by Bobby Adair
A girl of eleven or twelve with long blond hair squatted beside the boy, blinking bits of his brain matter out of her eyes when my backhand swing severed her thin neck with little resistance. Her blond hair whipped across my eyes as her head spun into the air. A splash of her arterial blood splattered my face and open mouth. I wailed.
Another girl, maybe five, rolled over, grabbed my left foot, and tried to bite through my boot. I dropped to a knee and felt bones crunch as my weight came down her. She was coughing blood and trying vainly to move her arms when I slashed a dark-haired boy who’d figured out that I was a threat.
The last three children were coming at me by then and I hacked wildly at grasping hands, tiny arms, and vicious little teeth. It only took a few seconds and they were all down. I froze in a ready position, breathing heavily between the blood-splattered windows and dripping ceiling, hacked limbs and severed heads at my feet. Disgusted by the taste, I spit what felt like a mouthful of the blond girl’s blood onto the floor.
One child’s body jerked, headless on the floor, not yet all the way dead. The broken girl still coughed up blood as she cried and lolled her head, but wasn’t able to do more.
I looked back to the other end of the breezeway. The soldier’s expression was hard to read in the distance, but his mouth was hanging open, his arms dangling at his sides. He’d been as horrified watching as I’d been in the doing.
But it was necessary. Of course it was necessary.
It had to be necessary.
I felt like a monster.
A loathsome, shame-filled monster.
Move. Move.
Breathe.
Don’t think about it.
The hallway at the end of the breezeway split to the left and right into the children’s hospital. I pointed left and waited for a confirming nod from the still frozen soldier before moving cautiously ahead.
Rounding the corner, I was confronted by a thin girl of about thirteen with heavily bandaged arms. Further down the hall was a boy of a similar size. Behind me in the hall, leading in the other direction, a girl of four or five sat by the wall, gnawing on something.
Please, God, let this be all of them.
The thin girl with the bandages charged.
I turned away from the little gnawing one and hacked down with my machete. The blade tore through the thin girl’s collarbone and into her chest, lodging in her rib cage. I cursed myself for having notched the blade when I’d vented my frustration on the car earlier that morning. Deep red blood gushed from her mouth, and she coughed a wicked scream as she sank to the floor.
The patter of small feet and an asthmatic wheeze came from behind me. I spun and kicked the gnawing little girl hard under the jaw. Her head snapped back and she dropped to the floor, wide-eyed and bloody-mouthed, but motionless.
For the first time in my life, I wished the Harpy's harsh words and the Ogre's menacing fists had finished their work and beaten all of the humanity out of me when they had the chance.
Ill-prepared to bear the grinding of bone on metal, I placed a boot on the thin girl’s chest and wrestled my machete loose, freeing her blood to roll across the shiny floor. Up the hall, the gangly brown-haired boy stood, frozen and staring with a familiar blankness on his face, a blankness that wouldn’t last.
With dripping machete in hand, I ran at him, intent on chopping that accusatory blankness away. And he did nothing but watch as I hacked him down.
Once on the floor, he was just a pale skinned child, staring and silent. Blood oozed out of fresh wounds, capillary action pulling it into florid red blossoms on his hospital gown, gluing the gown to his bony ribs as it dampened. His mouth worked slowly, as if trying to tell me something important, but no words came, only burbles of blood and spit that splattered up in a little fountain driven by his dying breaths, staining his face with pain as it rained back down and flowed into his brown hair.
His eyes looked up at me for many long, accusing seconds before they glassed over with death.
His brilliant red blood crept across the floor in a sadly feeble attempt to drown its owner’s killer. Still the dead eyes stared.
And stared.
The boy hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t been aggressive. He hadn’t moved.
The familiarity of the blankness on his face clicked in my mind. Russell.
Had I just killed a younger version of Russell?
Every curse word I knew exploded in my mind, held back by my stifling lips. I wanted to scream and scream and scream.
The slap of bare feet on the smooth floor pulled my attention back into the moment.
Another girl was running up the hall, at me… or past me. It didn’t matter. When she got within range of my machete, I cut her down to bleed and die beside the docile, brown-haired boy. After she went down, there was silence in the curved hall. Nothing moved except the blood, crawling it’s way across the smooth floor and clinging to my soles.
My soul.
Was the children’s hospital the most horrific place yet?
It felt that way.
Stuff it away.
Stuff it away.
Put it all some place black and deep.
The Ogre and the Harpy.
I ran around the curve of the hall until I reached a stairwell door. That was my goal. That was our planned escape route. Unfortunately, There was no window on the door to reveal the interior. I muttered a curse, turned the knob, and pushed it open.
“Shit.”
The stairwell was full of infected.
The big ones.
They howled as I pulled the door shut again.
My kingdom for a grenade.
A group too dumb to work a door, though—my favorite kind. At least there was that. But how long would the door stay shut now that they had seen me open and close it? The fear of being trapped kicked my brain into a higher gear. I needed to find another exit. The description of the children’s hospital provided by Dr. Evans included an atrium further up the hall with a wide stairway that curved all the way down to ground level. It was time to run again. If the atrium wasn’t clear, we’d have to chance another elevator shaft. But did we have time for that?
