Afterbirth: A Strandville Zombie Novel #2

by Frisch, Belinda

  A knock came at the door and he jumped.

  “Brian, can I come in?” Penny wiggled the doorknob.

  He didn’t answer, hoping she’d think he was asleep. The last thing he wanted to do was put her at risk.

  Another knock came. “Brian, the door is locked. I need to talk to you.”

  He set the spaceman down, eased out of bed, and opened the door only about an inch. He peeked through the narrow space and tried not to let her see his worry.

  Penny’s eyebrows knitted together and her forehead wrinkled slightly. The candlelight flickered and cast her beautiful face in a flattering light. She tucked her black hair behind her right ear, shifted her weight off of her injured leg, and pulled the flannel nightgown away from her stitches. “You okay?”

  “I’m all right,” he said. A shiver crept up his spine and he hid his face behind the door so she wouldn’t see his pain. “You should get some sleep.” He hoped that turning things around would help keep the focus off of him.

  “I tried. Every time I close my eyes I imagine Reid at the window. Can I please come in?”

  “It’s not a good…” Before he had a chance to say “idea”, she pushed the door open wider and squeezed past him. “Penny, I mean it. You shouldn’t be in here.”

  She sat down on the bed and started to speak. “Amelie isn’t the only hybrid.” Foster reluctantly closed the door. “You wanted to know why Reid took me.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “He was using me for food.” A pained expression came over her. She set the candle on the nightstand next to the bed and showed him where Reid had cut her. “He climbed on top of me…and…”

  “Penny, you don’t have to…”

  She reached out for him and he took her hand, sinking into the mattress next to her. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her to him so that her head was on his chest. Her sobbing made the pain in his back almost unbearable, but he held her in spite of it. She backed away from him enough to look into his eyes. After a long, uncomfortable silence, she pressed her soft lips to his.

  Her body trembled as she eased her tongue into his mouth and kissed him deeply, but in a way that felt unpracticed.

  “Let me stay with you tonight, please,” she whispered.

  He ached for her and when she kissed him again, he all but went numb to his aches and pains. “I…can’t. You can’t. I…”

  She swallowed, hard, and set her hand high on his thigh. “You know what I was thinking about the whole time I was afraid Reid was going to rape me?” The ugliness of the word drew him back to reality, but he was unable to answer. “I was thinking that I’d saved myself for when I found the person I loved and could spend the rest of my life with. Then I realized that person was you.”

  He closed his eyes and tears spilled from them. He couldn’t believe what she was saying. All he could think was that the rest of his life was quite possibly incredibly short and he hoped that if he told her the truth, she’d leave. He moved her hand and brushed the hair back from her face. “You can’t stay in here, Penny. There’s something I haven’t told the others, about how I got hurt, about what cut me. I was running down the stairs and I slipped on a pile of rotting infected. Their bones were broken and one of them went into my back. I haven’t felt right since and I’m worried…that…I might be infected.”

  She covered her mouth and cried so hard that her body heaved. “No, God, please.”

  He pulled her to him and held her. Shhhh. “It’ll be all right. Just promise me that if something happens, you’ll let the others do the right thing.”

  “Don’t say that. I can’t…”

  “Make sure Scott or Michael open the door in the morning. In case.”

  “That’s why you locked it, because you don’t want to infect anyone?” She backed away.

  He held her hand and looked into her glossy, blue eyes. “I locked it because I don’t want to risk infecting you. Now please, go.” Sending her away was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do.

  She stood up and wiped her face with her sleeve. There was an air of resignation about her, and he was thankful, for her sake, that she’d listened to reason. She walked to the door, set her hand on the knob, and locked herself in. “You’re all I have left,” she said. “If there’s a chance you might survive, then I’ll take it. If not, there’s no one I’d rather spend the last night of my life with than you.”

