Planet of the Dead

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  He screamed at the burst of white and as he did more fingers wormed into his mouth. He could taste them, rotten and slimy, but mostly iron. They pulled and twisted and bit at him, pinching and piercing skin.

  Bradshaw spasmed, wanting to scream and beg, but could not. One of the horde, the posh looking fellow, had snatched and pulled out his tongue. Now all that he uttered was a murky gurgle. Blood foaming and running down, soaking his uniform and pooling onto the bakery floor.

  Taj

  Part 2

  1

  Webster,

  Texas.

  Taj had never seen so many people packed so tightly together in all his life. From wall to wall, wounded, groaning, weeping, injured gathered, sweating and squeezed stinking the air with blood and pus and feverish desperation. Every seat was taken. And most of the space in-between. Who exactly oversaw the operations of this place, he had no clue. People were lining up against the walls and sitting flat on the floor. And there were some that doubled up in seats. He glanced over at the check in counter that stood beside the doors that would eventually allow those seeking a vaccine and or other medical treatment to pass. His father rested in the chair beside him near the back of the clinic's large waiting room. The bleeding on his neck where the deranged junkie had bitten him had stopped, but it still looked fresh; and worse, infected. Yellow-red pus soaked through the bandage.

  Throughout the early morning hours patients came. Trickling at first, and then flooding into the only open clinic in the entire complex of the Clear Lake Medical Center. Taj had heard the radio reports on his favorite classic rock radio station, The Eagle, which had completely switched over to the emergency broadcast network, giving hourly updates from the situation. Beloved and dedicated DJs lost in the chaos sweeping across the city. The irony being, no one knew just what that situation was. Riots? Looting? Mass panic? Or some sort of Super Flu, as he had heard a talk show reporter discuss around three in the morning while he and his father waited to be seen.

  And seen by anyone here at the clinic seemed just as futile as understanding what was really going on. Taj had checked his father in as soon after the police took their statement. His father, still conscious then, unsurprisingly refused an ambulance. The officer, the older man, said that was probably a good thing. Paramedics were running all over the place. Some of them missing and unaccounted for. Deserters, he wagered, or worse...caught up in the mayhem imploding the city of Houston and now spreading into the surrounding areas.

  Taj turned to look over at his father. Touching his forehead, he recoiled. Heat broiled off him in waves. He'd never seen a flu do this before. Maybe the wound really was infected. Who knows what nasties that lunatic woman had passed on.

  "Father?" Taj nudged his sleeping dad. His tan skin looked ashen and slick with sweat.

  Nothing.

  "Dad?"

  He was still breathing, at least.

  Standing, he peered over at the check in counter. The nurse who had admitted his father was still there, apparently arguing with someone on the phone. Licking his lips, trying not to make eye contact with any of the other waiting patients, Taj pulled out his cell. Still no signal. He wondered if his mother and brothers and sisters were getting worried. He wondered if they had called the police or if the police had bothered to report what had happened at the gas station.

  Shoving his cell back into his pocket, Taj exhaled loudly. Looking around, he spotted an elderly woman and whom he assumed to be her granddaughter sitting nearby. They had been optimistic and chatty when they walked through the clinic doors. Now the elderly woman was unconscious, the wound on her hand swollen and soaking her bandage with a yellowish-red pus, much like his father's neck injury.

  And among the adults and elderly, there were children here as well. Either cradled in their mother's arms or sleeping soundly in a mercifully empty chair. All with the same pale ashen wet skin. Some of the wounded had bite marks on their hands and arms. Others exhibited nothing Taj could see from his seat. There were men in expensive looking suits and guys in reflective vests and carpenter jeans. Women in dresses and women in pajamas. Many just like the children, and the elderly woman, and his father, holding formal and makeshift dressings that soaked with discolored pus. Coughing. Weeping. And even some praying, begging for someone to help.

  Not knowing was probably the worse.

  Not knowing when they could be seen; when their loved ones could see a doctor.

  If they would get a vaccine at all.

  What was going on.

  Why they weren't hearing from the President or Congress or anyone in Washington for that matter. There'd been a broadcast. Another suit telling everyone everything was okay. But then the signal died suddenly and there hadn't been anything since.

  Why hasn't the Governor dealt with the situation more strongly?

  Or the Mayor?

  What was reported was just confusing, like only having a piece of the answer.

  The only direction given had been about the clinics.

  But as far as Taj knew, he hadn't seen a single person go through those doors to be seen since he checked his father in, and that was nearly ten hours ago.

  If this was where they were sending people to get help, why weren't they giving help?

  Taj could hear plenty of grumbling, from those who could complain, those still conscious enough to know what was going on.

  Some were more vocal about the situation.

  Random arguments broke out, mostly about seating. There was a guard on duty, only one, to control and break up the disputes. He looked young and agitated, and worse, nervous. Taj had heard him complaining with the nurse at the check in counter about when the National Guard was supposed to arrive. Apparently, they were late.

  2

  Twelve hours now and still they had not been called back to be seen. Taj was pacing between their two seats. His father, still slumped against the wall, laid out in his chair, sweating horribly. He'd regained consciousness only twice, and in those moments, he simply asked about the Shell gas station, in a distant sort of way, as if he had little to no recollection of what had happened. Taj would tell him Parmjit was minding the store and his father would nod and pass out again.

