Chapter One
Postmortem
Cocked back in his chair, feet resting
at the edge of the desk, Bill watches the clock. The hands seem to go forward
once, and back twice before finally resting at five o'clock. His eyes become
heavy as he leans farther back, intent on sleeping for the last two hours
before he can punch out and leave. He has never been good with busy days, and
today is the busiest he has seen since he’s been working at Our Lady of Grace.
Beep! Hisss, “Bill, are you there?”
Leaning forward, Bill pushes the
intercom button on the phone. “Yeah, what’s up, Becky?”
“We have a couple more bodies up here
that we need you to pick up,” Becky replies, a hint of fatigue in her voice.
“Christ,” Bill rests his head in his
hands upon the desk and wipes his face before he starts to speak. “That will
make six in the past three hours. I was trying to take a nap,” he chuckles,
trying to make light of the situation.
“You can nap after you pick these
bodies up.” She hesitates. “They’re creeping me out,” Becky confesses.
“Throw a sheet over ‘em,” Bill states,
calmly.
Becky becomes silent, pausing for a moment,
“They’re pretty messed up, all the sheet does is hide the fact that they might
be human.”
“Wow, really?” Bill asks, curious.
“I'll be up in a second.”
Throwing on his lab coat, he heads
toward the exit and pushes the door to the side. The outer hallway of the
morgue is as stale and depressing. A
heavy smell of formaldehyde hangs in the air, drowning out any other smell that
dares expose itself. With a whoosh, the double doors close behind him, pivoting
in on themselves by reversible hinges, allowing them to swing wide into the
hallway before reversing their course and clacking back into place.
Tired from the previous pickups, Bill
drags his feet slightly before entering the elevator. He enjoys the silence,
glad that Doctor Pratt had the wisdom to demand that the music be removed last
month in a heated argument with the staff coordinator. Really, there wasn't any
need for music in an employee only area beside the fact that one of the higher
ups thought it would boost morale.
In tranquil silence, Bill waits for the
motion of the elevator to subside, effectively stopping the feeling of his
stomach being pushed down into his toes.
Ding.
The doors open so slowly it’s as if
they are taking their time before allowing the occupant to escape. Bill yawns
while he waits. The sterile smell of bleach greats his nose, welcoming him to
the first floor. He points himself left and wanders toward the reception desk
as the soles of his shoes squeak, creating a shrill echo along the empty
hallway.
Leaning over the counter, Bill looks at
Becky and tries to get her attention as she places files in a cabinet. She
shuffles through each file until she finds an appropriate folder and places it
in the drawer. She wears an expression of deep concentration as she shuffles
through the alphabetical arrangement and slides the next in line into its spot.
Becky catches an image out of the corner
of her eye and turns, “Fuck!” she exclaims. “Damn it, Bill! You scared the shit
out of me!”
Bill lets out an amused chuckle, “It
isn't like you didn't know I was coming.”
“Still!” she raises her voice. “Give me
some warning, you jackass!”
Smiling, he replies, “Sorry about that,
Becky. So where are you hiding the stiffs?”
Becky looks over her shoulder towards
the emergency room. “They’re being kept back there in one of the rooms,” she
says, shuddering from the mental images from earlier when they were brought in.
She motions toward a room at the back of the ER with a disgusted look.
Bill turns on his heels, following
Becky's gaze.
“Bill?”
“Yeah?” he looks back and waits for her
to reply.
“They look pretty bad,” she makes a
face and wrinkles her nose.
“I've probably seen worse,” he laughs.
“I doubt it,” she says as Bill heads
off.
Automatic doors slide out of Bill's way
as he enters a bustling emergency room. Nurses barely miss one another as they
run from room to room, carrying supplies by the armload. Every second that
passes brings several new cases through the busy doors, cramming the waiting
room with a combination of sick and languid faces.
A pink blur of scrubs whirl past Bill as
he stares into the waiting room. He holds out his hand, reaching, “Wait,
Angie!”
The nurse turns, pauses for a moment,
“What is it, Bill?”
“What's going on? Was there an accident
somewhere?” he asks.
“You mean because of all the people?” she
asks, too involved with her work to fully understand what he’s getting at. “No,
I don't know what’s happening. People started flooding in about an hour ago.”
She checks her watch and diverts her gaze back to the supplies she’s carrying. “Sorry,
Bill, but I have to go,” Angie twirls around, half jogging to the next set of
curtains, throws them aside, and hands another nurse the bundle of bandages.
In awe, Bill side steps nurses and
doctors, making his way toward the back of the ER and through a doorway. He
gasps deeply when he sees a blood stained sheet haphazardly thrown over a
gurney, pushed into the far corner of the room. What he sees barely passes as a
body; indents in the sheet where no indentations should be, lapses of space
where limbs should clearly form outlines in the cloth. He tells himself not to
look, pleads with his curiosity to subside, but yet his fingers reach, open and
twist, grasping at the sheet to tug it aside.
Slap! A clipboard hits the counter
along the doorway.
“What are you doing?” Dr. Benton asks.
“Oh, um... I was getting ready to bring
the body to the morgue, sir,” Bill replies, slightly shaken.
“Then don't you think you better get to
it?” The Doctor asks.
“Yes, sir,” Bill grasps the gurney,
pulls it back to unlatch the wheel locks, and pushes it forward through the door.
“You really need to get your head out of the clouds. We have quite a
situation going on here. Now get that out of here and come back for the other,”
Dr. Benton gestures to the other gurney. “I swear I have to do everything
around here.”
Bill shakes off the insult and pushes
the body out through the rear entrance of the ER.
With a static hiss, the hospital
intercom hums to life, “Dr. Cerda and Dr. Mersh, please come to the ER... Dr.
Cerda and Dr. Mersh to the ER,” the voice repeats.
Once in the silence of the passageway
that winds through the rear of the hospital, Bill sighs. He breathes easily
once he’s away from all of the commotion. If his job had entailed being around
that many people on a daily basis, he wouldn't have lasted a single shift. He
could handle the blood, he could deal with the death, but the pompous doctors
were well beyond what his nerves could endure. He thanked his good fortune that
he had been placed with Dr. Pratt who seemed to have a firmer grasp on reality
and a very minor amount of ego to deal with.
With a series of random squeaks and
shimmies, one temperamental wheel jostles back and forth, pivots and resumes
working for only a moment before going spastic once again as Bill pushes it
along the seemingly endless hallway. He wonders why a hospital can’t afford
better equipment, or at the very least, a handyman who could repair it.
From the corner of his vision, Bill
watches as a leg slides out from under the sheet and flops against the side of
the gurney, trailing blood in its wake. He jumps at the sudden movement,
letting the gurney roll ahead a few feet before it nudges up against the wall,
and comes to a rest.
“Fuck...” Bill says aloud and shakes
his head for being so on edge.
Grasping the cuff of the corpse’s leg,
Bill returns it to the gurney, and tucks it under the sheet, keeping mindful of
the blood saturating the corpse’s pants. Curious, he lifts the sheet to the
side, exposing a mess of ragged and torn flesh. “Jesus!” he exclaims, putting
the sheet back in place. The mutilated remains flash through his mind like a
train wreck, impossible to turn away from. He lifts the sheet once again,
feeling the light cotton fabric against his hand. The body is missing a leg
which looks to have been ripped from its socket, torn from the hip, exposing a
blackened hole with clotted blood lingering around the edges of jagged skin and
protruding veins. Portions of the abdomen are agape; slick pink intestine juts
through torn skin and ripped muscle, mocking its previous containment.
