Murph grabbed his radio, pressed the button and said, "Chief, we got a problem out at the main gate."
"What kind of problem?" the Chief replied.
"There's been some sort of accident. Skinny Tom and a bunch of other people I don't know. I think they might be some of them."
"Alright, I'm checking it out."
"You want me to come down there?" Murph asked.
"No, you stay put. Don't leave that room for nothing."
"You got it." Murph punched up the loading dock and watched as the Chief ground out his cigarette and walked over to the cab of his own truck, a beat-up old Mazda, low to the ground and covered in rust. He leaned into the cab of the open window, and pulled out a hunting rifle. He flung it over his shoulder, pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and took off jogging down the road, leaving a trail of smoke behind him.
Murph switched the monitor to the front gate and tried to figure out who was alive and who was dead. After a couple of seconds, it wasn't so hard to figure out... because they were all dead, except for one, a teenage boy, his Chuck Taylor's kicking up dust as he looked for a way out of the circle of dead that were closing in on him. He climbed onto the hood of the truck, and kicked at their pawing hands.
The Chief appeared, his rifle in his hands, and his back to the camera, a cigarette still hanging out of his mouth. He raised the rifle to his eye, and there was a flash. Skinny Tom flinched and turned around, blood running down the front of his chest. The Chief's first shot had entered his back and erupted out of his chest, turning his shirt into a dark mess. His attention was now drawn to the Chief along with a couple other of the dead.
The Chief used the bolt action on his rifle to eject the spent shell casing and drive another round into the chamber. Then he looked down the sights of the gun. There was another flash, and this time Murph saw the back of Skinny Tom's head explode, showering the dead behind him in more dark spots. Skinny Tom fell to the ground.
Murph felt relief as the Chief began putting the dead down, one by one, the teenage boy still kicking and shoving them away from the hood of the truck. Murph's relief was short-lived however, as the boy slipped on a spot of blood on the truck's slick hood and fell to the ground. The Chief worked feverishly, firing, operating the bolt on his gun, and firing again, all to no avail. The boy was gone, torn to shreds by the three remaining dead who had pounced on him the moment he had fallen to the dusty ground.
The Chief sighted down his rifle one more time and pulled the trigger, but this time there was no flash. He let the muzzle of the rifle droop to the ground, and then the Chief backed away. In the distance, Murph could see more people approaching down the main road... slowly, ever so slowly.
Before the teenage boy in the Chuck Taylor's could rise from the ground, the first of the walkers had arrived... he was just as dead as the others.
Chapter 25: Take Two of These and Call Me in the Morning
The black man hovered over his friend, getting in the way and asking questions whose answers he probably wouldn't understand. He was dirtier than dirty, and Joan made him wash his hands before he could even step foot into the triage area. He had come in carrying a dazed white man with blood leaking out of his ears. They were covered in filth, looked exhausted, and their skin was a patchwork of bruises that made her hurt just looking at them.
The white man sat before her, his eyes distant and dazed. "What's your name?"
He looked at her, uncomprehending. She looked into his eyes, pulling out a penlight she had snagged from the head medical officer. She shined them into his eyes, taking note of the dilation.
"Can you hear me?" she asked. She snapped her fingers next to his ear, and frowned at his lack of a reaction.
"His name is Blake. He saved me."
"Blake, can you hear anything I'm saying?" she said as loud as she could.
The man in front of her frowned and shook his head. "I can't hear what you're saying," he said.
Joan pulled an otoscope from the wall, attached a disposable plastic tip to it, and leaned in to look at his ears. It wasn't good. Blake's eardrums were ruptured, far beyond what she could fix. Normally, they would heal with time or with the help of a little surgery, but this was not the place to be doing such a procedure. Joan pulled a notepad from her pocket and wrote on it.
She held the pad out to Blake, he focused his eyes on it, and then his head dropped.
"What does it say?" Mort asked.