  Parmjit, his father's favorite son.

  Taj stopped his pacing. Glaring over the crowd of moaning and pus stinking sick, he wiped his forehead with his hand. With as many people that had been packed in here, and with no one taken to be seen, as far as he knew, the clinic waiting room had slowly turned into a sauna. The nurse at the station was sipping from a Styrofoam cup, apparently ignoring the phone ringing beside her. He couldn't quite tell from across the room but she seemed to have a sort of vacant expression in her eyes, the way soldiers look in war movies.

  "To hell with this," he whispered hotly. He left his seat behind with his father and quickly marched to the front check in desk. The same guard who'd been there since Taj arrived rested against the double doors that led to the exam rooms and promised treatment.

  "Excuse me," Taj cleared his throat as he spoke, struggling to sound civil after being packed in this horrible waiting room for twelve hours now.

  The nurse didn't even register his presence. She sat and sipped her cup.

  The guard was texting on his cell, without much apparent luck, cussing under his breath.

  Taj leaned forward. "Excuse me," he said a little louder.

  Finally, the nurse glanced at him.

  As did the guard, but he quickly returned to his phone.

  "Yes?" she asked.

  "When will someone see my father? We've been here for over twelve hours now." Taj tried to lower his voice, not wanting any of the other waiting patients to overhear him and intrude on his inquiry with the nurse.

  Blinking slowly, the nurse asked, "Seen?"

  Taj frowned. "Yes, by a doctor. He has a nasty looking bite on his neck. Like I said, we've been here twelve hours, why hasn't my father been called back yet?"

  The nurse looked up at
him, stoic and cold. And then her expression softened and she started to giggle. Nothing warm or humorous, more like a crack spreading along the hull of a ship.

  Was this woman really laughing at him?

  Was she mocking him?

  Why?

  Was it because he was Indian? Because he asked what everyone in emergency waiting rooms asks? Because times moves slower here? Perhaps, but it wasn't just that time moved slow, nothing was moving, nothing was getting done. Why was this woman laughing, how dare she!

  "Look, I don't think this is very--" Taj started to say.

  The nurse waved him off. "Listen, you'll just have to be more patient."

  "We have been very patient."

  "I don't control when the doctor sees people, okay."

  "How many doctors do you have back there? How many patients have you pulled from the waiting room? Not any, I'd wager. What's going on around here? If you're not planning on helping anyone what's the fucking point of having us all crammed in here like sardines?" Taj huffed, struggled to control the volume of his voice. From his peripheral he could see the guard putting away his phone, glancing more and more at him nervously.

  Taj closed his eyes, breathing in deep and exhaling slowly. He opened his eyes and relaxed his shoulders, hands clasped together as if in prayer. "I'm sorry, it's been--a long night, as you can very well imagine. I just need a doctor to come look at my father. He was bitten by some...lunatic and the wound, I think the wound is infected. He has fever."

  The nurse wasn't laughing anymore nor was she giggling. She looked deadpan and tired, the bags under her eyes swollen and bruised. Sighing, she glanced around the waiting room. Keeping her voice low, she said, "Buddy, I don't know much else that's going on than you. I can tell you that we've been waiting for CDC officials to bring in some fancy vaccine they promised, and supplies too. Every couple of hours they tell us it's going to be a few more hours. And so on."

  The entrance to the clinic opened, bringing in fresh light and air. For a moment, the stink of the place dissipated.

  Keeping her eyes on the incoming patients, the nurse said to Taj, "Look, I'll go in back and see what the situation is, see if I can get the doctor to come look at your dad, okay? Best I can do."

  Taj shook his prayerful hands as if giving the nurse a blessing. "Thank you, that's all I ask." He stepped back as the new patients came toward the check in desk. A white man, older than he was, but not by much and two women with him, one closer to the white man's age, his wife or girlfriend he imagined, and dressed similarly nice, the other woman looked younger, like someone who went to one of his college classes. Freshman, perhaps. The older white man was helping her stay on her feet. She looked waxy and pale, sweat soaked through her tank and pajama bottoms.

  He slowly started back to where his father was on the far side of the waiting room. Dawdling, he listened to the newcomers try to check in the sick young woman.

  The woman in the dress spoke to the nurse. "Ma'am, my sister is sick. Really sick, she's burning up. She needs to see a doctor, right away. Her name? Kristy--yes, spelled with a K. Here's our medical insurance and ID. Yes, she's my sister, we're family. I'm sorry, what? Oh, since this morning. And she's gotten worse. Like I said, she really needs to see a--how long? Excuse me?"

  Though he couldn't hear the nurse, Taj saw her gesture around the waiting room. The couple followed her waving hand and surveyed the overpacked clinic; their downcast expression said everything. Turning back to the nurse, they resumed arguing over getting to see a doctor. Unsuccessful, they turned and began walking into the heart of the room, searching no doubt for a place to let the younger woman rest. The white man with the military hair cut took lead, still bracing the younger woman's arm over his shoulder.