Eyes wide at the scene before him, Bill
returns the cloth to its rightful place and tries to scrape the remnants of the
images out of his mind. With a deep breath of resignation, he pushes the button
to call the elevator and waits patiently until the doors open. Once inside, he
waits again for the doors to close and the elevator to descend to the basement
where the morgue is located.
An arm twitches beneath the sheet,
catching Bill's attention. Again, there is a sudden movement and the arm lifts
from the gurney at an angle and points upward toward the ceiling. Alarmed, Bill
darts backward, hitting the far side of the elevator in shock. He stares,
waiting for another movement, gripping the scuff plate behind him. The
appendage remains motionless, idle in its upright position, transfixed until a
whooshing sound emits, sending a noxious smell through the elevator. The
cadavers arm falls exposed to the gurney as if it had never moved.
“Son of a bitch!” Bill exclaims,
finally able to speak. “It’s just gas. Just gas... the body is expelling gas,
and that's why it moved. You learned all of this in medical school. It's a
normal reaction that rarely occurs
when the body begins to decompose, nothing at all. You're perfectly fine,
everything is good.” He bites his lower lip and gives a quick, decisive nod.
“You’re perfectly fine, everything is good,” he repeats through deep breaths.
Ding.
“Now you are going to wheel the
lifeless body into the morgue where Dr. Pratt can perform the autopsy, and you
can go back and get another body from upstairs when you’re ready,” Bill tries
to calm himself.
One of his deepest fears involves the
dead moving, shuddering through the electrical impulses and gases that form
from decomposition. When he was twelve, his grandmother passed away in her sleep.
While waiting for the Ambulance, her body suddenly jerked, her arm flailed as
if it were trying to reach for him. It took years of therapy and a rather
expensive degree in medical sciences to calm him. Now, more than anything, the
dead merely unnerve him rather than making him feel like hiding in a dark
corner and waiting for the urge to vomit to subside.
“Are you okay?”
Bill jumps at the sound of the voice,
“Shit, Doc!” He glares at the Doctor. “You need some louder shoes.”
“Easy there,” Dr. Pratt smiles and
takes a sip of coffee from a paper cup, holding it leisurely by the cardboard
flaps that serve as handles. “So, what do we have here?” he asks as he lifts
the sheet to the side. “Someone who has had a very bad day, I see,” he pauses
for a moment and investigates the remains. “Are those teeth marks?” he asks
aloud as he leans down closer to the wound.
***
In the examination room, Bill and Dr.
Pratt lift the body off of the gurney and place it onto the autopsy table, adjusting
what remains of its limbs into position. Dr. Pratt immediately goes to work by
removing the clothes and placing them into small plastic bags he unravels from
a box in the corner.
“There's another one up stairs,” Bill
says. “I'll be back in a couple of minutes,” he informs and waits for Pratt to
reply.
With a dismissive nod and a wave of his
hand, Dr. Pratt continues with his work, engrossing himself in the task at
hand. In a sudden bout of realization, he turns. “Wait for a minute and I'll
get a few samples. If you would be so kind, you could drop them off at the lab
on your way to the ER,” he says, looking at Bill over the top of his reading
glasses.
Dr. Pratt removes the plastic wrapping
from the tubes he has retrieved from a cabinet and goes about taking samples of
the cadaver. Placing each scrap of skin, hair, and tissue into the containers,
he seals the cap with a label. After taking a few notes at his desk, he hands
the samples off to Bill.
“Make sure you tell the techs that
these samples take priority. I'll need the results back as soon as possible.”
Dr. Pratt makes eye contact with Bill to make sure he has been heard.
“Understood?”
“Yes, sir, but why are they so
important?” Bill asks.
“There's something strange about this
case. I'm not positive, but it looks like he was attacked when he died.” Dr.
Pratt points down at the torn flesh, gathered around the subjects missing leg.
“You see here? Those are bite marks, and they're human.”
“You're kidding. Someone bit the guy?”
Bill asks, taken aback.
“Not just bit. If I didn't know any
better, I would say the man was eaten alive,” The Doctor explains.
“Damn,” Bill's expression turns to a
look of disgust, “Who would do something like that?”
“Well, that's what I hope to find out
with those,” he says, motioning toward the samples.
* * *
“I don’t believe it,” Don says as he
looks through the microscope.
“What is it?” Grace asks, moving
closer.
“Have a look.” Don moves away, giving
Grace enough room to look through the eyepiece.
She adjusts the magnification, “What
the hell is that?”
“I'm not sure.” He squints. “It's as if
the cells are reproducing. I've never seen anything like it,” he admits. “Those
are the samples that Dr. Pratt sent over, right?”
Looking up from the microscope, Grace
turns her attention to Don. “Yeah, but the body was pronounced dead over an
hour ago. Even with a living subject, that type of activity wouldn't be normal.
It's like the cells are mutating.”
“This isn't good,” Don says, taking a
few steps back from the table.
“What do you think?” Grace asks.
“We run another set of tests.” He
scratches at the stubble on his face. “If we can't figure this out on our own,
we'll have to get the CDC involved.”
“The Center for Disease Control?” she
asks in an alarmed tone. “Is that really necessary? They'll lock this place up and
quarantine everyone in the hospital,” she states.
“If we can't come up with a better
diagnosis than mutating cells, we won't have a choice.” Dan removes the sample
and takes it toward the back of the lab, placing it on another machine. “I'll
run it through the system and see if it comes up with anything.”
“And what if it doesn't?” Grace asks.
“Let's hope that it does. The last
thing we need is for the CDC coming in here, snooping around.” Don runs his
fingers through his hair and closes his eyes in thought. “We'll call them when
every other option has been exhausted.”
* * *
Bill makes his way towards the back of the ER
and picks up the second body. He steps back from the doorway when he notices
several more gurneys covered by sheets, placed in rows, waiting for retrieval.
Checking the tags at the bottom of each of the bodies, he notices that each
case has been pronounced dead within minutes of each other.
Confused by the sudden additions, he
goes to the front desk where Becky is working feverishly on patient files and
asks, “What's the deal?”
“With what?” Becky looks up for only a
moment before going back to work on the patient records, her hair in shambles.
“With all of the bodies in the back,”
he says. “The last time I was up here, there was only one, now there are six.
What's going on?” he asks, confused.
“Bill, I don't know. It's like the
whole world has gone crazy,” Becky states, “I swear, if I see another mangled
body, I'm going to lose it.”
“Has there been anything on the news?”
Bill inquires.
“I haven't had time to check,” she
replies, stuffing a stack of insurance papers into a file. “This place is such
a mad house. Every couple of minutes, the ambulances drop off another injury. I
don't know how much more we can handle.”
“After I bring the bodies down to the
morgue, I'll see if I can get some more information,” Bill says, turning toward
the back room to retrieve another body.
“Bill,” Becky calls, stopping him mid
step.
“Yeah?” He turns and waits for her to
speak.
“One of the ambulance drivers said
something about protesting downtown,” she says, searching her thoughts for the information.
“He said that the police were getting pretty rough with the people there. But
that was over an hour ago, and I haven't heard anything since. Let me know if
you find anything out, okay?”
“Sure thing,” he nods and grabs the
next gurney.
Chapter Two
Under Restraint
“I’m telling
you,” Scarlet protests, “they were dead. No heartbeat, no pulse, dead!”
“All right,
calm down, lady,” the officer says, holding his hands up to quiet the woman
down. “I need you to start at the beginning again. This time, a little slower,
please.”
“She’s telling
the truth, I saw them too,” Greg interrupts. “There’s no way in hell those
things were alive.”
