War of the Undead (Day One): The Apocalypse Crusade (A Zombie Tale) (13 page)

Von Braun clawed his way out of the
Diazepam stupor like he was digging out of a fresh grave. He came out bleary in mind, while everything around him was dim so that he thought he was wearing sunglasses. He tried to put his hands to his face but chains brought him up short.

“What the fuck?” he asked, squinting at the cuffs and barely seeing them twinkle. “Why am I chained up?” The only thing he really remembered was being angry, and that was because he was still angry, but at what, he didn’t know. He was just simply furious. “What the fuck!” he raged.

“Shut up,” the guard ordered. His name was Rory Vickers and he was very much tired of his assignment. The day before had been dull as hell just standing there as the prisoners griped or watched the TV or got hard-ons over every nurse that came in the room, but now he was annoyed as shit. Over the last four hours, the prisoners had become progressively more and more fucked up. They would rage and yank on their chains until their wrists bled. Worse, in his opinion, was that they would also scream their throats out.

Rory was ready to dash their skulls in. They were fucked up. There was a scientific term for it, he was sure, but he didn’t know it and hadn’t cared enough to ask.

When the docs finally got around to prescribing something to shut them up, Rory had literally thanked God. The second they were all asleep, he immediately switched the TV to ESPN and settled down on the edge of Herman’s bed, hoping that the Diazepam would keep them sedated until his shifted ended, but that wasn’t how his day was going.

Now Von Braun was awake and seething at him. “I don’t have to shut up. You can’t make me you dumb fuck. I have rights. I have a lawyer who’ll sue your sorry ass. And all these doctors, too. And all the scientists who thought this…" Von Braun paused and squinted, mightily at Vickers. "Why are you wearing a mask? Are you fucking ugly, or is it something else?”

Rory wasn’t sure why he was wearing the mask other than he didn’t want to end up like these assholes. If he believed what the nurses said on the subject, the Fusarium had ceased being toxic two hours before and yet that hadn’t stop them from remaining gowned, gloved and masked every time they entered a patient's room.

“You might be contagious or something,” Rory explained. “Not going to take any chances.

“Contagious!” Von Braun cried in outrage. “Contagious! That means you fucks gave me a disease. That’s why I can’t see. You fucks are trying to blind me!”

This sparked a new memory in Von Braun's addled mind: People in blue suits coming for him...trying to poison him with some sort of gas. It seemed like a long time ago, or perhaps something from a dream, yet somehow it had been real. “You did this to me, you fuck! Let me go! Unchain me or I’ll rip out your throat!”

This wasn’t just an idle threat. Von Braun had a sudden need to get at this man’s flesh because…because beneath it, he was certain there was clean blood. It would be red and warm and the taste…well, he wasn’t sure what it would taste like but he knew it had to be better than how his mouth tasted now. His mouth tasted like dirt and shit.

“I need a drink,” Von Braun said. All around the guard the room was dim as if they weren’t in a hospital, but in a dense forest where the sun’s light couldn’t reach and yet the man himself stood out distinctly and the swath of pale skin at his throat practically glowed. “Come closer, please.”

Rory snorted in derision. “You sound like some sort of kiddie rapist.”

“Get over here!” Von Braun screamed.

“I don’t think so, psycho. If you want a drink I’ll page a nurse.”

There was a call button next to the older prisoner who was thankfully still zonked out. Rory was still careful as he leaned over and hit the button. The old man stank.

Next to the button, there was speaker: “Yes?” a female voice asked.

“One of the prisoners is thirsty and I’m not going near him.”

“He’s got an IV, he doesn’t need anything to drink.”

Rory gave the psycho prisoner a shrug. “Your drink is sticking out of your arm, enjoy yourself.”

Unbelievably, Von Braun bent over and yanked the IV out of his arm using only his teeth. He was thirsty alright, but instead of drinking from the little plastic tube, he drank the blood that came leaking from the little hole in his skin. “Fuck!” he cried, staring around, his mouth smeared with very dark blood. “This is dirty.”

