Dying to Live

by Kim Paffenroth

  We moved into the hall, which was thankfully deserted, though it was one of the more horrific building interiors I'd seen. Equipment and furniture was everywhere, with no way of telling whether it had been used as barricades, or randomly flung about by people fleeing, or shoved around by zombies in the intervening months. What seemed like millions of pieces of paper were scattered all over. Blood was everywhere, of course, some of it diluted by the sprinklers to a grimy, pink sheen, and some of it in darker splotches on the floors, or smeared across the walls in huge swatches, sometimes with handprints still visible in them. I could not imagine that the killing floor of a slaughterhouse would look any better. But, of course, that is just what the hospital had been a few months ago.

  The stairwell wasn't that far from where we came in, fortunately. As we moved toward it, a human upper torso slithered toward us in the hall. It was wearing a nurse's uniform, with bloody shreds of cloth, flesh, and intestines trailing off behind it like dried tentacles or tendrils.

  I tried to step around it, while Franny brought her boot down on its head with a wet, crunching sound. Its arms, which had been reaching for Franny's foot, flew straight out, spasmed once, then went limp. Franny wiped her boot on the back of its uniform, then stepped away. Unlike Tanya, there was no anger or disgust in her movement: she would've shown more emotion stepping on a roach. I envied her, in a way.

  We entered the stairwell and began to climb. It wasn't a huge hospital, only six floors, so we didn't have that far to go. The stairwell was clear, but we did duck at each landing as we passed the little windows in the fire doors, avoiding any undead eyes.

  When we got to the sixth floor, we saw that the stairwell didn't go all the way to the roof. We would have to go through the building and find the one that did. Thankfully, this floor looked deserted.

  However, the door had been secured. A thick chain ran from the handle inside the hall, between the door and the sill, and then was wrapped around a water pipe in the stairwell. It must've been padlocked or otherwise secured on the other side, after someone had run it around the water pipe and closed the door on it. The door couldn't close all the way, but the chain had been drawn tight enough that it couldn't be opened more than an inch, either.

  Fortunately, Franny was carrying a pack with some tools that Jack thought we'd need. She got out bolt cutters, took care of the chain, and we opened the door.

  The hall of the sixth floor was not nearly as ghastly as the first. People must've abandoned it sooner in the crisis, so it had not been the scene of such carnage. As we moved along the hall, we did see occasional evidence of violence, with spatters of dried blood at eye level.

  When we got to the main nurses' station at the middle of the hall, boxes of baby formula, diapers, and other supplies were neatly stacked on it. We all looked at each other and shook our heads, unable to guess what had happened here.

  The stairway to the roof was past the nurses' station, next to the elevators, and it didn't seem to be locked in any way. Before we went up, though, we saw a pair of double doors farther down the hall. They were chained shut and locked from our side.

  The sign above the double doors said "NICU." That partly explained why this floor would be less damaged: they surely would've evacuated babies and mothers as soon as possible, thereby leaving the floor abandoned. On the doors themselves, faded red and white "BIOHAZARD" posters had been taped over the two windows, so one couldn't see inside. A crude skull and crossbones had been drawn on the door on the left. It looked like it had been done with a thick, black Sharpie. On the right hand door, "RIP" was written in big letters using the same kind of marker.

  We had no reason to lift up the little posters and look inside. No reason other than curiosity, but that reason was too overpowering, even for a supremely rational person like Jack. It was yet another Pandora's box, where it was just human nature to look when you shouldn't.

  As we peeled back the yellowing paper posters, I think we all wished we hadn't. We'd all seen horrible things, but I am sure none of us had seen anything like what those doors were meant to hide. That should've stayed hidden till the final trumpet blast.

  * * * * *

  The room was partially lit with a pale, jaundiced sunlight. Whoever had sealed it up had closed the blinds first, though here and there they'd been torn down. All over the room—lying, sitting, writhing, crawling over each other—was a myriad of the dead, in all the shapes and sizes the human body comes in, and with all the marks of death and decay that those bodies could bear.

