by David Rogers
“They’re biting people.” Alicia said, and Jessica could feel her shaking. “It started in fourth period. A few kids just suddenly got up and started attacking. While that was going on, a few more started doing the same thing. The teacher, the rest of us, we were all yelling. Some of the guys were trying to break it up, then some of them were bit.
“Then some of them started biting. Then we heard more yelling. When I went out in the hall, there were people running everywhere, and it was happening there too. It’s crazy!”
Jessica bit her lip for a moment. “Alicia, have you seen Joey? Or Sandra?”
“Oh my God!” Alicia cried, bursting into tears. “Joey!”
Jessica resisted an overwhelming urge to shake the girl, or slap her, and settled for patting her on the back again. She forced her voice into a soothing tone. “Alicia, where’s Joey?”
“I don’t know! Inside I guess. He bit me!” Alicia said, suddenly stepping back as Jessica’s insides twisted with a surge of fear. Jessica looked past the fresh tears rolling down the girl’s face, further disrupting her makeup, and at her arm as Alicia raised it for inspection.
“He bit me.” she repeated, her fingers holding the rent in her sleeve open. Jessica saw teeth marks in the skin, jagged and gaping where Alicia’s flesh had been torn.
“Where did he bite you?” Jessica asked.
“Here!” Alicia half shouted, holding her arm up higher.
Jessica resisted, again, the urge to slap Alicia, though it was difficult. “Where in the school did he bite you?” she persisted.
“In the east hallway.” Alicia sobbed. “I saw him and ran over, and he just grabbed me and bit me. He didn’t say anything, just leaned down and . . .” she shook her head, shuddering.
Jessica opened her mouth, but before she could say anything further, she heard a loud crack, then another. Gunshots, her mind supplied, and she whirled toward the school, not even noticing as her sudden turn caused Alicia to stagger back.
More shots sounded, along with a surge in screams and shouts, but emergency vehicles were blocking her view of the entrance. She saw heads turning in that direction all over the parking lot, including rescuers who were struggling with students. She saw a few police draw their guns and sprint in that direction.
“Candice, come on.” Jessica said, stepping away from Alicia and tugging on her daughter’s hand. She hurried across the parking lot, threading around ambulances and trucks, as more guns were fired. At each shot, she flinched, and felt the numbness within grow.
All she could think of was her kids; Joey and Sandra might be in there, and people were shooting. By the time she broke past the last vehicle and reached the front walk of the school, she was running, dragging Candice alongside her with an iron grip. Her daughter didn’t say a word, merely stumbled along next to her.
When Jessica finally got a clear view of the front doors of the high school, she stopped in shock, her hand flying to her mouth in horror. Nearly everyone there had blood on them, and more was visible on the concrete, on the grass, on the doors. There was a knot of students in the pair of double doors that comprised the school’s front entrance, all of them trying to get out. None of them were screaming, or yelling, or showing any emotion at all. Every child’s face that she could see looked blank and empty.
That would have been strange enough, with everything that was happening, but what made it worse was when they didn’t react, at all, when they were shot. A pair of police, a male and female officer, were standing almost side by side about ten feet away from the doors, their pistols out and pointing at the students. They were shooting into the crowd of students, with two more police behind them pointing guns at fire and medical personnel, presumably to hold everyone else back and give their fellows room to aim at and shoot the kids.
Jessica saw half a dozen students were already on the ground, in the doorways and in front of the doors, but they were still moving. As she watched, more were staggering and falling as bullets slammed into them, knocking them down. The police were shooting low, shooting them in the legs, she saw. None of the wounded students seemed to even notice their injuries, apart from the physical effects of losing use of a limb.
They were trying to crawl forward, even as other students walked past and on top of them. Some of those trying to walk were falling as their legs and feet caught or turned on the obstacles formed by their classmates. Those that merely fell, without being shot, were trying to get to their feet. And some of those were being knocked aside as more students walked past and into them, knocking them down again.
As bad as that was, as unreal as it seemed, Jessica saw blood on the faces of nearly every kid trying to get out of the school. Not smears of blood on the cheeks and forehead, like someone who’d been splattered, or who’d wiped a wounded arm or shoulder across their face.
No, the blood was on, in, their mouths. She remembered the elementary school, where that little girl had been chewing on a fireman’s arm, and what Alicia had just told her. She couldn’t help the dazed, cold feeling that paralyzed her as she stared at the front of the high school.
Candice made a whimpering sound, and Jessica looked down as she suddenly remembered her youngest daughter. The girl’s face was bone white, and her lower lip was trembling. More shots were fired, and Candice flinched violently as if they were hitting her. Her eyes, wider than they’d been even over the past few minutes, more than they’d been back at the elementary school, were fixed on what was happening at the high school entrance.
That jolted Jessica into action, her mother’s instincts taking over and giving her a purpose. She reached and grabbed, turning and pulling Candice to face her, putting her back to the scene. Her daughter buried her head in Jessica’s stomach, and she wrapped her free arm around her mother. Her other hand clung to Jessica’s like a claw, leaving Jessica with only one hand to stroke through Candice’s hair. Jessica could feel the girl shaking, crying, and Jessica hugged her tighter as she looked back up.
