The Fall of Society (Book 2): The Fight of Society

by Rand, Thonas

  Tom’s big rig truck just exited the gate of the Saint Angeles Mental Facility as they tried to make their escape out of the city. Anthony, still in his hospital clothes, was in the passenger seat as Tom drove the large semi that left the hospital in its wake. Unfortunately for them, they wouldn’t be gone long. The hospital looked deserted now. Including the buildings surrounding it, the area was practically devoid of life. A few people ran around a corner as fast as they could, headed away from the city. They ran by the hospital and didn’t give the open gate a glance.

  A man rushed out of the hospital—a security guard. He was very nervous as he got in his car and burned rubber out of there. His smoke trail settled and then more people came out of the hospital in a hurry. It was Joe and Maggie, with little Corina in her mother’s arms as they ran to their car. They hopped in and Joe drove them away. Their escape, too, would be short-lived.

  The inside of the hospital was just as deserted as the outside. Papers were scattered all over. Chairs and tables were toppled; a storm had gone through this place. Two hospital staff appeared as they hurried to the back employee parking lot to leave.

  In the machine shop in the basement, Alan was in a tool closet with an empty bottle of hard liquor in his limp hand, passed out in a drunken stupor during the apocalypse, just like Anthony said.

  The north wing of the hospital was quiet until two nurses rushed out of the cafeteria with arms full of food, some of it dropping to the floor as they made their way out. Their fast footsteps faded into thin echoes and the silence settled back into the eeriness this place created. Up the staircase to the second floor, the voices of two men could be heard as they argued. Their words weren’t clear, but their abrupt, short barks made it obvious they weren’t having a happy discussion.

  In the high-risk cellblock, the two men—hospital orderlies—were arguing. The cells were filled with over sixty mental patients and they were not quiet as they vocalized their dislike with being incarcerated. They had no idea of the state of the world outside. The cellblock was clean, unlike the way it was going to be in six months time. The floors and walls were spotless, as were the view windows in the cell doors. Each patient could be seen; they were definitely disturbed people, but they were healthy and dressed in fresh clothes. The only thing unclean was the madness in their eyes.

  One orderly was a white guy with pale skin and carrot-red hair, the other a black man with a shaved head, both in their thirties. The white man wasn’t happy because the black man, his friend, was the moral voice of reason. “We can’t just leave them here like this, Patrick. They’ll starve to death,” the black man said.

  “Ron, everyone is leaving. Dr. Ceraulo is packing his shit as we speak,” Patrick said. “No one is coming to pick these patients up, man, we’re on our own, and what the hell can two of us do to help them?”

  “I can’t leave them like this, it isn’t right.”

  “Right? Right now we have to get the fuck outta here or we’re gonna get stranded here and die with these psychopaths!”

  Ron was in deep thought about the predicament. “At least help me feed them before we go?” Ron pleaded.

  “Feed them? It’s gonna take too long for the two of us to feed sixty-seven of them. I’m leaving,” he said.

  Patrick got to the security door, unlocked it, and locked it behind him. He was gone.

  Ron stood there alone as he looked at all the pairs of eyes that stared back at him through the door windows. Most of the patients couldn’t comprehend they were about to be left to die a slow death. Ron finally realized he couldn’t do anything to help them, not alone. “I’m sorry,” he said to them.

  He turned to leave, but stopped to a voice—

  “Wait, please don’t leave me in here!”

  Ron turned back and saw the person who called to him—one of the patients in a cell had his face squished in the food access slot in the door—

  It was Ben Cozine.

  “There’s nothing I can do, I’m sorry,” Ron said.

  “Please, Ron. Don’t leave me stuck in here. I’ll die.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Let me out,”

  “You’re insane, Cozine. The second I let you out, you’ll kill me.”

  “No, no, no, Ron, I couldn’t do that to you in a second, you’ve always been nice to me.” Cozine said sincerely. “Please, don’t leave me here to die like this. It’s inhumane. Please! Please!”

  He began to cry.