  Most were restrained in some way, with plastic police handcuffs binding their hands, or with straitjackets, or with bags over their heads. Some had gags on, made of belts or cloths. A few restraints had been torn off over the months, but the dead were too uncoordinated or disinterested to free themselves in their makeshift prison.

  Like the nurse on the first floor, many were missing limbs or parts of their faces or torsos, with viscera and other organs spilling out. Their various open wounds had leaked every bodily fluid, and all this mortal slurry had now dried and decayed into a shiny slime all over them. They rolled around in their own insides just as cheerfully or obliviously as they would in a bubble bath, flesh reveling in flesh, with no respect or shame, and with all its hidden ugliness bursting to the surface. "Happy as pigs in shit," was all I could think.

  The only thing that could be interpreted as fortunate was that the doors seemed to seal all the smell inside the room.

  And like anything revolting, we could not turn away from it, as desperately as we wanted to.

  "Shit," Franny whispered, "they tried to store them or contain them."

  "I'll have to ask Milton what circle of hell this is," Jack whispered in disgust, pushing the corner of the poster back into place before turning away.

  I'd taught Dante enough to know that this chamber of horrors resembled his description of several different circles of hell. But it was most like the last two parts of the eighth circle, where the deceitful are punished. Maybe Dante was right: we'd lied to ourselves for so long about who we are and what we want that now we'd be punished by having our faces shoved into what was basest and ugliest about ourselves—forever. "It's the eighth circle—for liars," I whispered as I turned away too.

  "Really?" Jack said as we went back to the door of the stairwell up to the roof. "Remind me never to lie."

  * * * * *

  The stairwell past the nurses' station only led up to the roof, not down to the other floors, so we weren't too worried about any more nasty surprises. "Hey, grab a box of the formula," Jack said before we headed up. "We can't feed the moms enough to make much milk as it is."

  I got up the stairs. The door to the roof didn't appear locked in any way. I put my hand on the handle. "Hey," Jack whispered. "Let's watch it. Get your boomstick out."

  I set down the box of formula and got out the Glock. I pushed the handle. The sunlight was bright on the roof, enough to blind us for a second when the door swung open.

  Framed in the light was a human figure. And it was sticking the barrel of a shotgun in my face.

  * * * * *

  Still blinded by the sun, I heard a hoarse voice pronounce, "Say something."

  Even though seeing me holding a gun was probably enough to indicate I was alive, it was still a reasonable request when you saw three figures coming out of a building that had been full of the undead for months. "Ummm… hello? Don't shoot?" That's all I could think of.

  The barrel lowered. "Wow, you're alive. How'd you get up here?" We emerged onto the roof and stood with the man with the shotgun. He was probably in his late twenties and incredibly thin, with wild brown hair and beard. "Wait—you didn't break my lock into the top floor, did you? Hey—what are you doing with my baby's formula?"

  "Easy," Jack said. "We did break your lock, but we can secure it again, if you want. And we didn't know the formula was yours." He set his box down. Franny followed suit, while I had left mine on the step. "We were wondering, though, if may
be you'd want to come with us?"

  "I'm not going down there, through all those things! My baby and I are fine up here!"

  Though he seemed more nervous than deranged, we all looked around, fearing the guy was a little off. "Where is your baby?" Franny asked. I was pretty sure she was trying to get to the guy's side, flank him, in case he got too worked up and started waving the gun around again. I hoped she was planning on grabbing the gun, and not on shooting him, but I was also sure that she wouldn't hesitate. I gripped the Glock tighter.

  The guy pointed to a long ladder that sloped down, bridging the gap between the hospital's roof and the roof of the building next to it. It looked pretty secure, as it had been placed over the top of a metal post on the hospital side, and it seemed to be tied down on both ends. On the other hand, you definitely would need a compelling reason to take a walk on a creaking aluminum ladder six stories up, over a crowd of hungry, walking corpses.

  "In the other building," the man answered. "I come over here for formula for her."

