Am I Dead?: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (The Great Dying Book 2)

by Paul Seiple

"And what if we don't find him before he attacks someone else?" President McClain asked.

  "I have more bombs," FBI Director Turner said.

  Two

  Being flu season, the ER at Carolina Medical was usually packed this time of year. There were no available seats when Matthew Broome stumbled through the automatic doors and ignored the security guard greeting him. The guard didn't think much of it. The surgical mask muffled his voice, and with all the hacking and coughing, exchanging pleasantries wasn't a priority.

  Broome made it to the check-in counter and dropped his elbows against the wood for support. The nurse didn't look up.

  "I'm sick,” Broome said.

  "Everyone in here is sick," the nurse said without taking her eyes away from writing on a patient’s chart. She slid a clipboard toward Broome, stopping when it hit his hand. She looked at Broome.

  He swayed to the left, then to the right. He hunched over like an old man with years of bad posture. Broome’s forehead was marked with dried mud. His hair was wet and sticky. Blood that wasn't his covered his mouth and chin. His Thom Browne suit was tattered to the point it made him look like a homeless man, not the district attorney. The material on both shoulders of his blazer was torn and frayed from bullet wounds. Red stains soaked both sleeves.

  "Shit…" The nurse paused and covered her mouth. It was more from shock than blurting out a curse word in the ER. "You've been shot."

  The nurse called out to the guard to bring a wheelchair. Broome lost what little balance he was teetering on and fell back. The guard slid the chair under the back of Broome’s knees, saving him from hitting the floor. The nurse ran past the wheelchair and pushed a silver button on the wall. The double doors opened.

  "Room Two. I've paged Dr. Kildare," the nurse said.

  Broome felt as though his head was on a swivel, slowly moving side-to-side and forward-to-back. Finally, it crashed against the back of the wheelchair. His thoughts were mainly incoherent flashes of memories throughout his life. His twelfth birthday, a pizza party where he first noticed that Kelly Randolph was no longer a creepy girl. She was someone who made his stomach do funny things and his heart skip. The memories fast-forwarded to his wedding day. Kelly was the most beautiful bride any man could dream of. His memories moved to the birth of their son, Adam. The recollections began to fade like a television with bad reception. He saw Kelly smiling and waving as she held Adam. Broome fought to hold the memory, but it shifted to black. There was nothing left. He knew he was in the hospital. Broome had no idea how he got there or why he was there. He didn't realize he was shot until the nurse screamed it out. A pounding in his temples was the only pain Broome felt. The ache reminded him of someone falsely accused of a crime banging against cell bars for attention. He was that person. Broome didn't deserve to be held prisoner by his own body.

  "Hang in there, man. Dr. Kildare will get you fixed up," the security guard said as he wheeled Broome into Room Two.

  Three nurses were in the room waiting.

  "Help us get him on the bed," one of the nurses said.

  "I got him," the security guard said. He grabbed Broome around the waist and hoisted him up.

  A sudden rush of deeper pain assaulted Broome as his head rested against the security guard's neck. It quickly gave way to another feeling——hunger. Not the type of hunger someone feels after skipping lunch. This was starvation. A feeling of desperation. It wasn't only hunger. There was a craving for something Broome never imagined he would eat——human flesh.

  The security guard eased Broome onto the bed. The craving subsided as the comfort of the bed cradled Broome. A nurse took Broome's wrist. Her touch felt like fire, setting his entire body aflame with a sensation like a swarm of bee stings. He wanted to scream, but when he opened his mouth, there was no sound.

  "I'm just checking your heart and blood pressure," the nurse said.

  Broome closed his eyes. He couldn't speak, but his mind was in overload. He tightened his eyelids, hoping when he opened his eyes, this would all go away. It would be only a nightmare.

  "Where is the wound?" Dr. Kildare said, entering the room.

  "Looks to be one in the shoulder and one in the leg," a nurse said.

  "Nancy, notify PD. Betty, make sure OR is prepped," Dr. Kildare said.

  The nurses nodded and left, leaving only Dr. Kildare, Rebecca Wallace, and the security guard with Broome.

  Rebecca Wallace checked the heart monitor. There was no activity. She checked the cables and the connection to Broome.

  "He's flatlining," Wallace said.

  "Get Nancy back in here." Dr. Kildare tore open Broome's shirt, sending buttons in several directions. "He has a chest wound." The hole burrowed into Broome's chest at heart level, leaving Dr. Kildare with no doubt of a grim prognosis. Broome couldn’t be saved.

