The truck’s tires hummed on the desolate highway and she focused on the noise to keep her mind occupied. She closed her eyes and drifted off, savoring the peace.
They had put nearly fifty miles in their rearview by the time Scott turned off the exit and she woke in the parking lot of an enormous supercenter she hoped hadn’t been entirely picked over.
Scott parked in the front row and pulled a large screwdriver from the ignition.
“No keys with this trade-in?” she asked.
He smiled. “You’re right. I should probably ask for a refund.” He got out of the truck and grabbed one of a dozen shopping carts. “You know the deal. Shout if you see anything that looks remotely infected.”
He holstered a pistol at his shoulder under his quilted, red and black plaid hunting shirt.
Miranda climbed out of the truck with some difficulty and leaned on the shopping cart handle. Her swollen ankles ached and she prayed that walking would alleviate it. “I’m still not sure why you won’t let me carry a gun.” She moved toward the shattered glass doors.
Scott cleared a path with the toe of his boot and lifted the cart’s wheels over the remaining door frame. “You really want to go there?” He raised an eyebrow. “Besides, after the stunt you pulled at the center, I’m not ready to take my chances.”
“That was one time and I wasn’t going to let you leave the others behind.” The gunshot had drawn a horde down on them and they were nearly eaten alive.
“In that case, the noise is no good for the baby.”
It was logic she couldn’t argue with.
The shopping cart wheel squeaked loudly down the first aisle, offering them up as all-you-can-eat if the place was overrun. Scott stayed close to her, his pistol at the ready.
The air smelled of mold from the shelves of rotten bread. Produce rotted in bins and a dense colony of flies had found sanctuary there, despite the unusual, fall cold.
Pregnancy heightened Miranda’s senses and she felt queasy as she made her way to the nearly empty canned food aisle.
Scott picked up a few of the dented discards off of the floor and tossed them in the cart.
“It’s not looking good,” Miranda said and headed toward clothing.
Scott picked a purple, flowered maternity dress off the rack and held it up to her. “Not a total loss.” He looked across at the baby section. “There are still baby supplies.”
She put the dress, a couple of pair of maternity pants, and some tops into the cart and went to look for things for the nursery. The infant department had been separated into pink and blue sections and she wondered which she needed. She kept to yellows and greens, and when her mind recalled images of the monstrous hybrid corpses she’d seen at the Nixon Center, she started to cry.
“Hey, hey.” Scott pulled her into him, pointing the gun away as he wrapped his arms tight around her and kissed her head. He had to hold her sideways in order to get close. “It’s going to be okay.”
She wiped at her eyes. “You don’t know that. I don’t know that.”
“Then we should go see Michael. I don’t know of another option.”
It wasn’t his first time suggesting it. She’d considered confronting her former OB-GYN, who sent her to the Nixon Center in the first place, but the thought of being back in stirrups, of anyone examining her after her forced insemination, terrified her. “I’ll be fine, please, just let me deal with this.” She shuffled down the cluttered aisle, past the vacant registers toward the pharmacy.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
She sniffled and held up her hand. “I just need a minute alone, please. I’ll be right back.”
CHAPTER 6
Clouds filtered the morning sun through the dusty log cabin window.
Allison had checked it months ago and found it nailed shut from the outside.
Birds chirped, chickens clucked, and the usually faint sound of rushing water had gotten louder with the recent influx of rain. She drew a deep breath of woodstove smoke and cedar and closed her eyes, trying to forget where she was, but it was pointless. She was still a prisoner and hadn’t the slightest idea of where she’d been taken.
She took a piece of shale from under her pillow and etched a fresh mark on the wall behind her bed. Almost seven months had passed without word from her husband, Zach, who certainly counted her for dead at this point. There were so many things she regretted not telling him: that it was him who had pulled her through when her disease was so bad she’d rather commit suicide and that she loved him so much she’d suffer a thousand more days just to hold his hand.