“I’ll get her statement first and then I’ll get to
you,” the officer shoots a look at
the security guard.
Greg holds up
his hands in surrender and leans back in the chair. He smiles at the two-way
glass on the wall and gives it a wink. How
stupid do they think we are? He asks himself. Probably not stupid, he corrects, more along the lines of crazy. Through his thoughts, he can hear the woman
recite the exact same story, but slower as the officer instructed.
“Listen,” the
officer begins, “we’ve been getting some strange calls in the last twenty-four
hours. If there’s something you know that you’re not telling us, I suggest now
would be the time to come clean.”
“I give up,”
Scarlet says, laying her head on the table.
“I’m serious,”
the officer replies. “This is not a
joke. Whatever is going on out there, you two seem to be the first ones in the
city to have known about it.”
“We’re telling
you everything we know,” Greg says. “Those things
came out of nowhere. If they were
alive, that’s something your people would have more information on than us.”
“What’s that
supposed to mean,” the officer asks, tilting his head as he waits for an
explanation.
“I think you
know exactly what that means,” Greg replies. “The government does all sorts of
weird shit. It’s none of my business if some of that shit happens to wash
ashore at the dockyard.”
“Great, you’re
one of those guys,” the officer rolls
his eyes. “I’ll be back in a bit. Why don’t you two see if you can get your
stories straight and we’ll continue this later,” he says, rolling down the
sleeves of his uniform. He fastens the door behind him with a click as the lock
engages.
“They don’t
believe us,” Scarlet says.
“I wouldn’t
believe us either.” Greg shakes his head. “It’s not the most believable story.”
“Still,” she
begins, “you would think they would have sent someone down there to see for
their selves.”
“That’s not
proper procedure,” he says
sarcastically. “First they have to bore us to death and then they’ll get to the details.”
***
“Jim, do you
actually believe these people are involved?” the detective asks.
“They have to know something,” the officer replies. “They came in here last night with
this halfcocked story about dead people at the pier. They were the first to
report anything out of the ordinary, and I intend to find out exactly what they know.”
“I’m telling
you, they don’t know anything,” the detective states calmly. “If they did, they
sure as hell wouldn’t be reciting the same story over again. What’s this, the
seventh or the eighth time?”
“It doesn’t
matter how many times they say it, I don’t believe them. They know something
else, I can feel it.”
“Jim,” the
detective begins, “sometimes feelings are wrong.”
“They know
something,” he reaffirms.
“Either way,”
the detective sighs, “we don’t have any evidence to hold them. You have one
more round of questioning and then we have to let them go.”
Jim adjusts his
firearm on his belt and wipes at his face in a single swipe that distorts his
features. “Fine,” he says and walks back into the room. He looks at the man and
woman and turns away. “You’re free to go,” he says over his shoulder and walks
out, leaving the door open.
Scarlet lets
out a sigh of relief. “Is he serious?”
“I think so,”
Greg says, still staring at the door.
***
The police
station is bustling with activity as officers are dispatched through bright,
glaring computer screens.
“Yes ma’am,” the
operator says into the phone. “I understand that, but…” She is cut short by the
person on the other end of the line, screaming frantically into the mouthpiece.
Another
operator tries to calm someone through an emergency. “No, I don’t expect you to
kill your wife, sir. What I’m saying is that you need to…”
“All units to
6159…” a woman says into the radio.
“It looks like
all hell has broken loose,” Greg says over his shoulder as several police
officers shuffle by.
“What’s going
on?” Scarlet asks confused.
“I don’t know,
but I have a feeling it has something to do with those things we saw the other night.”
“Cuff him,
goddamn it,” an officer says, pinning a man to the floor. The man is rabid,
jerking under the weight of the officer, trying to get out of his grip. “Put
some fucking cuffs on him!” he shouts again.
The melee
erupts into several officers pouncing on the man, trying to restrain his
flailing limbs.
“I think this
would be a good time to leave,” Greg says, sidestepping the ruckus.
From behind,
Scarlet presses herself against his back, letting him lead the way. She nearly
trips on the criminals arm as he reaches out. She catches his gaze and jerks
back. He snarls at her and snaps his teeth. His eyes are bloodshot and focused
on her ankle, only inches away. She lets
out a whimper and Greg pulls her away from the scuffle, lifting her off the
floor and placing her next to himself as he guides her to the front of the
police station.
The streets are
deserted. The only activity is the occasional squad car rocketing from the rear
parking structure with sirens blaring and lights flashing atop pristine black
and white. Tires squeal and grip as the car takes a tight turn, distancing the sound
of the siren as it speeds away.
As the pair head
toward Scarlet’s car, they notice a news team situated off to the side of the
station. The reporter is feigning her most convincing smile, motioning to the
station behind her before returning to the camera with the brightest smile money
can buy.
“Chief Graham
was not available for comment, but one of his top aides said that a report will
be issued soon,” the woman says. “It seems that the civil unrest that is
gripping the rest of the Nation is just as strong here in Southern California
with little relief expected in the coming days. Now here’s Elizabeth with the
latest from the Center of Disease Control.”
Once the
reporter has finished the taping, Scarlet approaches her. “Excuse me,” she
begins. “What’s going on?”
The reporter
looks at her oddly. “Have you been in a box for the last couple days?” She
laughs.
“Sort of,”
Scarlet replies.
“In that case,
you can catch my report on the six o’clock news,” she says, handing off the
microphone. “Where’s my coffee?” she asks no one in particular and scurries off
to the news van.
“Thanks so
much,” Scarlet replies with a sarcastic wave, “bitch.”
“Makes you want
to pack up all your stuff and move out here, doesn’t it?” Greg asks with a
laugh.
“Since I missed
my interview, I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Scarlet replies. “Do you
need a lift home?”
“That would be
great.” He nods.
***
A deep smell of
linen wafts through Scarlet’s car as Greg enters. The dashboard gleams an
illustrious black, shining like glass in the evening sun, offsetting the instrument
panel and a clean, tan steering wheel.
Scarlet flips
the sun visor down, revealing a mirror. “I look like hell,” she says.
“You look
better than anyone else would under the circumstances,” Greg says offhandedly.
“Is that a
compliment?” she asks, raising her brow.
He nods and
smiles. “You bet it is,” he replies. “I was wondering if you would like to
maybe… get some breakfast, you know. And maybe we could talk for a while before
you have to leave.”
She smirks and
glances over at him. “Why, are you trying to flirt with me?”
Greg awkwardly
glances to the floor. “No, well…um…”
“Because it
would be okay if you were,” she says.
“In that case,
yes I am,” he admits and quickly turns back toward her with a smile.
“Do you know a
good place?” she asks. “I’m starving.”
“Yeah,” he
replies, pointing. “If you keep going straight, there’s a place up ahead that
serves the best slice of pizza around.”
As she drives,
Scarlet notices how empty the streets look. “Is it usually this quiet around
here?”
“No, actually
it isn’t,” Greg says.
He hadn’t
noticed before, being that he was distracted with Scarlet, but she was right,
it looked like a ghost town. As they pass businesses, ‘closed’ signs read
clearly in their windows. It was so inactive that even the street lights seemed
to glow with less brilliance as the sun dips gently over the horizon.
“Because, if it
is, I wouldn’t mind living here,” she says.
“No, really,
there’s something going on. Normally, this part of town would be full at this
time of the day,” he replies. “You, know, people hitting the restaurants and
the movie theater down the block. This is really weird.”
“Maybe we
should…” Scarlet begins to reply, but out of the corner of her eye, she can see
a man shuffling across the street. She swerves, banking the wheel hard and hits
the brakes as he nears.