  "Cancel OR," Dr. Kildare said, looking at his watch. "Time of death is 2:45 P.M.."

  A man in a black suit rushed into the ER, pushing through the automatic doors that weren't moving fast enough.

  "Clear the room, now," he said, approaching the check-in desk.

  The nurse's dumbfounded expression spoke for her.

  The man flashed a badge as another man in a matching suit began to usher the sick outside to the parking lot.

  "FBI. We have reason to believe a fugitive came here seeking treatment."

  The nurse regained composure. "Room Two. There is a gunshot victim in Room Two."

  "Evacuate this floor. No one is allowed beyond these doors. If there is other access to these rooms, cut it off now."

  The second agent joined his partner after the clearing the waiting room. The first agent pressed the silver button. The doors opened.

  "Lock down all access," he said as the two agents walked through the doors.

  Broome opened his eyes. A thin milky film over his pupils made everything a blur. A white flash grabbed his attention as Dr. Kildare turned his back. Nurse Wallace took Broome's finger to unclip the heart monitor. His skin was hot. She wasn't expecting it and dropped his hand. The sound of Broome's wrist clanging against the bed's metal railing caused Dr. Kildare to swing around.

  "He's hot…" Nurse Wallace screamed when she saw Broome's cloudy eyes staring at her. “And he’s not dead.”

  Broome grabbed Nurse Wallace's hand and pulled her in. She screamed for help. Broome opened his mouth and sank his teeth into the nurse's throat, muffling her pleas. He jerked from side-to-side, shredding Nurse Wallace's neck. Dr. Kildare grabbed Broome's shoulder. He took his mouth away from the nurse. She crumpled to the floor in a pool of blood. Broome lunged at Dr. Kildare. He latched his teeth on to the doctor's ear and tore it free. Broome spit the ear out. Dr. Kildare grabbed the side of his face as Broome pounced on him like a starving lion. He tore at the doctor's throat before settling in on the flesh between the shoulder and the neck.

  "What the fuck?" The security guard struggled to free his gun.

  Broome turned away from the doctor. Blood dripped from his chin. He coughed, splattering crimson spittle over the white linoleum floor. He choked and then made a gurgling sound. It seemed as if he were trying to speak as he got to his feet.

  "I'm…so…rr...y."

  Broome moved toward the security guard, who fell back against the wall and slumped to the floor. The guard fumbled with his holster. He freed the pistol, aimed, and shot Broome between the eyes as he took a swipe at the guard. Broome's feet left the ground. He slammed into the bed back first before falling beside Dr. Kildare.

  With a white-knuckled grip on the pistol, the guard tried to steady his shaky hand as he eyed the carnage. The deep red hue of blood formed polka dots all over the white room. A metallic smell mixed with disinfectant hung over the room. The bodies of Broome, Dr. Kildare, and Nurse Wallace draped the floor in a scene plucked from a horror movie.

  The security guard placed the palm of his hand against the wall and tried to stand. He fell back when he made eye contact with the dead doctor. His eyes were glassed
over with fear. Dr. Kildare's face held a frozen grimace that couldn't begin to explain the terror felt before death.

  The door to Room Two swung open. The sudden noise of a foot kicking the door startled the guard. He dropped the pistol. Two men in black suits stood in the doorway aiming revolvers with intent to kill.

  "Whoa. Don't shoot." The security guard held his arms above his head.

  "FBI. Do not move." The agent kept the target on the guard.

  The other agent spoke into a lapel microphone on his jacket. "We have the subject. He is no longer a threat. I repeat, he is no longer a threat. Requesting assistance to quarantine the area. There are three additional casualties."

  "I'm not hurt," the security guard said. "What the hell is going on here? That man was dead. He ate Dr. Kildare and Rebecca."

  "What's your name, sir?"

  "Reggie Cutwright. I had to shoot him. I didn’t murder him. He was already dead. He killed Dr. Kildare and Rebecca. He…was…dead. I had to shoot. He was coming for me."

  "Well, I'd like to thank you, Reggie. I'm Agent Foster and that's," he pointed to the agent still conversing through the microphone, "Agent Scales. You saved a lot of people today, Reggie. Dangerous does not even begin to describe that man. Let me shake your hand." Agent Foster extended his hand.

  Reggie reluctantly shook Agent Foster's hand. "I'm just sorry I couldn't save Dr. Kildare and Rebecca."

  "Unfortunately, when this type of situation occurs, there are always casualties. Just know you prevented a lot more and you're going to be portrayed as a hero," Agent Foster said.

