Afterbirth: A Strandville Zombie Novel #2

by Frisch, Belinda

  “Stay with me.”

  The boy’s flaccid body hung over his forearm, his arms and legs dangling.

  He rolled him onto his back and alternated the thrust to his back with ones to his chest.

  “Come on, come on. You can do this.”

  He returned the boy to a face-down position and did a final sweep all the way to the back of his throat. A thick mucus plug dislodged and a rush of air came over Nixon’s hand. The boy resumed breathing and closed his jaw down, hard, on Nixon’s finger.

  “Shit!”

  The harder Nixon tried to get free, the stronger the boy’s bite became. A warm trickle of blood ran down his hand and skin peeled away as he pushed past the incendiary pain to pull loose what was left of his pointer finger.

  The boy started to cry.

  Nixon had saved him a final time, but it had cost him.

  He ran to the bathroom and checked, again, for the shots he knew were no longer there. The bite was even worse than he imagined. His second knuckle bone emerged from the pulpy, stripped flesh. He held his finger over the sink and wrapped paper towels tightly around it to control the bleeding.

  “Shit, shit, shit!”

  He searched for something, anything, to stop the virus from circulating through his bloodstream. His heart raced and he was lightheaded from hyperventilation. Think. How do you stop this? Amputation was out of the question, though he’d have done it if he had the tools. A tourniquet was a temporary solution and a long-shot. If he could stop the blood flow from his hand, the virus would circulate much slower. He grabbed a length of the plastic tubing affixed to the portable oxygen tank and tied it as tightly as he could around his forearm. His hand went instantly cold and numb, a good sign, all things considered.

  He looked at his watch, noting the time, and tried to steady his breath. There were no hard and fast rules about the infection, and he had nothing but averages to guess how long he had left to finish the work worth risking his life for. He sighed and walked out into the room, which he hadn’t noticed with the commotion, had gone silent.

  “Oh, God. No.”

  He knelt next to the infant whose mouth and chin were painted with his blood, and felt for a non-existent pulse. His pale skin had turned blue and his body had gone cold. Tears rolled down Nixon’s cheeks as he tried, one last time, to do CPR with his non-dominant hand. The awkward compressions and the half-hearted attempt at breathing for the boy had no effect. The taste of his own blood on his lips made him queasy. The boy had been gone too long this time. It wouldn’t be long until he joined him.

  CHAPTER 64

  The confined shower room stunk worse than the stairwell and Corey could taste the rot as he breathed through his mouth.

  Zach tucked the identification back inside the wallet and dropped it on top of the clothing.

  “I’m not too stupid,” Corey said, refuting Zach’s claim. “I’m smart enough to know not to touch shit covered in liquid infection.”

  Zach waved his gloved hands.

  “Whose pants are they, anyway?” Corey’s cheek itched, the months old scar a constant annoyance with no signs of improving.

  “Brian Foster.”

  “The name supposed to mean something to me?”

  Zach peeled off the slimy gloves and threw them into the trash. “He was before your time, but Nixon should know that he’s been here.”

  “Then tell him,” Corey said, annoyed by the comment.

  “Can’t,” Zach said. “I have something to do.”

  Corey followed him out of the shower room and the door slammed shut behind them. He scratched the perpetual itch, which was more habit than affliction, and called after Zach who was already halfway down the hall. “Where the hell are you going?” he asked.

  Zach turned around and pulled the slide back on his pistol. “Nixon was headed up to five. Check his old office at the end of the hall. Tell him we found Brian Foster’s I.D. and that I’m on it.”

  “On what?”

  Zach didn’t answer.

  “Tell him you’re on what?”

  Corey remembered the mess a floor up and headed down the hallway in search of another set of stairs. In a hospital this size, it wasn’t hard to find one. He checked to make sure his safety was off and climbed the next three flights. He opened the door to the fifth floor hallway and breathed through his mouth as he entered the foul-smelling construction zone.

  “What the hell?”