Nixon’s experimental treatment had put her cancer into remission, but remission was a mixed blessing. She felt physically better, but Nixon’s careful attention to her, his poking and prodding, and the secrecy with which he spoke to others about her made her fear that she was on the brink of something terrible. She’d heard the word “infected” more than once and stopped asking questions when most went unanswered. The cabin had no power. The phone never rang, no radio played, and no one visited. Something had happened in the world, something bigger than this place, and the others were determined to keep it from her.
The solitude and sadness were a living hell and the side-effect of the treatment that kept her in remission was almost worse than the cancer. It had been ten days since her last, the longest she’d been able to hold Nixon off so far. She’d played sick, too sick to handle another dose, and endured an archaic, direct blood transfusion from Ben, the only member of Nixon’s staff who matched her blood type, to keep up the façade. It seemed a small price to pay for the reprieve. Listening to the shuffling footsteps outside her door, she wondered if she was lucky enough to fool him for one more day.
She took the brush from her bedside table and smoothed her black hair over her shoulders. A plastic basin sat on the nightstand and she used the room temperature water left over from the previous day to wash her face. Her cheeks were slowly filling out with the recent increase in weight and the sores in her mouth were healing. Holding off the treatments, she regained some of her strength. Almost enough to get away, or at least, that’s what she hoped. She dangled her legs over the side of the cot and lifted them one at a time, counting the repetitions and ending at twenty.
Five more than yesterday.
Keys rattled in the lock on the other side of her door. The metal hasp creaked and the knob turned. She hurried back under the sheets, closed her eyes, and rolled on her side, facing away from the door.
“Good morning, Allison.” Nixon’s artificially chipper tone grated her nerves. Her eyelids fluttered and she struggled to hold still. “Allison?” His hand closed around her ankle and he gently shook her leg.
She coughed and moaned as if she were in pain.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
She smacked her dry lips together and tried to look as weak as possible. “Not good,” she whispered, impressed with her own performance.
Nixon placed a digital thermometer under her tongue and scribbled down notes in her chart.
Her tongue ached from the frequent probing and she waited to see if Nixon was going to leave. She’d managed to fake a few high readings with hot tea water and a lack of supervision, but Nixon wasn’t budging.
Ben opened the door and walked into her room as if he didn’t want to be there. The sleeve of his blue intern’s lab coat bulged where it was rolled over a white bandage that covered the wound from the WWII-style transfusion. Without electricity, much of her treatment had changed for the worse. She looked past Ben to the guard perpetually standing post. He was one of a dozen obstacles to her escape.
The thermometer beeped and Nixon withdrew the probe. She massaged her mouth with her tongue in an attempt at soothing the ache.
“98.6. Normal.” Nixon seemed pleased. “Follow the light with your eyes.” He shined a penlight into her eyes and she looked away, unable to stare at the brightness.
“I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“Vision clearer, today?” he asked.
Knowing blurred vision was one of the side-effects he watched closely, she didn’t want to say yes. “Maybe, a little, but...”
Ben smoothed his hand over his balding head. The horseshoe pattern had further receded over the past several months, possibly, she mused, from this action which she’d only ever seen him do around Nixon. He reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out the dreaded vial.
Nixon performed his usual, cursory review and shrugged. “I see no reason to further delay your treatment.”
“But...”
He refused to listen to argument.
Ben drew up a syringe, handed it to Nixon, and stepped back.
Allison pulled up the covers and held them tight to her chest with both hands. “I don’t need this anymore, please stop.”
“You don’t know what you need.” Nixon’s dark eyes appeared black as he forced the needle through the sheet without warning. It pierced her stomach where she’d been injected dozens of times before and felt like a spear running through her.
She let out a howl and drew her knees to her chest. The side-effects came on quick, igniting every nerve ending with blinding pain. The room spun and her heart beat in her ears.
Her vision dissipated and with it, her hope for freedom.
CHAPTER 7
A voice came through the door. “Gene, where are you?”
