CURE (A Strandville Zombie Novel)

by Frisch, Belinda

  A tear ran down Frank’s wrinkled cheek. “I wonder if any of us will make it.”

  John’s phone jingled and he checked it for what he assumed was a text message. It was a voicemail and he played it on speakerphone.

  “John, it’s Billy. I’m sorry, man. I’m really fucking sorry. I need those shots. I’m so sick. Please, I’m on the first floor in the bathroom off the lobby. Hurry.”

  Frank’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t tell me he was infected.”

  John held his hand to his head, racked with guilt. “I didn’t know. I told you, we got separated.”

  The truth was that he left him. And that he’d do it again under the same circumstance. Billy had him at knifepoint. What else could he do? Part of him wanted to stay gone, to not have to face what he’d caused. He looked at the medical kit tucked protectively under Frank’s arm and knew he couldn’t just leave Billy. “He needs those shots.”

  “Who knows how long ago he was bitten?” Frank asked.

  John shrugged. “So, you’re going to let him die in there?”

  Frank took a last drag off of his cigarette. “I lost my wife and my daughter. This is my only chance to get one of them back. If things are that bad in there, this,” he held up a syringe, “is gold. I’m not going to let you waste it on Billy. Kid never cared for anyone but himself.”

  “He cares about Amy.” John corrected him. “That’s why he’s here.”

  Losing someone he loved was why John was there, too. He couldn’t let Billy suffer.

  Frank handed over a single dose. “You have one shot at holding off whatever’s trying to take him. You want more, you’ll have to find it inside. These are for emergencies only, deal?”

  John nodded, mustering the courage to walk back into the nightmare.

  Frank started the van and looked for an inconspicuous entry point.

  40.

  Scott opened the door to the ward, and with Foster at his side, led the women in an efficient two-column formation.

  Penny sniffled, staying close enough to Foster for him to reach back and comfort her. Carlene and Miranda pushed the clunky wheelchairs.

  “This way,” Foster said heading toward the elevator.

  When they came upon the bloody footprints, Penny stopped. “Whose blood is that?” she whimpered and reached for Foster’s hand.

  Two of the hallway cameras moved, the sound catching Miranda’s attention. “We have to keep going,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

  Scott shushed her. “Noise draws them.”

  Penny sobbed.

  “Foster, make her be quiet,” Scott said.

  A mewling sound came from one of the labs.

  Miranda held up a finger. “Do you hear that?”

  Scott kept walking. “We don’t have time for this.”

  “I know, I know. Just listen.”

  Carlene tilted her head. “It sounds like a child crying.”

  “There are children down here?” Penny asked.

  “Take the chair.” Miranda said to her and headed in the noise’s direction.

  The lab glimmered, even in dim light. A single fluorescent fixture reflected off the high-polished steel tables and cabinets.

  “Miranda, wait.” Scott shoved her behind him.

  She huffed, but since he was holding the ax, she stayed back. The cry changed pitch. “It’s coming from over there.”

  Scott pushed the swinging door and the hinges creaked.

  Slurp. Rip. Crack.

  Miranda stopped to calm down. Scott tip-toed around the autopsy table bolted in the center of the room. Blood pooled inside of the sink. A pile of clothes, cut away from a corpse, lie in a heap on the chair. Miranda caught up to Scott and tracked the set of crimson footprints to an infected boy crouched in the corner.

  She gasped, tears coming fast for the sickness and depravity that anyone allowed this.

  The dark-skinned boy was thin, frail and hunched over with his back to them. His navy blue shorts rode high on his thigh and his short-sleeved shirt might have once been sky blue but between the blood, the holes, and the filth, it was impossible to tell. He gnawed on the flayed body of an elderly man, digging deep inside the “Y” incision for softer pieces when his staggered teeth couldn’t tear the tough outer flesh.

  A clear thread of snot dripped from Miranda’s nose.

  Scott held his finger to his lips, a gesture for her to remain quiet, but when Foster tore through the swinging door, the boy glanced up. His milky white eyes went immediately to Miranda.