The shouting was coming from the officers who were pointing their weapons at the rescuers, and from those who were being threatened. She focused on the voices, trying to pick them out through the continued sound of shots, and the background of idling engines and the other people in the school parking lot.
Even as people shouted and screamed at them, the police were shouting back at the same time as they exchanged terse comments with the officers who’d joined them and were standing in shock or confusion as they saw what was being done.
“They’re just kids! What are you doing? Stop, stop, they’re sick, they need help!” The rescuers were shouting.
“Stand back! Back off! Keep back! They’re attacking people! Leg wounds will heal! We’re not shooting to kill! The tasers aren’t working! They’re hurting people!” was mostly what the police were shouting.
Jessica stood there, stroking Candice’s hair almost absently, feeling like she was in the headlights of an oncoming car, as the confrontation played out and the shooting continued. There were well over a dozen students down at the doors now, maybe closer to two dozen, but the police officers seemed to be partially correct.
Whatever was going on, the tasers were having no effect; she’d seen that herself back at the elementary school. And the students who’d been shot were not crying out in pain, or even stopping. They continued to try to leave the school, to close on the people gathered beyond the doors, reaching to drag themselves forward with slow, jerky action like they’d forgotten how to move properly.
As she watched, the two officers who’d been firing stopped. Then she realized they were out of ammunition, as she saw them removing the magazines from their pistols and reaching for replacements from their equipment belts. When the steady thump of bullets ceased, the crowd of students at the school doors seemed to suddenly surge forward.
None of the students moved any faster; those in the lead were just no longer being knocked down and becoming fresh obstacles for those behind. The depressed oval shape of
students at the door bulged out as they cleared the doors and spread out, making their way past their classmates on the ground. Some of those on their feet fell or tripped over others who were already down, but as many more managed to get past and head for the nearest person they saw.
Jessica’s eyes swept through the confusion, as rescuers started darting forward and grabbing at students. The kids tended to respond by grabbing back, and, just as she’d seen at the elementary school, leaning in or pulling on whoever they got their hands on and trying to bite. A fresh wave of yelling started, as those who were bit reacted, though some of the rescuers had firefighter coats on, which were apparently too thick for the students to bite through.
The police were shouting for the EMS personnel to separate and get away, which was mostly being ignored. About as many fresh rescuers were coming forward to assist with trying to subdue and help the students as there were injured rescuers stumbling away with fresh injuries or trying to tug themselves free from a student who had latched onto them.
And the students who had grabbed someone were hanging on hard and tight. There didn’t seem to be any level of physical distress or discomfort that dissuaded them. She saw one boy who had the look of a book or computer nerd, pasty skin and slightly built, clinging to a male fireman’s arm. The fireman was shoving at the boy’s forehead with his free hand and landing knees to his attacker’s midsection to no avail.
Then she saw a familiar face appear at the doors of the high school, and her world seemed to stop. She stared in shocked, numb horror, as Sandra stumbled out of the doors with a blank look on her face, a laser like fixation in her gaze, and blood dripping from her mouth. Then she jerked and stumbled as a bullet hit her thigh, falling in slow motion without the slightest sign of pain or concern. Jessica screamed.
* * * * *
Peter
Gwinnett Medical Center was as chaotic a scene as any Peter had ever seen. Including warzones. Once the forward base he’d been stationed at in Afghanistan had been hit by a strong insurgent force just after two patrols had returned following ambushes they’d been badly shot up in. That had been bad, with explosions and bullets hammering everything amid the screams of the wounded and dying.
At least there, those involved had been military. Even if some of them had lost morale temporarily, there had still been a base of training and experience they could use as a floor. It had given the officers and NCOs something to seize upon as they organized the response and got control of the situation.
Here and now, Peter saw nothing but confused shouting that often worked at odds, a complete lack of any sort of order or procedure, and very little in the way of anyone attempting to improve upon the situation. A part of him wondered why the police that were present, or even the medical staff who surely had similar training in crisis management, didn’t try to organize things.
The parking lot outside was full of emergency vehicles. More continued to arrive. Ambulances, police cruisers, even fire trucks were being left on the landscaped grass that bordered the lot. He saw more, along with a fair number of civilian cars, lining up as far down the little ‘road’ that circled the hospital’s campus as far as he could see in either direction. And beyond that, the sidewalk separating the hospital’s property from the actual street was starting to fill too.
There was a lot of blood evident, though a lot of these injuries didn’t seem to be terribly life threatening. There were a few people that were sporting wounds on torsos, necks or faces that he assumed were pretty serious; but the majority seemed to be on arms and legs. Some folks were having trouble walking and leaned on friends or makeshift crutches. A good amount of the noise was coming from these, as they cried or cursed about the pain they were in.
But worse still were the ones who seemed to be like Amy. Some were arriving strapped down to gurneys, but only a few. Many were being frog marched, or more often dragged, in by police and firefighters. He saw handcuffs, zip ties, rope, even tightly wrapped blankets being employed as restraining devices. Without fail each one fought against those holding them; struggled constantly to try and go after anyone they laid eyes upon.