Gene, one of at least three men Nixon had sent after Reid, crawled on his hands and knees, trying to recover his flashlight, which had rolled under a metal shelving unit. He brushed a section of dark hair from in front of his eyes and pulled down the navy blue shirt riding up his torso. Six inches shorter than Reid and less muscular, he didn’t look to be much of a threat.
Reid watched from his hiding place on the other side of the operating room table and waited for the perfect distraction. Gene lay flat on his belly and reached into the darkness. When he knocked the light further away, Reid took his shot.
He grabbed Gene’s ankle and dragged him out into the open.
Gene screamed and kicked to free his leg, but Reid quickly and quietly overpowered him.
“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”
Reid forced his arm under Gene’s chin and pressed his thick forearm into his windpipe. Gene tried to call for help, but couldn’t get out anything louder than a whisper. He twisted and turned, trying to snake his way out of the hold, but Reid refused to give an inch. His muscles shook as he bent Gene’s head back and the man’s breath became raspy and shallow. Gene clawed at Reid’s arm. Reid steadied the scalpel in his sweat-slick hand and pulled the narrow blade through Gene’s throat.
Blood sheeted over Reid’s hand, soaked Gene’s shirt, and pooled on the floor. Reid dragged Gene’s lifeless body into the scrub room, leaving a crimson path behind him. He picked up the flashlight, turned it off, and waited for the others.
“Gene, where are you?”
“Over here. I heard a door slam this way.”
“Wait, look. Footprints.”
Reid picked up the crowbar.
Two middle-aged men, older than the one he’d killed and both brandishing pistols, walked through the door.
“Shit, Mike. Look.” The bearded man cast his flashlight on the blood trail.
Mike backed away. “Jim, be careful.” His hands trembled, shaking the beam of light as he followed the blood trail.
“Gene, where are you, man?” Jim headed toward the scrub room. “Gene, are you hurt?”
Mike, the more nervous of the two, kept his distance.
“Dammit!” Jim said when he found Gene’s dead body. “Get over here, Mike. Give me a hand.”
Before Mike could answer, Reid grabbed him from behind.
“Drop your gun.” Reid held the crowbar across Mike’s throat.
Jim aimed his weapon at Reid’s head. His dark eyes narrowed, almost daring him. “And if I don’t?”
Reid put his knee in Mike’s back and pulled the crowbar. Mike gasped and tried to pry a finger’s space between his throat and the metal. “I’m not going to say it again.”
Mike struggled for breath.
“You’re not going to kill him,” Jim said. “What would be the point? Then you’re both dead.”
Reid pulled even harder. Mike’s breath came out as a whistle.
“All right, I’ll do it. Let him go.” Jim set down his pistol and Reid let go of the crowbar.
Mike stumbled and grabbed the end of the table. He coughed and held his hand to his throat.
“Get over there.” Reid shoved him toward Jim and picked up both of their weapons. Mike took several, long breaths. His face was red and sweaty. “Pick him up.” Reid pointed at Gene. The men hesitated. “If I fire this gun, it’ll bring on a horde that’ll make you wish I killed you both. I want you all out of here. Every dead body lying around here is a vessel for infection. You brought him in here, you’re taking him out.” He put his finger on the trigger for effect.
Jim looked around the room. “Isn’t there a wheelchair or something?”
Reid nodded. “Probably, but you’re carrying him. Call it insurance that you won’t make any sudden movements.”
Jim struggled to get a hold on the blood-slick corpse.
“Get over there and help,” Reid said to Mike.
The men lifted the body by the hands and feet and carried him like a hammock between them. Gene’s head fell backward and the skin tore at the incision. His neck hyper-extended and his spinal column, the main thing holding his head to his body, cracked.
Mike’s cheeks puffed out and he nearly vomited.
“Put him down,” Jim said. He rolled Gene’s body face-down and picked him back up, taking the strain off the wound. “All right, let’s go.”
Reid kept the flashlight on the men and marched them out in front of him.
“How are we supposed to get him up the ladder?” Jim asked.
“Not my problem.” Reid wiped the snot dripping from his nose, sniffled, and followed the men down the carnage-filled hallway.