  CHAPTER 48

  The wind howled outside the study. An oil lamp sat on the corner of the mahogany desk, and though it was dim, it was bright enough for Michael to read by. He opened Miranda’s file and reviewed, for at least the tenth time, Nixon’s plan for a cure. He needed so many things he hadn’t been able to take from the center and regretted not finding a way to get it. Adam was giving in to the virus and Michael worried the frigid outdoor temperatures were taking away any chance at reviving him. His small body had been through too much and time was running short.

  “Hey, Doc?”

  Michael squinted into the darkness, trying to make out the young man in the doorway.

  “John?”

  John crossed his arms over his chest and shivered. “Yeah.”

  “You okay?” Michael picked up the lantern and went to him.

  “Not really.” He held out his wrist and an infected gash glistened by the firelight. Michael tried not to breathe in the smell. “Frank cleaned it, but he said he couldn’t close it.”

  “Probably smart.” Michael turned around to grab his medical kit and John passed out cold behind him. The thud woke Amelie who had just finally stopped crying and the whole house startled awake.

  Scott rushed down the stairs wearing only his boxer shorts and a white t-shirt. “What the hell was that?”

  The floor creaked overhead as Miranda paced with Amelie.

  Michael’s spirits sank. He had hoped to be able to bring Adam into the warmth for at least a bit while the others slept. “Help me get him to the couch,” he said and hoped the situation was temporary. He lifted under John’s arms to avoid tugging the wound. His armpits were hot and soaked through with sweat. They lowered John onto the sofa and his eyes fluttered open. “I gave Foster some antibiotics. I think the bottle is by the kitchen sink. Get me two and some water.”

  Scott ran to the kitchen and came back with the supplies. Michael tilted John’s head so that he could drink. “I need you to take these.”

  John swallowed the two white pills, half in a daze, and set his head back against the arm of the couch.

  Michael pushed the coffee table toward him and laid John’s arm across it. “Scott, turn up that light, would you?”

  Scott raised the wick on an oil lamp. “What happened?”

  Michael raised his eyebrows. The lengthwise wound was clearly self-inflicted and when Scott asked, John looked away.

  The wound had been cleaned, but the skin was soggy and broken down from being damp inside the bandage. The cut also wasn’t exactly straight which was going to make it harder to close.

  “How old is this?” Michael asked.

  “A couple, three weeks?”

  Michael irrigated the wound a last time and set up to suture. He drew up a syringe of anesthetic and injected it down the length of the gash.

  Scott watched with apparent interest.

  John took slow, controlled breaths as Michael pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and manipulated the wound. He tied up the first stitch and it pulled through the moist skin, forcing him to repeat it wider outside of the cut. The wound would never heal without being closed and he wasn’t sure he’d be around to do it later. He moved through the next several, his hands making the suturing motion almost automatically. This task he could do in his sleep and when it was done, he could see that’s what John wanted to do, sleep.

  “You’re going to be sore. I am going to give you a shot of morphine to help you rest, if that’s all right. I’ll keep watch from the next room. You have to change your bandages and try to keep these dry.”

  He injected a hefty do
se of morphine and John muttered, “Thank you,” before nodding off to sleep.

  Upstairs, Amelie cried. Miranda had closed the door, but the high-pitched sound carried.

  “Maybe you ought to see if you can help her. I’m sure she’s exhausted, too,” Michael said to Scott.

  “Story of our lives.”

  Michael took the rest of John’s water, swallowed a couple caffeine tablets, and waited for Scott’s trailing footsteps to disappear.

  The bedroom door closed and when he was certain the coast was clear, he headed for the truck, eager to check on Adam.

  The bitter wind ripped through his thick camouflage fatigues and stung his flesh. Snot dripped from his nose and it had gotten colder than even the last time he’d been out there. He fumbled the bulky ring and slipped the small, silver key into the lock. The chains fell away and crashed on to the cargo shelf. He held the small flashlight between his teeth and opened the lid with his shaking hands.

  Adam lay motionless inside, nearly frozen.

