“There.” Scott pointed at the screen. Reid stepped out into the hallway and headed for the elevator.
Zach zoomed in on him. He doesn’t even realize we’re watching.
“Foster, this is Reid. Answer your fuckin’ radio.”
Reid’s mouth moved in time with his voice over the two-way.
Foster held a finger to his lips, insisting the others be quiet. “This is Foster.”
“Where are you?” Reid picked his teeth with a piece of folded paper, ignoring the blood on his hands.
He lied. “I’m clearing out the last of the visitors on three.”
“Fire’s out, stupid. Nixon wants you in the Incinerator Room. Miranda climbed up in the ceiling, but if she comes down, you grab her and you call me. Do you hear?”
“Roger that. I’m on my way.” Foster clipped the handset to his belt and made sure it wasn’t transmitting. “Please get Miranda and go. I’ll help in any way that I can.”
Zach waited until Reid was in the elevator and the door closed behind him. He looked over his shoulder at Scott who gave him a nod. “It’s not only Miranda we’re after,” he said and before Foster could stop him, he threw the switches.
The cell doors popped open and the restless pack of infected men shambled into the hallway.
30.
“What do we do now?” John asked.
Frank sat on the windowsill reading the note card from Allison’s flowers. He dialed Zach’s cell and when the call went to voicemail, tried reaching him by radio. “He’s not answering. I say we go back to the van.”
“I agree with Frank.” John’s stare darted nervously between Frank and the doorway.
“You would,” Billy said, leaning into the hall.
“It’s not like that. We can’t check every bed for Allison. We need to talk to Zach, find out where else she might be.” An elevator chimed and John jumped. “Someone’s coming.”
Billy peered around the corner. Paint buckets spanned the walkway and plastic sheeting made it impossible to see more than a few feet. “I don’t see anythin’.” A propped up broom fell over and a black boot came into view. Then a tattooed arm. “Shit, it’s Reid.”
Reid fidgeted with his two-way.
“Frank, get in the chair,” John said.
“I’m not an invalid.”
“Frank, cut it out.” Billy ran over and shoved Frank into the seat.
“We can’t take the wheelchair down stairs.” Frank promptly stood up, though the struggle winded him.
“Then we hafta go.” Billy was the first one out and he barely looked over his shoulder as he darted into Reid’s sightline. He hurtled a case of tile and heard Frank wheezing behind him.
“Come on, hurry.” John pushed Frank along.
“I’m moving as fast as I can.”
Billy took a sharp right turn between two sheets of plastic and headed for a taped off stairwell. He tore the yellow ‘caution’ streamers and threw the door open. He considered letting Frank and John take the fall, but changed his mind mid-stride. “This way, come on.”
“I’m going to kill you all.” Reid shouted, nearly catching John twice.
“Frank, hurry up.” John urged him forward, but Frank didn’t move any faster.
The old man’s face was turning blue. He coughed and sputtered.
“Shit.” John grabbed a nail gun that was plugged into an outlet. He fired several shots and Reid careened left and right, skillfully missing them.
“God damn pieces of shit!” Reid gained speed.
John toppled a chair, tripping him up before he could get to Frank.
Billy’s pulse pounded and he banged his hand on the jamb. “Frank, come on, over here.” He picked up a chunk of wood from the scrap pile.
Frank limped into the stairwell with John close behind him. Billy slammed the door in Reid’s face and kicked the wedge under it.
* * * * *
The crowd of Ids staggered away from the Control Room, moving in a confused pack. Scott held his breath for a moment, waiting for the coast to be clear to Miranda. “How much time do we have to get Miranda out of here?”
Foster frowned. “Not as long as we need.”
One of the cameras moved and something flickered on one of the monitors.
“What’s that?” Scott pointed.
Zach squinted. “It must be one of the Ids.”
“I can’t believe you put us in this situation.” Foster tightened the camera angle on the shadowy figure.
“Wait, no. Look at the sweatshirt,” Zach said. “It’s Lenny.”