She screams as
the man glances off the front of the car and flies through the air. His body is
limp as he arches and finally drops to the asphalt before skidding a few feet
into an unmoving pile.
“Shit. Shit.
Shit!” she yells as she grips the steering wheel.
“Wait here,” Greg
says, flinging the door open, “and call an ambulance!”
“But I don’t
have a cell phone,” she says, but he is already out of earshot.
Greg runs to
the body as it twitches in the middle of the road. One of the man’s legs is
bent at an unnatural angle underneath his body, angling out from behind his
back as he stares upward toward the sky.
He leans down
to inspect the man. “It’s going to be all right, don’t move,” he says, placing
his hand on the man’s chest.
The man jerks
his head at the sound of Greg’s voice and his eyes settle on his neck. With a
quick snap, the man lurches forward, narrowly missing Greg’s throat.
“What the fuck?”
Greg says as he jerks back and stumbles. He falls backward as the man reaches
out. Popping sounds crackle from the man’s hip as he drags himself forward.
Greg pushes
himself away and gets to his feet. He stares at the man gnashing and snapping
at the air that separates them. With a deep, throaty moan the man inches along,
dragging his leg behind as it unravels loosely and straightens out.
“Go, go!” Greg
shouts, slamming the car door.
“What happened?
What’s wrong?” Scarlet asks.
“Drive!” he
yells.
She hits the
gas pedal and steers around the body in the road as it reaches out. Shocked,
she stares at the man as she negotiates around him. She recoils from the look of
hatred on his face and presses her back firmly into the driver’s seat.
“What…what’s
wrong with him?” she asks as her voice stammers over the words.
“He tried to
fucking bite me!” he says through a crackle in his throat.
“Like at the
dock?” she asks.
“Like at the
dock,” he confirms, staring back in shock.
Chapter Three
Of Our Flesh
Bill deposits the newest arrival in
refrigeration, checks off the body on the list that hangs on the wall, and
heads into the examination room. The handle to the door doesn't quite catch,
and only stays in position with the friction of the mechanism keeping it in
place.
An eerie silence fills the examination room.
Bill looks about, realizing that the body from the slab is missing. On the
floor, red marks scrape along the otherwise pristine tile as if something had
been pulled along like a sack of garbage. Dr. Pratt's glasses lay broken, bent
at the center and with one lens dislodged, thrown several feet from the frames.
“Dr. Pratt?” Bill cautiously calls out.
Wet suction noises emit from the
janitors closet like meat being drug across a butchers block. The sound
startles Bill, causing him to turn abruptly toward the noise. His eyes squint
as if he were trying to look through the wall rather than face the fear that
slowly builds in his chest. Taking a step, his shoe squeaks against the smooth
tile, echoing throughout the room, breaking the silence. Suddenly, the sound
stops and all that is left is Bill's frantically pumping heart, knocking out an
erratic rhythm against his ribs. He grits his teeth as he tries to muster up
his courage to move forward.
“Dr. Pratt?” reluctantly, Bill calls
out.
“…haaaa,” a gentle hiss comes in
response; brittle and wet like fall leaves blown across a mud puddle.
The hairs on the back of Bill's neck
stand at attention, making him freeze as his heart skips a beat. A hand emerges
from inside the doorway, pulling itself along the floor, sliding on the blood
that drips from the tips of its skinless fingers. An elbow grazes a mop that is
leaned against the wall and pushes it over with a clack. The wood handle cracks
against the floor and bounces a few times before finally laying prone.
Bill jumps backward as a deformed face
leers in. The cadaver snarls, emitting ghastly trails of thick, red goo that
drips from the edges of its torn mouth and splashes gently against the floor.
The creature’s eyes flash wide once it notices Bill and it rasps and reaches
out as if it were trying to devour the man with its gruesome stare. It pulls
itself forward, gaining only inches as it claws at the grout along the tile.
Waste smears in its wake like the residue from a trash bag, drug along by
careless hands.
Again, Bill jerks backward. His foot
crashes down on the remnants of Dr. Pratt's glasses and he slips. Trying to
regain his balance, he throws his arms out awkwardly, but over corrects and
falls flat on his back. With a putrid snarl, the body leers at him, wrenching
itself forward on its remaining arm.
Bill tries to scream, but all that
escapes is a whimper. A tingling sensation arises from his face and moves
slowly through his body, swelling his tongue. He flails backward again and
scampers across the floor to get as far away from the corpse as he can.
Above him, he can hear scampering from
upstairs, coming through the ceiling as if a riot had broke out in the
hospital. A muted scream from the first floor shakes him back into reality and
he pushes himself up to his feet.
“Rwahhhhaaa…” the sound comes from
behind him, wet and deflated.
Bill cocks his head, slowly turning
until he can see the corpse from the refrigeration room standing only a few
yards behind him. It almost looks human with only a single wound distinguishing
its otherwise gray skin, contrasting with brown and red of clotted blood that
has formed around exposed tissue. The creature’s mouth hangs slack as it steps
forward like a child on unsure legs. Slop drips from its chin, dangling
precariously, waiting to drop with the slightest movement. Lurching forward,
the dead thing raises its arms as if beckoning Bill closer.
Frantically, Bill gazes around the room
for something to defend himself with. His gaze settles on a bone saw next to
the examination table, glimmering from the florescent light that shines down
from above. With precision and speed, he launches himself toward the table and
snatches up the tool. The stainless steel tray crashes to the floor, sending
the other instruments it contained in all directions.
The instrument feels heavy in his hand,
weighted at the handle for balance. He holds the device up, wielding it like a
clever above his head, trying to threaten the creature that slowly shambles
toward him.
“Alright, motherfucker,” he warns, “I'll
do it. Don't think I won't,”
“Ahhhh,” the creature replies gaseous
and continues to move forward.
Bill angles the weapon back as far as
his arm will reach and launches himself at the body. With a popping slurp, the
blade sinks deeply into the corpse’s forehead, wedging itself into bone and
brain. A spray of fluid erupts from the ghouls head, sending pulp and gore out
at an angle to the awaiting wall. In an arch, the slaughter hits, instantly
coursing its way to the floor in long, thin streams, gathering at the crevices
of the tile and pooling along the grout. As if a light switch has been turned
off, the creature’s eyes go blank and it falls to its knees before collapsing
to the floor with a wet slap.
Heart racing from fear and
determination, Bill turns his attention to the other cadaver. Barely out of the
janitors closet, it continues to struggle forward, only gaining a few feet
since the last time Bill looked at it. He almost feels sorry for the crawling
thing at his feet as it tries to pull itself forward. Its movements are like
misery, like torment, like the torture of an unknowing soul.
“What the fuck are you?” he asks as the creature wiggles forward like a worm, bending
its neck back to see the man above it.
Bloodshot eyes stare at Bill, wide and
intent as it reaches out, seemingly pained by its lack of motion. A rasp of air
escapes its lungs like a leaky valve, hissing as it claws itself forward and
pivoting its jaw to take a bite out of thin air.
Pulling with all his might, Bill
finally removes the bone saw from the fallen corpse’s head, placing his foot on
its shoulder, and tugging the device from the splintered skull. With a look of
disgust, he turns back toward the wretched body, slowly walks forward, and
wields the weapon above his head once again.
He sends the weapon down with a loud
crack and lets it fall to the floor beside him.
