Afterbirth (28 page)

The mess was like nothing John had ever seen, and he’d seen a lot. Castoff covered the walls and ceilings and decapitated infected bled out in dark, congealed pools. Their heads had been flung from their bodies except for one, which remained stuck in the chainsaw by its hair.

John pushed open a nearby door which hung slightly open and recoiled from the sight of the bald-headed child shot through the forehead. Her remains had been treated with care and respect, and she lay wrapped in a blanket as though someone were coming back for her.

“Oh, God.”

He moved around the foot of the bed and gasped at the sight of the familiar pair of cowboy boots.

“No, no, no.” He rushed over to Frank’s body and immediately tried to find a pulse. “Frank, can you hear me?” He felt around the side of the elderly man’s wrinkled neck and found nothing. He had bled out and died from a single gunshot wound. John picked up the pistol tucked under Frank’s leg and checked it for ammunition. There was a single bullet left.

He lowered Frank’s eyelids and said a silent prayer. For the first time that he could remember, Frank’s expression was without worry or pain. He recalled their conversation about how so many dead went without burial and how none of them made it back to their family plots. Frank had gone through hell to get Holly’s body buried near her mother’s and John owed him at least that for helping save his life.

He righted the toppled wheelchair and put on the breaks, facing the chair toward Frank. He hooked his arms under Frank’s armpits and lifted, careful to avoid pulling his stitches. Frank was even lighter than he expected, having sustained on cigarettes and whiskey, both of which John could smell even with so many rotting dead just outside in the hallway. He lifted Frank’s feet onto the rests and pushed him out the door. The tires went through the drying blood and left two thin trails down the white tile.

He kept his head down in reflection and only looked up when he reached the atrium and the elevator chimed. A scruffy man wearing full camouflage stepped out of the car holding Amelie.

“Zach? Is that you?”

Zach looked stunned. “John? What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing with Amelie?” John reached around his back to grab the gun from his waistband.

“Stop right there. Show me your hands.”

John hadn’t seen the gun tucked beneath the baby. “Zach, come on. It’s me. How much did I help you try to get Allison back?” He could see he struck a nerve. “She’s here, isn’t she?” Zach didn’t answer. “Oh my God, Nixon, too. You can’t do this. You can’t take her to him.” He moved from behind the wheelchair and held out his arms. “She’s got to be starving and Miranda’s worried sick. Please, give her to me.”

“I can’t do that,” Zach said. “Allison needs the cure. Without her,” he trembled as he looked down at Amelie, “Allison’s as good as dead.”

John took another step, seeing no other choice but to try to disarm him. “There’s another way.” He tried to placate him. “A better way. Where’s Michael?”

“Michael Waters?”

“How many Michael’s could there be here? Clearly you’ve seen him. He has the cure, Zach. That’s why he came here. He needed the equipment to finish it. You don’t need the baby. Please, Nixon’s going to hurt her. Give her to me.”

“Do what he says.” Scott stepped out of the stairwell and aimed his pistol at Zach’s head. “I won’t let you hurt her. John’s right, if Allison can be saved, Michael’s the one to do it.”

Zach looked back and forth between them.

John took the gun from his waistband. “There’s no way you’re going to walk away from here if we don’t let you.”

Zach sighed and held Amelie out for someone to take her.

“Smart move,” Scott said. “John, Miranda’s on the second floor. She’s in a room near this main stairwell and she has my gun, but Nixon’s there, too. Get Amelie to Miranda and lock the door. I have something to take care of.”

John looked at the wheelchair. “What about Frank? I can’t leave him here.”

Scott nodded in agreement. “I’ll take him out to the truck. It’s the least I can do.”

John took Amelie from Zach and she started to cry. He’d never held such a small baby in his life and struggled to find a comfortable way to hold her.

Zach reached behind him and pushed the elevator call button. The door opened immediately.

Scott tilted his head and lowered his pistol. “And where are you going?”

“To the last place I saw Michael, and he better have a cure.”

