Miranda met his determined stare. She twisted around, yanked off the coat, and tossed it over the corpse.
Scott tried to catch it mid-air, but missed.
“Too late, the blood’s already on it.”
“That was bite protection you just contaminated.”
Miranda wheeled the traumatized Amy to the far side of the elevator and faced her into the corner. “I don’t plan on sticking around to get bit.”
Amy covered her face with her hands and wept.
Foster tucked Penny under his arm and helped her inside, but the small car had become quickly cramped.
Carlene forced Holly’s wheelchair in next to Clarence’s body and the wheels came to rest in the pool of his blood.
“There isn’t enough room in here.” Something was blocking the door, keeping it from closing. Foster unfastened the belt holding Clarence to the rail. His hands fell, dead weight, at his sides. “Grab his feet, Scott.”
Everyone turned away except for Miranda.
Scott picked Clarence’s feet up by his bootlaces. Thick clots dribbled from his neck onto the floor. Foster lifted his hands higher to cut off the leak and the two of them carried the body into the hall.
“Don’t step in the blood,” Foster said. He looked at the other women’s feet and they were all only wearing slipper socks. “Any cuts or cracks, you’ll absorb the virus like a plant taking up water.”
“Penny, stand over here.” Miranda pointed at a clean patch.
Penny waited for Foster to come back and complied, reaching for his hand.
Scott nudged Miranda until she was the furthest from the spill. “I’m sorry,” he said softly enough for only her to hear him. “I’m over-protective, I know it. But you’re my wife.”
“Ex-wife.” She reminded gently, but the distinction had to be made.
Scott lowered his head, obviously hurting. Miranda reached out to touch him and stopped herself. Don’t let the stress force you to make a mistake. Nothing about what was happening righted their past. She turned the elevator key already in the hole and pressed ‘L’ with her scrubs top between her skin and the button. The virus was invisible and even impregnated with something that might well be infected, she couldn’t be too careful.
44.
The rain came down with hail-like intensity. Frank revved the engine to keep the old van from stalling and drove around back in search of access.
“There.” John pointed. “What about that?”
The roll-up door of a delivery bay hung a foot above the ground, the storage area behind it dim and lifeless.
“It’s as good an option as any.” Frank parked the van and tucked the medical pouch under his arm. Rain beat down on him, soaking his flannel shirt and jeans. A knifing chill took up residence in his arthritic bones.
John pulled his hood up over his head and hurried past Frank to raise the door.
The sound of the wheels on the metal track echoed in the receiving bay and Frank shivered, terrified someone had heard it. He stepped out of the pouring rain and surveyed the room. Inside, were boxes piled high, unopened equipment, and linen carts. The heavy air constricted his chest, making it hard to breathe. The cigarette had been a bad idea. He stifled a cough and snot blew out of his nose. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s here,” he finally said after a recuperative moment and wiped his face on his wet sleeve.
“Are you all right?” John ran his hands over his head, wringing the water from his hair.
“Fine,” Frank said.
“Any clue where we are?”
Frank took the rough map that Zach had drawn out of his back pocket. The flaccid paper and running ink looked like he felt. The sign on the wall ahead said Ambulatory Surgical Center. “I’m guessing we’re at the rear of the first floor, directly behind the lobby.”
“Then Billy’s this way.”
Frank followed John out of the bay and into the main hospital. Every waiting room they passed was empty and a sinking feeling set in. Life in the center seemed to have evaporated. Half-eaten meals grew stale on deserted lunch trays, magazines lay open on chairs, computer monitors flashed catchy screen savers and there was the distinct smell of burning coffee coming from the carafe on the hot plate. Apocalyptic. The word burrowed and nested in Frank’s brain.
John chewed a hangnail on the side of his thumb which had become red and angry-looking. Blood spotted his lower lip.
Frank couldn’t help wishing he were in more capable hands. “You all right up there, kid?” The unease set in a bit further.
John moved his hand. “I’m fine. I’m just...shit…”
Frank scrunched up his face. “You’re just shit?”
John dashed into the lobby. “Help me get this.”
An I.V. pole ran through the door handles of the Ambulatory Surgery Center and was bent into place. Etched glass panels decorated either side of the department’s entrance and Frank saw what John had obviously already seen: yellow fireman’s pants.
“It’s Mark.” John pushed and pulled, twisted the pole and tried to straighten it.
Frank offered help, but his hands were stiff from the cold, and the aching squeeze in his chest still hadn’t subsided. He stuffed the soggy map in his pocket and used a long, golf-style umbrella from the holder in the corner to pry the bent pole straight.
John shoved the post aside and opened the door. He gasped and turned away from the horrific scene.
Frank pushed past him and buried his nose in the elbow of his wet sleeve. The lingering tobacco offset the worst of the stink.
Mark laid face down, his white tee-shirt stained red. A small slit midway below his clavicle appeared to be the back side of a stab wound. Billy’s knife sprouted from the crown of his head and a crimson pool spread around him.
No way had Billy done this.
Frank took a couple of breaths to get used to the decomposition he hadn’t smelled since retiring. Mark was dead, the signs were undeniable, but the manner of his death demanded answers. “John, come here.”