  Ron knew that Cozine was right. He knew it before Cozine said it, but to let this murderer out of his cell was insane. He couldn’t do it. He also didn’t want it on his conscience that he left these things, who were still human beings at their core, to die a slow, horrible death.

  He grabbed his key ring and walked to Cozine’s cell.

  “Oh God. Thank you, thank you!” Cozine proclaimed in relief.

  Ron removed a single key from his ring and tossed it at Cozine’s cell door—it bounced off the door and settled on the floor inches from the door seam in a couple of clinks—

  “Sorry, that’s the best I can do,” Ron said and rushed to the security door.

  “What? No! Wait!” Cozine shouted.

  Ron unlocked the security door, walked through, and turned around to lock it again—Cozine was right in his face as he ran up to him silently and stabbed him in the throat with a jagged piece of metal—somehow Cozine was able to grab the key and unlock his cell in seconds. He stabbed Ron repeatedly, puncturing multiple holes in his neck. Blood shot out everywhere. The orderly fell to the floor and Ben jumped on top of him as he continued his vicious assault. Ron went into shock from blood loss and Cozine stabbed him one final time and kept the rusted piece of metal in the man’s neck as he got face-to-face with him. Cozine took a long look into his dying eyes. “I told you that I couldn’t kill you in a second,” Cozine said in an evil whisper. “It took me twelve.”

  Ron’s pupils began to dilate wide to see what waited for him in the after.

  Ben pulled the sliver of metal out of his neck and showed it to him. “From my bed frame. It took nine months for me to pry this tiny piece of steel off. Nine months of pushing and bending until my fingers ached. Nine months for my tiny prize to be born and it only took me a moment to kill you with it,” Cozine said with sincerity on his lips and insanity in his eyes. “Life is funny, don’t you think?”

  Ron exhaled his last breath in Cozine’s face.

  “Not so funny?” he said to the dead orderly.

  • • •

  About an hour had passed and Cozine was sitting in the middle of the cellblock on a folding chair. He had changed now from his hospital clothes to civilian clothes, including a doctor’s white coat. On the floor were several piles of neatly folded clothing as he went through about fifteen wallets that were at his feet. He lost interest in the wallets and turned his attention to an ID badge that was on his lap. He looked at it, felt the ridges of the plastic, picked at it with his fingernail, and then looked at the picture on the ID. That, he didn’t like. He scratched at the picture with his nail, repeatedly, until his nail cracked. He stopped once satisfied. The unknown man’s face was unrecognizable and Cozine was happy now. He looked at the man’s name, reading it internally to himself until it was committed to memory. “Dr. Richard Ceraulo,” he said to himself.

  Cozine, aka Ceraulo now, put the ID in his pocket and then turned his chair around to give his attention to a stack of files that were neatly on the floor. He examined the files carefully, reading the patient’s history, especially their crime—if any—their mental condition, and their current diagnosis. After he was done with a file, he started a discarded pile on the floor directly next to the unexamined pile. After looking at about thirty of the files, he came to one that caught his eye. He read it until a smile cracked over the slash on his hard face.

  He stood up with the file in hand and walked over to the cells referencing it for the particular cell and found it. He dug a set of keys
out of his pocket and unlocked it. The door opened and swung across, revealing the darkness inside. Ceraulo stepped back and referred to the file, “‘Dave Teran,’” he said. There was no answer from the dark cell.

  “Come on, Dave. Come out,” Ceraulo said and then he yelled playfully. “Olly, olly, oxen free!”

  He didn’t come out.

  “Dave, it’s okay, the orderlies aren’t going to hurt you anymore. Come and see.”

  Someone stirred in the shadows of the cell and then a white man’s face sliced through and appeared in the light, but only partially, as he was hunched over and afraid. “Where?” he asked in a timid voice.

  “Right over there,” Ceraulo pointed with a bony finger.

  The man inched out a little more; he peeked his head around the doorframe and saw what Ceraulo spoke of—some fifteen naked bodies lie by the cellblock entrance—arranged uniformly, lying facedown, and evenly placed next to each other.