“He isn’t supposed to be down here. He has no idea what’s heading toward him. We have to get him back upstairs.” Mark scrambled to the Control Room door. “Come on, come on.”
Foster hit the controls and unholstered his pistol. “Travis, take Clarence to Ben.”
“Mark, you help,” Zach said. “We’ll find out what Lenny’s doing down here.”
Scott’s heart pounded, an upbeat tempo fueled by adrenaline. “Hurry, come on.” Miranda’s troubles were only beginning if he couldn’t get her clear of the horde. Scott ran past the Incinerator Room and fought the urge to open the door. She was safer in there than with them, at least until they’d taken care of Lenny. He was a liability and would only distract them from getting her out safely. The dizzying heat from his quick pace in the clunky turnout gear made it hard to focus.
“Where is Foster?” Scott asked, realizing they’d lost track of him. “And where the Hell is Lenny?” Maneuvering the hall was different from watching it on-screen.
“There he is.” Zach pointed.
“Lenny? What are you doing down here?” Scott asked.
Tears streamed down Lenny’s scruffy cheeks and snot dripped from his nose. “I found Allison. She wuzzint’ where you said, but she’s sick, man. She needs help.”
“Where is she? Is she all right?”” Zach split his attention between Lenny and watching for approaching infected.
“I don’t guess so.” Lenny’s expression hinted at fear.
“Lenny, how did you get down here?” Scott asked, suddenly suspicious. They had needed a key. One which Lenny didn’t have access to.
Lenny ran his hands through his unwashed hair. His gaze drifted, but never settled on any one thing. “The elevator, I don’t know. You hafta come, now.” He pleaded with Zach.
Scott narrowed his eyes and grabbed Zach’s arm, demanding his attention. “Nixon sent him. It’s a set up. There’s no way he got down here on his own.”
Lenny pushed Scott’s hand off of Zach. “That’s crazy talk. You think I’d throw in with that asshole? Allison won’t listen to me, Zach. She won’t let me help. You hafta talk to her.”
Zach turned to Scott. “You understand why I have to go. She’s my wife.”
Lenny’s labored breathing sent him into a fit of coughing. Scott shushed him, but it was too late. Something crashed to the floor in the lab.
A dark-skinned, elderly man shambled into the hall. Blood seeped from the sores on his face and settled in his deep wrinkles. His white eyes remained focused on Zach and he didn’t blink once.
“It’s one of them things.” Lenny panicked and scrambled for his knife. “She’s one of them things.”
Zach grabbed Lenny’s sleeve and pulled him away from Scott.
Scott drew his pistol, ready to kill if he had to. The elderly infected man was the one he’d heard about. The Thinker.
“Don’t shoot,” Zach whispered. “It’ll draw the others.”
Lenny babbled on about the infection and Zach clamped his hand over his mouth. “Shut up,” he said.
Scott couldn’t make out what Lenny was on about. Something about Allison. He pressed his back to the wall and didn’t take his eye off the infected man stalled only feet in front of them. Scraps of furry flesh clung to his jagged teeth from dining on lab rats, but he wasn’t attacking.
Zach dragged Lenny slowly away. “This one’s waiting for Nixon,” he said quietl
y.
A commotion built in the labs and the groans grew to a morbid chorus.
“And the others?” asked Scott.
“Are only interested in another meal. Get Miranda and get out of here.”
Scott couldn’t think of a better plan.
31.
The elevator door opened and a dull glow cast across the glossy basement floor.
Travis sighed. Please let the infection hold off long enough to get Clarence to Ben. The thought of being trapped with a full-blown Id terrified him.
Clarence drew a raspy breath and swallowed. The dark brown ring around his pupil was barely visible through the milky opacity which covered his cornea like skin.
Mark shifted Clarence’s weight and Travis’s knees momentarily buckled. “Take him. I can’t leave the others.”
Travis leaned Clarence against the wall and supported him the best he could as he slid to the floor. A familiar, rank smell rolled off of him. “I don’t think I can do this alone.”