* * *
Dr. Pratt lays sprawled out on the
floor in the janitor’s closet, his abdomen thrown open, intestines dangling
across his legs like lengths of bloody rope. Bill holds back the urge to puke,
covering his mouth with his hand, and closes the door to the closet. He takes a
deep breath and tries to calm himself when he hears the sound of shuffling in
the next room. Suddenly, he remembers the bodies in refrigeration and runs into
the other room of the morgue, slipping on the blood that congeals on the floor.
He quickly regains his balance as he turns the corner and continues in a sprint.
Three of the six bodies in cold storage have animated, leisurely bumping into
one another as he throws himself at the door to gain leverage in an attempt to
close the bodies in.
The shambling, aimless dead surge
toward the door, moaning as they realize there is something living at the
threshold. With jerking movements, the bodies encroach on stiffened limbs,
mouths slack like the hungry pleading for nourishment.
With all his weight, Bill pushes at the
door again, launching one of the cadavers into the other two. Like bowling
pins, the bodies topple over one another until they are struggling on the floor,
hissing like rabid dogs. He slams the door, fastens the handle and slides the
locking pin into place.
Shaking from fear, Bill leans against
the door, panting. As the tingling in his body subsides, he gains the courage
to move. His legs are heavy from the exertion, weighed down by the adrenalin
that slowly dissipates through his veins.
His moment of peace is interrupted by
the muted sound of gunfire. Cries, pleas for help, and trampling sounds from
above bombard his ears. It's as if a war has erupted. He holds his breath in
anticipation of every sound, hoping for some type of sign to make sense of it
all.
He returns to the other room and
retrieves the bone saw from the floor and holds it at his side, trying to gain
enough courage to wander out beyond the morgue. He wants nothing more than to
get away from whatever is happening in the hallways and patient rooms above
him. Thinking quickly, he decides to make a break for the emergency exit when
static erupts from the intercom on the desk.
War torn noises thunder from the
speakers, brining the hell from above closer to home. He can hear a woman
scream, pleading for her life as a deep, soul-wrenching moan moves closer to
the intercom. There is a popping sound and a cry of pain. More gunfire erupts,
louder than before, projected over the phone, making the speaker crack and hiss
with the volume. He can hear a thud, followed by a moment of silence.
Bill tries to shake the sounds, but is
rooted to the spot when he hears a brittle crack from the recoil of the gun. The
intercom goes silent. He waits for only a moment before throwing open the
office door and emerging into the hallway, frantic to get away.
Beyond the morgue, the hall is empty
and otherwise quiet, save for the muted sounds from the hospital above. Bill
takes off in a sprint, heading along the corridor, trying to put distance
between him and the hell that he has been thrown into. After taking a hard
left, he faces the door to the stairwell, his heart pumping heavily in his
chest. He opens the door, waiting patiently, listening for anything that might
indicate that he is alone. Relatively assured that it is safe, he takes to the
stairs, skipping every other one until he is at the first landing.
A lone figure shambles past the window
on the other side of the door that looks out into the first floor reception
area. Bill pauses for fear of being spotted, and waits until the corpse is out
of sight. His plan for leaving through the first available emergency exit
thwarted, he turns and begins to climb the next flight of stairs. There is a
fire escape on every floor, and he intends to use one of them to get as far
away from this nightmare as he can.
Turning the corner, heading towards the
second flight of stairs, he only makes it a third of the way up before he realizes
that there is someone standing motionless on the landing above him. Becky
stares blankly downward as if she were in a trance. Glaring at the floor, her
hair hangs over her face, sweaty and in strands.
“Becky?” Bill smiles at her familiar
face.
Becky's jaw slackens and her gaze
fixates on a new objective. Her eyes lock onto him as her mouth distorts into
an open maw. Black and red stained teeth expose themselves, protruding through
tightened, cracking lips. Her slithering tongue juts outward, curling in on
itself, licking at the air.
“Shit!' He exclaims as creature
awkwardly moves forward.
At the first step that she makes, her
foot twists to the side at the ankle, skidding on the stairs, and she begins to
fall. Bill steps to the side, wielding the bone saw shoulder height as the
corpse falls by him. Sprawled out on the landing below, it struggles to get up,
seeming infatuated with the man that stands above her.
Raising the weapon higher, Bill
exclaims, “Don't do it, Becky. Please...”
The corpse pulls itself up on all fours
in an effort to stand, growling at the sound of Bill's voice. A thin stream of
red tinted saliva hangs from her mouth as Bill backs up along the stairway.
“Please, Becky. Don't,” he pleads with
her.
Having risen to its feet, the corpse
takes a step forward, jerks on unsure legs, and reaches out toward the prize
that stands before it. She grazes Bill's lab coat as he backs up along the
stairs, keeping his distance from the woman.
In a swift, spasmodic movement, the
body reaches out again causing Bill's instinct to take over. He swings wildly,
catching the corpse alongside its temple. The blade glances off of slick bone
and imbeds itself into her cheek. The cadaver recoils from the impact, and
lashes back with a deafening howl.
Again, Bill wields the weapon above his
head as the creature’s torn face glares at him. Through skin and meat, a
portion of bone shows through below the corpse’s eye, winding down to the
cavernous gash along its mouth. The body launches itself at the living flesh before
it, enraged and howling through blood and spit.
In one swift movement, Bill sends the
saw down into the creature’s skull, splitting through to the pulp that rests
under the surface of gleaming bone. The body collapses like a rag doll,
suddenly devoid of the automation that allowed it to exist.
Bill stares at the heap of flesh on the
stairs below his feet and lets out an exhausted breath. He grits his teeth in
anger, clenches his fist, and drops the weapon once more. With a clang, the
bone saw hits the ground next to Becky's body.
Bill’s chest convulses as the first
tears of sorrow grace his reddening eyes. He begins to sob, clasping his mouth
with his hand in an effort to conceal his pain. Grief overcomes him as he
stares at the woman’s body. He had spoken to her, not even an hour ago and now
he was standing above her lifeless form, smeared in her blood, and quivering
from grief.
“What the hell is happening?” he asks
aloud.
A sudden explosion jerks him back into
reality and he braces himself against the wall as the building shakes in the
aftermath. He looks down at Becky; at his fallen friend, at what she has become
and wipes away the tears from his eyes. Another explosion prompts him to leave
as debris from the ceiling showers him in fine, white dust. He shields his eyes
and steps over Becky’s body, ascending to the next flight of stairs.
The sounds of mayhem have receded,
becoming faint as Bill arrives at the second floor of the hospital. Peering
through the window at the next level, he only sees an empty hallway beyond.
Slowly, he begins to turn the doorknob, trying to stay as silent as possible
for fear of more of the creatures lurking out of his range of sight. The door
gives easily, sending a rush of air that smells of bleach and sanitizer into
the stairwell. There is a faint odor of something burning, but he can’t tell
where it is coming from.
Pushing the door in toward the hall,
Bill scans his surroundings, and walks through. He can hear a barrage of gunfire
outside of the building, snapping away, bursting through the cracks and pangs
of the building.
With a crash, the hospital shakes
violently as an explosion rocks its foundation, emanating from somewhere
outside. Florescent fixtures give way above Bill's head, sending scraps of
ceiling tile and dust raining down. The lights begin to flicker in a strobe
effect, disorienting and confusing him to the point where he has to close his
eyes to regain his bearings.
Once he recovers, he is overwhelmed by
an orange glow that shines through the tiny windows of every one of the
hospital rooms. As far as he can see along the hallway, the luminescence
radiates through, giving off an eerie glow that makes him imagine that this is
what Hell might look like. Smoke wafts in from underneath the doors, mixing with
the odor of burnt hair and cooking meat.