  “Is it ‘Dave’ or do you prefer ‘David’?” Ceraulo asked.

  The man didn’t answer as he slowly made his way out of the cell like an abused dog, his eyes darting back and forth to see if a trap waited for him. He gained courage, stood up straight, and exited. Ceraulo finally got a good look at him. His hospital clothes were soiled a dirty brown from the crotch down. Apparently, he didn’t practice the normal act of removing his pants when he went to the bathroom, which was understandable because he wasn’t ‘normal’. He moved toward the dead bodies with increasing interest and, when he was close enough, looked at them all carefully until his gaze fell on one in particular.

  He moved toward it with a new sense of purpose.

  “Yup, that’s Patrick. Good eye,” Ceraulo observed.

  He didn’t respond as he got closer to the body of the white orderly, who apparently wasn’t a nice man on the job. He stood over the body and hovered as he looked down at it in fascination. Without warning he exploded into action, kicking the head of the corpse with pure, silent hatred as he thrust the bottom of his tennis shoe numerous times on the skull until it cracked and coagulated blood sprinkled everywhere. He then dropped to his knees and pounded the dead body with tightened fists. He remained quiet as he dealt out his pent-up rage, revenge that was more putrid than the undead. Ceraulo had taken a seat to watch the brutal performance, sketching the man beating the body with a pen on a piece of paper from one of the files. It was actually quite good. A very talented psychopath.

  This went on for almost twenty minutes.

  Covered in jellied blood from head to toe, he finally stopped bludgeoning the corpse. He remained perfectly still on his knees, his breathing barely past normal—his calmness was eerie. After what seemed like an hour—

  “David,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” Ceraulo said.

  “I prefer you call me David.”

  “Ah,” Ceraulo said nonchalantly. “Not anymore.”

  “Why?” David asked.

  “Because now you and I are the masters of this castle, that’s why,” Ceraulo said. “I’m the king and you’re a prince. We can’t use our real names, they’re old and outdated.”

  “So what do I call myself then?”

  “That’s the fun part,” Ceraulo said with a sheepish grin. “You can be whoever you want! Oh. Except a doctor, I already took that role.”

  “Role? Like a movie?” David asked confused.

  “No, no, no. This is more like a game. Let me ask you something; do you like to play dress up?”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Ceraulo yelled and pointed to the pile of clothes. “Then pick your identity and let’s have some fun!”

  David kneed over to the pile of clothing and looked over the selection. He saw what fancied him—a janitor’s uniform—and looked at the ID badge that came with it.

  “Hello, I’m ‘Donnie Harris,’” he said with strange, taut lips and extended his blood-slicked hand to Ceraulo.

  He happily accepted it, “Nice to meet you, Donnie. I’m Doctor Richard Ceraulo.”

  Something caught the attention of Ceraulo’s ears, and he cocked his head to listen—the approach of a big rig truck grew louder as it entered the hospital grounds—it was Tom and Anthony returning.

  “Okay, Donnie, then clean yourself up and get dressed, it’s show time!”

  Two psychopaths were loose and no one would know about it for months…

  DAY 202:

  Z & C DAY

  DONNIE STUCK THE SYRINGE INTO JOHN’S NECK AND PUSHED THE PLUNGER, but was only able to inject a quarter of the drug before John reacted—ramming the back of his fist into Cozine’s face, breaking his nose. He spun from Donnie’s hand, pulling himself away from the needle and hitting his hand at the same time, breaking the syringe. He was going to attack them both but, even though he was only injected with a small amount of whatever drug, it immediately took effect and its purpose was revealed. It was some kind of sedative.

  John lost his balance and fell on his ass. Since he posed no immediate threat, Cozine concentrated on his partner.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Cozine yelled at Donnie.

  “I thought you’d want him alive so you can have some fun with him?”

  “Fun? I was having my fun, but you ruined it!” Cozine stamped his feet like an angry child.

  “Sorry, I was just trying to help.”

  “Sorry? I had the perfect moment of revenge and all you can say is sorry?” Cozine barked.

