Z Children (Book 1): Awakening (2 page)

“Don’t, Dr.
Daniels!” Gates yanked him back before he could fully depress the metal bar to
unlock the door. They both fell backwards as a snarling, child-sized beast
slammed into it, her lips pushed against the glass hungrily. “See. Aggressive.”
The resident’s chest was rising and falling rapidly and a small wet stain had formed
on the crotch of his summer green scrubs.

“Yeah. I’d say
they're fucking aggressive. What the hell is going on?” Stephen asked the
universe at large, for the second time that morning. He didn’t even realize
he’d dropped the f bomb in front of his young resident. Cursing was the least
of his worries; his heart was racing, the pulse in his neck throbbing with
life.  

“We called a
couple local clinics for help, but they were packed with patients too. What is
this, Dr. Daniels? Is it bad? Are we all exposed now?” Gate’s voice vibrated
with uneasiness.

“I don’t know,
Gates. I have no… I have no idea.” Stephen scooted back across the floor until
his back met the wall. This time, he realized he hadn’t called Gates ‘Doctor’,
but he frankly didn’t give a shit. “It’s only hitting kids?” Stephen closed his
eyes and leaned his head against the hard wall.  

“Yeah, so far.”

Not affecting
the adults. Natural? Man-made? Maybe a toxin of some sort...
“I need to go
to my office, see if I can get anyone from the CDC. See if this is just
happening here…” Stephen was almost whispering his words, internalizing
everything that was happening, forcing down the emotions so that he could
approach the situation clinically. He got up from the floor slowly, his butt
aching from landing on the hard surface. Gates looked too scared to move.
“Gates, keep this entrance closed. Don’t take any chances. No chances. Get
security down here.” Stephen looked around, as if his words had just made him
realize the absence of the security guards. “Why aren’t they here already?”

“The security
guards wouldn’t go in the waiting room, not after they saw that first kid turn
rabid. I don’t blame them.” Gates’ voice was quavering; the poor man stood on a
ledge, looking down at mortality and, unlike Stephen, he did not have ample
experience with death to help him cope.

“It’s their damn
jobs. Tell them to do it.” It was a ridiculous order; Gates had no clout over
the security personnel. Stephen knew this, but he turned away from the young
man still sitting fearfully against the pale tile like it was a security
blanket without belaying the command. After only a few steps, he turned back
though. “I’m sorry, Gates. I’m out of sorts; I’m sorry if I’ve been an ass.”

The young
resident looked surprised and that made Stephen feel guilty. He was a nice
person, but often he’d forget social niceties in a professional setting. He’d
always been that way, believing that work should be structured, disciplined and
that there was no room for laziness or unnecessary drama in a medical setting.
“We’re all out of sorts, Dr. Daniels. I… I think you’re right about me; I’m not
cut out for…”

Stephen held a
hand up, silencing Gates. “I was harsh, Dr. Gates. You’re a fine doctor and
we’re lucky to have you.” He took a deep breath, his mind still going a million
different directions at once. He tried to smile, reassure Gates, but he
couldn’t manage one. A nurse was being damn near eaten in the waiting room; a
smile would be misplaced and oddly macabre. “Can you stand?” Stephen walked
back to the resident and offered his hand.

Gates looked at
Stephen’s outstretched fingers, unsure, but then the skin around his eyes
tightened with determination and he pushed himself off of the floor, rising of
his own violation and without Stephen’s help.
There you go, Dr. Gates.
That’s the mental fortitude you need to survive this occupation.

“Are you alright
now?” Stephen’s body was half-turned away from the resident doctor, his
thoughts pulling him towards his office.

“I’ll be fine.”
And there was steel in Gates’ tone.

 “Good.”
Stephen turned fully and began to walk away. He’d rounded a corner and lost
sight of Gates when the question popped into his head. A few short paces
backwards and around the bend, he saw Gates again and called down the hall.
“Dr. Gates, where’s Suzie? I’d like to look at that bite on her arm after I
make some calls.”