As his skin warms and tingles, Bill
realizes that the south side of the building is engulfed in flames and the fire
is spreading. He runs along the hall, covering his mouth with his undershirt as
the smoke thickens. He rips off a portion of his t-shirt and moistens it in the
drinking fountain which resides in a small indentation in the wall. He places
the fabric over his face, hoping it is enough to keep out the toxins in the
air.
Even with his vision obstructed by the
rolling smoke, Bill has an idea of where he is going. Winding himself eastward,
he keeps as low to the ground as possible. Fumes blur his vision, and he is
forced to wipe at his eyes in an effort to see.
The door to one of the patient rooms
flies open with a resounding whoosh, a gurgling scream rattles through the
sounds of crackling wood and snapping tile. He dodges a flaming body as it runs
toward him. What he can only assume was a patient slams hard against the far
wall, bouncing backward against the floor from the impact. He smells charred
meat as the body sizzles and cracks. Beneath the flames, a blackened silhouette
sizzles and cracks into a burning heap. He gasps through the rag over his face,
sickened by the experience, shaken by the horror of watching someone burnt
alive.
He closes his eyes as he passes the
pile of burning meat and moves as far from the body as he can. Placing his back
to the wall, he slides around the hellish scene. The body twitches with the
last throws of death as its limbs begin to curl and smolder. The fleshly embers
ignite the wall behind them, and flames begin to dance up along the wallpaper.
He coughs through the rag around his face, crouches low, and scurries away
under the smoke.
At the east wing of the building, Bill
makes a sharp left and turns into a corridor that leads to the fire escape.
From the corner of his eye, he catches the slightest movement amongst some
rubble that has fallen from the fallout of the explosion. Pausing for a moment,
he glances to the far corner of the hallway. There, on the floor before him, a
young girl sits prone, huddled in on herself, coughing in between heavy sobs.
Immediately, he realizes that she is alive, that somehow this little girl has
survived the mayhem. He bends to one knee and places his hand on her shoulder.
“Are you all right?” Bill asks, raising
his voice over the crackling.
The girl recoils from fright and
shields her face from attack.
“It's okay,” Bill pulls away to keep
from frightening her further. “You're going to be safe. I'm going to get you
out of here.”
She looks up at Bill and coughs. Her
eyes relax and she extends her hand.
He curls his fingers around the child’s
hand. “Put this over your mouth,” he says and places the scrap of cloth from
his mouth onto hers before leaning down to hoist her up into his arms. “Just
hold on, we'll be out of here in a second.”
Nodding, the child tucks her face into
Bill's chest; her hairless head protruding slightly from the collar of his lab
coat. Bill covers the child with his hand, nearly concealing her completely
from the debris that continues to fall from above. She weighs nothing at all, a
simple waif stricken by whatever terrible god that allows children to become
sick. He can feel the bones of her shoulders and back pressing into him as if
he were carrying a bag full of twigs rather than a child.
As he turns toward the fire escape, the
silhouette of something catches his eye. The faintest outline of a person comes
into view through a doorway that leads into a patient’s room. Reaching outward,
arms held slack, the person moves into the light shining in through the fire
exit. A horrible mouth opens, burnt and disfigured. The creature encroaches as
fast as its charred legs will allow it to move. An exposed, blackened skull
pokes through its scalp, almost gleaming in spots that haven’t been cover with
soot. Its charred insides release. Gas escapes through its maw; rancid and
thick with the fluids that have built from within its burnt lungs. The ghoul
coughs out a moan that sends bits of spittle and gore out onto its smoldering
hospital gown.
The child clings onto Bill when she
hears the monster cry out. Bill pulls back as the creature reaches out toward
the girl, balances himself on one foot, and kicks the body in the chest. Collapsing in on itself, the corpse loses its
footing and flies backward into the room, skidding a few feet until it finally
comes to rest near the hospital bed. Flames rage at the far side of the room,
licking at the walls as smoke billows out through open portions of the drywall.
Quickly, he pulls the door toward
himself as the creature snarls, hissing like a snake about to strike. Before
the door can be fully closed, the creature throws itself against the
obstruction, slamming itself in. Its face is pressed tightly against the
window, smearing blackened gore across the surface as its teeth gouge uselessly
against it. Snapping at the living on the other side, the corpse flails its
arms wildly as the flames spread behind it, igniting its gown.
For only a moment, he watches the
hideous thing as it becomes engulfed by fire, slamming itself against the
prison door that has entrapped it. He backs away and turns to the fire exit.
The picture is stained within his
imagination; an unemotional automaton swallowed by flame, captivated by nothing
more than the hunger that drives it.
“I'm going to set you down for a minute
so I can open the window,” he explains to the child. Her grip tightens as Bill tries
to place her on the floor. “It's going to be okay. I'm going to put you down
for a second. You'll be fine.”
The girl looks up at him and stares
into his eyes. She nods and loosens her grip, allowing him to place her next to
him on the floor.
Unfastening the clasp above the window,
he slides it open and motions to the girl to go out first. Fresh evening air
filters through, pushing away the sting of the smoke that fills the hallways
inside. Cautiously, the child extends her leg out as if testing the surface of
the fire exit to make sure it is real. Satisfied, she pulls her other leg out
behind her as Bill follows closely behind, guiding the child with his hands on
her shoulders.
With two flights of stairs below him,
he looks down through the grating at the empty alley behind the hospital. He
follows the girl, helping her along the way while scanning his surroundings.
The sound of gunfire and screaming has become louder once they make it outside
of the building, causing the child to jerk from fright with every sound.
“We're going to be okay,” he tells her,
pointing off through the dimming daylight to the parking lot behind the
hospital. “See? There are ambulances back there. Have you ever ridden in an
ambulance?”
She nods her head, yes.
“Then you know that they’re pretty
safe,” he replies.
She nods again.
At ground level, he peers around the
corner of a storage container and out towards the ambulances that are parked
along the unloading area. On the other side of the fence that surrounds the
rear of the hospital, only a few straggling bodies wander past.
He turns the child toward him as he
crouches down to her level. “Okay,” he whispers, “we have to stay really quiet so those people over there don't
see us.”
Her whisper is hoarse, “I can be
quiet.”
Bill smiles at her, “Good girl. Now stay
right behind me.”
Oblivious, the dead shamble past the
partially open gate as Bill crouches down low, making his way around the
containers. He keeps his arm extended behind himself to make sure the child
doesn't bump into him and moves to the side of the nearest ambulance. At the
door, he slowly pulls the handle, opening the door a crack.
With a glance, he notices the keys in
the ignition. “Move to the back so I can get in behind you,” he whispers while guiding
the child into the vehicle.
As soon as he clicks over the ignition,
he throws the vehicle into drive and hits the throttle. The ambulance roars to
life, sending a trail of skid marks along the asphalt as it gains traction and
crashes through the gate.
“Hold on!” He exclaims as he wrenches the
steering wheel to the right, accelerating onto the street that leads out to the
main avenue in front of the hospital.
The child tumbles in the back like a
doll, hitting the left portion of the ambulance as Bill maneuvers past a mass
of cadavers that pepper the road in front of the vehicle. A body glances off
the side of the front quarter panel, sending a spray of gore up against the
driver’s side window. Gore smears its way along the glass as the ambulance
accelerates, creating jagged trails like translucent pop art.
