by G. Benson
Scott leaned back against the door, hand rubbing idly at his arm. He had no idea what they should do. He could finally breathe again after the panicked fleeing, though his binder was making that hellishly uncomfortable.
The doctor on his right, a man Scott didn’t know, regarded him. He kept his voice low. “Smart idea you had there.”
“Seemed logical.”
“You saved these people’s lives.”
Scott shrugged. He’d acted without thinking, throwing a punch that didn’t even shake the biting guy in A&E and then herding a bunch of people down the hall near a side exit.
“Didn’t really work like I planned.”
“Why, because the exit was blocked? Not your fault.”
“Why would they block the exits? No one can get out that way.”
The doctor pressed his lips together. “I think that was the point.”
Scott licked his lips and watched the people murmuring together. They were a strange mix of staff, visitors, and patients, young and old. A woman clutched a sleeping baby to her chest.
“Look, Scott, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Brody. Head of Surgery.”
He said it like it meant something in these circumstances.
“Look, Scott.” Brody’s voice lowered even more, and he watched the people around them. “You’re smart, think quick on your feet. Why don’t you and I get out of here?”
Disgust roiled in Scott’s stomach. “And leave these people here?”
“Why not? I know you must know the service access to the generators. Let’s leave.”
“No.”
“Scott, we can’t go in a group. We’ll attract too much attention from the sick people. If only you and I—”
“Dude, what part of ‘no’ did you not understand?”
They stared each other down, and Scott refused to blink until the man looked away. Coward.
“Why don’t we ram the door?”
Multiple people turned to stare at the guy standing at the back. He held a shaking kid, maybe ten years old, against his front, hands heavy on her small shoulders.
“What?” Brody was the first to speak.
The guy shuffled his feet at the attention, clearing his throat. “That door was forced shut with a mechanism. I’ve installed ‘em before. I, ah, wager the military is outside and used this device, only takes a few quickly placed screws with a drill—anyway, if we hit it with enough force, it’d unjam it and we could get out.”
“Sir.”
Scott hadn’t know someone could make a respectful title sound so patronising. Brody raised his eyebrows at the man wearing some kind of workers’ overalls. “Would that make a lot of noise? I’m not sure that’s a good idea. What if those…things, hear us?”
“I, uh—look, I know. But if the hallway is clear, it should only take two strong knocks. Then we can get out before they’re on us.”
“Dad!” The little girl’s voice was high. A note of desperation that made Scott swallow heavily. Her father ran his hand along her hair as if it could soothe her.
Scott mulled it over. “It could work.”
A woman, powerfully built, stepped forward, past a grey-haired, older woman. “We could use this metal table. Run it down the hallway with a few of us behind it for force.”
Scott eyed the table. It wasn’t bolted down, standing in the middle of the room, and was about two metres long and less than a metre wide. It was for nurses to prepare antibiotics on or who knows what. He looked from the table to the door.
“It could work.”
Brody threw his hands up. “Or could bring those things down on us. There were at least five of them in that A&E, and who knows if there’s more.”
“You got a better idea?”
Scott’s words shut him up.
Since he was closest to the door, Scott pulled together his courage. “I’ll check the hallway.”
Everyone pressed back as far from the door as possible. Not that he could blame them. One of those things had bitten a man’s lower lip off in A&E. Nausea bubbled in his belly, and he sucked in a long breath through his nose to try and quell it.
If he thought about that, he’d never open the door. Instead, he’d end up in a ball in the corner somewhere gasping for breath like some poor person he’d seen when he’d bolted out of A&E.
Scott took another deep breath, hand ready. Shaking his shoulders as if warming up for a run, he pulled it open a crack and put his ear to the door.
Nothing.
Opening the door wider, he put his head through it and checked left and right.
The long stretch of hallway was empty, the exit only a metre to his left. Scott turned around. “Nothing.”
It happened in a flurry of movement. People stepped forward while Scott held the door open, and they manoeuvred the table through the doorway. When Scott glanced back one final time, Brody was standing with the people hiding near the back wall.
With the children and the elderly. Real brave.
Never one for a lot of words, Scott shot him a look and enjoyed the way the man avoided his eyes. He all but squirmed.
Scott stayed at the door while he watched three people hold the table, all of them breathing fast. He was sure their hands were shaking even as they gripped the table. Tension was heavy in the air as they all tried to be as quiet as they could. Sweat lined Scott’s upper lip, salty when he nervously swiped his tongue over it. Someone’s shoe squeaked and every single one of them winced, their heads whipping around to peer behind them.
Nothing.
The hallway was empty.
One by one, they all fixated back on the door that would get them out of here.
A hushed, “One, two…”
“Three.”
Then a catastrophically loud noise screamed out as they ran the table forward several metres and crashed it into the door. The man who’d had the idea originally pulled them back, the two women who’d joined with him following his movements. “Once more!”
Something brushed Scott’s arm and he glanced down, and found the man’s daughter watching.
She stared up at Scott, eyes sharp as lasers. “Did you hear that?”
Scott listened harder. He tried to hear past panicked breathing.
