Hour 23

by Robert Barnard

  Which brought the doctor to where he sat now, sitting in the lonesome cafeteria eating whatever scraps the lunch staff had left behind. Just him, his notes, and the gruesome memories of the day that had preceded him.

  As he took the last bite of his sandwich, Paul heard a flurry of clicking footsteps approach the cafeteria doors. Click-clack-click-clack. They moved fast and with urgency. Paul leaned back, inhaled, closed his notebook and used a napkin to wipe some crumbs from his thin goatee. No doubt, he thought, that his presence would be requested soon.

  “Dr. Merrill,” a voice breathlessly called out as the cafeteria doors swung open. “Doctor, they need you!”

  Paul stood up slowly and calmly asked, “Who needs me?”

  Sherri stood by the door and held it open. “Litchfield and the other agents on creep ward. They want you there now.” The nurse looked as if she had won the state lottery. “Something amazing has happened.”

  Paul tucked his notebook under his arm and paused to wonder. Is one of them showing signs of improvement? His mind racing, Paul breezed past Sherri and out of the cafeteria. He hurried for the elevator, jammed in a key, and ascended to the creep ward above. Wasting no time he jumped into a hazmat suit, sealed himself shut, and approached the nursery. He found Litchfield and the other agents standing in a circle around Marc Cooper’s bed.

  “What’s going on?” Paul asked. His anxious breath fogged the visor of his hazmat helmet.

  “Look,” Litchfield said, and he nodded at Marc. “None of us saw this coming.”

  Paul stood at Marc’s bedside. Marc squirmed flaccidly in his restraints. His mouth hung open. When he tried to click it shut, it only closed halfway. His skin looked like old, wax paper stained with grease. Transparent, gray, tearing away. Urgh. Glup. Gulk. The sounds stuttering from Marc’s mouth were dry and weak.

  “What did you do to him?” Paul demanded, furiously. “This is my patient! I am responsible for him!”

  Litchfield looked up in disbelief. “We haven’t done anything, doctor.”

  Paul looked over Marc’s bedside with widened eyes. He looked at Marc’s wrist, where a butterfly needle stuck out, and traced the tubing from Marc’s arm and up to an IV. Everything seemed as the doctor remembered; nothing appeared to be tampered with.

  “What’s happening?” Paul asked meekly.

  “He’s dying,” Litchfield said, then laughed. “Uh—for real, this time.”

  “Why are you all standing around and doing nothing?” Paul said. He scanned the room, looking for a defibrillator.

  “There’s nothing to do,” an agent scoffed from the back. “He’s already dead. How do you suppose we save a dead guy from dying?”

  Marc fought his restraints less and less. Gerp. Ulch.

  Paul took a step back from Marc’s bed. He could feel his own heart racing, even as Marc’s slowed to a stop.

  With a shake of his head, Paul studied the agents standing around the room. “This isn’t right.”

  “Hey,” Litchfield said. “In case you haven’t realized, this is good news.”

  Paul grabbed the thing nearest to him—a short, metallic table with some bandages atop it—and hurled it across the room. “I know this man. I know his father. This isn’t good news.”

  “Get him the hell out of here,” Litchfield said, raising a hand towards the door.

  Paul’s world blurred in and out of focus. He remembered being pulled to the end of creep ward and exiting through the decontamination portal. Someone, he wasn’t sure who, pushed him in a wheel chair towards the elevator and back to his office. When he hit the couch beside his desk, he fell into a deep, warm, endless sleep.

  When Paul blinked his eyes open, Sherri was seated in a chair across from him.

  “How long was I out?”

  “An hour, maybe two.” Sherri sighed. “You were hysterical.”

  “What happened?”

  Sherry thought long and hard about her answer. She didn’t want to upset the doctor even more, yet decided that bluntness was probably in everyone’s best interest.

  “Marc died. Completely.”

  Paul rubbed his forehead, then slapped his face a couple times.

  “They didn’t meddle with him?”

  “No,” Sherri said. “And honestly, doctor, why would they?”

  Paul leaned up on his couch with a groan. “I need to go home.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do. Litchfield and his gang have things under control.”