She held the notepad out to him, and his lips moved as he read the words. "He's deaf? Is he going to get better? Will it heal?"
"Not on its own. The rupture is too large in both ears."
Mort let the words sink in. He couldn't imagine what Blake must be feeling. This new world was not the type of world you wanted to be living in without the ability to hear. Mort put his hand on Blake's shoulder as a sign of comfort. Blake looked up at him, smiled and shrugged. "It ain't all bad," he said. "Now I never have to hear the Dave Matthews Band on the radio." Blake smiled at Mort.
Mort didn't know what to do, so he just smiled back.
Joan wrote more words on the notepad and handed it to Blake. He read the words solemnly, as she filled in his friend. "Your friend has a concussion. He needs to get plenty of rest, which I know is a tough order to fill right now, but if he's going to survive, he's going to need plenty of rest." Joan opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of military grade acetaminophen in a nondescript white bottle. "This should help with the headaches that you both undoubtedly have. My advice? Go grab some food, find a cot, and rest up."
"Thanks, Doc," the black man said. "My name's Mort. We appreciate it." He held out his hand to her, and Joan shook it gracefully.
"I'm Joan. Oh, and here. Why don't you take this, you'll probably need it." Joan handed Mort the notepad and the pen. He shoved it into the large pocket of his secondhand military jacket and then had Blake throw an arm over his shoulder. As he bent down, he winced at the pain in his knee.
"You ok?" Joan asked.
Mort shook his head. "It's nothing, just hurt my knee a bit."
Joan shook her head. Men, they were always the same. Even in the midst of an apocalypse, they refused to take care of themselves. Joan patted the table, and said, "Get up here. Let's take a look."
"No, it's nothing, Doc. I got it covered."
"Stop being a stubborn shit, and get your ass on that table."
Blake stood up and wobbled over to a small chair in the corner, holding onto the bottle of painkillers. "Well, since you put it that way," he said. Mort flopped on the table, sighing as he laid down. Joan pulled his pant leg up and sighed in frustration as she looked at Mort's swollen knee.
"How the hell have you been walking around on this thing?"
"Ain't had no choice. Out there, it's either move or die. I'm not much into dying."
Joan pressed on the knee, testing it. She made him bend it and flex it. She sighed. "You're damn lucky. I don't think there's anything structurally wrong with it, but if you keep pushing it, it's going to get worse, and you'll injure it further. So," Joan pointed back and forth at both of them, "the two of you need to drag your butts down to get some food, find some cots, take three of those pills, and get as much rest as you can. You, grab some ice. It'll help reduce the swelling in your knee and his head."
"Sure thing, Doc."
"And if I see you two up and walking around, I'm going to have those soldiers strap you down to your cots and make sure you get the rest you need. Got that?"
Mort shook his head and got up off the table. He gave Blake a shoulder to lean on and they disappeared from the room. Joan plopped down in the chair that Blake had vacated. What was she doing? The end of the world was out there and here she was playing doctor. She supposed she just enjoyed being needed. In here, she was still relevant, still important. Out in the real world, she was a liability, a brain without the ability to take care of itself. She was dead meat walking on her own, amongst the other dead meat.
Sh
e leaned forward and put her head in her hands. The tears came, for the first time, and they came with force. The tears were laced with a fear that she could taste in her mouth, metallic and sharp. The prospect of her own death flooded her brain, and she began to think about what a waste her entire life had been. She had worked hard to become a doctor, and then, once she had become a doctor, that's all she had done. There was no family, no friends, just work, some acquaintances, and a cat that seemed altogether indifferent to her.
Thoughts of her cat stuck in her apartment sent a new wave of sobbing through her. She wanted to kick her feet and scream and roll on the floor, but she didn't; she just sat in her chair smashing her hands into her face to hide the shame of her emotional breakdown. Fuck it. She had earned it.
"So you are human," a voice said.