  The decomposed remains of a garroted male lay on the floor of what looked like a makeshift security room. There was no way of knowing whether or not he’d been infected before he died.

  Corey pulled the door shut and continued through the hanging sheets of plastic which kept his view short-sighted.

  Anxiety tightened his chest and he feared something jumping out at any minute. Each step was carefully guarded and he did his best to walk silently. He weaved through the cluttered maze and only stopped when he heard the wet, slapping sound of chewing flesh.

  Dammit.

  Wayne’s 400-pound body lay on the floor. His black and white checkered pants, once covered in egg yolk and cooking grease, were soaked through with blood. His white t-shirt was pulled up over his head and three infected construction workers devoured his round belly. Dozens of bite marks dotted his pale flesh and the men clawed for larger chunks.

  There was no sign of Nixon or the baby and Corey couldn’t help thinking Wayne had been a sacrificial lamb.

  He considered for a minute, his debt to Nixon, which had more than been repaid.

  “Help me!”

  Fists pounded on the other side of a closed door and drew the horde’s attention. The three men abandoned Wayne’s lifeless body in favor of fresher meat.

  “Somebody get me out of here!”

  The panicked voice was Nixon’s.

  Corey considered what it would mean to have him in his debt for a change and decided he liked the idea.

  “Hey!” He shouted to distract the horde’s attention. “You looking for someone?” He tapped the sight on his pistol.

  He landed a red dot square on the forehead of the nearest man to him and fired. The man went down, twitched, and became still. The noise drove the other two to move faster. One staggered more than the other and his foot dragged, causing him to weave back and forth. Corey had trouble keeping his aim and took him down with two shots. The third man was injured. He moved with an awkward tilt and left a trail of blood behind him. Corey aimed for a head shot, but the yellow hard hat on the infected man’s head protected his brain. He turned off the laser sight and tucked the pistol into his waist. He picked up a length of 2X4 and held it like a bat. A handful of nails stuck out the far end like a mace as though someone had fired a nail gun repeatedly into the scrap to clear a jam. “Hungry?” He choked up on the board and swung as hard as he could into the infected man’s head. The hard hat flew off and crashed against the wall. The man toppled and lay on his side on the floor. He moved to get up. With only one good leg, he couldn’t. Corey held the board over his head and brought it down with both hands, piercing the top of the man’s skull. His hands burned with splinters and blisters, but he continued the attack until the bone caved. It was a hard, but satisfying kill. He moved toward Nixon’s office with his gun drawn and fired a round into the top of Wayne’s head for good measure. Blood soaked the shirt covering his face and Corey, though never exactly a friend to Wayne, was thankful not to have seen it.

  “Dr. Nixon, are you in there?” He pounded on the wrong closed door. “It’s okay to come out. They’re gone.”

  The door, two down from him, opened and Nixon stumbled into the hall.

  “Jesus, what happened to you?”

  Blood dripped from a paper towel wrapped around his finger and sweat ran down his face. “You have to help me.” His vacant expression gave away his disorientation, though he kept his eyes turned away.

  “Stop right there,” Corey said.

  Nixon’s foot caught on one of the construct
ion worker’s arms and he fell, hitting his knees. “Please, I need your help.”

  Corey looked down at him and lifted his chin. A dull, white film formed over Nixon’s dark eyes.

  “There’s no help for this,” he said and pressed the muzzle to Nixon’s forehead.

  CHAPTER 65

  Nixon reached up and pushed the pistol away. “That’s not true,” he whispered. “You can help me stop this.” The blood-soaked paper towels fell from his injured finger. His arm was blue and swollen and the tourniquet kept the bleeding to a minimum.

  “Where’s the baby?” Corey asked.

