by Lynn Main
The easiest way back lies through the main maternity ward, straight to the spiral staircase and down to the lobby…the way we came in. That’s the way I’m going. For two reasons: One, this will be the area we need to leave open and my job will be clearing as I go on my way down. Two, I wouldn’t find my way out the other route. The directions to the main floor from the stairwell are complicated and the possibilities for getting completely lost are multiple.
We have to get to the parking garage on the other side of the main entrance. There, we will find the stairs down to the sub floors. We will be meeting by the same sliding doors we entered through, so all I have to do is get there and wait. I have a feeling the waiting part will be hardest. She says to expect her to take longer…but not much. That’s Plan A, anyway.
It is a good plan in theory, but a lot can go wrong. Any time Faith has to defend herself with the shotgun she could attract attention. If that happens, I won’t be able to come help her. I know she plans on keeping her promise to be quiet and careful and use her gun only as a last resort, but I’m not a big supporter of this plan overall. I’m going to do it anyway, though. It isn’t like she has given me any choice.
I’ ve had a little extra time to think about it because after she told me the plan, she went to use the toilet. She’s been in there a while. The question that keeps going through my mind “Is it really worth it?” If something happens to me it’s no huge loss I guess, but if something happens to her I wouldn’t know what to do. At least I’m not worried about screwing up my part. I go to the lobby and wait for Faith. If I see any zombies, I kill them.
I don’t know why but my scar fascinates me. I pull back my sleeve and stare at it while I’m leaning against the counter by the fridge waiting for Faith. I don’t know what it means that it’s healed. Maybe I’m naturally immune. That’s ridiculous. I guess they could still kill me conventionally and eat me. So the important thing is to keep them from doing that. I want to tell Faith that I am immune, but I’m not really sure how. It doesn’t make sense, I know it doesn’t, but my arm’s completely healed. I feel fine…better than fine.
Homecoming
Chris sits in the little gazebo in the park off of Spanish Trail for a while, panting and heaving and then finally catches his breath. No one saw him leave but he ran anyway. He ran as fast as he could. He is still carrying the 9mm that Mr. Petrova shoved in his hand his first night in the mortuary.
For all of these days, Chris has been beyond useless. He has not even taken down a zombie that he can be sure of. He has certainly fired at them, but hasn’t made a single shot. He carried the gun around as if it were a slightly defective grenade for weeks in the mortuary, but holds it more firmly in his grip now.
Now he is walking in the shadows down Fairpointe Rd. It is hard to say if it was a conscious decision to come through his own neighborhood, because it is basically on the way to the hospital, but so far his route has brought him on a direct path to his own front door. He turns on Edgecliff and a minute later is standing at the curb in front of his house.
He had not thought much about coming home until he was outside. He was scared to know what fate his family met. He starts up the driveway with a longer stride than he was accustomed to using. His plain off-white sided house looks dark and dreary. There are no cars here and all the lights in the neighborhood seem to be out. If it was completely dark already, Chris wouldn’t have probably found his way here. He vows to himself not to give up, though every reflex tells him to bolt the other way. There are things here he can use; especially his bike. Otherwise it could take him until morning to navigate through the dark city all the way to the hospital.
Once inside, it is even darker. It had been a blessing that the mortuary was equipped with a gas generator. Having lights and hot water had always seemed a given to him, even in the mortuary, but now he turns the faucet on in the bathroom and nothing comes out. His house seems vacant, though there are scents floating around that are somewhat alarming. The smell of rot has been close to his nose so long, it is hard for Chris to decide if something in here stinks or if his nose will permanently smell death.
He takes a backpack out of his brother’s room. It has a sleeping bag attached and a metal rack to store a tent and other gear when hiking or backpacking. It is a real survivor’s bag. Brad took it with him to Europe two summers ago but had it shipped home from Florida State. He goes to the utility drawer in the kitchen and takes the black Maglite and the extra D batteries left in a package of eight; three remain.