A groaning noise.
His mouth went dry.
“Hurry it up.” The words hissed out of his mouth.
They ran the table through again and the crash was even louder.
“That should do it,” the man leading the charge whispered.
The little girl ran forward and gripped the man’s arm. “They’re coming.”
Scott wished she wasn’t right. Two of them at first, appearing around the corner. First a hand that gripped the wall, then an arm. Then the two of them. Their mouths hung open; one of them had a half-caved-in face where someone must have tried to fight him off. There was no blood, though. At least, not as much as there should be from an injury like that. One leaned against the wall for support, left foot dragging behind her, hand crawling along the white wall to help drag herself along. She was slower, clumsy. The other not so much. They looked like they should be slow, but Scott had seen: they moved faster than you’d think.
“Daddy!”
The girl’s father rushed forward and pushed on the door.
It didn’t open.
People pushed forward from the treatment room. Scott stumbled as Brody shouldered him, desperate to be the first out. He reached the man struggling with the door and helped him push.
It opened.
People shoved past Scott in the doorway, and he let them, his gaze fastened on the now four advancing people—zombies—things. Ten metres away and closing. Scott tore his gaze from them and checked the room as the woman with the baby ran past, to be sure everyone was clear.
She caught his eye. “Thank you.”
He nodded and followed behind her as they fin
ally made it out the door. Scott turned, half-in and half-out of the exit, about to close it to prevent the sick people from coming any further, when a booming voice made him stop.
“Freeze!”
He turned around, blinking in the sudden sunlight, rays of light playing in front of his eyes. The group were only a foot away, none fleeing forward as he’d imagined. It only took a second to take in the scene.
A perimeter set up.
Police and military squads everywhere.
All with guns.
All the guns were pointing at them.
“Go back inside.”
Brody shouted out, “Are you joking? They’re coming down the hallway!”
“We see them, we will not warn again. Retreat back inside, shut the door, or you will be shot.”
Brody stepped forward, obviously trying to exude authority.
“Sir—”
The shot hit him square between the eyes, and he fell like a tonne of bricks. Several people screamed. Scott’s heart thumped against his ribcage so hard he thought it would explode.
“Return inside. No more warnings.”
The group turned, saw the horror that was less than five metres from the exit, and turned again. Some stood still. Some ran forward.
The shots that blasted out made Scott’s ears ring.
The woman with the baby turned and ran back past Scott. Another man followed her, and they made it inside.
As Scott turned to follow, he saw the rest being torn apart by bullets. There was the spray of blood. The cry when it wasn’t an instant kill. The moans on the ground. The man with the little girl fell hard, arms wrapped around her body, red blooming over her chest, still in his grasp.
Shaking, Scott ran inside and pulled the door shut, hearing bullets hit the metal.
He turned to see the other people never made it into the room that had been their haven. The sick fell on them. There was screaming.
Scott wanted to help. He wanted to pull them off the baby, the woman, the man.
Blood was flowing.
He ran.
Taren
Does it matter?
“We need to get to a room. He’s heavy.”
Joy looked at Taren, blinking rapidly. “The staff room upstairs was empty when I left it a few minutes ago.”
Ignoring her racing heart, Taren gave a nod.
“Want to trade places?”
What? Did Joy just offer to help her? She barely spoke to Taren these days if she could help it. Owen’s weight was exhausting her, but jostling him to swap could cause another gush of blood from the wound on his neck and he’d already lost so much. Too much. That knowledge bounced around her head, and she swallowed heavily like that could stave it off.
“No, I’m good, lead the way.”
Together, she and Xin half-dragged, half-carried the unconscious Owen up the one flight of stairs as they followed Joy. Warmth trickled against her shoulder and neck. More blood lost. Taren had only managed to suture half of it when everything had really gone to hell.
“So.” Xin could hardly speak, she was so out of breath. “That was an impressive kick.”
“Ayton does karate.”
Xin, who had clearly been talking to Joy, tried to look past Owen’s head to see Taren. “How do you know that?”
“Can we just—” Taren had a stitch in her side and didn’t want to talk about how she knew that. “Get upstairs, please?”
Sweat poured between her shoulder blades as she panted. Her face felt tight where blood was drying. Taren suppressed a shudder. That man’s hand, covered in someone’s blood, had closed around her face and squeezed, pulling her towards him. If not for Xin…
Taren clenched her jaw.
Don’t think.
They paused at the top of the stairs, and Taren panicked when Joy reached for the door handle.
“No!”
Joy jumped, and Taren felt Xin do the same, a groan falling from Owen’s mouth as he was knocked. Accusing eyes turned on her, Joy clammy and eyes stormy.
“You scared the shit out of me. What?”
Gesturing with a tilt of her chin, Taren indicated the small window on the door. “Check through there first, make sure no one is in the corridor.”
Joy’s trembling fingers rested against the lip of the window as she craned her head, standing on tiptoes to look left and right. Her breath skated across the glass, fading quickly before reappearing with her next one.
“I don’t see anyone.”
“Okay. Open it, but carefully.”
Joy pulled the door open slowly, sticking her head through.