“What the hell?” Rory murmured, feeling just a touch of revulsion. With his lip curled he pressed the button again. “Hey, there. This jackass just pulled out his IV with his teeth. I actually think there’s something wrong with him. His eyes are weird looking, too.”

“Hold on. We’ll send someone down there.”

Von Braun was trying to touch his eyes with his fingers but was missing as if he couldn’t see them very well. “What’s wrong with my eyes? Huh? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Rory said. “And I don’t know what’s wrong with them. They got some black stuff in ‘em.”

“What sort of…” Von Braun left off as two doctors came in, both of whom were masked and wearing surgical gloves. Rory recognized the smaller of the two by his bushy eyebrows. It was Dr Lorry. He didn’t bother to get very close and squinted at the prisoner from four feet away.

“I can’t believe he’s awake,” Lorry remarked, making no move to get closer. “He’s on a pretty good dose of Diazepam. Hold on…there is something in his eyes. What is that?”

The taller of the two stepped forward. “You can’t see anything from there, doctor. Hi there. I’m Dr. Wilson.”

“You’re a fucking nigger is what you are,” Von Braun seethed. “Get your black ass away from me.” He couldn’t believe they’d let one of
them
in a hospital with white people. The thought was sickening. “Get back to your jungle, Sambo.”

“Sambo?” Dr. Wilson raised his hands as if surrendering. “After the morning I’ve had, I’m not even going to try. He’s all yours, Dr. Lorry.” Wilson left, shaking his head.

“Great,” Lorry replied without any enthusiasm. He brought out a penlight and shone it into Von Braun’s eyes. The prisoner cursed loudly and flinched back. “Photosensitivity,” Lorry remarked to himself. "Also some dark matter which I don’t recognize. Maybe dust. We’ll want to do an ocular rinse to see if that clears it up. Alright Mr. Von Braun, open your mouth…holy…what is that?”

“It looks like mold,” Rory said. Curious, he had leaned in over the bed and saw that the inside of Von Braun’s mouth was lined with what looked at first like dirt or dried blood, however the way it coated the gums wasn’t normal, it was like the insides of a dog’s mouth.

Dr. Lorry worked the pen light back and forth and agreed, “It could be mold. We need a sample, Mr. Von Braun, so just keep your mouth open.” Lorry produced a cotton swab and advanced on Von Braun, however the prisoner jerked his head left and right, trying to see the swab.

“What is that? Is that a needle? Get it away, you fucking cocksucker.” To Von Braun the swab was thin and white against the backdrop of shadows. It didn’t look right, especially in the hands of this little cock sucker. That thought stuck in his addled mind. “You’re a fag, aren’t you? You’re a nigger-loving fag.”

“Does that ever get old to you?” Lorry asked with a sigh. “It was old for the rest of us fifty years ago.”

Von Braun opened his mouth to reply and when he did Dr. Lorry ran the cotton swab across his gums. “What the fuck!” Von Braun screamed. Heedless of the manacles on his wrists he tried to reach Lorry, he tried to get at that throat, partially in anger and partially from a need to get clean blood. The doc had said there was mold in him and Von Braun was sure he was right. He felt dirty on the inside.

Lorry watched the prisoner struggle against his chains—it really was freaky. “Look, settle down, Nazi-boy before you hurt yourself. You’re not going anywhere.”

Von Braun’s rage was so great he could barely think straight; all he wanted was to kill this fucking pipsqueak so that he could clean his mouth out. He had mold in his mouth! No wonder his tongue tasted like shit. Suddenly he stopped struggling as he hocked up an amazingly solid loogie and spat it at Lorry, striking him in the right eye with the black and green gob of snot.

“Son of a bitch!” Lorry yelled, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He stormed out of the room, going immediately to the nurse’s station where he cranked the hot water up on the sink. “That fucker just spat in my eye!” He yanked off his gloves and his mask, chucking them into the nearest biohazard container.