  “Shit!” Scott shoved her out of the way just as the infected boy lunged.

  Miranda stumbled backward into a countertop and shouted for Scott to watch out. Her worry was more for him than herself.

  Scott hoisted the ax and drove it into the boy’s skull. A loud crack echoed and the split bone held the blade. Scott tugged and his head opened, infected brain seeping from the gap as his body collapsed.

  Miranda shook with fear, trembling uncontrollably and sobbing.

  Scott wrapped his arms around her, blocking her view of the recently dispatched.

  “I’m sorry,” Foster said. “I should have warned you. There’s another one down here. Same age.”

  “You let them do this to kids?” Scott wrinkled his face with disgust.

  “The two boys came infected. God knows why Nixon kept them.”

  Miranda crossed her arms over her stomach. “Who knows why he does any of this?” she cried and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Foster tossed a disposable blue drape over the body and it hid all but the seeping pool of blood.

  “Miranda, we have to go,” Scott said.

  She sniffled and he wiped the tear running down her cheek.

  “Come on,” Foster held the swinging door open. He was staring at Miranda’s stomach and only looked away when Scott returned his stare with one suitably threatening.

  Miranda stopped next to him, turning her ear toward him. “Is that your radio?”

  Foster turned up the volume. “I forgot I lowered it.”

  “Foster, Reid, anyone, this is Jim. We have a Code Black. I repeat Code Black. The infected have gotten upstairs. Repeat, the infected are upstairs.”

  Scott forced Miranda though the door. “Hurry.”

  Foster shook his head. “It’s already too late. The infection spreads faster than you can imagine.”

  41.

  Jim’s call interrupted Reid’s post-homicide high. Killing Lenny released his pent up anger, but now a new, more dangerous hunt was on. Reid stepped over Lenny’s corpse, loaded his pistol, and descended the nearest stairs to the first floor without losing his breath. His hands ached from the strain of the strangulation, but the new prospect energized him. He craved action and it didn’t take long to find it.

  The Ambulatory Surgery Unit echoed with screams. A horde was already evolving, too many to kill by silent means.

  Reid rushed through the double doors. An infected female secretary wearing a two-piece blue suit and one high-heeled shoe shambled toward him, wobbling as she walked. Her long, dark hair, disheveled from a struggle, partially hid the festering bite on the side of her neck.

  “Come and get me.” Reid dared her. She picked up speed, losing her other shoe. Reid waited until she was just outside of arm’s reach to level his pistol. “Bang.” He fired a shot into her forehead and she collapsed. Blood gushed from the hole. She was target practice. Nothing more.

  An elderly couple that was either too confused or stubborn to evacuate howled in pain on the waiting room floor. Not yet infected, they were suffering the change. Reid watched with a twisted grin as the hunchbacked woman reached for her husband. Her face was bitten, the brittle flesh pulled away from the corner of her mouth revealing shining pink gums and a distinct lack of teeth. Blood covered her knotty hand from trying to seal off the wound. Her husband, a stout man with large pores, bled heavily from his neck and had all but given up his fight. He drew his last human breath and Reid spent another r
ound to ensure he stayed dead. The wife howled and he shot her next.

  “Please, help me.” A woman’s voice came from a metal supply cabinet behind the check-in desk.

  Reid maneuvered through the carnage and opened the door. A storm of Post-it notes rained down on the pretty, young brunette crouched inside. Her gentle, brown eyes looked on him as her savior. He wished he had enough time to change that. She tried to stand up, but was stiff and off-balance. He offered his hand and when she stood up, pressed the muzzle of his gun to her chest. Holding it over her heart just long enough for her relief to turn to fear, he drank in the two-second thrill before pulling the trigger. Her body fell at his feet.

  The ruckus grew in the Recovery Room, the sound of gunfire drawing the others. Reid went into the twelve bed unit where Mark, whom Reid immediately recognized as an infected intruder, had eaten his way through several of the recovering patients.

  The virus took them all in turn, each reanimating at a different pace.

  Reid assessed his targets, prioritizing them by most dangerous out of respect for his limited ammo.

