Cure (20 page)

“What do we do with them?” Scott asked, having set Carlene free.

Carlene limped to a wheelchair in the corner. “We can wheel them out.” Her gait evened out as she moved to Holly’s bedside and lowered the railing.

Miranda went over to help and a sour odor hit her. “What is that smell?”

Carlene peeled back Holly’s white blanket and exposed the blood-caked sheet beneath it.

Miranda coughed and wrinkled her face. The skin on Holly’s heels had degraded and turned black. Thick pus leaked from the bone-deep wounds.

“Pressure ulcers,” Carlene said. “From lying down. I used to work in a nursing home. Saw them all the time.” She pulled a pair of blue fuzzy socks over Holly’s feet and Foster helped Carlene ease her into the wheelchair. “I can’t imagine anything worse than this.”

Miranda looked at Carlene’s swollen belly.
There were more terrible things.
She pushed the other wheelchair to Amy. Scott, always knowing what she was thinking, stared. “We have to tell them.”

Foster lowered his head.

Scott, never one for confrontation, handed out scrubs for the women to change into.

Penny changed behind one of the hanging curtains, the clothes on her full figure tighter than it was on the others. “Tell us what?”

Scott closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t know that now is the best time for this.”

“When would be better? When they stumble on that mess in the hallway?” Scott backed down. “What do you know about the babies?” Miranda asked.

Penny lowered her eyebrows and wrinkled her forehead. “Nothing, I guess.”

“We can’t draw this out,” Foster said.

 “The fathers, well…” Miranda weighed her words.

“For God’s sake, they’re zombies,” Scott said. “They’re out in the hall, waiting to eat and infect us.”

The room fell silent, the women visibly registering what he’d said.

Penny’s lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears. “What does that mean for my baby?”

“We don’t know.” Miranda held Penny’s shoulder. “But there’s nothing we can do until we’re out of here.”

“Come on. We have to go.” Foster leaned on the handles of Holly’s wheelchair.

“What do you mean
do
?” Penny cried harder. “I’m not a murderer!”

Miranda moved her hand to her stomach. “You don’t have to be.”

“We’re wasting time. We need to leave, now.” Scott used the blunt end of a fire extinguisher he took down from the wall to smash the locked case. The sound of shattering glass broke Penny’s hysteria.  Scott cleared the jagged teeth and withdrew the ax. “Miranda, you and Carlene push the wheelchairs. Foster, you stay close to Penny.” Scott took Miranda’s hand. “If there’s trouble-,” he said his eyes soft and pleading. “I mean the no way out kind--I need you to promise me that you’ll take care of yourself first.”

“Yeah, sure I will,” Miranda said sarcastically.

Having been married, she would’ve thought he knew better.

39
.

The change came on fast and hit Billy’s system hard. Fluids swished in his stomach, swishing like a shaken water balloon. A stabbing pain pierced his side and brought him to his knees.

Ohhhhhh.

Another wave of cramps and his bowels let go. Warm, liquid stool ran down the inside of his pant legs and dripped a trail to the nearest bathroom.

He picked up his two-way and sent out a distress call. “This is Billy, anyone, do you hear me?”

No one answered.

“John.” He grunted and breathed through the pain. “Please, answer.”

Where was he?

Sick of being bullied, probably.

Billy had gone too far.

Pull a knife on the kid, what did you think?

He thrust the heel of his palm repeatedly into the side of his sweaty head.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

The fever made him shiver and he lumbered to the sink. He turned on the cold water and splashed handfuls on his face. The sweat washed away, but he still stunk like shit. He stared into the mirror, at the stranger’s reflection. His complexion blanched to chalk white. Even his acne, normally red and irritated, was a ridge of ghostly lumps. Dark circles rimmed his bloodshot eyes and his lips were cracked and bleeding.

He fished in his pocket for his cell phone and went inside one of the two bathroom stalls. He pushed the door closed and when it stuck, saw no reason to lock it. He slipped out of his soiled pants, careful not to drop his phone in the toilet, and sat down.

This is so goddamned undignified.