“She went home,
Dr. Daniels. She was really shaken up.”

Stephen sighed,
a sound tinged with sadness, confusion, and exhaustion. “I can’t say that I
blame her. This is all wrong; these kids, what’s happening to them… I’ve never
seen anything like it.” Stephen’s face was pulled taut with emotion. He
disliked things he could not explain. He wanted answers. And he was going to get
them from the damn CDC. His mind changed directions, did a topsy-turvy spin
that sent his stomach reeling. Children were sick. Vaccinations. His baby. He
needed to call Miranda first and check on Tanya. A feeling was nagging at him,
seeded in his belly like a festering grain of unease. Tanya had just been
vaccinated. He’d promised Miranda that their baby would be just fine.

Now, he was sure
that he’d lied.

The screams
began anew in the waiting room. Stephen hadn’t even noticed that they’d
disappeared for a short while. What did that mean? That the shouting had
stopped and then resumed? Slowly, he made his way back towards the door, back
towards the thin window panes that were akin to hell portals.

It did not take
him long to see that there were no more living patients waiting for aid. They
were all gone, all dead. And the hellish screeches were coming from the rabid,
blood-covered children, who were now gathered only a yard from the door to the
exam area.

And there was
Helen… what was left of her… slumped against the floor in the corner of the
room. Stephen swallowed and his psyche threatened to let loose with an
onslaught of disorderly panic. He blinked. Once. Twice. He’d thought he’d seen
Helen move. But no. She could not have survived such brutal, animalistic attack
wounds.

Controlling the
panic attack that was building in his belly, Stephen looked at Gates and put
every ounce of authoritative command he could muster into a single command.

“Do. Not. Open.
This. Door.”

Gates nodded
firmly and watched Stephen walked away from him, the formidable doctor’s broad
shoulders held straight and confident. Gates wished he could walk that way,
have that much confidence.

Once Stephen was
out of sight, the resident approached the double doors; he wanted to see what
Dr. Daniels had just seen. He wanted to see inside the horror. The slim window
glasses were splattered with thick mucus and nearly-black blood. Gates peered
through the glass at the cleanest spot he could find. His face twisted up in
horror. He knew he’d never be able to scrub the image of that battle-ruined
waiting room from his memory.

 Bedlam.
Pandemonium. But something else now also- a change that occurred just in the
few minutes since Dr. Daniels left. Several adults seemed almost peaceful,
albeit bloodied and battered. The grown men and women walked in circles, their
heads lolled towards the floor. Kind, white-haired Helen was among them. She’d
always been so motherly towards Gates… towards the entire hospital staff.
Anyone who met Helen became an instant friend, a lifelong pal. It was fucking
wrong for her to suffer.

Do. Not. Open.
This. Door.
Stephen’s
words raced through the young resident’s mind.

But Gates did
not know if he could keep the door shut and leave Helen out there, even with the
fear and anxiety roiling around in his insides.
Dr. Daniels will understand,
Gates thought.
He cares deeply for Helen too… He even tried to barge
into the waiting area for her. I’ve never seen him lose his cool like that. So
he would understand. He would.
Gates kept reassuring himself, justifying
the impulsive action he wanted to take.   

His fingers
grazed the cool metal push bar on the door. All he had to was depress the shiny
silver… But if he actually did, if he actually opened the causeway between hell
and sanity, he knew terrible things would happen.

Sebastian Gates
hesitated a moment longer and then he punctured the veil between exam area and
waiting lounge. The whine of the opening door was an invitation, bright letters
across the wall, impossible for the monsters to resist.

1

SUSAN FIELDS

Tuesday morning.