  “Paul,” Sherri said tenderly. She stood up from her chair and took a seat beside the doctor. Paul was taken aback—he was always referred to as Dr. Merrill, or doctor, by the young nurse. “Things are finally going to start to get better, and we need you here when it happens. Please. Stick it out a little longer.”

  “Why better?” Paul asked.

  “It’s not just Marc. Those who have been infected—they’re dropping dead. All of them. Everywhere.” Sherri handed the doctor a foam cup filled with lukewarm coffee.

  “When did Marc first slip out of consciousness?”

  “Yesterday.” Sherri said, checking a clipboard on her lap. “12:12 PM.”

  “And what time did he die?”

  “11:11 AM.”

  “Huh,” Paul said. “Nearly twenty-three hours to the minute.”

  “There’s more,” Sherri said. “While you were out, an airliner went down. Over near Pigeon Hill.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Paul asked. He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed the temples on either side of his head.

  “There are teams at the crash site now. It doesn’t look like anyone survived, but…we need you here, doctor. Please.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Paul said, before downing the cup of coffee. “Have some more of that ready, and let’s get back to work.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Nolan blinked his eyes a few times before the world around him came into focus. His face was pressed against a cold glass window as he watched the scenery outside pass by. For a moment he thought he was riding the morning bus to school. Maybe his entire day was some kind of sick nightmare, a result of not getting enough sleep after staying up all night finishing his English paper.

  Nolan quickly realized that he was not a passenger on a school bus. He was in the back seat of Jim Whiteman’s colossal, black Suburban.

  Through his tinted window, Nolan could see a gorgeous evening sun descending through the trees. Streams of golden light trickled through the branches. Finally, Nolan thought, the dreadful gloomy clouds had lifted. The fog was gone.

  Nolan let out a soft moan and tucked his chin into his neck, getting a better look at his shoulder. It was wrapped in layer upon layer of white gauze; in the center of the gauze was a single drop of blood rising from beneath the bandages. It was perfectly circular in shape.

  Chloe heard Nolan’s stirring and turned from where she was seated in the front passenger seat. “He’s up.”

  “How are you feeling, kid?” Jim asked. Nolan could see Jim’s piercing blue eyes staring back at him in the rearview mirror.

  “Where are we?” Nolan said, confused by the passing scenery.

  “Just outside of Albany, now.”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” Chloe said as she unbuckled her seatbelt. Carefully, she climbed between the front bucket seats of the moving vehicle and into the back. When she finished wobbling into the seat beside Nolan, she gave the boy a long, warm hug.

  “What happened?” Nolan asked, confused.

  Chloe frowned. “You don’t remember?”

  Nolan adjusted in his seat, sitting up a little. “I remember your neighbor trying to get in through the kitchen window…and after that, she tried getting in through the front door.”

  Chloe stared into Nolan’s eyes, hoping he would say the words so that she wouldn’t have to.

  “I remember you shot at her through the door, and she still wouldn’t stop. I remember…” Nolan exhaled. “You shooting me.”
/>   Chloe started to cry.

  Nolan wrapped his right arm—his good one—around Chloe’s neck and pulled her close. “It was an accident.”

  Chloe looked longingly into Nolan’s eyes.

  “I mean, it was an accident, right?” Nolan asked with a laugh.

  “Come here,” Chloe giggled.

  Chloe pulled Nolan close, until they were nearly nose to nose. She brushed a few wild hairs away from Nolan’s eyes.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Nolan could see Jim still watching in the rearview mirror.

  “Uh, Chlo’—”

  “Sh,” Chloe said. Holding his collar, she pressed her lips into his.

  Nolan pulled away, shyly. His eyes darted towards the rearview mirror and back to Chloe. He whispered, “This is weird.”

  “Hey you two, sit down and be quiet—we’re close to something,” Jim ordered from the front.

  The Suburban pulled up to a long line of cars waiting outside of a massive concrete wall. In the center of the wall was a series of chain-link fences designed to let vehicles in one by one. On either side of the fenced opening was a small tower. Inside each tower were several men in military uniforms, each one holding a high caliber firearm.