The cramps returned, but his bowels were empty. The pain was almost worse.

He dialed John, his shaking hands making it hard to hit the numbers, and closed his eyes when it started ringing.

Without the shots, he was as good as dead.

Come on. Please, answer.

One. Two. Three. Billy counted the rings.

Voicemail.

“This is John, leave a message.”

“John, it’s Billy. I’m sorry, man. I’m really fucking sorry.” Tears came, the last sign of his waning humanity. “I need those shots. I’m so sick. Please, I’m on the first floor in the bathroom off the lobby. Hurry.”

Billy’s vision blurred. Dizziness had him teetering on the loose toilet seat.

 “I don’t have much time,” he whispered and waited for the virus to claim him.

* * * * *

John ignored the stitch in his side and the shooting pains, like spears, through the non-existent arches of his flat feet as he ran across the Nixon Center parking lot. He wasn’t made for speed or endurance, but fear was a powerful motivator. Just being in open space was more relief than John would’ve imagined.

He hurried between the rows of remaining vehicles and saw the old van nestled among them. Frank sat in the driver’s seat, the window rolled down. He stared straight ahead, preoccupied.

John slammed his hand into the door and startled him.

 “Jesus, John. What the hell is going on in there? No one’s answering their phones or radios.”

John held up a finger, needing to catch his breath. His lungs burned to the point of coughing. He climbed into the passenger’s side and waited until he could speak clearly.

The van smelled of gasoline fumes and country music played through the worn speakers. The spoils of the morning littered the floor and reminded John of a not too distant past when all of them believed they had the upper hand. After what had happened, the notion seemed naïve and outright stupid.

He couldn’t escape the image of Billy decapitating the monster in the elevator.

Frank leaned forward, looking out the top of the windshield. A helicopter descending on the landing pad drowned out an old George Jones tune. Frank sighed. “Nixon’s up to something.”

John uncapped the half-empty bottle of warm water in the center console and took a small sip. Careful to avoid the swill at the bottom, he wished he had more. “I don’t doubt that he is.” He leaned over and put the syringes into the cup holder.

“What are these?” Frank picked one up and turned it over in his hands.

“It’s supposed to slow down the infection,” John said between huffs. “I got them from one of the guards.”

Frank collected the stack and put them in the small, black medical bag. “For safe keeping,” he said. “Where’s Billy?”

John chewed his chapped lower lip. “We got separated at the elevator.”

“And the others?
Holly
? Any word?”

John shook his head. “Nothin’ yet.”

Frank reached for the pack of Pall Malls Lenny left in the back. He pushed in the lighter and tapped his yellowed fingernails impatiently on the console.

“Thought you quit,” John said.

The lighter popped out, the center coils glowing red and igniting the cigarette with just a quick touch to its tip.

“I did. I knew I’d never live to see Holly come home otherwise.”

“And now?” John took a crumpled wad of fast food napkins from the glove compartment, dampened one with the last of the bottled water, and wiped the blood spatter from his face.

A tear ran down Frank’s wrinkled cheek. “I wonder if any of us will make it.”

 John’s phone jingled and he checked it for what he assumed was a text message. It was a voicemail and he played it on speakerphone.

“John, it’s Billy. I’m sorry, man. I’m really fucking sorry. I need those shots. I’m so sick. Please, I’m on the first floor in the bathroom off the lobby. Hurry.”

Frank’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t tell me he was infected.”

John held his hand to his head, racked with guilt. “I didn’t know. I told you, we got separated.”

The truth was that he left him.
And that he’d do it again under the same circumstance.
Billy had him at knifepoint.
What else could he do?
Part of him wanted to stay gone, to not have to face what he’d caused. He looked at the medical kit tucked protectively under Frank’s arm and knew he couldn’t just leave Billy. “He needs those shots.”

 “Who knows how long ago he was bitten?” Frank asked.

John shrugged. “So, you’re going to let him die in there?”

Frank took a last drag off of his cigarette. “I lost my wife and my daughter. This is my only chance to get one of them back. If things are that bad in there, this,” he held up a syringe, “is gold. I’m not going to let you waste it on Billy. Kid never cared for anyone but himself.”