  "I'm no hero."

  "We'll make you one," Agent Foster said. With his free hand, he took aim and shot Reggie in the head.

  "There are no witnesses, sir," Agent Scales said into the microphone. "The media will be fed the escaped fugitive story."

  "Well done, agents. Clean-up is en route.” FBI Director Turner's voice reverberated in Agents Scales' earpiece.

  Three

  Q Warren stood in front of four shelves of protein bar options. He lost track of how long he had been there. Q wasn't having a hard time choosing which bars. He always went for the same ones——Cookies and Cream and Birthday Cake. The bars sounded more like candy than anything with nutritional value, but each packed twenty-two grams of protein and usually kept Q satisfied between meals. It was only recently that his appetite began to show a semblance of normalcy. After Carolyn's death, he didn't eat much or sleep. It was nearing seven months since the crash. Q vowed to never forget his fiancée, but with each day, he realized he had to keep living. And eating was a big part of that. He stared at a box of protein bars with crickets as a main ingredient. Q remembered how Carolyn scrunched her nose and at the same time smiled whenever he mentioned trying those bars. Q never planned on eating crickets. He just loved the way Carolyn's expression exposed her innocent beauty.

  "Excuse me. I need to get by you."

  Q broke away from the memory. An older woman scrunched her nose, waved her hand, and motioned to Q to move. It was nothing like Carolyn. Wrinkles spread across the woman's forehead and disappeared into tufts of silver hair.

  "Well, now that I have your attention, pick something or move out of the way. Family Feud comes on in thirty minutes. Are you hard of hearing or something?"

  Q smiled. "Sorry. There are so many choices."

  He stepped aside. The woman mumbled something as she passed. Q laughed and tossed a few protein bars in his basket. He picked up one of the cricket bars, shrugged his shoulders, and dropped it on top of the Birthday Cake bars. He noticed a man dressed in shorts and T-shirt staring at him. The man looked as if he just came from a run. Q was somewhat of a runner as well. Not as much for the fitness aspect. When he was young, he hated to jog. Blamed the dislike on his flat feet. After Carolyn's death, he took up running to deal with the pain. Mask one pain with another. It wasn't much different from getting a cortisone shot for pain or taking a shot of whiskey to numb depression.

  Q didn't think anything else of the man's stare. Maybe he’d witnessed Q's altercation with the lady and was ready to step to defend the old woman's honor. A brief wave of envy washed over Q when he caught a glance of the man's Nike Lunarglides. Q was in the market for a new pair of running shoes and the Lunarglides were a contender. But now, he had traded his running shoe list in for a list of “must haves” on his impromptu trip to Black Dog. Q was picking up the essentials——toothpaste and new toothbrush. He was usually adamant about replacing his toothbrush every four months. His current toothbrush was going on seven months. Another thing Q had neglected since Carolyn's death. He dropped a tube of Crest and an Oral-B toothbrush into the basket and made his way to the deodorant. Out of the corner of his eye, Q noticed the running man in front of the toothpaste. They made eye contact. The man shifted his eyes toward the rows of mouthwash.

  OK, he is following me, Q thought as he grabbed the deodorant. It was impossible not to feel paranoia in his situation. Hours earlier, Q learned about a secret program not developed by the government, although Q had his doubts if that was true, that wiped out a small town in North Carolina with a manmade virus, and now it was popping up in other parts of the country. This was the type of secret that caused “in-the-know” people to disappear if they stepped out of line. There was a very real possibility Q was being followed. He flashed another glance toward the mouthwash. The man was gone. Q exhaled and headed for the check-out line. He eavesdropped on a conversation between two women as he scoped out their baskets. Not much food, mainly cough and cold medicine.

  For as long as he could remember, Q had a fascination with spying on other people's food choices from afar. Carolyn used to call him a weirdo for it, but to Q, the word “weirdo” wasn't an insult. It meant unique, and uniqueness made the world a more interesting place. Besides, Carolyn meant it in jest.

  "The school called today around lunchtime telling me to come pick up Sarah," one of the women said as she flipped through a copy of People magazine.

  "Teddy came home about the same time," the other woman said, handing the cashier her basket.

  "I heard there is a nasty virus going around. Always seems to happen about this time of year." The woman put the magazine back in the rack.

  "If Teddy isn't better by tomorrow, I'll take him to see Dr. McGraw. I really hate going to the doctor's office. If you're not sick when you go in, you will be when you leave."

  "How's the cricket bar?"