“I promised Frank I’d get Holly and I’m not leaving without her.”
“What if I need help finding Ben?”
“You’ll have to use the radio, I guess.”
Travis injected Clarence with another dose of antivirus and when the elevator door sealed them in, his chest tightened.
There was no calling for help. Clarence was contraband. Travis second-guessed letting him out of the cell. Maybe he couldn’t be saved. Five years of working together, of knowing his wife and children, had forced the decision. His family deserved closure, if nothing else.
Sweat dripped from Clarence’s brow. His legs twitched and his hands contracted. “I’m dying,” he whispered. The words came out in stunted rasps. He covered his cough and blood spattered his palm.
Could this get any worse?
Travis was immediately sorry for thinking it.
The lights dimmed and the elevator stopped halfway to the first floor. The muted, remaining light was emergency auxiliary.
The storm knocked out the power.
Travis pushed the lobby button, but it didn’t respond. “Geez, oh God.” He smoothed a hand across his eyebrow and looked up at the ceiling hatch. There was no way to reach it and no guaranteeing it wasn’t bolted from the other side. He hit the buttons for each floor in sequence and when still nothing happened, he took the phone from the emergency box.
No dial tone.
“We’re fine.” Travis said. “We’ll be all right.”
Clarence’s bulging eyes drifted closed and he hugged his knees to his chest. He gritted his teeth and let out a groan. “You have to kill me,” he muttered.
“Don’t even talk like that, Clarence. We’re going to get out of here.”
Travis pried at the doors with his fingers until his hands went numb from the pain. “The power’ll come back on. You’ll see.”
Blood tears streamed from the corners of Clarence’s eyes. “Please,” he said. “Just do it. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Travis sniffled and his mouth bent into a twisted frown. “I won’t have your death on my head.”
“Then protect yourself.” Clarence lightly nodded toward the cuffs hanging from Travis’s belt.
It was the least he could do.
He cuffed Clarence’s hands together through the railing and injected him with a final dose, hoping to stave off the last of the change if not for Clarence’s sake, then for his own.
* * * * *
The shelf Miranda had climbed lay on its side, stranding her. She looked for another way down and briefly considered letting one of the covered carts break her fall. A cold finger traced up her spine as she recalled the horrific images of the corpses inside them. She shivered and held her hand to the side of her aching head. The recent events made it hard for her to think clearly. Her best bet was the top of the supply cabinet on the other side of the room. She maneuvered across the ceiling, pulled the nearest tile free, and wiped her sweaty palms on her scrubs.
She hung her foot down to gauge the drop and prayed for Reid to stay gone. Realizing there was no easy way down, she turned and dangled from the lowest sturdy pipe.
One, two…
“Three.” She let go and landed with a thud. The metal cabinet dented, but supported her weight. A wave of nausea hit and she stayed still for a moment, waiting for it to pass. Realizing it might not, she crept onto the stack of boxes piled next to the cabinet and used them to get within safe dropping distance. She hit the floor and stumbled backward into the sheet-covered gurney she’d been trying to avoid. The bed slid forward and the rusty wheels shrieked, snagging the end of the sheet before halting.
She had grown accustomed to the rotting stench in the room, but a distressing new smell emerged. Her shoulders rounded, her back stiffened and a bitter taste filled her mouth. She convulsed in a fit of dry heaves, unable to stop when she heard the heavy footfall in the hallway.
Shit!
She tucked the lower half of her face inside the collar of her scrubs shirt and tried not to breathe through her nose. She ducked behind the gurney, pulled the tail of the sheet over her head, and prayed it was Foster coming to save her.
The door opened and she squatted low enough to see the incoming feet. A pair of yellow fireman’s boots drew closer.
“Miranda, are you in here?” Scott’s voice seemed an auditory hallucination. Tears formed behind her eyelids. “Miranda, it’s me, Scott.”
Jesus, thank God.
She staggered into the open, unable to immediately catch her breath. Her legs felt weak and she cried, flooded with relief. “How do you always know when I need you?” Sobs punctuated her high-pitched words.