Bodies are being sucked up under the
ambulance, causing it to jerk as the dead become mulched under the tires. He
tries his best to swerve between the corpses, but with the sheer number of
bodies, that task is all but impossible. The steering wheel jerks out of his
hand as a cadaver gets lodged under the passenger side wheel well, sending the
ambulance out of control over the curb line. As the rear tire makes contact
with the concrete, it buckles and blows, causing sparks to rain out from under
the vehicle. With the weight of the ambulance suddenly shifts and the vehicle
begins to topple.
Outside, the world blurs and twists as
the ambulance rolls uncontrollably. Cargo dislodges from the shelves, tossed
around like clothes in a dryer. Smacking hard against the roof of the vehicle,
the child becomes buried by medical equipment, only an arm remains visible from
the mass of debris that covers her prone body as the ambulance shakes violently.
Slamming hard against the windshield,
Bill is knocked unconscious as the glass spider-webs from the force of the
impact. Droplets of blood form at a gash on his forehead, trickling downward
across his scalp and onto the roof of the ambulance.
A growing mass of bodies hover around
the wreck and encroach upon the still idling ambulance. They begin to crouch down
through broken glass once the vehicle has settled. Deep, resounding moans drown
out the sound of the engine as it knocks and finally stalls out.
Bill awakens to the smell of gasoline
leaking into the cargo compartment. He glances around through blurry eyes at
the mayhem that surrounds him. All that he can see through the spider web of
broken glass are dozens of unsteady legs, drawing nearer.
He can feel something touch his arm. A
small hand pokes up through the debris of medical equipment and grazes him. The
child’s face shows fear as she looks at him questioningly.
“Are you hurt?” he asks the girl.
“I don’t think so,” she replies.
“We’ve got to get out of here.” He
motions toward the passenger side window at a small space between the vehicle
and the outer wall of the hospital. “Do you think you can squeeze through?”
“I’ll try,” the girl says as she
dislodges herself from the mound of medical gear stacked on top of her.
“You’ve got to get the rest of the way
out and run away as fast as you can. Don’t stop for anything,” he instructs
her.
“But what about you?” she asks.
Bill looks down at his leg, wedged
between the ground and the collapsed roof of the vehicle, “I’m not going
anywhere.” The dead reach through the driver’s window and clasp at Bill’s shirt
with bloody hands. “Hurry, you have to get out!” his voice is filled with
panic.
The girl whimpers, “I can’t leave you.”
“Go now!” he screams as a morbid mouth
twists in over through the broken out window and rips a scrap of flesh from his
neck.
He
thinks of his son and his wife. Their images play in his mind and keep the pain
away. He grits his teeth and prays for Billy to be all right, prays that
somehow his wife was able to get him to safety.
The child cries out in horror and
turns, scurrying off through the crevice between the ambulance and the wall.
She scrambles on hands and knees through the thick grass, and emerges at the
front of the vehicle before getting to her feet.
“Run!” Bill screams again.
The girl hears his yelping cries as she
runs along the driveway and into the parking lot. Panting, she keeps up her pace as she passes a crowd
of the undead that have completely engulfed a wrecked car wrapped around a
light pole. She can see them pulling someone apart inside; body parts,
undistinguishable from one another are removed through a broken out window as
the dead fight over the scraps.
Her
stomach lurches and she turns away. The nauseous feeling begins to fade as she
runs toward a cropping of trees alongside a park across from the hospital. She
glances behind her to see the massacre underway.
Someone
shouts, “Little girl, wait!” But Sarah keeps running across the street, too
afraid to stop.
Shambling
corpses are everywhere, sifting through the remains of wreckage as the hospital
burns in the background. She can hear people screaming for help, pleading for
their lives as she hides in the underbrush at the edge of the park, quivering
and sobbing from fear. She watches as a car passes, veering through wreckage.
The car slows for a moment and the woman who is driving searches along the
street, scanning the bushes where Sarah is concealed.
As she
steadies herself, she remembers her sister; she remembers how to get to her
house from here. It’s only a few blocks away, across the park and through the
housing tract. She gets to her feet and begins to run again. Her heart is
racing as her surgical gown whips behind her, creating tiny white flags at the
ties that hold it together.
She
narrows the gap, taking strides through panic. She is driven in fear, released
into the nightmare. The sounds of tearing flesh and the screams of the weak
fill her ears. She runs faster as the tears come, streaming along her face. Not
much further now.
Chapter Four
Saving Faith
In a dark corner
of the basement, Billy curls up, keeping his back tight against the wall. The
pounding from upstairs gets louder as he cries out for help. He pulls the
laundry table closer just in case the man and his mother manage to get through
the door at the top of the stairs. Their hands scrape against the frame and the
knob rattles as they try to get through.
He clasped the beam over the basement door and kept
as quiet as he could.
Stumbling back, he held to the railing as
he watched it bulge and moan from stress. The memory of what he’d seen still
rose to the surface. The look on the man’s face… He saw him smash his mother to
the floor with a loud howl and…
He can’t let
those memories back in. The stretching
sneer, the blank, staring eyes… it was more than his young mind could process.
The strips of bloody meat looped across his face as Billy’s mother screamed in
pain and terror with a voice he had never heard before.
If only his
father had come home from work, he might have been able to stop the man from
coming in. He might have been able to save them both. They could have gotten
away.
But now they
thrash against the door together; this evil, bloody thing and his mother. They
scrape and claw as they howl out in ragged voices trying to pound their way
through. He hopes the door will hold. He wouldn’t know what to do if it
doesn’t.
Through the
slit of a window above, he can hear others. Their voices are as broken and
scraping as the people upstairs. They scream and run, throwing shadows through
the window in long, thin lines that curve on the basement floor and across to the
far wall. Like the tales from a diorama, the images tell stories of chasing, of
catching, and of feeding on those who are caught. Every scene is complete with
sound, with shouts of pain and pleas for help. Every image is a nightmare;
every sound is an assault.
The window is
the only way out, but he can’t bring himself to escape. With the screams and
shouts and fearsome moans that rip through the streets beyond, he can’t manage
to get up the nerve to move. He trembles as he pulls the table closer with a
dry scrape, hoping that it will block them if they should get through.
There is gunfire,
rapid and loud. He can see men in military uniforms pass by, shouting orders
and taking aim at the crazy people. Crazy
people, that’s all that is out there now. Everyone has gone crazy. Some of
them shoot while others chase and kill and eat those that they catch. Every new
image is more terrifying than the last and Billy curls up tightly as he tries
to sob away pain.
He can’t get
himself to move even when he needs to relieve himself. He cries and waits for
the warmth to soak his pants and run along the floor to the drain that takes it
away in the center of the basement. He watches the yellow trickle from his pant
leg into a tiny stream and shudders as it flows away.
His mother and
the man have gone quiet. The door is silent and the clawing subsides. Outside
has become calm too. If he listens carefully, he can hear the birds calling
from somewhere far off. Their tiny voices assure him that it’s safe. He whimpers
softly as he stands, careful not to move the table and make the sound again.
He climbs up
onto the table and watches his step as he peeks through the window on his
tiptoes. Tufts of grass block most of what he’s able to see, but beyond,
through a dead patch, he can make out the Robertson’s house. He can see the
smoke rising and flames licking at the windows. There are bodies in the
streets, too many to count. Every one of them is covered in blood and torn
clothing. Tiny flecks of light litter the street, gleaming gold in the sun.
Peppered along the road, shell casings refract in the sunlight like loose
change thrown to the fallen; a simple offering to the massacre that ensued.
Brittle flakes
of paint crack as he unfastens the latch and stares out past the lawn, letting
his gaze rest on the bodies that lay in the street. His neighbors are there,
lying still on the asphalt like children sleeping after play. He pushes the
window outward as slow as he can, careful not to let the hinges squeak. There’s
a noise upstairs, the clatter of something being dropped to the floor. He
pushes himself up and squeezes through the opening and finally kicks free.