  The male voice broke Q's concentration. Guilt slapped his face red as punishment for eavesdropping. He turned to see running man behind him.

  "The bar made of crickets? How is it?"

  "Oh. Sorry. I haven't tried it yet. Been a little nervous."

  The man laughed. "I imagine so. I hope those suckers are finely ground up. Can you imagine getting a cricket leg stuck in your throat?" He reached into Q's basket and pulled out the bar. "Apple and Cinnamon flavored." He laughed again. "Sprinkle bacon bits on a turd, and it still tastes like crap."

  "The crickets have been ground into flour. I'm sure there is zero chance of getting sensilla hung in your throat," Q said.

  "What?"

  "Hair."

  "You a doctor or something?"

  "Or something," Q said.

  The man flipped the bar over and looked at its nutritional information. "Only ten grams of protein." He tossed the bar back into Q's basket. "The reward isn't worth the risk. I'll pass."

  Q eyed the man's basket. Only a pack of spearmint gum. He probably tossed it in just before striking up a conversation, Q thought.

  "Hey, buddy, you ready to check out?"

  Q turned his attention back to the line. The women were gone. The cashier, a white kid with dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail, stared at Q with anticipation. Q shook his head. "Sorry." He started grabbed a pack of gum and dropped it in the basket as the kid was pulling items out.

  "Dude, we're taking things out. Not putting them in," the kid said.

  Q apologized
again. The man was no longer behind him. He was at the self-check-out. He caught Q looking at him.

  "I don't have all night for a pack of gum." The man shrugged his shoulders and left the store.

  A tinge of relief comforted Q. He wasn't following me.

  "$36.58."

  Q stared off into space.

  "Dude, $36.58."

  Q fumbled for his wallet.

  Paranoia rode shotgun. Q could usually make it home from the grocery store in less than twenty minutes. But he was going on thirty minutes and was still a few miles away. Q drove slowly, observing everything around him. Situation awareness. It was something he learned at Quantico a few years earlier during a Staying Safe in a Hostile Environment lecture. Q used situation awareness daily to problem solve medical mysteries, but he never imagined he would have to apply it to his personal life out of fear of someone following him.

  Q chose Reston to buy a house because the traffic in D.C. was intolerable. Reston wasn't much better during rush hour. Fortunately for Q, he was usually at the office before traffic backed up. Recent construction presented an annoyance, but overall, he was pleased with Reston. Q was also happy the only person following him was a pizza delivery guy who obviously couldn't use Google Maps.

  Q pulled into his driveway just as dusk was giving way to night. His iPhone serenaded him with a snippet from The Nutcracker when he killed the engine. He plugged in his security code and a green text bubble popped onto the screen.

  Change of plans. Need to go over new evidence. Meet at Walter Reed at 0500 hours. - Dickson.

  Q swiped the message clear and stepped out of the car. He eyed a medium-sized box on his porch. Amazon is fast. The modem wasn't supposed to be delivered until tomorrow, he thought while grabbing the groceries.

  Once inside, Q tossed the groceries onto the kitchen counter. There was nothing perishable, so no worry of spoilage. He went back to the porch for the box, which was entirely too big for the modem. Waste, he thought as he brought the package inside and placed it on the couch. Q grabbed a Cookies and Cream protein bar. He tore are the wrapper as his stomach cursed him for not eating anything since breakfast. He plopped onto his recliner and turned the television on. There was a Breaking News report out of Charlotte. Gunman kills five, including two police officers, before being gunned down in the emergency room at Carolina Medical in Charlotte scrolled across the bottom of the television screen. Q thought back to the text message from General Dickson——new evidence, and then FBI Director Turner's words this morning——this was his way of covering up Matthew Broome killing those cops. Q wasn't surprised. The government hid the truth of an entire town in North Carolina being decimated. This was nothing to them. He thought about the level of threat he would face in Black Dog. Q was confident the biological agent Dickson mentioned was a manmade virus and not bacteria. Bacteria cannot wipe out a town that fast. Manmade. That scared the hell out of Q. Nothing good ever came from playing God. The threat of an unknown virus that could make people eat each other was terrifying, but it didn't scare Q nearly as much as his own government and the levels it would take to make sure this screw-up never went public. Every fiber of his being protested the trip to Black Dog. With the virus and quite possibly the government trying to kill him, it was a suicide mission. He had to wash that bitter pill down. Q had to know the truth about Carolyn's death. He had to figure out what was making people murder and eat each other and how to stop it. All the answers were in Black Dog.