  "And you've been living like this since the outbreak? Just the two of you?" Jack asked. I could see he was also sizing up any threat this guy might pose.

  "Yes, after my wife… died. I didn't know what else to do, once they were everywhere and we were trapped inside our building"

  "You didn't see any of our people, or make a signal?" Jack asked, still trying to figure out whether this guy was fully rational.

  "I'd hear gunfire sometimes, or a vehicle's engine, but I never saw anyone. This morning I heard a huge explosion, and then when I was over here, I heard something coming up the stairs."

  "Wow, that's amazing, that you made it all this time," Jack said. "But why didn't you just take all the supplies over to your building?"

  "I thought it'd be good to leave some supplies in both buildings. In case they ever got into our apartment building, we could run over here and pull up the ladder. But I wouldn't want to take my baby downstairs, on that floor with that room full of those things." He shuddered and then we could see a little tent he had set up on the roof next to the helicopter. "So I set up a tent here. I know it's not much, but I didn't know how else to plan for us."

  "We understand," Jack said, being both genuinely sympathetic and still trying to calm the guy down. "We know it's been hard. I'm Jack, by the way. This is Jonah and Franny."

  "Frank," the guy introduced himself.

  "Well, Frank, I wouldn't ask you to carry your baby through a building and a city full of those things, but Franny here can fly a helicopter. Any idea if this thing works?"

  Understandably, this news did seem to brighten up Frank considerably. "No, I don't know. I mean, I've opened it up and got inside. I put some supplies in there, too. But I don't know anything about flying one. You mean we can get out of here? Where would we go?"

  "We have a safe place, just on the other side of the river," Jack answered.

  "May I?" Franny asked, reaching for the helicopter's door handle, and seeming less intent on killing the guy if he acted strange.

  "Oh, yes, of course," Frank stammered. "I didn't mean everything here belonged to me, it's just… the formula, it's for my baby…"

  "We understand," Jack said again, as Franny got into the helicopter.

  Frank had turned from enthusiasm to just wonder. "Wow, getting out of here. I had no idea. I thought we'd just stay here until everything ran out, and then… I didn't know what'd happen then. I didn't have any plan. I didn't want to think about it."

  "Eighth of a tank of fuel, everything looks fine," Franny said as she climbed out of the chopper. "The battery's dead, of course, but we expected that."

  Jack put down his backpack containing the battery and jumper cables next to the chopper. "Frank, can you go over and get your baby? Franny can help you while I get the battery hooked up."

  "I've never carried her across the ladder," Frank said, setting his shotgun down on the roof and looking worried.

  Jack thought a minute. "There's rope in the pack of tools, right?"

  "Sure," Franny replied.

  "You got a baby carrier or car seat, something you can strap her into?" he asked Frank.

  "Yeah. We bought all that before she was born."

  "Okay, then carry her across in that. Run the rope through the handle or strap of it, while Franny and I stand on the two buildings and hold the two ends of the rope."

  It still sounded terrifying to me, but it would have to do. Fortunately, crossing the ladder only took three long strides to the other side. Frank and Franny went over to the other building, while Jack and I loaded the formula and gear into the chopper and hooked up the battery we had brought. The helicopter was big enough inside that we even went back for two more trips, to get the supplies Frank had piled up at the nurses' station.

  On the second trip, we heard the door to the stairwell at the end of the hall open, and watched as the door was pushed inward. A partially decayed, burnt face peeked through the window in the door, and we could hear the moaning from others in the stairwell.

  "Get to the roof," Jack whispered as he set down the box he was carrying and picked up a mop off the floor. "I think it's time we got going."

  Chapter Twelve

  Once we were in the stairwell up to the roof, Jack wedged the mop between the door and the horizontal handle, making it harder to open it from the hall. Then we went upstairs. On the roof of the other building, Frank and Franny were returning to the ladder. She was carrying two suitcases, as incongruous as it looked, and he was carrying a baby in a car seat, the kind that snaps out of the base so you can carry it by a handle. We used to have one like it, for our kids. I didn't know whether to envy him for still having his child with him, or to feel sorry for him for having to raise her in this slaughterhouse we live in now. The two of them looked like "normal" people getting ready to go on a trip with their baby. Franny scampered across the ladder with the two suitcases she was carrying and walked over to us.