Joan couldn't even pull her hands down to look at Clara. Another sob tore through her body. She felt awful acting this way. So many people had lost so much more than her, and yet here she was wailing like a baby, and now Clara was seeing it all.
Then there was an arm on her shoulder, comforting her. Somehow, that made it even worse. Clara, who had lost her soulmate, was comforting Joan who had lost nothing but the status of being a doctor and a cat. Joan laid her head on Clara's breast and the sobs came, along with the tears and the snot. She wanted to stop, but she couldn't. Her arms reached around Clara, grabbing handfuls of her shirt, and together they sat in a room in the underground of the Memorial Coliseum, while above them the dead milled about, searching for a way to get at all the living people inside.
When the sobbing had subsided, Joan lifted her head, her eyes red, her nose runny, and said, "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm crying."
Clara smiled at her and said, "It's ok. I know why."
"Sure you do?"
"Yeah. I do. You're crying because it's all going away. Change is hard, and though these changes are fucked up and crazy, what it comes down to is that this is all basically just change. We'll cry, and then we'll adapt."
Clara's words were hardly comforting, but something about the way she said it calmed her down. There was a bit of logic in there that she clung to. It was all just change. As horrible as everything was, it all came down to change. Joan could change. She may not be fit for this world any longer, but she could change. She could grow and adapt.
Joan looked at Clara and smiled. "I'm glad you're here."
"Yeah. I'm glad you're here too."
The subsequent silence was awkward, like the type of awkward when lovers first declare their love for each other, wondering if the other had really meant it or had just said the words back to be nice. Joan cleared her throat and stood up, rubbing at her eyes.
"I must look like a mess." She walked over to the sink in the room, and turned on the water, slurping it down straight from the faucet.
"We've got to get out of here," Clara said abruptly.
It took a moment for Clara's words to register in Joan's mind. "What do you mean?"
"We're not safe here."
Joan laughed, a short sharp laugh with the ring of dismissal about it. "What are you talking about? There are soldiers all around us. I can't think of any place safer."
"Yeah, and have you looked at the soldiers recently?" Joan looked at Clara with confusion in her eyes, so Clara continued. "I've been watching them, they're different. The looks on their faces... there's fear in their eyes, Joan. I can see them breaking down."
"You're just imagining things," Joan said, mostly because she didn't want to believe it.
Clara grabbed Joan by the arm and pulled her out of the triage center. They climbed a flight of stairs and emerged out onto the concourse. It was night outside, and the noise of the day had subsided so that all that was left was the sound of gas-powered generators chugging away underneath the moans of the dead who numbered in the thousands. The night was filled with the perpetual rattling of the chain-link fence that encircled the Coliseum's courtyard.
"Look at them," Clara said.
Joan did look. The soldiers milled about, their faces haggard, their rifles clutched in their hands as they stood at their guard posts, atop makeshift platforms overlooking the perimeter of the Coliseum. There was little of the good-natured chatter that was so prevalent when they had first arrived. Men on the ground walked along the fence, jabbing bayoneted rifles into the eye sockets of the dead. The dead would slump to the ground, only to be replaced by a fresh dead face.
"Notice anything?" Clara asked.
"They're not shooting."
"They haven't been shooting for the last few hours. I asked a soldier why and he said they were conserving ammunition. You know what that means?"
Joan swallowed hard. "They don't have enough bullets to defend us."
"How long until those fences come down and we're trapped inside a concrete tomb with no way out?"
"What should we do?" Joan asked.
"I don't know," Clara replied. "The best thing we can do is be ready."
"Ready for what?"
"To fight for our lives."
Chapter 26: Killing Time
Katie's mouth felt dry and funky. They had motored through the wine in her purse in no time, and now they were in a luxury box, their clothes piled on the floor and rays of florescent light reflecting off of her pale skin. It was "Portland skin" she had always liked to joke, a skin conditioned by the clouds of the city into a milky whiteness that almost seemed translucent in the right light.