After going to his room and digging some illicit black-cats out from under his bed, Chris decides to go back into his brother’s room. He opens Brad’s closet and pulls out his old duster. Brad plays lineman at FSU 3rd string so the coat is plenty big enough for Chris. He then goes to his parents’ room. He pauses by the door. His mom’s car was in the shop. He knew Mrs. Lundy had been giving her rides to work but Chris wondered if it was that day that she was supposed to go to the shop at noon to get her car or the next day.
He pushes the door in. His parents’ room had been set up so his dad could day sleep when he was home from the oil platform. He was still due to be out another 2 weeks when it happened. The room is pitchblack. Chris reaches in the backpack and pulls out the Maglite. He scans over the bed. It is messy, but empty.
He shines the light in the bathroom onto the mirror from the hall. Then he takes a step in and creeps around the door, only seeing his parents’ dresser and the gun case in the corner. It is a fancy glass fronted case with a lock on the door and the drawer below where Chris’s dad keeps his ammunition. Chris doesn’t have the key. He swings the Maglite at the etched-bordered glass door and it shatters.
There are several guns inside. A couple of antique squirrel .22’s and a couple of 12 gauges’ and other shotguns. Chris’s dad had fooled with black powder guns for years when home from work and there was a huge Springfield .58 leaning in the corner. Chris disregards them all. He reaches into the center of the case and pulls out his dad’s
Remington .30/06. It is bolt action which makes it his quickest option, other than the 9mm resting at the bottom of Brad’s backpack.
The scope needs sighted in but he will have to correct for it. Chris has no idea how to sight it himself. His dad had taught him a lot about guns, but unlike with Brad, most of it didn’t take. He checks the scope and unlatches and pulls the bolt back, which releases the receiver pin. A cartridge slides up and fluidly, Chris pushes the bolt forward until it locks.
He pulls the strap over his shoulder. Then as if suddenly angry, he lifts his heavy boot and crushes in the wooden lid on the ammunition drawer. He takes all three boxes of long-rifle .30/06 rounds and starts to get up when he sees there are two new unopened boxes of 12 gauge shells. He stuffs those in the bag too and turns to go.
Might be the last chance
Faith comes out of the bathroom and veers directly for the couches. I pull my sleeve over my bicep and rub at my eyes. She looks at our sleeping wards and then sits a folded piece of paper on the arm of the couch, right beside Kim’s head. I can hear her whisper, “Sweet dreams.” Then she turns toward me and with a determined stride, walks over and picks the shotgun up off the counter. She looks up at me and says, “Ready?” I look over at the couches where all three kids are sleeping.
“Yes. Let’s get this done.” I reply and turn and crouch facing the lockers leaning against each other. I work my way through the locker tunnel, push the heavy door open and, as quietly and quickly as possible, scurry out of it into the darkened hall. Faith slides the shotgun through the door while I hold it open and I reach down to pick it up.
She hurries through much more gracefully than I did and stands, grabbing the gun from me before turning and looking down the hallway. The only part I like about the plan is that if it works and she makes it down to the lobby, we can stay here longer. I turn her around, pull her close to me and whisper in her ear, “Be careful.”
She kisses me. Not just a little e
ither. She kisses me like it might be the last chance and then pulls away looking into my eyes. She puts a hand up to my face and traces the crescent shaped scar thoughtfully. Then we part. She makes no farewell motion. She just turns down the hall and quickly slips into the darkness. I watch her until I can’t see her anymore and then stand, staring after her down the darkened tunnel for a few seconds. I turn and slowly stroll towards the maternity ward’s main desk.
I walk past it and look around. I ’m certain I hear something. I move cautiously toward the stairwell. I lean over the curved banister as the stairs begin to swerve towards the second floor and about halfway down is a man dragging the arm and part of the torso of another person.
I don’t react when I see him. I str oll about three steps down towards the waiting abomination and stand perfectly still, smiling at him. He doesn’t seem to notice me and I take my time as he tries to traverse the stairs. Something about him catches my eye. His face, neck and head are all pretty much undamaged with the exception of his lips.