“Hold it,” Reid said when they reached the ladder. “I’m going up first. You take your hands off of him and I’ll shoot you dead, you understand me?” He wasn’t about to have to chase them.
He backed onto the ladder and leaned into the cold metal for support as he ascended with his gun aimed at the two men below.
“All right, one at a time.” Reid stepped out onto the lobby floor and threw the men a rope. “You can use this to hoist him up.”
“I’ll go first,” said Jim. He tied the rope under Gene’s arms, climbed a few steps, and tugged the body level with the ladder. Mike struggled to keep Gene from sliding left or right. “Ready?”
Mike shrugged.
Reid shined the flashlight down the dimly lit hole. “Nice and slow.”
Jim tugged and blood spilled from Gene’s neck wound, covering Mike. Mike dry-heaved, Gene’s body slipping to the right as he failed to guide it.
“Hold him steady!” Jim shouted.
Mike’s cheeks puffed out and he pressed his lips tight together as he held Gene’s body on-track. Each step covered him in more blood, and by the time Jim pulled Gene’s body onto the lobby floor, there was little visible through the red but the whites of Mike’s eyes and his teeth.
Reid stepped back as Mike surfaced. “Pick him up.” Mike picked up Gene’s feet. “You, too.”
Jim reached for Gene’s hands and when he bent over, Reid shot him in the head. Jim’s body fell on top of Gene’s and blood spilled from his wound.
Mike’s eyes went wide with terror. A dark, wet circle soaked the front of his pants and before he could run, Reid shot him. Three corpses piled on the lobby floor and he was thankful not to have carried a one of them up.
He went to the elevator shaft and pulled up the tail of the rope.
“Let’s see what Nixon thinks about this.”
He rolled Jim, the bearded man, off of the pile and unbuttoned his navy
blue shirt. His body was still warm and blood erupted from the thin lines as he carved the word “Keep” into his flesh.
Mike was next. He sliced open his shirt and carved the word “Out” on his chest.
He cut the rope in two equal-length pieces and fashioned a pair of matching nooses which he slipped over the men’s heads and tightened. He dragged the bodies through the main entrance and tossed the long end of the rope over each of two light fixtures, hoisting them up in sequence.
“Keep Out.”
The message was clear. He hoped whoever Nixon sent next would get it.
CHAPTER 8
Frank’s head hit the van’s side window and he jolted awake. Sweat soaked through his flannel shirt and dripped down his sides. Seven months had passed and he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing Holly’s skull shattering. Infected and flesh-hungry, there was no coming back from what his daughter had become. He tried to stop it, but the overdose of anti-virus had been toxic and it only made the change come on faster. The paramedic in him knew better, but the father in him refused to think rationally. It was hard not to shoulder at least some of the blame, and even more difficult to forgive Scott Penton for pulling the trigger. Frank imagined so many ways to get back at him, each worse than the last, and all against his grain.
Watching a stranger assassinate his only child had changed him.
He pulled a pack of Pall Mall’s from the center console and pinched a cigarette between his lips. He struck a match and the sulfuric smell reminded him of gunpowder and the filthy bathroom where Holly died. A ruptured aneurysm took his wife, Marjorie, and Scott had shot Holly point blank. He was alone and without purpose. Looking out over the run-down remains of St. Margaret’s cemetery, he wondered how long he had until he was among them. Not interred, as there was no one left to do him that last act of kindness, but deceased and likely left to rot where he fell. Most days, he prayed for that peace.
He reached across the cluttered passenger’s seat and opened the glove compartment. His heartbeat fluttered and he held his hand to his chest, breathing slowly until the dizziness passed. His pacemaker was failing. Having gone through a lead replacement already, he knew the symptoms. He waited for the faintness to pass, and when it did, he grabbed the pistol and the half-used box of ammunition he’d been going for. He thumbed several rounds into the clip and spit on the barrel, buffing the last traces of Billy’s dried blood from the metal.
Afterbirth: A Strandville Zombie Novel #2 Page 3