Michael’s swollen eyes burned and fresh tears rolled down his cheek, but the critical part of him, the physician in him, functioned automatically. The man on his knees in front of him needed saving, and as much as it made his heart ache, Adam was gone. Priority went to those with a chance of survival.

He helped the man in the familiar, blue uniform to his feet and looked him over for bite marks.

“Follow me.” He carried Adam back to the lab where he’d left the supplies, hoping the virus would hold off, and that, this time, the cure would work. He laid Adam gently inside the trunk where his remains would be safe until he could bury him.

The tattooed man collapsed on the floor, shivering.

“Can you tell me your name?” Michael asked as a test of cognition.

“Reid,” the man whispered. His teeth chattered and he crossed one arm over his chest. The other appeared injured and set at an odd angle.

Michael recognized the name. He lifted Reid’s eyelid and shined a light into his eyes, which shimmered like fish scales. Beneath the discolored cornea, the pupil still responded. He set his fingers to the side of Reid’s thick neck, below the pistol tattoo, and found a weak pulse. He prepared an identical dose of the combination he treated Adam with, loaded it into a fresh syringe, and knelt on the floor.

“Hang in there.”

He rolled up Reid’s sleeve, struggling to get the sweat-soaked cotton over his large bicep, and secured a tourniquet. He wiped the injection site with an alcohol swab and easily found a vein. Unlike with Adam, Reid’s blood still circulated, meaning quicker, systemic distribution. Michael inserted the tip of the needle, drew a tiny amount of blood into the syringe, and pushed the cure in.

The effects were obvious and quick.

The shivering stopped almost immediately, as did the profuse sweating. Michael put his stethoscope in his ears and listened as Reid’s breathing cleared and his heartbeat recovered in strength and speed. The color returned to Reid’s face and Michael squeezed his fingertips, checking his nails as a test of blood flow.

All signs were that the virus had not only stopped, but was reversed within minutes.

Reid stared at the ceiling, one arm across him and the other at his side. He drew several slow breaths and rolled his green eyes in Michael’s direction.

“How do you feel?” Michael asked.

Reid cleared his throat and answered, “Human.”

* * * * *

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that.” Zach stood outside the lab and, again, held Michael at gunpoint. “You’re coming with me.”

“Where’s the baby?” Michael asked. “What did you do with her?”

“She’s safe, which is more than I can say for you if you don’t get moving.”

Reid sat up and cradled his injured arm. “Zach Keller. Wish I could say I was glad to see you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Reid. Believe me. Let’s go.” He waved the gun for Michael to hurry. “Get what you need to do whatever you did to him, again.”

“We don’t know that it’s permanent. I need time. I’m not sure there’s enough…”

Zach pressed the pistol to Michael’s temple. “I’m not asking.”

Reid made like he was about to reach for a weapon and Zach turned his gun on him. “Nixon wants you dead. I don’t think that’s news. I’m just looking for a reason to shoot you.”

Reid smirked. “What’s the reason not to?”

“I don’t like being told what to do. Get your hands up. Let’s go.” Zach moved out of the way of the bloody tissue and needles. “What of this do you need?”

Michael looked at the closed trunk and the cardboard box on the examination table. “Almost all of it.” He collected some things and put others inside a small metal refrigerator or freezer which hummed on top of the counter. “I have enough mixed for one more dose. The rest, I have to prepare.”

“Then I suggest you don’t get bit.” Zach marched Michael out ahead of him and called the elevator. He didn’t care about Reid, anymore. Not really. He was in too bad of shape to be any threat, and Allison was his more immediate concern.

The elevator door opened and Zach held the door. “What’s in the trunk?” he asked.

Michael secured the lock. “My son.”

Zach remembered the small boy on the table and stopped short of asking for an explanation. The door started to close and Reid stuck his hand through to stop it.

“You never asked how I got infected.” He spoke directly to Michael, who only raised his eyebrows in response. “I don’t guess it mattered at the time, but I wasn’t bit. Nixon injected the virus into me.”