John staggered out into the lobby and vomited in an open trash can.
“John, I’m not kidding,” Frank said. “Get the hell in here.”
John coughed, spat, and when he came back in, kept his eyes focused solely on Frank.
Frank shook his head. “Snap out of it, kid. It’s just blood.” But it wasn’t. It was brains, an enucleated eye, skull fragments, and worse. He clapped his hands to bring John out of his trance and thought he heard a faint shuffling in the next room. “You’re sure those things are downstairs?”
John swallowed. “I’m not sure about anything.”
Frank braced to roll Mark, the significant size difference between them making it impossible to do alone. “I need to get him on his back. Help me turn him over.”
John chewed the inside of his cheek and his bottom lip. “I can’t.”
Frank glared. “Pull yourself together.”
John wedged his hands beneath Mark’s shoulder. “Oh, God. He’s cold.”
“One, two, three, roll.” Frank pushed. Digging into the tile floor with the wet soles of his boot provided him little traction.
Mark’s eye was poked out and he’d been stabbed more than once. The appearance of the wound indicated the stabbing occurred postmortem. After the infection.
John shivered. “He’s dead.”
Frank nodded. “I figured as much.”
John stepped back and a weak voice called out his name.
45.
John’s throat burned from the acidic vomit and a bitter taste filled his mouth. “Hello?” he moved slowly through the lobby toward the bathroom.
Frank covered Mark’s body with a white sheet taken from one of the supply cabinets and ambled after John, who was holding the door open in waiting.
“In here,” John said.
The poorly ventilated room smelled like an outhouse. John wondered how long he could hold it together before being sick again. He counted rows of wall tile to keep his min
d busy.
“Help me.” Billy’s voice, normally deeper than most men’s, sounded shrill and weak.
“Somebody looking for medical?” Frank pushed open the unlocked stall door and tried to soothe Billy with a bit of dry humor.
John watched from across the room.
Billy sat on the toilet, shivering with his plaid boxers around his ankles. All color had drained from his face and the once purple and red acne lumps had blanched and were almost invisible. He was slumped over, muttering something, and covered in shit.
John strained to listen.
“Help me, Frank.” A trail of blood ran from both corners of Billy’s mouth where his lips split open from talking. He rolled his head so he was looking into Frank’s eyes.
Frank reached slowly over to feel for a pulse. John could see his nervousness, as if at any moment Billy might latch on to him and it would all be over.
Billy’s eyelids fluttered and his bowels let go again.
Frank recoiled and the stall door swung shut. “Oh, man, that sinks.”
John turned away, remembering when he left Billy. “I did what I had to,” he muttered.
“Hand me the shot,” Frank said.
“There wasn’t a choice.”
Billy grunted and cried in pain.
Frank shook John by the shoulders. “Snap out of it, kid. Give me the damn shot.”
John blinked, wiped a tear from his eye, and handed Frank the syringe from his pocket.
“Hang in there.” Frank injected Billy’s thigh.
Billy drew a deep breath and pounded his fist on the metal wall, the medicine making quick work of the virus. He spat bloody phlegm on the bathroom floor and wiped his mouth clean. Frank had the stall door half open to give him some space. Billy collected himself and cleared his throat. The first words he had the strength to say placed blame squarely on John. “Hey chick’n shit? If you’d have backed me up, this never would’ve happened.”
John bowed his head, ashamed and embarrassed because it was true. He held the tiny promise ring that dangled from his chain. April’s screams and her short-lived struggle as the two masked men dragged her from their apartment echoed in his memory. He hoped when they took Nixon down, the revenge would fill the void and he would be able to rebuild himself. That he would be able to move past the pain and live again without fear.
* * * * *
Miranda stood next to Scott in the main lobby where his cell phone had reception for the first time since the basement. One after another, voicemail messages poured in—a welcome sound in the otherwise quiet.
Scott fumbled it open and let out a frustrated grunt. His hands were too large for the close-set buttons and though he would never admit it, Miranda could see his nerves had worn thin.
“26 new messages, Christ.” Rather than listening to them, Scott returned the last call, which was Frank.
Miranda perked at the muffled Merle Haggard tune. “Do you hear that?”
Holly roused in her wheelchair, not completely coming around, but the music having a visible effect.
“Hello.” Frank’s voice came through in stereo.
Miranda pointed at the bathroom. “In there.”
Scott opened the door and nearly knocked John down on the other side.
Miranda immediately held her breath. The room was a mess of diarrhea and blood and Miranda moved the wheelchair carefully around it.
“What the hell happened?” Scott asked.
The young man biting his thumb in the corner grimaced. “Billy’s been bitten.”
“Mark, too. He’s dead.” An elderly man stood in the stall doorway with his back to them, tending to the sick boy. When Holly groaned, he finally turned around. A spark glinted in his tired eyes. “I can’t believe you found her.”
Scott smiled and introduced Miranda. “None of them would be here without her.”
Miranda wheeled Holly over and parked the chair next to Frank.