A good morning,
because I didn’t have to go to work. A bad morning, because I did have to take
Sophia and Marcel to the doctor. They’d just turned six years old. I had them
on the recommended tract for vaccines and they were due four shots: the DTaP,
the Inactivated Poliovirus, MMR and Varicella. Doctor Lynn had wanted to finish
the vaccine series at age four, but I’d wanted to wait. I’d never been totally
comfortable injecting my children with things I couldn’t pronounce, let alone
understand, but that was the way of the world, the way we kept our children
healthy and alive. Age six was the latest the kids could get the next set of
vaccines, according to Dr. Lynn and the CDC. So, I was going to bite the bullet
today and endure the bright yellow smiley-face bandages and inevitable tears,
doing what was ‘best’ for my children.

I don’t know why
I was having such a mental issue with this set of injections, but my feelings
went far beyond the mild apprehension I’d felt during past vaccine visits to
Dr. Lynn’s cheerful, child-friendly office. When Sophia and Marcel were
younger, the shots would make me super uncomfortable, but that was the extent
of it. Now, though… on this morning… thinking about vaccines made me want to
vomit.

***

Gregory, my
ex-husband, had always wanted to have children. Specifically, Gregory wanted to
have
our
children, but I wasn’t able to carry to term. My womb was
incapable of retaining a suitable environment for fetal growth. The fertility
doctor had said something a little more scientific, not that his precise words
mattered. I’d endured three miscarriages before I’d finally called it quits and
realized that a biological child wasn’t in the cards. Gregory wasn’t happy with
my decision.

In all honesty,
I welcomed the infertility news. I knew in my heart that I’d never wanted to have
Gregory’s children. He was callous. I’d learned after only a few months of
marriage that the kindness he’d shown me pre-engagement could not outlast his
own desire for personal gain. I like to think that he really loved me at one
point… but who knows?

I remember the
adoption argument vividly. He’d not wanted a ‘foreign’ child, so worried that
darker skin or slanted, wide-set eyes would reflect badly on us. He was always
worried about things like that; I guess as Town Mayor you have to be concerned
about your image. I didn’t care though. Not really. Boy or girl. Black or
white. As long as the child was mine completely, to have and to hold forever.
That’s what marriage is supposed to be like- the having and holding and
forever. Enough of that though. Sometimes things just don’t work out.

From the
beginning of the adoption journey, Gregory had been one foot on board and one
foot solidly on the dock of disagreement. When I’d shown him the pictures of
Sophia and Marcel, he’d winced. I’d known why. They weren’t white or black.
They were Hispanic, a nationality frowned upon in our moderately-sized Tex-Mex
border community.

The ‘Americans’
didn’t want the Mexicans in our country; they didn’t want to lose factory jobs
to harder workers who’d take less pay. It was a solid concern. Our town relied
on the textile mill; it was our bread and butter, but slow production and
repeated union strikes had made the mill owners shift toward inexpensive labor
across the border. The decision hadn’t been made yet, but the rumors said it
was imminent. And rumor mills always run the same, efficiency sacrificed for
accuracy, half-truths traded for full pleasure.

For my part, I
had been ecstatic, beaming at the photo of my soon-to-be children. They were
gorgeous, tiny little newborns who needed immediate placement. Their mother was
headed back to her hometown across the border, but she’d given birth in our
small hospital and immediately put the twins up for U.S. adoption. The
interpreter had been very clear on one point- the children stayed together. And
that’s why we were able to get them. No one in our town wanted a Hispanic
child, let alone two. They could have gone into the system, maybe even been
tossed across the border to an ill-funded orphanage like so much trash, but I
wanted them both, with all my heart, and I’d started the adoption paperwork,
telling my husband the good news. Of course, he hadn’t thought it was good news
at all.

Gregory made it
very clear the evening I’d shown him the twins’ picture that he did not support
my decision, that my actions on the matter would ‘
concrete the future of our
marriage
.’ I chose to hear his words, but not understand them. My mind was
set on being a mother and not just anyone’s mother. I wanted to be
their
mother
, Sophia and Marcel’s landing ground of love.