His lips are nearly gone, but not like they were bitten off from the outside. Not like a piece is missing and then there is torn flesh hanging. They look like the results after someone nervously chews on their fingernails. He has been chewing them himself.
He moves toward me. Waiting for him to notice me takes too long. I slap my hands together making a real loud concussion, not a foot in front of his face. There’s a reaction, almost a comical one, but also a disturbing one. He drops the torso and tries to grab the spot in front of him where my hands were.
I can’t really believe he didn’t hear or see me so I jump up and down and shout at him. He takes a single step forward and then looks up. His eyes are a slick covered smoky grey. Both are glazed over with the fog of blindness. The interesting part to that is, now that he is within arm’s reach, it’s like he can see me.
He’ s too slow to react though. He looks on me for a second before deciding I am food and making the classic zombie frontal assault with both hands outstretched, mouth agape, and a hideous nasally shriek pursing his…well not his lips. I step aside and punch at his midsection and knock him down the flight to the second floor landing.
Two more zombies linger further down the stairs. They all rush me at once; I have no time to think. I sidestep the blind man. The woman is completely covered with black stains; blood I guess. Only her eyes can be seen through her disguise of mire. I hit her in the face as hard as I can. It knocks her back a little, but being a mindless automaton, she just keeps coming.
I hit her three more times. I bury my fist in her jaw, her nose, her flabby cheek and she falls backward. Another man grabs my back. I put a knee down on the step I’m standing on and push him over and toss him down the stairs. He rolls to the second floor landing as well. After hitting his head on the wall, he just lies there motionless his neck at an odd angle. The woman is coming again and I sidestep her and she walks right into the rail.
The other one has to be right behind me now and I don’t have time to mess with her anymore. I quickly shove her hard in the back and she topples over the rail. She’s completely silent until she hits the floor with a wet sounding smack.
I turn just in time to see the blind man coming back for more, and I really give it to him. I dive on him, first pummeling him in the chest and then smacking his head one way and then the other with my balled hands…smashing him in the temples over and over. In a few seconds he is what he should have been already; a rotting corpse.
I stand and look all around, ready for the next but none arrive. The man whose head I beat in is lying there, spewing blood out of his mouth with his blind eyes stuck fixed as if he is intently studying the corner of the wall and roof above him. The other one is further down the stairs. I descend the stairs.
I start to run a little when I hit the big lobby with its huge glass front windows. I see the doors we came in off to the right. Down about a hundred feet is where Faith will come out. I’m flying across the lobby when I see a group of them sprawled on the floor in front of me. There are 6 zombies lying over a body. I turn and run up to a planter with a big dead arrangement of flowering plants in it. I dive behind it and spy on the group, which is right between me and the door Faith should be coming out.
Becca’s Room
Chris comes out of his parent’s room and can see without the Maglite in the hall, but doesn’t click it off right away. The bright halo of light falls on a hot pink sign with both glitter and star stickers on it. The sign also has big glossy metallic blue letters that read: Becca’s Room Haters Out!
Becca had made that sign when the family moved in to this house in her 8th grade year. Chris was 12. His dad had the new foreman’s job on the platform for about 6 months. One day he loaded them all up in the car, they pulled out of Rancho Villa Court, and he drove them here. Chris smiles as he approaches Becca’s room. That was truly a good day. He pushes open the door and sees that Becca’s pink comforter and black and white tiger striped sheets are ripped off of her bed. There is a blood spot on the left side.
Chris looks around, using the Maglite to telegraph where he will look next. The room is destroyed. He almost turns to go until he sees that one of her drawers, which had contained panties, also holds an old shoe box that had been covered in black tape with a jollyroger’s drawn on the lid in white-out. On all sides of the box in the same white-out is written: Danger! Private! Keep your dirty hands off! This means you Chris!