  “Oh, God. No.” He set his hand to the boy’s ice cold back and tried to rouse him. “Adam?” He wiped his nose on his sleeve and sniffled.

  Panic set in, the fear that he was too late and that irreversible damage had been done. He blew into his hands and rubbed them together, warming them with friction. “Please, buddy, come on.” He set his hands to Adam’s back and shielded him from the wind.

  The boy twitched and groaned, but barely responded.

  Michael took off his camouflage jacket and laid it over him like a blanket, forsaking his own comfort and protection for his son. “I have to get you inside,” he said and no sooner had he closed the trunk lid, than Scott appeared in the doorway.

  CHAPTER 49

  Michael shivered as he tried to block Scott’s view of the trunk. Anxiety gnawed the pit of his belly. There was no getting out of this. No explaining it away. He kept his eyes on Scott, who stared back at him with his finger on the trigger of the pistol resting against his leg.

  “I can explain,” Michael said.

  Scott’s expression said he didn’t want him to. “Bring the trunk inside.”

  Michael hesitated and searched for a viable excuse, but his mind was blank. His hands shook and he feared for Adam. If the cold didn’t take him, one of the others might. John, Foster, Penny, they’d all lost people close to them. Adam was a threat and there was an air of zero tolerance with the group that made Michael believe they’d think nothing of killing his son. Coming clean with Scott and Miranda and asking for their help was his last chance at saving him. If anyone could understand his predicament, it was them. He fastened the lid securely and lifted the footlocker by its handles. Exhaustion made the load that much heavier.

  Scott moved to the side to allow him in. “Take it upstairs,” he said quietly as if not to disturb John who was sleeping on the couch.

  Maybe Scott was willing to keep a secret.

  Michael climbed the stairs with Scott never more than two steps behind him. “I need you to trust me,” he said.

  The hard muzzle of Scott’s pistol pressed against the small of his back. “And that’s why you’ve been sneaking around? You’re trying to earn my trust?”

  “Scott, come on. How long have we known each other?” Time wasn’t enough for Scott to overlook what had transpired in the last year, but he tried.

  “Get in there.” Scott pushed open the master bedroom door, and when they were inside, he closed the door behind them.

  “What’s going on?” Miranda pulled her auburn hair into a low ponytail which emphasized the dark circles around her eyes. She was pale from blood loss and Michael could see she was exhausted. She picked up Amelie, who fussed in the basket, and patted her back to soothe her.

  “Right there’s fine,” Scott said.

  Michael set the trunk down on the floor.

  “Open it.” Scott’s pistol hand remained steady.

  Michael hesitated. “Listen, please. There’s something I have to tell you first.”

  Miranda backed away and repositioned Amelie so that her head rested against her shoulder. “What is that smell?” She tucked her face into Amelie’s blanket so that it covered her nose.

  Michael was too used to the smell to notice it. He unlatched the trunk and held his hand on the lid. “I want you both to remember what you came to me with, the position we were all in with Amelie. She could’ve easily been infected and I took that risk to try and save her.”

  “Open it,” Scott said, again.

  Miranda took a step closer and when he opened the lid, she gasped.

  Scott coughed and turned his face away. “What the hell is going on, Michael? Who is that?”

  Adam’s white-blond hair covered enough of his face that in the darkness, with the cold freezing him nearly still, he appeared more human than not.

  “He’s my son,” Michael said, speaking up before Scott could pass sentence. “He’s been bit, but I can save him. I have enough of Nixon’s notes and access to the center…and…”

  “Stop, enough.” Scott held up his hand.

  “Miranda, please. He needs help.” Michael’s eyes wandered to Amelie and Miranda bristled, holding the infant closer.

  “No, no way. You’re not laying a hand on her.”

  “This is why you broke into our house,” Scott said. “Is this why you sent Miranda to the Nixon Center in the first place?”