“It’s clear.” She pulled her head back and gave a nervous chuckle. “Clear. Like a SWAT video game.”
Xin and Taren stared at her.
Scurrying quickly, Joy shut up, hurried across the hallway, and pulled open the door to the staff room after she’d peered through the window. Taren and Xin half-fell into the room. Behind her, Taren heard the lock click after a moment.
Grunting, they lowered Owen onto the couch. Xin sat down heavily on the floor, back against the couch. She pulled her legs against her chest, head bowing between her arms, her forearms resting on her knees.
Taren backed away slowly, staring down at the blood on her shaking hands. Her stomach rolled over. In three long strides she was at the sink, her hands clutching the cool metal as she heaved.
Nothing came up, stomach aching.
She turned the water on and stuck her entire head under the stream, eventually remembering to pull off her glasses, dropping them with a clang in the sink. Her hands scrubbed her face and hair, fingers fumbling as she pulled it out of the puff she’d put it in that morning.
The water ran red for a long time.
When it had mostly stopped, she rinsed her mouth.
Taren squeezed water out of her hair, and something soft nudged her side. She jumped and straightened quickly. Too quickly. Everything span for a second. Steadying hands grabbed her shoulders and a towel was pressed into her grip. Taren swiped it over her eyes and opened them to see Joy, all soft eyes and pursed lips.
And a little fuzzy without her glasses.
“Thanks.”
Joy nodded, gaze dropping to Taren’s blood-soaked shirt, and paled. She stepped away to the couch they’d put Owen on.
Locked in a room with Joy Ayton.
Lovely.
The towel came away rosé and Taren tried to ignore it, rubbing her skin. She pulled her scrub top over her head, stiff in some places, and dropped it in the corner near the sink. Goose bumps spread over her arms as she stood in her white tank top, but anything was better than wearing that shirt. She quickly washed her glasses and attempted to dry them, slipping them on when she was done. She pulled her curls back up into a puff as best she could with just her fingers and a hair tie, not caring that water was still dripping down the back of her neck.
Taren surveyed the room.
A normal coffee break room. A beat-up couch, a few chairs. A kettle. There was a fridge humming away in the corner if they needed food. She yanked it open. Empty. Great.
She had a glass of water and watched Owen. Joy was leaning over the back of the couch, inspecting the wound. His breathing was shallow, lips verging on blue, skin a colour that warned of hypovolemic shock; though, really, the blood everywhere did that on its own.
Taren walked over and knelt beside him, taking his pulse.
It was incredibly rapid, but thready. Weak. Watching the clock over the door, she counted.
“What is it?” Xin had finally raised her head and was squinting at Owen with concern.
“182.”
Xin swore.
“We need to suture this.” Joy’s eyes were trained on the bite, fingers gently prodding around the edges, trying to get a proper look despite all the blood caking his neck.
Her face was so close to Taren’s, and Taren stared up at her. Joy’s eyes sta
yed fixated on Owen’s neck.
“I know,” Taren said. “It’s half-finished. Though I think a few of the ones I managed have popped.”
Joy’s eyebrows pressed together. “Why only half?”
“We got interrupted.” Xin’s voice was cold.
Taren slipped her hand into one of the deep pockets of her scrub pants and pulled out a pair of still-wrapped sterile gloves and a suture kit she’d jammed in there. She looked around the room, wishing they were holed up in a treatment room instead. No dressing kit and no dressing trolley. No antibacterial…well, anything. That couch was the opposite of antibacterial. If you searched for the opposite of antibacterial online, it’d be a photo of that couch.
“That will have to do.” Joy was inspecting everything Taren had just dumped out of her pockets. “What happened to him?”
Xin shifted to the side, leaning an elbow on the couch cushion that was under Owen’s legs. She looked up at the two next to her, eyes intent on Joy. “He got bitten.”
Taren watched Joy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Bitten by what?”
“A patient.”
Joy was looking from Xin, to Taren, to Owen, and then back again. “Okay, we’re going to get him stitched up and then I want to hear what’s happened. All of it.” She prodded at the skin, pulling it apart. “Cut the stitches you made.”
Together, Xin and Joy shifted Owen as gently as they could so his neck wound was completely exposed and easier to get to for suturing. Taren yanked at the pouch she carried and pulled out scissors, grabbing an alcohol wipe, tearing it open and running it over them. Joy took them in a bit sadly as she watched Taren snip the sutures she’d made already.
“That’s not sterile,” she muttered.
“It’s all we have,” Taren said.
“I know,” Joy said. She still did not sound happy.
Taren snipped the last suture and the wound sat gaping, oozing.
“Pull apart the skin for me, I need to see as well as I can.” Joy leaned further over, and Taren placed her fingers either side of the wound and pulled the skin apart. “Xin, do you have a light?”
Light shone immediately, Xin apparently ready with the little torch they used for neuro exams, pulled from her own bum bag.
Taren was a good nurse, and in A&E they got exposed to a lot more than on the wards. But she had no idea what she was seeing with this wound, except to say that it was a mess, and still bleeding.