Since there wasn’t much of a choice, Harley consented to the treatment, and they readied her for transport to the medical facility. A bizarre thought crossed Harley’s mind as she realized they probably prepped all of their patients this way when they arrived. What if they were trying to get them used to the possibility that humans and zombies might one day coexist, side-by-side, in the future? In a surreal twist of fate, she could envision a new politically-correct world, where everyone was encouraged not to think of the virally-impaired as being any different from anyone else. They weren’t undead. They just didn’t fully identify with being alive. Maybe they’d have telethons and political movements, too. Harley shook off the idea and thought her fever might be making her delusional.
As they made their way to a waiting transport vehicle, Harley realized the best outcome for her would be an unlikely cure. The second-best option would be death. The last option, existing indefinitely as a zombie, would be a living hell.
Chapter 2
Harley
The zombie hospital—correction, the virally-impaired triage unit—was little more than a prefabricated building. Its walls weren’t quite square, and the roof’s peak angled off-center as if it had been slapped together fast, on short notice. The drab cube perched atop an inadequate-looking foundation of steel rods that were barely concealed by underpinning that had come loose in several spots. Back at Harley’s home in Lubbock, Texas, this place would have been tornado bait.
On her arrival, two more personnel, outfitted in full biohazard suits, emerged from the building. Their uniforms were a muddy blue-green color, and one of them had a stethoscope protruding from beneath the hood. They took charge and wheeled her into the building.
Inside, Harley was rolled through a maze of hallways and taken to a spacious ward in an antiseptic shade of hospital white. Stainless steel countertops and fixtures lined the walls. A rack of equipment with switches, dials, and blinking indicator lights stood near the center of the room, beside a patient’s bed. Shelves and cabinets held jars filled with liquid, and what appeared to be chunks of tissue floating in a yellowish fluid. If Harley hadn’t already been nauseated and focused on her own pain, the sight would have made her sick. The staff transferred the teen onto a surgical bed. Since they had her strapped tightly onto the transport cart, she could only lie there and ponder the array of lights mounted to bulbous, reflective disks on the ceiling as they worked with her. The suits systematically wrapped restraint cuffs around Harley’s wrists and ankles, one limb at a time, and fastened them to the corners of the narrow, vinyl-padded bed as they moved her onto it. It was a painful and laborious process.
“You know I’m not a zombie yet, right?” Harley asked. Her voice tumbled out of her mouth in rough, irritable grunts.
“Nothing personal, Miss Evans,” one of the nebulous blue-green forms said in a male voice. “It’s just--.”
“Protocol. I know.”
The other suit proceeded to attach stickers and leads to her chest and abdomen. It paused and examined her flesh as it worked, apparently looking for a clear patch of skin to attach the adhesive pads.
Harley couldn’t sit up to look at herself, but based on what she could see, her flesh was still rapidly changing. Boils and open sores were now forming on her arms. She suspected the rest of her body looked the same from the prickling pain she felt along her extremities.
A man in a pristine, white lab coat appeared at Harley’s bedside. She glanced from him to the suits and back again, a bit confused as to why he was here with her and not wearing protective gear. “Yes, this is our standard protocol here,” he said. “We treat everyone the same, regardless of their stage of infection,” he explained, picking up where his colleague left off. His gaze traveled up and down Harley’s arms. “Start the IV in this arm,” he said to one of the vinyl-clad workers, who obediently wheeled a metal stand to the bedside and hung a clear, plastic, fluid-filled bag from a hook at the top.
“I’m Dr. White,” the man in the lab coat mumbled with almost enough of a shift of his lips to pass for a smile. In his hands, he held the tubes Harley recognized as her own blood samples. “I just need to run a few tests on these, Harley, and I’ll be right with you.” He stepped away and moved to a nearby counter where he placed the tubes of blood into a rack. Dr. White withdrew several bottles from a cabinet and put them beside the containers.