Zach sighed. “Not his first time with that trick.”

Reid pulled his arm until his shoulder popped back into place. “Definitely not, but I plan on making it his last.”

Michael stood with Zach and Reid outside of Allison’s room. A low buzzing noise came from a trash can with a red bag inside marked “Biohazard”. The smell bordered on unbearable.

“The door is locked.”

“I think Nixon has the keys,” said Zach.

Reid, who seemed to have recovered completely from the infection, pushed Zach aside. “Not
only
Nixon.” He jingled his keys, unlocked the room, and pushed the door open.

Allison lay unconscious on the bed. Blood seeped through the thick white bandages on both of her feet and stained the blanket covering her.

“How long has she been like this?” Michael asked.

Zach shook his head. “Which
this
are you talking about? The toes, she lost a couple of days ago. The unconsciousness, several hours, but Nixon sedated her. The infection, she’s had for the better part of a year.”

Michael drew his eyebrows together. “A year? How is that possible?” He wiped the sweat from Allison’s face with the blanket. She was burning up and her skin felt coated in wax. He lifted her eyelid and shined a light in her eye. Her cornea was too opaque to see so much as a hint of its color. He set two fingers to the side of her neck and found a weak pulse. “She’s alive, but barely.” He readied a syringe with the same combination that had worked on Reid and tied a tourniquet around her arm. Her pale skin told a long story of abuse with its needle marks and scars. He tapped her arm and settled for a thin vein he prayed wouldn’t immediately collapse.

Zach lowered the side rail and sat next to her. He held her hand and sniffled. “What are her chances?”

Michael stuck the needle through her skin and drew a tiny amount of blood into the syringe to make sure he was in the vein. “I honestly don’t know.” He depressed the plunger and wiped the tiny blood spot from her arm. “There’s a lot more going on with her than the infection. Here, give me a hand.”

Zach lifted the railing back into place and uncovered Allison’s feet.

Michael set a roll of fresh bandaging material on the bed, put on a pair of gloves, and unwrapped her left foot. “What happened here?” The blood became thicker, congealed the closer he got to the wound and he was mindful of the infection.

“Frostbite,” Zach said. “Nixon amputated her toes because of gangrene.”

Michael shook his head, unsure of whether or not he agreed with that decision. He looked at the rough wound, the site already showing signs of infection, and held pressure on it to slow the bleeding.  Blood leeched through the tissues and spilled down her foot onto the bed. He reapplied a thicker compression dressing and decided it best to leave the other foot alone. Releasing the pressure had only made things worse. “We need to get her started on antibiotics.” He considered the condition of her veins and decided it best to wait until she could swallow a pill. An I.V. was nearly out of the question. He re-examined her eyes and sighed, relieved when a rim of blue appeared through the white.

“She’s responding to the treatment.”

Her pulse felt stronger and he listened to her heartbeat and lungs. The cure worked quickly for those who hadn’t yet completely turned. His mind started processing the data, thinking about practical application, and what it meant outside of Strandville.

“How long is she going to be out like this?” Zach asked.

Michael shrugged. “I don’t know what sedative Nixon gave her, when, or how much and I’m not entirely sure she isn’t in shock.” He turned his head at the sound of footsteps. “Speaking of which, where
is
Nixon?”

Zach looked around the room. “Better question yet, where’s Reid?”

Blood poured from Nixon’s finger and the bite wound festered beneath the meager bandage. Sweat ran down his face and his leg muscles clenched then released, making it painful and awkward to walk. He had checked every place he could think of for the antivirus and feared he hadn’t the strength to go elsewhere. He pressed his back against the cold wall and slid to the floor.

The room spun and he held his hands to his head, though that didn’t stop it.

Memories of the earliest days with the infected, when he taunted and tortured them, flooded him. He had wrongly considered himself untouchable.

The virus knew no prejudice.