  Nixon pressed his hands to the wall and eased himself up. “He’s dead.” He wiped his sleeve across his face to keep the sweat from running into his eyes. “I need to get to the first floor. There’s an antivirus in the old Security Office.” He had no idea if that was still true, but it bought him time and he was willing to bargain. He locked eyes with Corey, the best he could given the haze that settled like fog over his vision. “If I turn between here and there, you shoot me.” He hated the sound of it, but he had Corey’s attention. “If I don’t turn and you help me, the first dose of cure after mine is yours. It’s a second chance at life and I’m the only one who can give it to you.”

  A moment passed while Corey considered the offer. “Deal,” he said and opened the stairwell door. “You first.”

  Nixon tightened his uninjured hand around the railing and moved as quickly as he could down the steps. His thighs burned and his feet went numb making it hard to keep steady. His breathing had become labored and the ash made him sneeze as he entered the first floor. He hurried through the atrium to the ransacked Security Office.

  “So where’s this antivirus?” Corey stayed a safe distance behind with his pistol drawn and ready.

  Nixon pulled open the top in a three drawer cabinet underneath the monitoring station. He tossed aside lanyards, blank badges, and felt around in the darkness. “They’re here somewhere. Check the bottom drawer over there.” He pointed to the gray, metal cabinet lying on its side.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “A needle. A syringe. It’ll have a clear liquid inside of it.” Nixon clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

  Corey did a half-assed search, at best.

  “Come on, keep looking.” Nixon pulled the drawers out of the cabinet, one by one, and prayed something had fallen through. He reached into the narrow space between the bottom drawer’s track and the floor and felt the familiar, tube-like shape. Thank God. He prayed it wasn’t a pen, and almost cried when he laid eyes on the single, life-prolonging dose. “Got it,” he said, alerting Corey to the good news. He pulled up his lab coat, injected himself, and fell back against the wall, waiting with his eyes closed for the worst of the symptoms to subside. Several moments passed and he enjoyed the peace of full breaths. The tightness in his chest melted away, and when he opened his eyes, he could see. He looked up at Corey, meeting his inquiring stare, and grinned. “Better?” He could tell the white film had lifted.

  Corey took a good look at him. “For now.”

  Nixon reached out for a hand in getting up, but Corey refused. He got to his feet and untied the tourniquet which at this point was causing more harm than good. “I’m going to need the power back up. You know where the diesel generator is, right, out back through the receiving entrance?”

  Corey nodded.

  “Can you start it?”

  “Of course, that’s what you asked me to do in the first place.”

  “You do that, then.” Nixon headed toward Ambulatory Surgery in search of proper bandaging for his finger. He stopped at the bloody drag trail, which he hadn’t previously noticed. Black swirls of fluid dried in the ash, heralding the birth of a hybrid. The dark amniotic fluid had been unique to them.

  Corey stopped and held up a finger. “Oh, there’s something I was supposed to tell you. Zach and I found a set of clothes up on the second floor, which is where we had to leave Allison by the way. The wallet in the pants belonged to Brian Foster. Zach said you should know.”

  Nixon tensed at the name. “Get the power up, now,” he said. “We need to get this place locked down.”

  He held pressure on his finger and waited for Corey to be out of sight before following the trail to the examination room not far down the hall. The smell hit him as soon as he opened the door. A foul taste coated his tongue and he spat on the floor to get rid of it. A nearly naked woman slumped against the wall and her dark hair covered her face.

  Miranda.

  He bent down, brushed the woman’s hair back, and lifted her chin. Everything he believed about the boy, about his experiment, and his own fate change in the moment he realized that the body wasn’t hers.

  CHAPTER 66

  Michael’s eyes strained to adjust to the fluorescent lighting as power was restored to the center. A sinking feeling followed the realization that he wasn’t alone. There was only one person he could think of who would want this place up and running. Michael knew it in his gut that Nixon had returned to reclaim his center and that he harbored enough ill will toward Michael to be the biggest threat to Adam. Nixon always went for those closest to the people he wanted to hurt.

  Michael had to hurry if he was going to use the power to his advantage.

  Amelie fussed and went back to sleep in the bassinette.

  Adam lay still, sedated on a stainless steel examination table more suited for lab rats and corpses--a thing he’d yet to consider his boy.