He lays on the
grass for a moment, afraid to move. The stale smell of aging, sun blistered
meat hangs in the air, garnished with sulfur and damp earth. He pushes himself
up to his knees and opens his eyes wide with shock. Kicking, he scoots along
the lawn and away from the body of an old woman wearing a stained nightgown. A
single hole dots her forehead between two smoke white eyes. She glares upward
as if searching for some elusive answer.
Firm against
the house, Billy gasps in small breathes. He clenches wads of grass in his hand
and presses firmly into the lawn with the heels of his shoes as he backs away
to the side of the house. His mouth is drawn open, but no sound emerges. No
voice can escape. In his terror, he recognizes the woman. She’s his neighbor,
Mrs. Ericson. She lives three doors down in the little pink house surrounded by
rose bushes. She’s still staring at the sky in questioning reserve as Billy
whimpers her name.
“Billy…”
There’s a faraway voice, rasping and cold.
The child looks
around, but can’t see anyone.
“Billy…” The
voice is stronger as if building the nerve to be heard. “Here, in the bushes.”
He turns his
head slowly, afraid of what he’ll find. After a moment, he gains courage and
parts the branches to the bush. A face appears, cut badly across the cheek. The
gash extends around the man’s mouth and down toward his neck. Through the cuts,
Billy can tell who it is, he can recognize the eyes, and he can almost mouth
the man’s name.
Gary coughs
small splatters of blood and wheezes through the rasp. “You have to get out of
here,” he says, pushing the words out. “You have to run. You can’t stop until…”
His eyes roll to the back of his head and his eyelids flutter. “Get somewhere
safe,” his breath reveals.
The boy jumps
to his feet and staggers away from his father’s friend. He had just seen the
man a couple of days ago, bright, cheery, and full of life at the barbeque his
father held for his mother’s birthday. All of that is gone. What lies in the
bushes is a pale reflection, a husk of something that once was.
The sting hits
his eyes and the tears begin to well. He turns to run, leaping over bodies as
he comes to the side of the street. His heart races, pummeling through knots of
fear that shudder in his chest. The bodies are everywhere and they all wear the
same face, the same silent reserve. There are so many that Billy can’t register
their numbers. But he knows they are dead, he knows what that face looks like.
The summer before, Billy saw a man crash into a
parked car out in front of his house. His parents had told him the man was
drunk, that he passed out with his foot on the gas pedal. He hadn’t been wearing
his seatbelt and when he crashed; his body flew through the front windshield. Billy’s
father tried to give the man CPR, but he was already gone; his body too badly
injured to bring him back. The man lay on the street until the police arrived.
They put a white sheet over his body and took him away when the ambulance
arrived.
Billy’s father went to work early that night at the
hospital. He blamed himself for not being able to help the man. He said he
should have been able to do more.
Face up at the
edge of the sidewalk, his friend is laying there, tiny holes with black edges
grace is chest. A single indentation rests in the child’s forehead between blank,
staring eyes. Billy looks at his friend and mouths his name, but the word is
lost in the dry afternoon air. As he turns around in place, he can see the others,
take in their numbers. People he’s known his whole life; neighbors and friends
are lying dead in the street. Bullet holes riddle their bodies. Blank stares
grace their faces.
His lips
tighten as the tears come again. Through the blur in his eyes, he walks away
through the death. A helicopter flies low overhead and whizzes off through the
sky. A gunshot can be heard in the distance.
He cries for
his father.
“Daddy,” he says
through the lump in his throat. “Daddy,” he repeats with a trembling voice and
walks in circles, confused and alone.
The helicopter
returns, diving down in a wide arch and points toward Billy. The child stands
there, unable to move. The whooping of the blades thump out as it descends,
knocking out vibrations in the boy’s chest. He stares at the chopper as it
tilts and redirects itself into a sideways descent.
Billy can see
the gun glistening as it aims toward him. A soldier guides the weapon, pivoting
it as he begins to fire. The child’s mouth hangs in fright as he begins to run.
Bullets devour the asphalt behind him, breaking loose large chunks of road in
their wake.
Closer now, the
soldier aims, spraying fire from the barrel of the gun, peppering the lawn
Billy escapes to. Inches from his heels, Billy can feel the dirt and rock that
is blown up from where the bullets hit the ground. He dives and skids under a
length of bushes against the Anderson’s house. He scurries on his hands and
knees, feeling the dead leaves crunch beneath his palms. He stands and flees
along the side of the house that leads into the back yard and backs up against
the inside wall.
The chopper
flies low and winds around. An elm tree blocks the view from the helicopter
that hovers in the air some fifty feet away. The blades are thundering,
slapping out as they wait for the child to reappear. Only the tail is visible
from behind the tree, making the branches bend from the wind it stirs, sending
leaves scurrying into the air as it shifts and adjust to get a better view of
the side of the house.
Billy doesn’t
dare move. He stands still, trembling and shaking, pressing tightly against the
siding. The dry paste in his mouth keeps him from screaming. He holds still as
the warmth runs along his leg again. He shivers from the feeling, praying the
soldiers will just go away.
As quickly as
it had arrived, the chopper flies off, taking to the air and back from where it
came. The child convulses in sobs, his lips tremble in fright as the helicopter
veers out of sight; the deafening slap of the blades receding into the distance
like a storm.
His fingers
course along the rough siding and he stares out in shock, almost not believing
what had just happened. He can still feel the sting against his face from the
wind that had battered it. He makes his way into the backyard to hide from the
soldiers and the people. He wants to curl up into a ball and hug himself until
it all goes away.
***
Billy hides
behind a storage shed. He’s too frightened to move, afraid the soldiers will return.
He can hear screaming from the street and explosions in the distance. From
behind him, there comes a scraping sound of nails being drug across wood. He
shudders and turns slowly to see a face poking through a gap in the fence from
the adjoining yard.
The corpse
howls when Billy faces it. The child stands and backs away as the corpse
thrashes against the fence, knocking a strip of wood away from the supports. A
scratched and bruised arm reaches out and claws as the creature starts to
squeeze itself through.
Milky eyes
glare from the opening and fixate on the child. A large portion of its neck is
torn open and smears of blood grace its shirt. A deafening scream escapes the
ghoul’s mouth, snapping Billy back into reality.
He backs away
and turns to run, but his path is blocked by two more creatures approaching
from the side of the house. The dead call to him through bending moans that seem
to come from their very core. The child turns again and crosses the yard to a
long planter that extends from each side of the fence line. He pulls himself up
onto the planter and jumps up, snagging the top of the fence that leads to the
alley behind the house. The dead are quick to follow, struggling with the wall
as they try to clutch onto the child.
With a whimper,
Billy kicks out behind him and uses the force of his flailing feet to connect
with one of the corpses. His foot slams hard against the creature, giving him
enough push to scale the rest of the way over the fence.
He lands hard
on the concrete, knocking the wind from his lungs. The dead are slamming
against the fence as Billy gets to his feet and starts to sprint, ignoring the
pain in his back and chest.
As twilight
approaches, Billy runs. His legs cramp as he flees along the road. From behind,
the dead take chase and howl out, calling others to the hunt. Bullet riddled
bodies swarm out from everywhere as he sprints through his neighborhood and
passes the park that is across from the hospital where his father works.
He glances back
at the horde that follows, breathing heavy and ready to fall. He hears
squealing tires and the rev of an engine. A black blur swerves along the street,
coming straight for him.