  A rotund woman, several hundred pounds and with an open chest wound, glanced up from the elderly man she was devouring. Her gown dangled low enough that he could see her sagging breasts. Between them, sternal wires pulled apart, exposing her heart through a gaping surgical gash. Bits of her victims flesh stuck out from her worn, crowded teeth and blood painted her lips.

  A rabid gargoyle of a boy, no older than seven, crouched on his bed ready to attack. His expression held malevolence and hunger, and unlike the large woman, he was spry. He shifted his weight and launched himself forward. Reid fired and missed his intended headshot. The bullet grazed the boy’s temple, releasing a dribble of stagnant blood. Reid lined up his next shot and took the boy down. He didn’t miss twice. The heavy woman, drawn by the noise, moved faster than Reid would’ve thought possible. Her substantial fat acted like a buffer and she put Reid out several rounds before finally succumbing. Thick rolls of flesh slapped the tile as she belly-flopped and pushed one of the beds between Reid and Mark.

  “Looks like it’s you and me, fireman.”

  Mark charged Reid, the yellow pants whooshing as he quickened his pace toward the gurney. Syrupy fluid dripped down his cheek where his ruined eye laid poked out and weeping. A Bowie knife jutted from his chest.

  Reid pulled the trigger, over and over, but his pistol would not discharge. It jammed. Shit. He’d been lazy with cleaning it. He stepped backward and looked for an alternate weapon. The knife was his only option.

  Mark gnashed his teeth and his lips spread wide in either a smile or a growl.

  Reid locked his gaze, the milky opacity making it impossible to see his pupils. “Come and get me you rabid fuck.” His heartbeat hammered and blood rushed in his ears. He kept the gurney between himself and Mark and struggled to grab the knife handle. The thought of the filthy virus Mark wanted to instill in him fueled Reid’s rage. He shoved the bed forward, sending Mark backward. He fell on the ground and Reid was on him before he got up. This was for survival. He grabbed a pillow off the floor and covered Mark’s face. He pulled the knife from Mark’s chest and drove it, repeatedly and with crushing force, into the top of his head. Mark stopped struggling, his moans silenced, and a familiar calm washed over Reid. The worse was over. Until one of the other beds moved.

  42.

  Foster’s heavy boots clapped against the tile and the echoing sound made Miranda uneasy. He was going to draw the infected. Scott hung back, doting on her more than she would have liked.

  “I’m fine,” she said, unsure if it was true. Her feet ached and she was desperate for a rest or a comfortable pair of sneakers. She leaned on Amy’s wheelchair and allowed it to carry her along.

  A rancid odor emerged and her heightened, pregnant senses took over. She whiffed the pungent air, the hollow ache in her stomach giving way to returning nausea.

  “What’s that smell?” A near-imperceptible drawl colored Carlene’s voice.

  “Food storage.” The words barely made it out of Foster’s mouth when they reached the ransacked kitchenette. A trail of carnage led away from an open chest freezer. Red biohazard bags covered the hallway floor and sharply contrasted the white tile. Chunks of flesh clung to the walls and the ceiling like morbid spitballs. Smears of blood painted the wall.

  “Scott, look out.” Miranda was the first to see him.

  The other young boy Foster had warned about cried out in obvious frustration. He slumped over a shredded pile of flesh, his overgrown nails having made mincemeat of the decayed arm he desperately tried to feed on. His baby teeth scattered on the floor around him, his face bloody and bruised--cut from the jagged, sharp bone.

  Carlene screamed and Penny covered her eyes.

  Scott drew the ax overhead and decapitated the boy with a single, clean chop.

  Carlene hit her knees and prayed. “Our Father who art in Heaven…”

  Penny slipped into shock.

  Miranda wiped a tear from her cheek and saw a harsher side of Scott than she ever imagined possible. While the others mourned the losses of life, he’d grown immune to them. An adaptive soldier in a harsh and unforgiving reality.

  “Scott, are you all right?” Foster asked.

  The assassin slipped from his gentle eyes. “I did what I had to,” he said focusing on Miranda. “Don’t think for a minute I enjoyed it.”