The nurses all took a step back. “You’ll need to rinse that eye for a good fifteen minutes,” Dr. Wilson advised.

“No shit,” Lorry seethed. The doctor rinsed his eye with water and washed his face and even began a regimen of
amphotericin
as a precaution, not realizing it was already too late. The Com-cells insulated the deadly mycotoxins from the effects of the drug. In minutes the Com-cells were reproducing in his blood.

John Burke wasn’t an idiot. He knew his diction wasn’t more than a step up from a kindergartener’s and that his accent was syrupy thick even compared to his fellow razorbacks, but that didn’t mean he was void of common sense or that he couldn’t read none. He had been told that the IV running into his arm was simply part of the treatment, yet right there on the plastic bag was the word Diazepam.

That was a narcotic. Amy Lynn had been practically hooked on the stuff in the last weeks of her life.

John didn’t need a narcotic, he needed answers. All morning long he had lain in his hospital bed and listened as the other patients went through horrible changes. This started with the near-constant soft, pining tone of the nurses being called from one room to the other. Very quickly that sound was driving John crazy.

All he could think about was what was happening to the other patients, and when would
it
start happening to him? The tone soon gave way to the sound of people moaning in pain. This was horrible to listen to but what came next was worse.

What did you do to me?

Don’t come near me with that!

Stop! Stop, no…that hurts! Stop, you’re killing me!

People were caterwauling like they were being attacked in all sorts of dreadful ways. John drew the covers up to his chin and shivered like a child as his mind conjured up images of a thousand tortures he was sure the other patients were being subjected to.

During this there were fistfights. He’d lived what he would call a “hardy” life and knew a fight when he heard one. These battles occurred sporadically; one minute there would be only the crazy shouting and then in the next, there’d be crashes and thumps and the sound of running feet.

Get his leg!

Tie him down.

Fuck! He bit me!

During a lull in the commotion, John decided he’d had enough. If there was a cure, something he was beginning to doubt, he didn’t think it was worth all of this. On tiptoes he went to the door and peeked out only to see a team of nurses and security men heading his way. Quick as he could, he jumped back in bed and pretended to watch the TV.

“Hello Mr. Burke,” Lacy Freeman greeted him. Behind her biomask, her eyes crinkled at the edges, perhaps in a smile, perhaps in a grimace. “We need to add a medicine to your IV. It’s for the trial.”

If it’s jes medicine, then why do y’all need two other nurses and two goons to help?
John thought to himself. The men took positions on either side of his bed. They were burly, while John was feeling weak as a rat. He didn’t resist.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Oh, just more medicine,” Lacy assured. “It’ll help you sleep.”

John didn’t want to sleep. It was the friggin’ middle of the day. He watched the medicine drip into his arm and within a minute, the idea of a nap sounded very appealing. He started to close his eyes and that was when the men came at him.

They grabbed him by his flailing wrists and strapped him to the bed. The straps were padded and secured with Velcro. He strained against them but in vain. “What y’all gonna to do to me?”

“Nothing, Mr. Burke,” Lacy said. “The restraints are for our protection as well as yours.”

“What do y'all mean your protection? I won’t hurt any of y'alls, I swear to Christ I won’t.”

“Just try to sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

There was no need to try to sleep, it was trying not to sleep that was the issue. The Diazepam made him groggy and his eyelids kept trying to drop over his eyes like a window shade that wouldn’t stay up. At one point he blinked so slowly that by the time he forced his eyes back open, the room was empty.

“I cain’t do this,” he said, his voice sounding like some sort of cartoon creature speaking from beneath a lake or a pond or some such. He tried to focus on the IV. It had to come out. He tried twice to get at it before he realized that his hands were tied down. His feet weren’t, however.

With a groan he tried to swing his knees up to his chest—they flopped back down. A second attempt was just as useless. He lay back, hearing the phlegm rattle in his chest with each wheezy breath. Before he knew it his eyes began to droop again.