No.
Every moment in the halls of the hospital with no barricade between us and the infected was a risk, a big, big risk. We couldn’t hope to hold off any significant number of them with only bullets.
Ahead of me, the hall opened up to the four-story atrium, walled with glass, filled with tropical plants and sunshine. I came to a halt against a chrome railing, supported by waist-high glass panels. As promised, a wide, open stairway meandered down through the space to the lobby floor. Remains of the dead littered the lobby. Among the remains, a White that looked like a hobbit’s grandmother with fucked-up hair rambled in a circle. Her fitful grunts echoed off the sterile walls.
Choosing to gloss over any thoughts about why a grandmother might have been at the children’s hospital when the world went to shit a week ago, I instead focused on her physical unsightliness. She would die quickly when I got down there.
I repositioned to get a better angle on a view out the front doors. The infected were out there, but not many. The diversion had worked. We had a chance if I could get the others here in a hurry.
I bolted back up the hall.
Chapter 15
The tall glass wall on the front of the atrium gave us a slightly sterilized view of the world on the outside. It muffled the jagged edge of the wailing infected out there. The tint on the glass hid the ash that tainted the air.
Four vehicles were visible on the lawn: two armored Humvees, an ambulance like the one that transported Murphy and me to the gym on the first night, and an un-armored Humvee for anyone with more stupid in his soul than me. Squeezing us all into the two armored Humvees and the ambulance would be tight, but the ambulance was vulnerable.
Dalhover quickly separated the people into vehicle-sized groups and told them to organize themselves fast. Better to pick a driver and call
shotgun now, in the momentary safety of the atrium, rather than out in the trampled grass, running for our lives. The small delay caused by two people trying to get through the same door at the same time might get them both killed.
Dr. Evans, apparently evaluating the vehicles just as I was, asked me, “Is that ambulance safe?”
“Only if it sticks close behind a Humvee,” I answered. “On its own, the infected will destroy it. Remember, they can’t feel pain like you can, so beating a windshield with their fists until it shatters won’t bother them one bit. They’ll jump on a moving car without a thought as to whether they’ll get injured or killed. Once they get all jazzed into hysterics, unarmored vehicles can’t survive.”
“What else is out there that we can’t see from here?” he asked. “Should we skip it, then?”
“No,” I shook my head, “it’s one of the closest vehicles to the door. There probably aren’t more than three or four more armored Humvees out there. The only other one that I know of for sure is too far to get to safely. Tell you what: I can walk out first and grab the farthest one and bring it back over. But I’ll warn you before I start the engine. Once I do that, shit gets crazy faster than you can imagine.”
Dr. Evans thought for a second. “We’ll do that. Don’t start the engine until you see us run out the door. Then drive back over and pick up who you can. I’ll ride in the ambulance with one of the soldiers driving.”
“No,” I didn’t agree at all. “You’re immune. You’re in charge. You need to be in a Humvee.”
“No, Zane. The biggest risk is in the ambulance. I won’t ask someone else to do it.”
Arguing was pointless.
“Be sure you have a weapon,” I told him.
“I want Dalhover with you in the lead vehicle.” Dr. Evans looked out across the grass as he talked. “You’ve been out there. You know what it’s like. The two of you leading works well. The ambulance will fall in right behind, with the other two Humvees in the rear.”
I followed Dr. Evans’ gaze out the window. As relatively calm as the lawn looked at that moment, it was deceptive.
I said, “We may not be able to straighten that out until we get into east Austin, but that depends on how far they chase us, I guess. Oh, and I’m taking Steph in my vehicle. I don’t care who else comes along.”
“That’s up to you,” said Evan. “Dalhover will organize the rest.”
Down on the floor of the lobby, Grandma Baggins was still circling. Far behind us, in the other building, gunfire still echoed. At least a few of the soldiers were back there paying for our escape with their lives.
I steeled my courage with their bravery and asked, “Would you let Dalhover get Steph and wait by the front door? I’ll pick them up there. I’ll head down and get that Humvee. I’ll probably be in it and ready by the time you guys get downstairs. But make sure I’m in the driver’s seat before you come out. Oh, and one more thing: once you’re outside, you’ve got about thirty or forty seconds to get inside those vehicles, get ‘em buttoned up, and start moving. Shoot anything in your way or anything nearby. Shooting will draw about a bazillion infected from the other side of the building, but if you’re not already in the vehicles and moving by the time they get here, it’ll be because you’re already dead.”
“Thanks for the encouragement,” Dr. Evans smiled wryly.
Good. At least he wasn’t humorless.
I ran down the stairs, stepping as quickly and as lightly as possible, so as not to announce my presence to any infected in the off-shooting halls. When I hit the terrazzo floor of the lobby, the bloody-mouthed little troll of a woman was gawking at me with irritation in her eyes. At full speed, I ran at her and slashed my machete through most of her fat neck.