Scott ran to her and tried to shield her eyes. A shiner extended from his left eye to his temple. His lower lip was split and blood streaked his face. A piece of white medical tape stuck to the back of his head and flapped like a tail behind him.
Miranda’s foot caught on the sheet of the gurney and she nearly tripped. Scott caught her.
“Miranda, don’t look back,” he said and tried to shield her eyes.
She couldn’t help turning around. “Annie,” she gasped.
The blood-stained cotton had fallen away, exposing the naked body of the young mother she knew Nixon hadn’t sent home. Her stretch-marked stomach bore the scars of multiple births. A fresh cesarean incision ran parallel to one that preceded it and her abdomen was flayed open. Her organs glimmered and a severed umbilical cord lay on top of her pallid corpse.
“Oh, God, no.” Miranda fell to her knees. Her lower lip quivered and her whole body shook. Had Scott not come for her, this was her fate. “That could have been me,” she said, crying so hard that the words barely came out.
Scott took her in his arms and held her head to his chest.
Shhhh. “I’m here. You’re all right now.”
“I’m so far from all right.” She looked at Miguel’s pallid body and at Annie’s exposed corpse. A year’s worth of frustration with Scott resurfaced. He never believed she could take care of herself. Maybe she couldn’t. She pounded her fists into him and wailed. He stood there, absorbing her angry blows without flinching. She’d never been more raw or exposed. She loved him. She just didn’t want to need him.
32.
“Zach, do you hear me?” Frank’s gruff voice echoed off the tile of the locked men’s room. He coughed and held his chest. “Zach’s not answering his radio.” He dropped his hand to his side and groaned, exhausted by the narrow escape from Reid.
“They should’ve called by now.” John was still out of breath from the four flight descent.
Billy dialed Lenny’s cell and shook his head. “Lenny ain’t pickin’ up neither.”
John paced and stopped, leaning against a sink and getting the back of his pants wet. “Try Scott’s phone.”
Frank shrugged. “Already did. It went straight to voicemail. Tried radioing him, too, just in case.”
Billy removed his knife from its sheath. “We’re gonna haft
a go to the basement.”
Frank stared at his walkie-talkie, waiting for it to announce an alternative.
Billy tried contacting both Scott and Zach a second time. “If neither of ‘em pick up, we go. Deal?” When no one responded, Billy shrugged. “I have my answer.” He pocketed his phone and examined the honed edge of the Bowie knife, thumbing across it to test for sharpness. “Frank, you should go to the van. Keep tryin’ ‘em.”
John lowered his eyebrows. “I know that crazed look, Billy.”
Billy tipped the blade in John’s direction “No one’s askin’ for back-up. Go man the phones with Frank if you’re scared.”
John took a deep breath. “Hopefully Zach left the key.”
* * * * *
Jim Lockard clutched the crumpled white name patch on his green jumpsuit. The tiny maintenance office was little more than a repurposed closet and the on and off squeezing pain in the middle of his chest made it feel even smaller.
You have to calm down.
The impossible was happening. The infected were released. Other than Nixon, he was the only person who knew about the lockdown. All of the doors but one emergency escape would simultaneously lock, sealing in the infected until they starved. All he needed was for Nixon to give the word.
He picked up his walkie talkie and tried to reach the Control Room. “Travis, this is Jim. Do you hear me? Travis, please answer. We have an emergency.”
Jim couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that the entire basement was lost and that he was going into a melee he just wasn’t strong enough for.
Pain radiated to his jaw and down both arms. He steadied his hand and uncapped his prescription bottle, placing a bitter-tasting nitroglycerine pill under his tongue. A brief stinging sensation and the ache subsided.
This episode had been the worst since his major heart attack and given the stress, he knew where it was heading. He dabbed the cold sweat from his forehead with a piece of blue shop towel.
Inevitably, the call was coming.
The desktop vibrated and he opened the drawer, answering the emergency cell phone only Nixon had the number to.
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