The biohazard-suited worker finished setting up her intravenous line by inserting the needle into the back of her hand. Again, searing fire shot through her flesh and deep into her nerves. She gasped for breath at its intensity. Unlike the staff in the reception area, the two people working with her now gave no acknowledgment of her condition. There were no words of comfort. They handled her with roughness and speed, without regard for any discomfort they may be inflicting. The figure taped the IV port apparatus in place on her hand before attaching a tube connected to the bag of fluid. The other worker tested her restraints. Apparently finished with their tasks, both left the room, taking the gurney with them.
With the suited workers out of the way, the teenager could see the other side of the ward, which was set up like an amphitheater, with two rows of tables and chairs. The wall behind the tables featured a large, darkened window. Harley assumed it was for observation of procedures and shuddered at the thought. “Excuse me, Dr. White?” she called out, “This looks like an operating room in here. I’m not having surgery, am I?”
Before the doctor could answer, another medical professional, a stern-faced woman who appeared to be of Asian descent, entered the room. She pulled a utility cart behind her. On its top rested a computer. As she pushed the stand to Harley’s bedside, her eyes darted from left to right and back again. Her wrist tapped with impatience on the bedrail as she watched the computer power up.
Harley struggled to steady her breathing as she waited for the woman to begin whatever she’d come here to do. The pain was intense now, and Harley just wanted the doctors to make it stop.
The Asian woman typed a short entry and glanced at the door. Harley wondered if she was impatient or angry, but the woman’s face became a stiff mask, making it impossible to determine what she might be thinking.
“Harley, I am Dr. Huai Li Smith,” the woman explained. “I understand you have been infected.”
“Yes, I was bitten.”
Smith’s eyelids squinted at Harley, and she withdrew a pair of glasses from her lab coat pocket. She slipped them onto her face and leaned over the bed. Looking at Harley’s arms and legs, she paused at her bandaged shoulder. “Is this the bite wound?”
Harley nodded.
“I need to look at this,” she said. “Don’t move.” Her accent was noticeable, but her English was perfect. She leaned over Harley’s body, inspecting the eruptions on her skin. She grasped the edge of the bandage that had been placed over the bite wound and pulled.
“Argh!” Harley screamed as Dr. Smith peeled the bandage from Harley’s flesh. “Didn’t you think that was going to hurt? I’m in agony here,” the teen cried. “Can’t you give me something? I can’t stand this suffering.”
Huai Li’s brows nearly met as she scowled and glanced back at the door. She paused, apparently listening for something. “Not yet,” Smith answered. “First, you must answer some questions to help us understand how you were infected.”
“I already told you,” the teenager insisted. “I was bitten by a zombie. Dr. Smith, please, I need something for the pain.”
Unbelievably, Smith shook her head. “We must have more detail. When we are finished, I can give you medication,” she told Harley. “For now, you must focus on my questions.” She deftly tapped across the laptop’s keys. The soft, rapid clicks were punctuated by the beeps and tones being emitted by the heart and respiration monitors at Harley’s bedside. “Tell me what you remember about the attack. What was going on just before you were bitten? Can you remember anything?”
All that had transpired was embossed on Harley’s brain in vivi
d detail. Of course, she remembered. She and her friends had taken refuge in the high school with other people. They’d been staying there for about a month after the explosion at a nearby army depot. A toxic mix of chemicals and biological weapons was released, causing the viral outbreak. Just like they did on most days, her friends Casey, Jordan, and Matt had left the building to scavenge for food and supplies in abandoned buildings nearby. Kyle, a soldier they’d recently taken in, was with them.
Harley still didn’t know the full story about what happened to her friends. All she’d learned for sure was that they left that morning, and then a couple of hours later, all hell broke loose. Zombies came out in the daytime, which was something that had never happened before, and someone told Harley that her friends had escaped on an abandoned bus. When they didn’t come back to the high school, she was terrified they’d been killed somewhere out there.