The best thing about the sick ones was their silence. Or maybe that was worse. Peter wondered absently which it might be. They weren’t adding to the verbal confusion, true; but it was eerie and more than a little creepy to see them being manhandled, often showing signs of rough handling in the form of bruises or visible injury, and not raising even the slightest grunt or gasp of response.
Regardless of their audibility, the worst part was definitely their eyes. Every time he looked at one of them, even when they weren’t looking at him, all he saw in their dead gaze was Amy. She looked back at him from every slack expression, reflected in each face he saw no matter how different they actually were, physically, from Amy. Young or old or neither, black or white or whatever, man, woman, adult, child; each one looked like his wife. His wife who apparently was neither dead nor alive.
In and around the fuss and noise being raised by the wounded, and those occupied with trying to restrain the sick ones who were like Amy, was the real source of the confusion. The emergency responders and the ER’s medical staff all seemed to be yelling at each other, and when they weren’t yelling at other uniforms they often turned to yelling at patients.
The arguments seemed to almost exclusively center around who was going to be treated and when. Wounded civilians and emergency responders alike were demanding immediate attention from doctors and nurses, who fended them off as they shouted at each other and tried to get at specific patients they seemed to select almost at random. Surely they had some reason, but whatever criteria they were using, Peter couldn’t recognize it. It might as well be random.
Peter felt his pocket vibrating. His phone, he realized, and pulled it out. “Hello?” he said, automatically flipping it open and putting it to his ear without bothering to look at the display. Maybe Amy had been admitted upstairs and they were calling to let him know.
“Pete? Listen, have you seen the news?”
Peter turned away from the jam packed waiting room and covered his other ear. “Who is this?”
“George.”
“Oh, hey George.” He tried to suppress his annoyance. It wasn’t George’s fault the hospital hadn’t figured out how to help Amy yet.
“Pete, you okay? You sound strange. Where are you anyway?”
“Hospital.”
“Oh fuck!” the man on the phone cursed. “What’s wrong? Did you get bit?”
Peter blinked, then shook his head. “No, I’m fine. It’s Amy.”
“Oh man . . . is she okay?”
Peter considered the question for several seconds, then closed his eyes. “No.” he finally said. “They tell me she’s probably not.”
“Probably?”
“Look George, this really ain’t a good time.” Peter started, feeling a stirring of irritation.
“Tell me about it.” George said. “What do you think, is this it?”
“George–”
“I mean, it’s looking bad, right? Hate being right man, it sucks.”
Peter closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “George.” he said after a moment. “If you don’t either hang up and leave me alone, or start making sense, and I mean right now, then I’m going to hunt you down.” he said with a definite edge of anger in his voice. “And when I find you–”
“Zombies Pete, jeez. It’s all over the news.”
Peter blinked and glanced at the nearest television, mounted up above head level on the wall. He hadn’t been paying much attention to them, lost in his thoughts of Amy and his lethargic observation of the activity in the waiting room. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, he could barely hear the phone, but he saw the word ‘Live’ in one of the upper corners. The scene looked remarkably similar to what he was witnessing here at the hospital, except it was outside in front of a building.
“Explain.” Peter said as he eyed the screen.
“Fuc
k, listen. Zombies are among us. It’s the apocalypse. What’ve I been telling you guys all these years.”
Abruptly his irritation flashed over into anger, and Peter found himself gripping the phone very tightly. “That’s it.” he growled. “I told you this isn’t a good time. My wife is on a bed in the hospital and the Goddamned docs can’t even tell me for sure if she’s alive or dead.”
“Pete–”
“At some point they’re gonna get their shit together long enough to tell me if I’m married or widowed.” Peter continued, feeling the warm glow of anger igniting brightly enough to finally burn through the helpless sensation he’d been tangled in about Amy. “And when they do, either way, I’m going straight to your place.”
“No, I ain’t–” George said quickly.
“And if you ain’t there, I’m gonna check your damn cabin next.”
“Yeah, that’s a good–”
“And if you’re not there, I’ll just keep looking.” Peter said louder, stepping over George’s attempts to break in. “And eventually, I’ll find you. When I do, my foot is going so far up your fucking a–”
“Gunny!” George shouted at him from the other end of the phone.
Finally pausing in his tirade, feeling like he was only just getting properly rolling, Peter counted to three, taking a breath on each number. “What?” he finally said after the third breath.
“You wanna come kick my ass, fine.” George said, sounding neither angry nor irritated. In fact Peter thought he sounded a little afraid. And not from the threats Peter was directing at him; George had been shrugging those off for over twenty years. No, this was something else.
“I’ll even bend over so you can do it properly.” George continued. “But you gotta listen to me. Answer me straight. Have you been paying attention to the news? Have you watched it or heard it in the last two hours? Teevee, radio, internet, anything?”
“No.” Peter said shortly, looking at the television again. There was a caption on the bottom of the screen that said the pictures were coming from the Georgia Tech campus. It looked like some sort of riot, but one where half the people involved weren’t bothering to run or shout.