  “I know.” Miranda held her stomach. This side of him unsettled her. She felt Amy’s wheelchair move.

  She was coming to.

  “We have to keep moving,” said Foster.

  Penny whimpered and turned her face away from the slaughter.

  Miranda squatted next to Carlene and held one of her trembling hands between her own. The prayers had died down to a mumbled string of incoherent words and an occasional Amen. “Carlene, we have to get Holly and Amy upstairs. I need your help.” She led Carlene to the handles of the wheelchair and she instinctually held on to them.

  “We’re almost there.” Foster helped Penny past the carnage.

  “Look at me.” Miranda kept Carlene distracted while Scott cleared a path for her to steer. “Keep moving. It’s going to be all right.”

  Carlene locked her eyes on Miranda’s, unwilling or unable to see any more death.

  The ruddy-faced girl with the acne scars straightened, brushing her thin, dirty-blonde hair from her face. “Where am I?” she whispered, her dry, unpracticed voice cracking. “Who’re you?”

  Foster stood in front of her, blocking her view of the scene and leading them to the elevator.

  “My name’s Miranda, Amy. I’m here to take you home.”

  Amy tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate and her arms were too weak to compensate. She let out a yell and grabbed her stomach.

  Miranda coaxed her to be still in the chair. “You’ve been in the bed too long to stand up. Please, we have to get you out of here.”

  “Outta where?” Amy tugged her hospital gown upward until her half-healed cesarean wound and retention sutures were visible. Amy attempted, again, to stand, but couldn’t and she crumbled, crying. “What’d they do to me? What the hell is happening?”

  Foster hit the elevator button, positioning himself so as to shield the already melting down Amy from further panic-inducing scenes.

  Miranda held her hand on Amy’s shoulder, shushing her and speaking in a calming tone. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Amy pushed her away. “It ain’t gonna be all right,” she said, recovering a hoarse version of a voice

  Scott stepped up and grabbed the arms of Amy’s wheelchair hard enough to jostle her. “You listen to me. We’ll explain everything once we get you out of here alive.” The threat in his eyes forced her cooperation. Miranda couldn’t believe what she was seeing. He was suddenly an uncompassionate stranger, not at all like the man she married. Scott backed away from Amy’s chair, and as if he just noticed Miranda watching him, softened his
expression. “I’m sorry.”

  Before Miranda could answer, the elevator door opened with Clarence’s body still tied to the railing.

  43.

  Mark’s death had been too close.

  Reid cleaned his bloody hands on his uniform pants and kept an eye on the reanimating female corpse in the bed at the other end of the Recovery Room. A tube extended from the middle-aged woman’s throat and she thrashed, popping her IV. Blood sprayed the walls and blankets and while she wasn’t up yet, it was only a matter of time. He searched the room for a makeshift weapon he could use from a distance. Hospital beds, IV poles and monitoring equipment, tons of linens and disposable wound dressings, but nothing sharp, wieldy, or strong enough for him to dispatch a hungry Id.

  The newly infected fought the hardest.

  He cleared the jam in his pistol, but didn’t trust it. Without time for cleaning or troubleshooting, he needed a new gun with ammo and the only place to get them was the Security Office arsenal.

  He had to lock down the department first.

  And he still had to find Miranda.

  Each complication made it harder to focus. Reid picked up the IV pole set outside of the unit for fixing. One of the casters had broken off and a repair tag dangled from the hook where a medication bag would hang.

  “This’ll have to work.”

  He held the base with his foot and unthreaded the pole from its center. He ran it through the double door handles and bent the ends until it formed a “C”. If anyone were alive inside, they’d have to get past the infected first.

  * * * * *

  Amy screamed at the sight of Clarence’s decapitated body handcuffed to the elevator. “Please, please don’t make me go in there!” She pleaded tearfully, her greasy hair clinging to her tear-stained cheeks.

  Miranda stepped in front of her, slipped her arm out of the too long sleeve, and used the jacket as a curtain between Amy and the body.

  “Don’t take that off,” Scott said.