Since the power went down in the city, and they hadn’t had cell phone signals in weeks, Harley didn’t know anything about what was going on in the outside world. No word had come from the surrounding city about how far or wide this plague had spread. It could have contaminated the state, or even the whole country, for all Harley knew. She could only pray that Casey would come back. She, Jordan, and Matt were closer to her than family, and she didn’t know how to function without them. Harley had only just met Kyle, but having him with their group made her feel safer. He was another able-bodied person who could help.
Usually, Harley would have gone out with the group searching for supplies in the surrounding neighborhood, but she couldn’t go on that day because she’d injured her ankle. It was probably severely fractured, and possibly broken. Since the school didn’t stock the equipment necessary for diagnosis, or the supplies needed for the nurse to set the leg in a cast, they’d had to make do with a splint and a wheelchair.
About two days after Casey and the others left the building, the military sent a rescue team to the school. Harley’s hopes brightened that day for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. The rhythmic thumping of a helicopter’s blades in the distance announced the rescue team’s arrival. People ran to the gymnasium windows to see what was happening. Thundering blades chopped the air, and engines whooshed as the aircraft landed outside the building, in the parking lot. Within seconds, loud bangs sounded at the door, and voices shouted out that they were the army, here to rescue the refugees inside. The doors were unlocked, and several military personnel entered the gym. One soldier explained that Casey Williams had made it to their base, a place he said was in a safe zone. She’d told them where to find the survivors at the school.
“Harley?” Dr. Smith asked, her voice was sharp with urgency. “Didn’t you hear me? What was happening when you were bitten?”
“Oh, sorry.” Harley wasn’t sure how long her attention had lapsed from Smith’s questioning. It was becoming difficult to concentrate with the excruciating ache penetrating her bones. “Right before the zombies attacked, we were being evacuated,” she began. “I was rolling my wheelchair toward the helicopter and getting ready to board when a group of zombies somehow got over the fence around the school building. I panicked and hurried away from them, toward the aircraft. A soldier caught up with me and helped push. If it hadn’t been for her, I don’t think I would have made it out of there alive.”
Harley’s skull pulsed with a sudden stabbing sensation that pierced her forehead and plunged downward through the backside of her right eye. Instinctively, she tried to raise her arms to cradle her head, but couldn’t move because of the restraints. A thick string of fluid dribbled from her tear duct and dripped through the rip in her cheek. She felt it spilling onto her tongue. The taste was vaguely salty, like tears, but the texture was strange and unnatural.
“Dr. Smith, could I please just have something to stop this pain?” Harley begged, yet again. “I think talking is making my head hurt, too. Don’t you have something that wouldn’t knock me out but would stop the pain?”
Huai Li Smith’s tongue clicked in admonition, and she spoke through gritted teeth. “Oh, I understand. Decomposition is very unpleasant process,” her English broke a little as she peered at the clock on the wall and continued. “No medication yet. I tell you this already. How tall was the fence?”
“What?! Why does that matter?” Harley yelled. Impulsively, she jerked her arms in an attempt to emphasize her speech, but she could only move them inches from the mattress. The rigid rubber cuffs bit into her flesh, and her skin cracked along the restraints. Blood, or what should have been blood, began seeping from beneath the band. Reddish-black slime oozed down her arm, emitting a putrid odor, reminiscent of day-old roadkill on a hot Texas highway.
Smith adjusted her glasses and looked at the teen. “You only hurt yourself. Best to lie still.” An expectant expression crossed her brow. “Maybe you learn to answer questions. You only delay us more. You waste, eh…time. Now, how tall the fence?”
Even though Harley could tell by Smith’s tone that she was angry, she couldn’t figure out why. Harley was the victim here, after all, and she’d done nothing wrong. Why was the doctor acting this way? The teenager wanted to lunge from the bed and smack the woman, but she could do nothing about it. She had to comply and answer if she hoped to get relief. “Look, I don’t know. The fence was maybe ten or twelve feet tall.”