  A figure appeared beside Jim’s window and knocked a couple of times, signaling that Jim should roll down his window.

  “Good afternoon,” the figure outside said sternly. Like the others, he was dressed in full military garb. The rifle he held was imposing and made Nolan feel nervous. “Where ya’ headed from and how many are with ya’?”

  “East Violet,” Jim answered. “Just the three of us.”

  “Woo-wee,” the figure said with a whistle. “Ain’t that where that plane went down earlier?”

  “Sure is,” Jim said.

  “Well, we’d love to let you in, but there’s just a few questions we have to ask you first. Is that all right with ya’?”

  “Go right ahead,” Jim said.

  The figure removed a thick, dark pair of sunglasses and leaned in close to Jim’s window.

  “First question is, are you a zombie?”

  Jim laughed. “What kind of question is that?”

  The figure didn’t seem amused. “Are. You. A. Zombie?”

  Jim’s laugh subsided. “Listen, pal, we’re tired. We’ve been driving for a long time and—”

  The figure raised his rifle towards the driver side door. “Are you a fucking zombie or not?”

  Nolan felt his heart beat faster and faster. “Mr. Whiteman,” he said before he unfastened his seatbelt. “You have to explain to them that—”

  “Sit the fuck down,” Jim said, “let me be the one who handles this—”

  Nolan sat back down in his seat. In front of him, Jim started to twist and contort. Blood trickled from the corners of his eyes and mouth and he clicked his jaw open and shut. Without any hesitation, the figure outside raised his rifle and fired a single round into the front seat. One billion warm fragments of blood, bone, and brain sprayed across Nolan’s face.

  “Holy shit,” Nolan screamed, jumping up in his seat. He jiggled the door handle beside him but it wouldn’t budge. His feet felt like they were kicking through quicksand.

  Nolan felt an icy hand grab his right wrist. He spun around to see Chloe gnashing her teeth. Her eyelids were pulled taut, and where there were once stunning hazel eyes were now nothing but dark, hollow sockets. Chloe’s perfect teeth were replaced with long, snarled bones that crowded their way out of her lips.

  “Give me a kiss, fucker,” Chloe moaned. She lunged forward and bit Nolan hard on his lower lip. With one jerk of her head she pulled back, tore it off, and swallowed it in a single breathless gulp.

  Nolan fell backwards through his passenger door and onto the concrete. The armed figure from before was now standing directly above him; Nolan stared down the long, dark barrel of his rifle.

  “Looks like it’s too late for you, kid,” the figure said as he laughed and cocked the rifle.

  The figure pulled the trigger and Nolan sat up, screaming in terror.

  “Oh, God. Jim!” Dana hollered. “He’s awake, Jim. Come quick!”

  Nolan’s t-shirt was soaked with cold sweat. He panted and grabbed at his chest. His heart was in his throat.

  “Nolan, it’s okay. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.” Dana stood up from her recliner in the Whiteman’s living room and sat beside her student on the couch. She rubbed his back, careful not to touch the carefully wrapped bandages that Jim had applied hours earlier.

  “Miss Naccarato?” Nolan asked, utterly confused by his English teacher’s presence.

  Dana smirked. “It’s a long story.”

  Just then a series of short barks broke out from the end of the couch. Nolan looked down to see a small fat Pug and a tiny Pomeranian yapping at him.

  Jim came running from the kitchen with a bottle of water and a box of aspirin.

  “How are you, kid?” Jim asked.

  “I guess I had a nightmare,” Nolan said, catching his breath.

  “That’s probably because of the good stuff I slipped you earlier, after I patched you up. How’s your arm?”

  “It stings. It hurts.”

  Jim drew a deep breath.

  “Am I all right?”

  “Yeah,” Jim said. “You’ll be fine. She glanced you, thank God. It could have been worse. You’re lucky.”

  “Where is she?” Nolan asked.

  Jim looked towards the stairwell behind them. “In her room, sulking. I’m finishing dinner, I was about to bring her up a plate.”

  “It was just an accident,” Nolan said timidly. He stood up and stretched his arms and legs. His shoulder throbbed.