Not looking to see the results of my work, I spotted movement to my left near an information desk. Three Whites were there, feeding on the body of a child. I got only the usual glances as each infected greedily pulled the corpse closer to themselves, trying to set their territory.
I slowed down only enough to make the turn toward them. They were surprised that I was suddenly on them.
My machete swung at the back of the head of the man nearest me, but he turned to look up at the last moment, causing my machete to glance off of his skull, taking hair and skin, but little bone. He fell, dazed. I swung again and slashed one across the face. She rolled onto her back, not moving.
The third pounced at me, and I barely got my machete up to defend myself. We both fell over. I landed on my back with her on top of me, my blade jammed into her chest. She struggled and spewed blood, but was dying.
The scalped one had regained his senses enough to grab my foot and pull. I kicked at him with my free foot while I struggled to get the dying woman off of me.
The infected guy crawled and clawed his way onto me and tried to bite my leg. My knee smashed a solid blow to his temple and his eyes rolled back in his head.
That gave me a chance to get the bloody woman off of me and to get to my knees. I punched the guy twice in the face while noticing how much he looked like Mark. That made it easier. I jumped to my feet and finished him with three crushing kicks between his crazy blue eyes.
The dying woman was on her back, struggling and gurgling for breath.
At least they weren’t kids.
I stepped on her chest to pry my blade out. I yanked several times. Again, the nicks in the blade were a problem. I’d need to find a replacement.
Finished with the three, I hurried back out into the center of the lobby. Dr. Evans was leaning over the railing four floors up, looking down with wide eyes and a concerned face. Most of the group was already hurrying down the stairs.
Dripping in blood, again, thankfully none of it mine, I waved and ran through one of the wide rows of glass doors at the front of the lobby. Despite the circumstances, it felt better to be outside than in. The heat embraced me like an old friend and I ran toward a Humvee a full block away.
The sounds of the infected were all around, but there weren’t that many to be seen.
Something wasn’t right. Something really wasn’t right.
I looked left and right as I put distance between myself and the doors. The few infected I passed looked me over but made no aggressive moves. That would change soon enough.
I reached the Humvee. Its doors were closed and nothing was moving inside. I cupped my hands and looked in through the windows. No infected. No bodies and no blood. Empty and clean. It didn’t get any better than that.
I looked back toward the atrium doors. “Oh, shit.”
In my surprise, I’d said it too loud and caught the attention of a nearby White whose little goldfish brain connected the verbalization with the taste of food and rushed me. Unprepared for the attack, my machete caught him under the arm, almost too late but effective enough. His nearly amputated arm threw him off balance and he spun to the side with the momentum of it. My next blow cut a deep, blood-spewing gash across his neck and he fell to the grass to bleed out under the cruel sun.
The infected I’d heard, but hadn’t seen when I ran out of the building, were squatted along the wall of the building on both sides of the door, sheltering themselves from the sun among the shrubs in a narrow band of shade. There were hundreds.
Dr. Evans and the hospital survivors were arrayed at the glass doors, ready to push. Neither group was aware of the other. People were about to die.
I raised a palm and exaggerated a motion for them to stay.
Smiles and up-pointed thumbs were the response.
Fuck.
Hands were on the doors, ready to push. Freedom for them was a door-glass thickness away. Anticipating escape, they were going to come out any second now.
I could think of one thing to do to avert disaster. I swung open the door of the Humvee, tossed my machete in, and raised my M4. I looked left. I looked right. I had some space. I fired at the infected by the walls.
A thousand howls ripped the air and the squatting Whites moved as on
e, as though the hospital wall itself had jumped. The mass of them raced toward me as I emptied the magazine.
I jumped into the Humvee as the vanguard of the horde from the west side of the hospital rounded the corner, chasing a sound they’d heard and of which they were anxious to find the source. I was surrounded. I scrambled over the seats and set all of the combat locks. It wouldn’t do to have Smart Ones opening the doors while I was running for my life.
Back in the driver’s seat, I cranked the Humvee. Its engine rumbled to life. I floored it. The tires spun on the dry turf and sent dirt, grass, and dust into the air. If any infected had any doubt where their human morsel had gone, I’d erased that doubt for them. I steered straight for the infected mass rounding the corner and raced the engine.
The first infected I hit was obliterated by the bumper, and the next few died just as badly.
When the crowd grew thick, I angled to my right to stay out of the mob. I couldn’t let them bring me to a stop. Stopping was dying. The Humvee bounced over bodies, fallen barricades, and curbs. In a sea of screaming white faces and chomping jaws, I didn’t have a thought to spare for the survivors from the hospital. I’d done what I could. Personal survival trumped philanthropy.
The Humvee slowed under the press of human flesh.
I wondered if I’d done too much.
The vehicle lurched as it slowed and the tires spun on bloody wet humans, former humans. Whites were all over the vehicle, pounding on the roof, bashing their fists at the glass.
The Humvee swayed. I was losing control to the weight of the flowing bodies.
If the Humvee stopped, it was over. The Whites wouldn’t leave and I wouldn’t be able to get out. The Humvee would run out of gas. The AC would go. I’d die of heat stroke before day’s end.