Gregory had come
to every adoption meeting, interview, scheduled playtime with the children.
He’d acted the charming, kind man the town knew him to be. No one had
questioned whether he’d make a wonderful father. I should have questioned it,
but I’d ignored all the signs, all the thinly-veiled threats and hints. I was
blind in my desire for motherhood. I was even momentarily blind to the utter
lack of love between myself and the man I called husband. During those
meetings, all I saw were two lovely babes and a handsome husband making small
talk with the social workers.

So stupid… I’d
been so
utterly stupid
for months. After every visit with Sophia and
Marcel, we’d leave the hospital and Gregory’s demeanor would change, become
coarse and cruel. He’d revert to the man I knew him to be, not the town’s
glowing idea of him. It was smoke and mirrors, a supportive façade masking
deep-seeded hate. Yet I continued to ignore his behavior, pretend that
everything was perfect.

He hadn’t come with
me the day I’d brought the babies home. I’d had to purchase and install the two
car seats myself. I even spent an entire Saturday at the small boutique on main
street, Baby Bliss. Sherry, the owner, was a dear friend. Although she thought
my decision was oddball, she helped me pick out darling clothing, cotton
diapers, baby rattles and other sundries. I’d spent most of a month’s wages
that day and I hadn’t even blinked- which was strange for me, since I was
usually so frugal.

I’d held Sophia
and Marcel in my arms before, but nothing could prepare me for the feeling of
holding them and placing them in the car seats I’d purchased. Strapping them
in, buckle by buckle, the adoption became reality. I was a mother. And Gregory
was a reluctant father.

When I’d finally
arrived home with the children, all smiles and ecstasy, I’d found my house key
didn’t work. I remember trying every key on my chain in the door lock, all the
time knowing that the first key with the pink rubber cover was the house key
and that something was wrong. Confused, I’d knocked and waited patiently;
knowing Gregory was home since his car was in the driveway.

His shiny black
BMW was parked next to my twenty-year-old Volvo. He’d offered to buy me a new
car, saying he didn’t want the Mayor’s wife riding around in a POS, but I’d
refused. Bessie had seen me through a lot; she was a good, solid car. Gregory
had tried to sell her out from under me one time, but only my name was on the
title, so he couldn’t. That had really burned him up. Gregory hadn’t wanted me
to work either, but I loved teaching. So, at least I’d stood up for myself
twice in our marriage.

Sophia and
Marcel were asleep in their carriers, sitting on the brick stoop beside my
feet. It wasn’t cool outside, but I’d still have rather been inside, settling
the children into their room, introducing them to blue elephant and yellow
giraffe, the two stuffed toys I’d purchased at Baby Bliss and left in their
cribs as ‘welcome home’ gifts.

After a few
minutes of waiting, I’d knocked again, harder that time. Almost instantly, the
door had opened, revealing Gregory in the foyer, along with his suitcases and
several large boxes. My eyes wide, I’d stared at the scene, not wanting to
comprehend. Although, I knew… I knew what it all meant.

“What’s going
on, Greg? Why are all your suitcases packed?”

“You know what’s
going on, Susan. I made it clear how I felt about those children. I left the
decision up to you.” The expression on his face was remorseless, almost void of
emotion.

“No… no. Greg, you
never said it would be like this. You came to every meeting, every interview.”
I’d pleaded. “You never said you’d just leave. I thought you wanted children.
You always said you did. Here they are.” My finger had pointed at the beautiful
newborns, barely a few months old, knowing what he would see and how it would
contrast to the shining angels I saw. “They’re beautiful and they’re ours. We
can have a family, even if it’s not the way you’d hoped.”

“I can’t have a
family with
them.
I wanted my children.
My children.
And you
couldn’t give that to me. That’s all I wanted and you couldn’t do it. I was
willing to keep trying, but you gave up.”