  “Good luck telling her that.”

  “Can I go talk to her?”

  Jim raised his eyebrows. “Talk? Sure. Leave the door open.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nolan said, and he started towards the stairs.

  With light feet, Nolan scurried up the narrow, winding stairwell of the Whiteman residence. He breezed past the master bedroom and a bathroom before he found himself outside of Chloe’s door.

  Leave the door open, Nolan thought. If only Jim had known how many weekend nights Nolan spent sleeping on her bedroom floor.

  In the gap beneath the door a glowing light flickered. Inside, Nolan could hear music playing softly. He knocked.

  “Go away,” Chloe murmured.

  Nolan said, “It’s me.”

  “Nolan?” Chloe asked, her tone more gleeful than before.

  Nolan could hear her footsteps approaching on the hardwood floor. Chloe swung the door open and stood there a moment. Her makeup was runny and smudged. After a short silence, a quiet tremor started in her throat and worked its way up and out of her mouth. She started to pout and cry.

  “I’m so sorry, Nolan,” Chloe said as she wept. “How can you ever forgive me?”

  Nolan looked around at Chloe’s room. A wire ran from Chloe’s iPod to a small speaker playing quiet, mopey music that he didn’t recognize. The only light source in the room were the dozen or so tea light candles that Chloe had lit.

  “Let’s sit,” Nolan said, and he motioned his hand at Chloe’s bed. Chloe sat at the foot of her full-sized mattress and Nolan plopped onto a nearby beanbag chair.

  “I’m glad your dad is okay,” Nolan said, playing with a piece of cuticle on his left hand.

  Chloe sniffled. “Me too.”

  “And, uh, our English teacher is downstairs.”

  “I know,” Chloe said. A short chuckle punctuated her sobs.

  “Well?”

  Chloe gazed off at her bedroom wall. “It’s a long story.”

  “So I’ve heard. Hopefully I’ll get to hear it sometime.”

  “I’m not just sorry for what I did, I’m sorry for what I said, too,” Chloe mumbled. “I don’t know where it came from.”

  “I didn’t know you felt that way,” Nolan said, admiring a Fall Out Boy poster above Chloe’s bed. He remembered t
he summer before when they saw the band in concert. They stood in the heat and rain for hours, and it was worth it; a big name act in East Violet was the most excitement the two had all summer break. “I should have known. I don’t know. I’m just stupid.”

  “How do you feel?” Chloe asked. She crossed her legs where she sat.

  “Like I’ve always wanted it, too. But I didn’t want to mess things up with my best friend. I didn’t want the bonfires and parties and late weekends together to end. And I figured that you’re going off to college, you know? Why get invested?”

  Chloe rolled her eyes. “Yeah, why get invested?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Nolan said, trying to back peddle. “High School’s going to end. Going our separate ways started to feel like an inevitability.”

  “It didn’t have to be that way.” Chloe sighed. “You could have went, too. When I first mentioned Colorado, your first words were ‘that would be so rad, I have an uncle out there.’ I got my hopes up so high at this sliver of hope that you might want to go. Then you never mentioned it again.”

  Nolan leaned back in the beanbag chair. The tea light candles scattered throughout the room shimmered and cast long shadows.

  “What’s the deal with the candles?”

  “The power was flickering while you were passed out.”

  “Huh.”

  “Nice change of subject, though.”

  Nolan leaned up in his chair and stood. He toddled towards Chloe’s bed and dropped beside her.

  “I wish we had weed.”

  Chloe laughed.

  “Seriously—the candles, the quiet music. The world ending outside. It’s a nice atmosphere.” Nolan grinned, amused by himself.

  Chloe bit her lip and punched him on the shoulder playfully. “You’re such a dumbass.”

  Nolan gulped and bent forward, put one hand on Chloe’s waist and pressed his lips firmly into hers. Chloe wrapped her arms around Nolan and swiveled herself until they were face to face. Nolan felt his pulse skyrocket and his lips started to feel puffy. Chloe grabbed at his t-shirt, careful to avoid his wounded shoulder when—