  "Don't say anything to him," Jack said, quiet enough so that Frank wouldn't hear. "They're in the hall downstairs. Just put the stuff in the chopper and get them in and get it started, Franny." Turning his back so Frank couldn't see, he handed me a grenade. "Wait till they're in the stairwell down there, then pull the pin, throw this down, and close the door."

  Franny tossed the suitcases in the back of the chopper and went back across the ladder to Frank, carrying one end of the rope while Jack held the other. Frank threaded it through the handle of the car seat and prepared to make his run across.

  Holding the door open to the stairwell, I could hear them moaning down there; the mop handle banged around on the doorsill as they tried to wrench it open. I looked down at the grenade in my hand. It was so much smaller than I had imagined grenades were, but I really didn't like the idea of holding it, let alone arming and throwing it.

  I looked back to the others. Frank was across, carrying the baby. I heard a cracking sound in the stairwell, and the moaning suddenly got louder.

  As Franny hustled Frank and his baby over to the helicopter, he could finally see the danger we were in. "Oh, shit! You didn't say they were already in downstairs!"

  "Just get in!" Jack said. "Franny, start her up! Jonah?"

  The lead zombie was just coming around to the landing. In a hospital gown, horribly burned, it was using its right arm to pull itself up with the handrail; its left arm hung limp, and its legs moved stiffly.

  "Okay," I said. I held the door half open with my foot and pulled the pin on the grenade.

  "Frag 'em!" Jack shouted, as the helicopter's engine roared to life.

  I tossed the grenade down the stairs. It bounced past the two zombies that were now up to the landing, and I quickly shut the door. The explosion wasn't as loud as I expected. Bits of shrapnel pinged off the fire door, and the dead shrieked as the jagged metal bits tore into their flesh.

  I looked over at the chopper, its rotors spinning slowly. Jack held his hand up in a "stop" gesture. "Hold the door another
second!" he shouted. "Until she gets going!"

  I stayed at the door, pressing against it. As the rotors picked up speed, I could hear renewed motion in the stairwell. A grenade designed to maim and kill the living wouldn't significantly deter a crowd of determined, walking dead. If anything, it would slow them down because they'd be tripping over the shattered, immobile bodies of their fallen fellows. But they would keep coming.

  In a few seconds, with the rotors' noise rising to a whine, and with paper and other things blowing around on the roof, I heard fingernails scratching on the metal door—it pushed against me. I pushed back, scrambling to plant my feet, and shouted for Jack's help.

  He ran over and threw his weight against the door as well. "Franny!" he shouted.

  She was flipping switches and looking all over the instrument panel. "Another minute, Jack! You know I'm supposed to warm this thing up for fifteen minutes before we try to take off! And that's if it's been sitting around overnight, not almost a year!"

  "It's going to have to be a little quicker today, Franny!"

  Jack fumbled around under my jacket and drew my magnum. "I think it's time we let Smith and Wesson do the talking! Duck your head, Jonah!"

  I hunched down, keeping my shoulder against the door. Jack pressed the barrel of the magnum against it at eye level, angled down a bit, and fired. My ears started ringing from the blast. He moved it over six inches and fired a second bullet, then moved it another six inches and fired again. I wasn't sure he hit anything, but the pressing on the door let up.

  "Okay! Come on!" Franny shouted over the engine, and Jack and I ran for the chopper. As we climbed inside, we could hear Frank's baby crying for the first time. As much as I disliked other people's kids, I couldn't blame her.

  Slowly, the chopper started to lift off the roof. We were only about a foot or so high when the stairwell door swung open, and the dead staggered straight for us, seeming to find new energy at the prospect of fresh meat. Jack and I shot the two lead zombies in the face before sliding the helicopter door shut. Frank's baby redoubled its wails at the blasts from our guns.