen that option on the automated menu. “No, not exactly. I’m looking for the Deputy Director. He has my car. Or one of his men does.” Great, now I stumbled. Sure, she’ll take me seriously. Fury and exhaustion weren’t any better bedfellows than fear.

  “I’m sorry, you’ll have to call back during regular business hours to talk to the Deputy Director. As for your car, the one who impounded it will be contacting you or your lawyer.”

  “What’s your name,” I asked, taking a tether-hold on my patience.

  “Lisa.”

  “Listen, Lisa. Listen very carefully. I’ve just been tortured, my kids kidnapped, and my friend injured all because of the ineptitude of the FBI. Now, you will use whatever emergency contact procedure you have for contacting him and tell him Serena called. Tell him to get the information on Joseph Connelly to me before the night is out. Also, tell him I have a gun. That ought to get him moving.”

  I laid my head back as the silence on the other end lengthened. I could push her, but I was too tired. Besides, the silent treatment could be effective.

  “I’ll make sure he gets the message. Is there a number he can call you at?”

  “Yes. The hospital, room four-fifteen.” It’s actually four-sixteen but he was smart. If he didn’t find me in that room, he’d ask. Whereas the mole would just pass on the information. The hospital knew I came in with the victim of a gunshot wound. Hopefully, they had protocols in place.

  I hung up and tried to rest. I was still hungry. The vanilla pudding and graham crackers they’d given me weren’t nearly enough. I needed more to heal. I hit the nurse call button and waited.

  After some discussion with the nurse, we discovered a pizza place which delivered despite the late hour. I gave them a credit card number I’d memorized for times like this, where life left me without my purse or backpack.

  I’d give the Deputy Director until the pizza arrived to contact me before I started taking issue with Lisa and her competence. Pulling the gun out from my waistband, I laid it on the bed next to me, my palm on the butt, fingers spread. The sheet hid it from the nurses.

  I started to doze off when I realized the ward was quiet, except for the incessant sound of beeps echoing across the hall. My senses prickled. I got a good grip on my weapon and put my trigger finger over the trigger guard.

  The patient in the room with me had a monitor that beeped, slow and constant. However, right now, it blared warning alarms. Yet no nurse responded. I might not have found it very strange if it wasn’t for the other machines and monitors screeching like banshees. Nurses get busy. But too busy to help anybody?

  My ears rang from listening so intently to the high-pitched noise. I tried holding my breath. It didn’t help, just gave me a worse headache. I let my breath out slowly. Damn it. What the hell was going on?

  I’d just decided to go find out when a muffled scream came from outside my room. Dropping down behind my bed, I kept it between myself and the door. The room was dark except for a small light over the doorway. I sat there waiting to hear someone respond to the muffled scream, but nothing. Well, that sealed the deal. No nurse worth her salt would let a scream in the middle of the night go without comment and investigating the source.

  I peeked around the foot of the bed, figuring the side of the bed was where anyone looking expected to find a sleeping body. Someone walked down the hall outside, using a phone.

  He or she stopped outside the doorway. Leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, they spoke in a loud whisper.

  “It’s not her.” Pause. “No, I don’t know who it was, but it’s a he, so I’m sure it’s not her. Are you sure you read the message right?” Pause. “Don’t yell at me. We’ve got to find her and take care of her before he gets his messages. What about Joseph? Any word?” Pause. “I can get into ICU, it’ll just take longer. We’ll talk later. I have to get out of here. Someone’s going to notice the nurses aren’t answering the phones.”

  He slapped his phone shut. The gun at his side caught the light. I aimed as he brought his head into clear view. The gun shot was loud in the silence. I didn’t miss. He fell down, phone clattering at his side. I kicked his gun away as nurses came running.

  “I need a knife. Now.” I yelled. They stared at me with a deer in the headlights look. “Someone call the FBI and ask for the Deputy Director. One of you check room four-fifteen, and see if the person he shot is still alive. Move!”

  I could see why they weren’t ER nurses. One nurse stooped next to the killer. I barked at him. “Stay back. He’s infected with a disease that can make him stay alive long after ordinary humans would’ve died.”

  He stared at me a funny and hesitated. That was all it took.

  The killer snaked a hand out and yanked the nurse down. His teeth latched onto the guy’s neck and took out a huge chunk. Blood gushed, soaking the nurse’s scrubs. The zombie started chewing before I put another bullet in him—not that it did more than slow him down—all the while backing farther away. I picked up the gun he’d come in with and tucked it in the waistband of my pants. I yanked off the hospital gown. I didn’t give a shit about running around in a sports bra; the damn gown hampered my movements.

  The killer chowed down on the nurse, bits of skin and gore flying. Blood spattered everywhere, coating the zombie and pooled around the victim. The zombie stood after a few more bites. He ignored the screaming, panicked nurses and the fire alarm that someone smart had yanked—which shrilled throughout the building. The second shot hadn’t fazed him and now he zeroed in on me. Great. I was the last part of his mission. His best, most focused and accurate memory would be details about me. Oh joy. Imagine my happiness.

  I guess it was better than worrying about a mindless, rampaging zombie. The nurse he’d killed had simply been in his way. He’d probably still be munching if I hadn’t drawn his attention.

  There were too many people running around. “I need a knife,” I yelled at a passing nurse. She stared at me like I’d gone crazy. Maybe I had.

  “We don’t have any on this floor.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Scissors, then? Anything with a sharp tip.” She shook her head, grabbed a patient another nurse pushed in a wheel chair, and moved toward the elevators. They had scissors on this floor. I’d seen someone use them. Now what the fuck would I do? I had a limited amount of ammo left and didn’t know who else would show up for the party.

  Plus, I was hungry. The pizza guy wouldn’t be a
llowed up as long as the alarm went off. I growled at the damn zombie. “Fucktard, you cost me a hot pizza.”

  Tired, hungry, low on ammo, and no knife to take out the zombie. Can it get any worse?

  “Hello, Serena.”

  I had to ask, didn’t I? I turned slightly so I could see the new speaker and keep an eye on the zombie.

  Andrea and the twins. My day was complete.

  Chapter 22

  I didn’t say anything—even though fuck ran through my head like a mantra. At least I hadn’t gone to Joseph’s house as I’d briefly considered. I was afraid someone had followed the ambulance and if so, could follow any taxi I took. Even though I wanted to see my kids desperately, I’d chosen the safer path.

  Which turned out to be the only thing going for me at the moment. I wanted my damn pizza. I needed to refuel. Did Joseph make it through his operation without dying? Even if still alive by medical standards, it didn’t matter if his heart had stopped.

  In the meantime, I had super bitch about to rain on an already piss-poor parade.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “I see you killed another one of my men,” she said pleasantly. Oh man, her happy voice had more than a spoonful of sugar.

  I grabbed the hit man-come-zombie’s gun out of the waistband of my pants. “Maybe you should quit sending them after me.” Though I was pretty sure it was the FBI mole who’d sent him. Why in the hell did the zombie freeze up when she started talking? The hypnosis. Fuck. Another problem to worry about.

  “I didn’t.” She cocked her head a little to the side as she assessed me. “But I think you already knew that. What’s your game, Serena? Why did you allow them to admit you when you knew we’d come?”

  Shit, she’d figure it out if she wasn’t distracted soon. “I wanted you fuck-heads to come looking. I was even hoping it would be you. I have a bone to pick with you,” I said, adjusting the gun in my arm with the cast. She needed to make a move soon. Holding a gun in a hand incased in plaster didn’t make for a strong grip.