  Michael ran his fingers through Adam’s white-blond hair and assessed the damage to his thumb. Adam had always been a thumb-sucker, which, to Michael, meant that whatever had happened to Adam, he was still himself underneath it all. He repositioned the flaps of gnawed skin, reconstructed the thumb as best as he could, and taped a thick, gauze bandage around it to keep him from damaging it further.

  He tipped Adam’s chin so that his eyes were in full light, and pulled open his lids to check the treatment’s progress. The white coating had thinned and, in places, his blue irises appeared through the clouded cornea. Michael shined a pen light and though he couldn’t reproduce the effect a second time, swore Adam’s pupils responded. Adam opened and closed his mouth and rolled his head in Michael’s direction.

  “Adam, son, can you hear me?”

  The boy groaned and Michael wasn’t sure if it was because he was aware or hungry. He fastened him to the table, making use of the leather restraints, which at the center, were never far from reach. The heaviness of constant worry lifted, and for a moment, Michael was hopeful.

  “It’s going to be all right.”

  Adam’s system needed to be rebuilt from the inside out and there was no precedent for this sort of thing. Michael considered his residency at County Memorial and likened Adam’s condition to those of the leukemia patients whose immune systems had been rebuilt. There was only one solution, if the change in Adam’s physiology would accommodate it.

  Michael turned to Amelie, who, in contrast to Adam, was pink-cheeked and full of life. She had dark hair, like Miranda’s, and pouty, almost lipstick-pink lips, which must’ve been an attribute she received from her father. “I’m sorry to have to do this,” he whispered, refusing, with others lurking, to waste a single second. He injected her with a dose of sedative he swore would be the last he’d give her, and rolled her onto her stomach. He unbuttoned her white, one-piece bodysuit, pulled her tiny, pink fleece pants down far enough to expose her back and hip, and released the tape that fastened the side of her diaper. A bone marrow aspiration kit lay open on the tray table next to her. The blue, t-shaped needle with its half-round top seemed too large for her tiny body, but Michael told himself that the needle was small and that she wouldn’t hurt for long. He swabbed her hip and gave her a local anesthetic, wanting her to suffer as little as humanly possible. Adam fidgeted on the table, rousing from sleep. The serene calm about him was more human than monster.

  Michael pressed a pink pacifie
r to Amelie’s lips and waited for her to take it. She sucked and stopped, her breathing becoming heavier as she fell deeper into her medication-induced sleep. Michael inserted the needle through her delicate skin, carefully advancing it until he felt it reach her soft bone. With a skilled twist of his hand and wrist, he advanced the needle into the bone’s center and drew out a sparing amount of marrow.

  Amelie let out a scream as Michael finished the procedure. He set the sample aside, lifted her up, his coat and all, and rocked her.

  “I’m sorry, baby girl. All done. I swear.” She continued to cry and refused the pacifier. He was terrified the sound would call the attention of the others. “There, there.” He changed his pace and motion, but not even the drugs, which Michael swore were at limit, consoled her.

  Adam came around, thrashing and tugging at his restraints. The peaceful calm left him and Michael second-guessed his assessment.

  Things were starting to unravel.

  The treatment was wearing off.

  Michael shushed and patted Amelie while pacing the floor, the same way he had done so many nights when Adam was an infant. He wanted to soothe her, but knew there wasn’t time. He set her back in the bassinette and went back to Adam whose reprieve from the infection had been disappointingly short-lived.

  “Please let this work.”

  He held Adam down, careful to avoid being bit, and rolled down the top of his jeans to expose his left hip. He took the syringe of fresh marrow and repeated the harvesting process in reverse, forcing the needle into Adam’s bone and giving him less than half of what he had taken from Amelie. He used what he had to, but was mindful not to waste anything.

  He was confident he had all of the key elements of the cure. He just needed to figure out the combination.

  A sound out in the hallway caught Michael’s attention and he strained to hear over Amelie’s crying.