 “He cares about Amy.” John corrected him. “That’s why he’s here.”

Losing someone he loved was why John was there, too. He couldn’t let Billy suffer.

Frank handed over a single dose. “You have one shot at holding off whatever’s trying to take him. You want more, you’ll have to find it inside. These are for emergencies only, deal?”

John nodded, mustering the courage to walk back into the nightmare.

Frank started the van and looked for an inconspicuous entry point.

40
.

Scott opened the door to the ward, and with Foster at his side, led the women in an efficient two-column formation.

Penny sniffled, staying close enough to Foster for him to reach back and comfort her. Carlene and Miranda pushed the clunky wheelchairs.

“This way,” Foster said heading toward the elevator.

When they came upon the bloody footprints, Penny stopped. “Whose blood is that?” she whimpered and reached for Foster’s hand.

Two of the hallway cameras moved, the sound catching Miranda’s attention. “We have to keep going,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

Scott shushed her. “Noise draws them.”

Penny sobbed.

“Foster, make her be quiet,” Scott said.

A mewling sound came from one of the labs.

Miranda held up a finger. “Do you hear that?”

Scott kept walking. “We don’t have time for this.”

“I know, I know. Just listen.”

Carlene tilted her head. “It sounds like a child crying.”

“There are
children
down here?” Penny asked.

“Take the chair.” Miranda said to her and headed in the noise’s direction.

The lab glimmered, even in dim light. A single fluorescent fixture reflected off the high-polished steel tables and cabinets.

“Miranda, wait.” Scott shoved her behind him.

She huffed, but since he was holding the ax, she stayed back. The cry changed pitch. “It’s coming from over there.”

Scott pushed the swinging door and the hinges creaked.

Slurp. Rip. Crack.

Miranda stopped to calm down. Scott tip-toed around the autopsy table bolted in the center of the room. Blood pooled inside of the sink. A pile of clothes, cut away from a corpse, lie in a heap on the chair. Miranda caught up to Scott and tracked the set of crimson footprints to an infected boy crouched in the corner.

She gasped, tears coming fast for the sickness and depravity that anyone allowed this.

The dark-skinned boy was thin, frail and hunched over with his back to them. His navy blue shorts rode high on his thigh and his short-sleeved shirt might have once been sky blue but between the blood, the holes, and the filth, it was impossible to tell. He gnawed on the flayed body of an elderly man, digging deep inside the “Y” incision for softer pieces when his staggered teeth couldn’t tear the tough outer flesh.

A clear thread of snot dripped from Miranda’s nose.

Scott held his finger to his lips, a gesture for her to remain quiet, but when Foster tore through the swinging door, the boy glanced up. His milky white eyes went immediately to Miranda.

“Shit!” Scott shoved her out of the way just as the infected boy lunged.

Miranda stumbled backward into a countertop and shouted for Scott to watch out. Her worry was more for him than herself.

Scott hoisted the ax and drove it into the boy’s skull. A loud
crack
echoed and the split bone held the blade. Scott tugged and his head opened, infected brain seeping from the gap as his body collapsed.

Miranda shook with fear, trembling uncontrollably and sobbing.

Scott wrapped his arms around her, blocking her view of the recently dispatched.

“I’m sorry,” Foster said. “I should have warned you. There’s another one down here. Same age.”

“You let them do this to
kids
?” Scott wrinkled his face with disgust.

 “The two boys came infected. God knows why Nixon kept them.”

Miranda crossed her arms over her stomach. “Who knows why he does any of this?” she cried and squeezed her eyes shut.

Foster tossed a disposable blue drape over the body and it hid all but the seeping pool of blood.

“Miranda, we have to go,” Scott said.

She sniffled and he wiped the tear running down her cheek.

 “Come on,” Foster held the swinging door open. He was staring at Miranda’s stomach and only looked away when Scott returned his stare with one suitably threatening.

Miranda stopped next to him, turning her ear toward him. “Is that your radio?”