“
Three
miscarriages,
Greg. I lost
three babies
. I couldn’t do it anymore.
Do you even realize how difficult that was, how… how… heartbreaking?”

“My mother said
I shouldn’t have married you. She knew this marriage would turn out badly. I
should have listened to her. You’ve always been a little too ethnic-looking.”

I was five feet,
seven inches tall, with hazel eyes and nearly black, curly hair. Living near
the border as a child, I’d often been teased that I looked Hispanic. I wasn’t,
but that didn’t matter to anyone; people only believe what is visible on the
surface, not the truth underneath.

“So that’s it.
You’re just leaving me.” I’d looked down at my feet again, where Sophia and
Marcel slept cozily under blue and pink blankets. Tears were threatening.
Keeping my head down, I’d raised my hands, palms up, pleading again. “You can’t
leave me, Greg. You just can’t. I can’t do this alone; I can’t raise them by
myself.”

“You chose,
Susan. You chose these children over me. You knew how I felt. I supported you,
but only to give you the opportunity to choose the right path, but you didn’t.
They’re not even
American
for God’s sake, Susan. What do you want me to
do? Be Mayor of a town that hates illegal immigrants, but have a brood of
Mexicans raiding my pantry.”

“Is that all you
care about, Greg? Your image? What about me? Don’t you love me?”

“A woman I love
wouldn’t do this.”

“This,” I’d
glared, anger finally burning through the heartache building in my chest, “is
the best decision I ever made.”

“Fine. Live with
it then. And enjoy the house. I’ll have the lawyer put it in your name. I’ll
even throw in a little child support. I’ll get reelected for being a selfless
martyr, supporting my conniving wife and her illegals. At least some good will
come out of being married to you.” Gregory had moved forward then, raising his
hand and a set of freshly-cut keys. I’d flinched reflexively. He had never
struck me. He’d always had to get his way and I was always wrong; he had hit me
with words many times, but he’d never physically hurt me. Tonight though, I was
worried he might.

 “I’m not going
to hit you, moron.” He’d shoved the keys at me and I’d taken them, my fingers
curling around the cool metal. They’d weighted me down, like a giant anvil. “I
changed the locks, thinking I’d kick you out, you ungrateful bitch, but that
was before my lawyer said it would hurt my image and reelection chances, not to
mention how much dough I’d have to fork over to divorce you if the judge
sympathized. Not that I think that’s likely.” He’d stopped talking, watching me
stare down at the keys, my brow furrowed in disbelief. “Don’t worry, I didn’t
keep a key. Last thing I want to do is visit this house. It’ll smell like beans
and rice by morning.”

“That’s not why
I was looking at them… What about all your things?” I’d asked softly, the quick
anger already burnt out in a hot flash.

“Most of my
things are already moved. This is the last of it. I’ll stay in the apartment
above the barber shop until I can find a suitable home. Maybe I’ll build again.
That’s the only thorn in my side, losing this house.”

When he’d loaded
his suitcases and boxes into his car and driven away, I’d quietly lifted Sophia
and Marcel and taken them into the nursery I’d painstakingly prepared over the
past two weeks. It was beautiful—all soft grays and pale greens. Unstrapping
and lifting the babes one by one, I’d placed them in their cribs.

They’d looked so
tiny and defenseless. Only a few months old and already fatherless. That
thought had demolished the flimsy dam holding back total breakdown. I’d fallen
to my knees, both hands gripping Marcel’s crib, and I’d sobbed. The pity-fest
hadn’t lasted long though. Sophia’s small whine had broken into my pain. That
sound, more than anything in the world, had the power to make me strong.

***

I still lived in
the same town with my children, which might seem insane, given my history with
my ex-husband and the rampant prejudice in the town, but it was home; it always
had been home. And I had support. My father was always over, playing with his
grandchildren. He was a wonderful man, didn’t have a racist bone in his body.
If my mom, Nancy Grace, was alive, I knew she’d love Sophia and Marcel as much
as my dad.