The lights were off in the luxury box, which was fine with them as they had broken down the wooden door to get into the room in the first place. Now they sat on the floor, their hands exploring, their dry, alcohol tongues caressing amid the stray rays of light that managed to sneak in from the main floor of the Coliseum.
A strange feeling of guilt flitted through the back of her mind, but was replaced by the touch of cold rough fingers between her legs, flicking and teasing. She could feel herself warm down there, a warmth that she hadn't felt in years.
There had been times when Jason had made her feel that way, but it had been long ago. This was something new, and then that feeling showed up again, that guilty feeling. In her head she screamed at herself, He's dead! There's nothing wrong with this! He's not coming back!
She was divided, literally and figuratively. In her heart, she felt a sense of loyalty that she had completely forgotten about. Her legs were now spread wide, the skin of her back catching on the cheap carpet of the luxury box as he slipped inside of her. She pressed her hands against his chest, and marveled at the strength she felt there as he leaned forward and put his weight on his arms. How different. Jason had always been soft, somewhat flabby, but Zeke, though he looked much the same, had a layer of hardened muscle underneath.
She wondered what he had looked like when he was younger, training all day, keeping himself fit and in shape. She closed her eyes and imagined him ten years younger, a ball of muscle and strength, ravaging her. Before she could delve further into her fantasy, he was done, and they lay on the ground, experiencing the awkward silence of a moment come too soon.
Katie was glad it was dark. She was glad he couldn't see her face and the disappointment on it. She sighed and rolled over on her side. What was she expecting, something out of a romance novel? She felt his arm snake across her ribs, and she suppressed a shudder.
"It'll be better next time," he said. He had all the tact of most men she supposed. He wasn't a dream come to life. He wasn't her ticket to a new life. He was just a man, just like Jason was. A little more muscular, but still just a man, just a false sense of security that came with responsibilities. Nothing in this world was free, especially not now. What was the price of their tryst? Polite conversation? An expectation that there would be a next time?
Even at the end of the world she had done it again, fallen into a trap that she made for herself.
Katie stood up, the light playing off of her naked body. She looked down at him in the darkness, at his hairy chest, his muscula
r forearms, his flaccid penis shining in a ray of light. "Who said there will be a next time?" Her words were cold and as mean-spirited as she could make them.
Zeke put his arm under his head, shifting to his side, his penis lolling on his hip and said, "Did I do something wrong?"
"No, I did. I thought I was ready, but I'm not."
Zeke looked at her, his brown eyes taking her in. He smiled. "Hey, no harm no foul."
"Is that what passes for smooth where you come from?"
Zeke's eyes rolled in the dim light. He sat up and began searching for his clothes. "I wouldn't know what passes for smooth. That's not the type of guy I am. Truth is it's been a while since I've been with a woman. I just thought we could make the best of the situation."
"The best of the situation?" Katie kicked out at Zeke and he shrunk back from her. "Here's the situation, Zeke. Last night I put a bullet through the head of my husband and my son. Last night, my entire life was flipped upside down, and I killed and ran and survived. Why?"
Zeke sat on the floor, looking up at her. "I'm sorry."
Katie laughed out loud. "Aren't we all? Aren't we all fucking sorry, right now?"
The room was filled with silence. Zeke sat there, waiting for her to say something. She wanted him to be mad. She wanted him to storm out of there and never talk to her again, but he didn't. He sat there, like a rock, regarding her with a calmness that was driving her wild.
"What do you want? Why are you still here?"
"I'm just here. Whatever you need, I'm just here."
Katie put her hands to her face, groaned loudly and then sat down. "That's what I was afraid of. Listen. I've got some issues right now, clearly, but I don't want to lead you down the wrong path here. Whatever we do, that's just the moment. It means nothing. It's going to go nowhere. I just want you to know that."
This Rotten World (Book 2): We All Fall Down Page 16