Frank’s thin lower lip quivered. “My sweet girl.”
Holly’s pale eyes rolled open and were the steely gray of someone who hadn’t seen light, natural or artificial, in a very long time.
Frank brushed a tangle of hair from in front of her gaunt face. “I missed you so much.” He held her hand between his and examined her ragged nails, several of which were broken past the skin, but healing.
Holly didn’t even close her fingers around her father’s hand and Miranda felt a tug of sadness for the one-sided reunion.
“Thank you for bringing her back.” Frank continued to look Holly over, adjusting her to sit more comfortably in the chair and placing her hands in her lap. He took a paper towel from the wall dispenser and wet it to wash her face. When he moved her closer to the sink, one of her feet slipped from the footrest. He lifted it and a look of concern washed over his face.
“What’s the matter?” Scott asked.
The bottom of the sock was soaked with blood. He tugged it off and though her heel was covered in bone-deep ulcers, none of them were bleeding enough to explain the volume.
“The blood’s not hers,” Frank said.
Sweat glistened on Holly’s brow and she went into convulsions
Scott grabbed Frank’s arm and almost lifted him off his feet to get him to the sink. He turned the hot water on full blast and it sprayed everywhere. “Wash your hands.”
Frank barely rinsed them before running back to Holly. “We need to hold her still.”
Miranda grabbed Holly’s arms to keep her from sliding out of the chair and Holly tried to bite.
Frank reached for Holly’s forehead. “She’s burning up. You have to let me help her.”
“Get away from her,” Scott shouted.
“We have to stop her from biting her tongue.” Frank took his wallet from his back pocket and when he went to put it in Holly’s mouth, Scott held him back.
“Don’t make me hurt you, Frank. She’s infected.” Scott shoved Frank aside and pulled his pistol.
Frank stumbled and caught himself on a sink ledge. “Scott, no!”
Holly’s eyes glossed over and were starting to turn white. Her body clenched and she gnashed her teeth.
John watched from the far corner, slack-jawed at Holly’s rapid deterioration.
“Please, not this way. You don’t have to do this.” He put himself between Holly and Scott and scrambled to get his belt off. “We can tie her down.” He fastened Holly’s torso to the chair. “I checked her over. She’s not bit.”
“She doesn’t need to be.”
“There was blood in the elevator,” Miranda said. “The infection got in through her sores.”
“I’m sorry, Frank. You should leave.” Scott aimed the gun at Holly’s head.
“Wait!” Frank held up the medic bag and pushed the stall door open. “Billy, tell them it works.” He pulled out a syringe and uncapped it. Miranda gasped when she saw the boy she saved from Reid lingering toward death. “Tell them!”
Billy moaned.
Frank plunged the needle into Holly’s thigh.
Everyone waited for a sign of improvement.
When nothing happened, Frank gave her a second dose.
“Frank, what are you doing?” John stepped from his place in the corner. “It’s a temporary fix. You know that.”
Holly wasn’t responding. Her hands bent into claws and she fought the belt holding her.
Frank pulled another shot from the bag and injected Holly’s bicep. “Come on, sweetheart. Show them you’re fine.”
“Nothing’s happening,” John said. “You have to stop. Frank, emergencies only, remember?”
When Frank went for another syringe, Billy cried out, “Enough. Don’t waste them all.”
“Frank, she’s not the only one that needs those shots,” John said.
Scott released the pistol’s safety. “She can’t beat this, Frank. The shots aren’t working. She’s infected and she’ll take us all with her whether she means to or not. You have to let her go.”
“No!” Billy shouted.
Holly’s chest puffed out and quickly deflated.
Frank put two fingers to the side of Holly’s neck and wept, covering Holly’s body with his own.
Miranda stepped toward Holly and was the first to say what they were all thinking. “If she comes back, it won’t be her, Frank.”
“What do you know about anything?” Frank asked. His eyebrows knitted together and his mouth bent into a frown.
Foster opened the bathroom door and loaded a full clip into his pistol. “I heard someone scream.” He looked around the room at Holly, the bloody sock, and at Billy.
“She’s infected,” Scott said, stepping closer to the wheelchair.
Frank bowed his head, weeping.
Foster signaled for Miranda to step back. “You can’t let her change. We have to…”
Scott cut him off. “Frank, you should go in the hall. Let us help her.”
Billy stared longingly at the syringes.
“Frank, please?” Scott asked.
Holly blinked slowly, the sedatives that had kept her human body motionless slowing her infected one. Her hand twitched and Frank looked up to meet her stare. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
“I’m sorry, baby girl. I’m so, so sorry,” he said.
Scott nodded to Foster who grabbed Frank’s shoulders and yanked him away.
“I’m sorry, too,” Scott said and pulled the trigger.
46.
Nixon’s helicopter wound up in the distance, the sound competing with the torrential rain hitting the office window. Swirling white lights cut the dark storm and glinted off the chrome desk lamp.
Zach tried to stand up, but the cuffs were too low on the radiator and he could only get to his knees. He needed to make the call. There was no way of getting to the helipad before Nixon left. Scott was his last hope at getting Allison before she was taken.
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