  “What do you want me to say? He’s still alive, you can have a do-over.”

  “’A do-over?’” Cozine spat. “Look at him. He’s drugged up now. He won’t feel it the way I want him to. Damn you!”

  John still had the broken syringe in his neck—his heart pumping out the drug with each beat until the spray turned deep red. He pulled the needle out of his neck and tried to focus his vision but, even though Cozine and Donnie were only several feet away, they were big, blurry blotches. They were too busy arguing to notice John take out his pistol from a chest holster and take aim at them.

  KA-CRACK!

  The first shot whizzed between them and hit the ceiling.

  “Shit!” Donnie cried out and cowered for cover.

  From somewhere else in the hospital, “That was a gunshot.” Bear said at the faded echo.

  “Yeah, but from where?” Ardent answered and they stood still and listened for more.

  “Goddamnit! You almost hit me, John!” Cozine shouted in insult.

  John used the sound of his voice to hone his aim and fired again—the bullet grazed the top of Cozine’s shoulder—the impact sent him reeling to the floor—he fired again, but missed.

  Cozine dragged himself into an office out of harm’s way and looked at his shoulder; it was just a minor flesh wound. Donnie hid in the office across from him. He was very nervous even though he had a rifle slung across his back. His quiet, tough Donnie routine was just an act because the real man was afraid of his own shadow.

  John needed to get to cover so he kicked himself backwards as fast as his legs could muster; he got to his rifle and grabbed it. He saw Lauren a little ways behind him and tried to get to his feet, but his knees were rubber and he fell back down.

  “Okay, John, Okay!” Cozine said as he retrieved his handgun from his coat pocket. “You don’t wanna be nice, then we won’t play nice!”

  “What’re we gonna do?” A nervous Donnie asked Cozine.

  “What do you think we’re gonna do? Grab your rifle and kill him, ya big sissy!”

  Donnie/David reluctantly got his weapon ready.

  John got to Lauren, who was still unconscious. He was able to get to his knees, but they were out in the open, so he took hold of her by the collar and dragged her behind a nurses’ station. Lauren’s AK-47 went with them, her hand wrapped tightly around the buttstock. Even unconscious she was a fighter. John got behind the desk and pulled Lauren behind it just as Cozine fired a couple rounds at them—one hit the top of the desk and cut t
he air over John’s head and the other hit the plate glass windows of the front of the hospital. The bullet hole splintered the glass and it shattered, sending an avalanche of shards below.

  The sudden noise stirred the undead on the street and they slammed against the wall for entry, the ones in the sewer blast hole beginning to claw more rapidly. Many of them dug under the hospital wall like a train of the dead entering a dark tunnel of their own creation; it was only a matter of moments…

  “That’s definitely gunfire,” Tom said.

  “Okay, but from where?” Anthony asked.

  “Sounds like it came from the north wing,” Tom said. “Come on!” he led the way.

  In another part of the hospital, “They may need our help, Maggie,” Joe said regarding the gunfire, as more shots echoed throughout the corridors.

  “I don’t care,” Maggie said angrily. “I need to find my daughter. You do what you like.”

  “Damnit, Maggie!”

  Derek and Milla were still as they listened to the distant gunfire, “That’s definitely an automatic weapon. Somewhere below us, maybe the north wing.” Derek said.

  “Sounds like an M-4.” Milla guessed.

  “We should head back down to check it out.” Derek suggested.

  “Yeah, definitely.” Milla agreed.

  John fired a burst from his M-4, but he was still slightly drugged and didn’t have full control of his motor functions. He lost his grip and the shots went wild, but two still hit the door of the office that Cozine hid behind. Some of the shattered door debris hit him in the face. “Fuck!” he choked and cupped the injured part of his cheek.

  “Did…I get you…you piece…of shit,” John’s drugged voice slurred.

  “Just a nick on my face,” Cozine said defiantly. “Luckily for me, that’s not my best asset.”

  John reloaded as quickly as he could in his condition, “Before I blow your…brains out, Ben…I’m gonna shoot you in the balls!”