  Now half way to his seat, Taj glanced back to his father who was still passed out in his chair. He verified his was still vacant beside him. He started back to wait for the nurse to return with a doctor and stopped. He turned back to the trio, still searching for a place to rest. He should mind his own business, that's what his father had always told him. Don't get involved in other people's affairs. Looking around at all the moaning, coughing, sweating desperation around him, he thought that maybe perhaps that was part of the bigger problem, people were becoming less and less willing to get involved that we've forgotten what it is to live within a society.

  Exhaling in a short huff, he went to them. "Excuse me? Are you looking for a place for her to rest?" Taj gestured to the sick sweating young woman.

  The couple looked at him, the woman with thankfulness, the man with suspicion.

  "I have a seat over here by my father. She can rest there, if you want." Taj stepped aside, trying not to walk over another man laid out on the floor, and gestured to the back wall of the waiting room.

  The white man hesitated, but the woman immediately reached out with a hand to shake his. "Thank you," she said, "that is very kind of you to offer. My name is Karen, by the way." She nudged the man with her.

  He grimaced and then smirked, embarrassed, reaching out with a free hand, the other still supporting the sick younger woman. "Jonny."

  Taj took their hands in turn. "I'm Taj. Nice to meet you too."

  3

  They guided Kristy to the open chair, who immediately curled into a ball, shivering. Karen looked at her with what Taj assumed to be a mix of grief, sadness, and perhaps regret. Though he wasn't quite sure on the latter. Siblings? Maybe they had a falling out. He had some experience with troubled siblings.

  "Is she your--?"

  "Sister? That obvious, huh."

  "I overheard you checking her in."

  Karen nodded towards the other seat. "Your father?"

  Taj exhaled, "Yes." His gaze remained on his old man, his concern unmasked.

  "What happened?" Karen asked, and quickly added, "If you don't mind me asking."

  He crossed his arms, recalling the night's events. He told them about his shift at their family's Shell gas station. The woman in the bathroom. How his father came to check on him and how the woman had bitten him on the neck. He told them about the 911 call and the strangeness of the junkie's death, how she'd seemed completely unphased when shot until she was shot in the head. Their expressions displayed doubt, of which he had plenty himself. It was an impossible story. Still...it's happened all the same. And now they were here in the clinic, waiting now for over twelve hours.

  "What about her?" Taj asked.

  Karen looked to her sister, her expression seemed to hesitate to retell the tale.

  "I'm not really sure. Our father...he..." she stuttered.

  "Did he bite her?" Taj interjected.

  "Bite? No, he scratched her."

  "A scratch?" He looked to Kristy and to his father, different injuries yet somehow exhibiting similar symptoms. Unconsciousness. Fever. Sweating. Pale ashen color. And jaundiced eyes. And the yellow-red pus seeping from their wounds.

  Jonny stepped in. "Have you really been here for twelve hours?"

  Taj shook away his thoughts. He blinked and looked to Jonny. "Since one this morning. When we came in, the radio had said this was one of the clinics that we needed to go to. Nothing in La Porte was open. There weren't many people here yet, but throughout the morning, more and more have showed up."

  Jonny looked around. "Have you seen a doctor?"

  "Not yet, no."

  "Have you seen anyone called back?"

  Taj shook his head. "And good luck getting anything from the nurse. Though she did promise she would go back and see if a doctor would come out and look at my father." He glanced over at the nurse's station. Empty. "She must be seeing about a doctor now."

  Kristy moaned loudly, her eyes still closed.

  Karen knelt and touched her forehead. She looked up at Jonny. "Her fever is getting worse."

  Still looking over by the nurse's station, Taj said, "When the doctor comes to look at my father, they'll look at your sister too."

  Jonny paced slowly, looking from per
son to person, row to row, aisle to body- filled aisle. "I don't know."

  Taj looked to him. "What do you mean you don't know."

  He shrugged. "Look at this place, man. I don't think there are any doctors here."

  "No doctors?" Taj nearly laughed.

  "You said it yourself, you've been here waiting to see someone for twelve hours."

  "Yeah, but...the nurse said they were waiting on something from the CDC."

  Shouting overshadowed their conversation. Jonny and Taj both turned. Some people were arguing at the check in desk. At first it was the usual pleading Taj had heard spark and fade during his time at the clinic.

  But it was escalating.

  Demanding.

  "This is bullshit. You're going to get a goddamn doctor, right now and come look at my little girl." The voice came from a roundish man in a wrinkled suit. Taj didn't recognize him, but judging by his behavior, he'd been here in the clinic a while. He was shouting to the nurse who had apparently returned, without the doctor she had promised.

  "Sir--"

  "Don't give me that crap, lady. We've been here for hours now and I haven't seen one sight of a single fucking doctor."

  Taj glanced at Jonny, who looked at him and nodded.

  "My girl, some asshole attacked her. The wound looks infected. And now she won't wake up." The big man in the suit placed his hands on his hips, breathing heavy and red faced.

  The young guard was standing a few feet away from him, hands up as if taming a wild hog. Even across the waiting room, Taj could see him slowly reach for his sidearm.