“Be specific!” Smith’s tone took on a hostile edge. Again, she glanced toward the door.
“I’m telling you I have no idea for sure. I’m just guessing.”
Smith’s brows nearly met, forming a curt, flat line across her forehead as she continued typing. “What happened next?” she questioned, this time in even more heavily accented speech.
“A soldier came and lifted me over his shoulder. He carried me to the helicopter and was pushing me into the cabin when two of the zombies caught up to us. Another soldier –.”
“And this daytime?” Smith interrupted. “It was cloudy?”
Harley paused. What kinds of questions were these? “I don’t understand. What does that have to do with my condition?” she asked. Another wave of raging misery rushed through her body. It seemed every cell was on fire. Unable to remain calm, she wailed in agony.
Dr. Smith slapped the cart, and she glared at the young girl. “Nothing! Questions not about you, but must answer. You stop, um…whining.” She shook her arm at Harley in emphasis. “Now, was sun or clouds in the sky?” Clearly, Smith’s accent grew more pronounced the angrier she became.
Harley looked at her, dumbfounded. “It was daytime. I didn’t notice whether it was cloudy.”
“You try!” Smith insisted.
“Look, lady, I don’t have a clue! I was busy trying to survive. Please, I need medicine for this pain.”
Dr. Smith’s lip curled, and an abrupt sigh escaped her mouth. “How do you Americans accomplish anything? No! I tell you no pills. Not yet.” She shook her head in an expression that appeared somewhere between apprehension and disgust. “Continue, please.”
It was clearly pointless to resist or question the doctor. Smith was determined to continue this insane game until she was satisfied. Harley had to give her more information. Otherwise, she might never get relief. “As I was saying, another soldier was pulling me into the helicopter, and the zombies attacked. They killed the soldier who’d been pushing my wheelchair, and one bit my shoulder,” the teen continued. “I had been in the wheelchair because I broke my--.”
“How fast they run?” Again, Smith interrupted and leveled a questioning gaze at Harley from over the top of her glasses.
It was madness. If Harley hadn’t been in such pain, she would have sworn this was a nightmare. How could this be real? She glared at the doctor and screamed, “How the hell should I know? I left my damned stopwatch in the gym!”
“I understand,” Smith commented, completely missing Harley’s sarcasm. More keystrokes clattered as she typed her notes, oblivious to the girl’s suffering.
“Don’t you want
to know about why I was in a wheelchair?” Harley asked. “Doesn’t my injured ankle concern you at all?” Her body began to shudder as intense spasms wracked her muscles.
“Dr. White?” Smith called across the room. “You need to know why the specimen used a wheelchair before the attack?”
Harley was more concerned with what White had to say than the fact that Dr. Smith had just equated her to a lab rat. The man cast his gaze upward, as if in thought, before grabbing a clipboard from a nearby shelf. He appeared to scan through several pages on the board.
“Uh,” he mumbled, “let me check.” He turned more pages and ran his finger across the papers, as if looking for information. “No. Uh… no, I don’t think that will be necessary.”
A sick feeling curdled in Harley’s stomach. It didn’t take a genius to get that something was very wrong here. She glanced around the room, searching for some kind of clue about the place. Nothing visible here gave a hint about the name of the facility. There was no logo on the hospital gown they’d made her wear. She couldn’t see any signs posted. Even the glass panels in the doors to the room were blank.
In Harley’s mind, she frantically ransacked her recall, in search of any details about what had happened since she’d arrived that might explain the situation. There had to be some kind of clue about who these people were. The military personnel had brought her immediately into the reception area and then to this facility after they landed, so she didn’t get a good look at the compound itself.
She hadn’t even been given a chance to talk to her friends, who’d sent the rescue team. At this point, the term ‘rescue’ no longer seemed fitting.
The Viral Series (Book 2): Viral Storm Page 2