  Michael was desperate for the right thing to say. “No, it’s not like that. This just happened. You’ve seen these things, Scott. If he were one of them, if this had been going on all this time, he wouldn’t look like he does. It’s not too late. My son’s still in there. I can save him.” He sniffled and wiped his hand across his cheek. “Please, listen to me. He’s not a threat. I just need equipment and to run a few tests on Amelie. Nothing invasive, nothing more than a hospital would have ever run if she was sick.”

  Miranda shook her head and shouted, “No way, Michael. You stay away from her.”

  Scott shushed her. “I’m not letting you near her,” he said to Michael, “but I don’t want to wake the others. They don’t need to know about this.” Scott holstered his pistol and Michael drew a relieved breath.

  “Thank you. Oh, God. Thank you.” Michael was on his knees, barely breathing.

  “This needs to be dealt with quietly,” Scott said, unsheathing the knife strapped to his leg.

  “Scott, no!” Michael covered Adam’s body with his own. His heart beat so fast he could hear it. He became dizzy, weak, and nearly paralyzed with fear for his son’s life. Adam, warming to room temperature, started to move. “It doesn’t have to be like this.” Michael turned to Miranda, tears pouring down his face and dripping from his chin. She was the most likely to pardon him. “It could have been Amelie, Miranda. I helped you bring her into this world, and if she’d have been the monster you were afraid of, I would have helped you take her out. Please. Give me time. Don’t let him do this. Adam is all I have left.” Miranda sniffled and pressed her cheek to Amelie’s. “What if I tell you I won’t touch her? It would be easier if you’d let me, but it’s not too late to use the stem cells from the cord blood and placenta. Please, Miranda.”

  She looked at Scott, her eyes filled with tears. “He’s right,” she said. “It could have been her.”

  Scott lowered his knife. “What do you want me to do?”

  She sighed. “Give him a chance, but if you come near her, I swear…”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  Scott relaxed. “How long are the stem cells viable?”

  “Two weeks, maybe more if I can find a way to preserve them.”

  “You have two weeks then. You keep him contained. You don’t tell the others about him, and if in two weeks, you haven’t brought him back, you agree to let me end his suffering.”

  Michael stood, exposing Adam’s tiny body to the room, and prayed Scott was a man of his word. “By then it will be too late anyway.” He smoothed his hand over Adam’s hair and cl
osed the trunk lid.

  CHAPTER 50

  Strandville passed by at sixty miles per hour, but it felt much faster. Reid leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes until the fleeting dizziness passed. He swallowed the dread of threatened infection and considered himself fortunate.

  Nate, the guard, had turned almost immediately, and though he’d seen others take longer, it had never been more than a few hours.

  He had made it through the night.

  He jammed his ice-cold feet under the dash in hopes of soaking in at least a meager amount of heat through his steel toe boots. Brett’s old pick-up truck hadn’t started getting warm until twenty miles out and it was too early for the morning sun to have any effect. Reid’s stomach itched and he twisted his hands in the too-tight cuffs to scratch the raised, pink welts covering it.

  Brett glanced over at him, setting his right hand on the pistol in his lap. “Something the matter?”

  Reid kept him in his periphery. “I’m allergic to eggs.”

  “Ain’t that some shit?” Brett snickered. “You’d tell me if something else was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

  Reid sighed. “Like if I was turning into a flesh-eating zombie, you mean? I think you might notice.”

  He had determined in the short time he’d been with Brett that he must’ve gotten by before The Collapse on his looks. He kept his hair gelled into symmetrical spikes, even now when so many had shaved their heads or let their hair go unruly. His hands showed no signs of manual labor, but he was toned and bulked. Gym-fit, if Reid had to guess, and his skin had the slightly orange tint of a man who had once indulged in habitual tanning.

  “You worried?” Brett asked.

  Reid smirked. “I’d be more worried if I were you.” He refused to tip his hand. Aside from the reaction to the eggs, the swelling in his hands, which made the cuffs tighter and the thick feeling to his tongue, the nausea and distortion in his vision could have been either the allergy or the slow beginning of a very long end.