Chris bends down and knocks the smiling skull lid off the box and a leather bound journal sits beneath. He picks up the journal and thumbs through. Beneath that, is the bottom of the box, or so it seems. A small pin-hole is noticeable even in the gloom. There is a red headed thumb tack lying in the false bottom. Chris picks it up and digs it into the hole.
There is a springing sound and then Chris pulls up and the lid lifts off Becca’s secret compartment. Not to Chris’s complete surprise, there is only a Zip-lock bag of weed and an orange package of rolling papers in there. Chris was hoping for more cigarettes but takes the weed and the papers and stuffs them both in Brads backpack anyway. Becca was no scholar, having only a handful of entries in her journal and Chris likes the cover and the feel of the thick paper so he stuffs it in Brad’s pack as well.
Run
I ’m just about to jump out and sprint at the munchers when I hear a gunshot and then a car alarm somewhere just outside the hospital. The zombies all jump up and trot towards me. I had just wanted to attack them but when they come at me, I stay. All of them run by me as fast as their decaying legs will carry them and through the propped open doors. They are gone and I’m in the gigantic lobby alone.
I’ m still alone a while later and starting to worry. The lobby’s completely dark now. Even though the sun’s not set, it’s low on the horizon and the tinted windows filter out the light. To keep from thinking of what kind of trouble Faith has, I try to imagine the scene in the hospital on day one.
It had to be pandemonium. People trying to get in for help, being attacked by dead-people and trying to get back out. I bet it wasn’t an hour before the whole place was overrun, destroyed, and left exactly as it is now. It makes sense because of how clean and undisturbed some areas of the hospital are.
I’ m starting to get even antsier now and look towards the doors that should be Faith’s last obstacle before she meets up with me. They’re dark and still. This hospital is too big for the path she took to be totally clear.
All at once, the lobby erupts with noise. I hear a light rumble to my right, directly behind the main reception desk. The set of double doors are shaking, and then I hear the blast from the shotgun. Panic swells inside me and I run towards the doors, which move and then open. Faith runs out through them with zombies pouring out of the hall behind her.
She dashes right by me, running towards the open doors with several of them almost within reach of her. If I don’t slow them, they will overtake her any second. I hold both my arms out to the side and clothesline the fro
nt runners. Then I start running. Several of them grasp my clothes and scratch my skin with their brittle fingers and outgrown nails. I plow ahead, following Faith’s path through the automatic doors and run out into the circular drive under the awning. I keep my eyes on the back of her head…run, shove, kick and punch right through them…closing in on her.
Rifleman
Chris gets up to pretty good speeds riding down Tamiami. The wreckage would make it hard for Mr. Petrova’s van to get through this way, but it doesn’t even slow Chris down. After the incident with Becca in the garage, Chris pumps like he never has before on the bike. Not so much in a hurry to get there as he wants to get away from what he’d done.
Back at home, he went into the garage through the kitchen and his bike was leaning against the wall, like always. He jogged across the room and started to work to secure the rack over the back wheel of his prized beach cruiser when Becca hit him. She toppled him over the bike and landed right on top of him.
Becca was much more like their mother than their father. She inherited her mother’s small nose and pretty round face. She received her high metabolism and big brown eyes as well. Most importantly to her younger brother at the moment, she also inherited her mother’s petite stature.
Chris, using a single arm, threw Becca off of him. She landed on her feet but tumbled backward into the garage’s overhead door. Chris swung the Remington around and nimbly clicked the safety off with his thumb. The scope being useless in the darkened garage, Chris fired right at Becca’s middle as she ran back for him at full steam. She fell backward and instantly started to get herself back up. Chris operated the bolt and fired again.
He hit his big sister in the foot. She had always been there for him when he was sad or lonely missing his dad or Brad when he went away to college. He loaded the next round as she stumbled again toward him, arms outstretched. Next he shot her shoulder. Then the tears started streaming down. He hit her in the face with the second to last bullet in the magazine. The shot knocked her clear off her feet and into the door. She got up again and Chris had to look into her dead eyes once again.