He rolled onto his knees, determined to fight back.

A spasm caused his back to arch and forceful vomit poured from his mouth onto the floor. He heaved and spat, losing control of his bodily functions. Warm urine trickled down his legs and he was lucid enough to feel the shame of his body refusing to obey his mind. He grabbed the bed’s side rail and pulled himself up with the last of his diminishing strength.

“One more room,” he whispered, closing his eyes and drawing a ragged breath.

“And then what?”

Max Reid stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Oh, thank God.”

Reid entered the room and closed the door behind him. “I wouldn’t thank anyone just yet.” His attention turned to something stowed underneath the gurney. “Get on the bed.”

“What’re you doing?” The
glug-glug
of Nixon’s heartbeat muffled the sound of his voice in his ears.

“What someone should’ve done a long time ago.” Reid pulled the pistol from the back of his pants and tapped the sight.

Nixon looked down at the red dot of light on his knee.
Everything had come full circle.
“Max, don’t do this. You need me. You need the cure.”

Reid pulled an empty syringe from his pocket, similar to the ones used for the antivirus, but larger and with blue plastic surrounding the needle instead of green. Nixon noted the difference.

“You mean
this
cure?” Reid asked.

Nixon shook his head, holding back tears which were on the verge of falling. “No, that can’t be.” He coughed into his hand and spattered it with blood.

“Oh, it can. I’ve been where you are right now, Doc, that shitty place where it hurts to take a breath. Your head’s pounding and you can’t see straight. Maybe, you even piss your pants, though I can’t say I got to that point.” Reid smirked. “You were right about that baby, though, the one whose blood you stuck me with. It wasn’t Miranda’s, but hers is here. Michael Waters, too. Remember him? He finished your work.
He
found the cure.”

“That’s my research, goddammit.” It took all of Nixon’s strength to argue.

Reid smiled. “That’s not what the rest of the world will think. It’s gotta hurt knowing he’s going to look like a savior, like a
genius
, and no one will even know who you are.”

“What do you want?” Nixon whispered. “What’s it going to take for you to help me?”

“You’re out of bargaining chips,” Reid said. “What I want now is payback.”

Nixon dropped to his knees and lowered his head. Every bone in his body ached and he could barely see. He couldn’t fight Reid off and he didn’t have the strength to escape him. His fate was sealed. “Do it,” he said, in a moment of complete and utter desperation. “Kill me.”

Reid shook his head and clucked his tongue. He tucked his pistol away and lifted Nixon by the front of his lab coat.

Nixon’s feet went out from underneath him and he clawed at Reid, trying to get free.

Reid shoved him onto the bed and grabbed the restraints from underneath it. “Bet you wish you didn’t have so many of these lying around.” He fastened Nixon’s left wrist to the railing. “How many people have you tied down knowing there was no way out?”

Nixon reached for the restraint and Reid dealt a sharp blow to his chin, sending his head backward. He fell against the pillow and was unable to get up.

Reid restrained his other wrist and then his ankles. “This fuckin’ virus of yours, takes everything out of you, doesn’t it. I had never wanted to die so bad in my life. You fight and you fight, but it’s stronger than you. It burns you up from the inside. The way your eyes have gone almost completely white, you’re close to dead already. You can barely see me, can you?” Nixon blinked, unwilling to answer. Reid pulled a syringe of antivirus from the same pocket that had held the cure. “This little push was enough to keep me going until competent help arrived. Unlike you who’s been stumbling around for months with nothing to show for it. Michael did what you couldn’t. Problem is, to feel better, I mean really better, you need a full shot—sometimes two.” He stuck the needle through Nixon’s sleeve into his arm, and with the pain he was already in, he barely felt the pinch. “I’m going to let you have this last shot a few drops at a time,” Reid said. “It’s not enough to alleviate any of the pain or the fear you’re feeling right now, but it’s enough to keep you going. It’s enough to keep you wanting death more than anything and it lets me drag this out until I feel better about what you did to me.”