City of the Dead (16 page)

"Not all of us did."

Jim nodded, his thoughts on Martin. He still couldn't believe that the old preacher was gone. He felt in his pocket for Martin's bible, reassuring himself that it was still there.

They were quiet while Stern checked Danny over. Then the doctor turned back to Jim.

"Do either of you have any medical conditions I need to know about?"

"Like what?"

"Epilepsy? Diabetes? Things like that? Allergies, perhaps?"

Jim thought the question was strange, but answered truthfully. "No. Danny's allergic to bee stings, but that's about it."

"How about drug allergies? Penicillin?"

"None that I know of."

Stern wrote the information down and placed it in a folder with Jim and Danny's names handwritten on them. Then he handed it to the nurse.

143 "Kelli, could you file these for me, and then check on Dr. Maynard?"

"Sure thing, Dr. Stern."

"What's that?" Jim asked.

"Your medical records," the doctor answered. "If you're going to be members of our little community, then I'll be your doctor."

"Oh." It seemed strange to Jim. Things like regular doctors visits and paying the bills and driving to the grocery store and watching football on Sunday seemed like dreams-a distant past. Life had become nothing but running from hiding place to hiding place, surrounded by the dead; a constant battle simply to stay alive. He struggled with the adjustment.

Kelli walked out of the room, files tucked under her arm. Quinn turned and watched her ass, smiling to himself.

Dr. Stern stepped back. "Well, Danny, you seem to be in fine shape, if a little dehydrated."

"What's that mean?" Danny asked.

"It means you need some water. And I bet you're hungry too."

The boy nodded.

"Well," the doctor reached into a drawer and pulled out a lollipop, "you can start with this, I suppose. In a few minutes, we'll show you gentlemen to your room. If your father is feeling up to it, we'll show him where the cafeteria is. Then you can get some real food. I bet you like pancakes, don't you?"

Danny's eyes lit up. "Yeah!"

"Then you'll like what we're having for breakfast. But I don't want you to eat too many of them, okay? You need to start out slow."

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Smiling, he handed Danny the lollipop and then turned to Jim.

"Is he going to be okay?" Jim asked.

"He'll be fine." The doctor lowered his voice. "I don't think we need to run an IV, but we do need to get some fluids into him. And some food. But all in all, he'll be okay. There's no sign of reactive psychogenic shock."

"What's that?"

"It's something that happens when a human body is exposed to high levels of fear or stress. Your pulse increases but your blood pressure drops. Physically, your son is in good shape, all things considered. He has no infections or wounds. No physical damage, other than the slight dehydration. It's really quite remarkable, Mr. Thurmond. Things could have been a lot worse. Be thankful that you got to him when you did. How long was he alone?"

"A week."

The doctor's hushed tones became a whisper.

"I don't imagine his hair was turning that color when you last saw him either."

"No." Jim's voice cracked.

Stern placed a hand on Jim's good shoulder and squeezed. "Well, he's a resilient young man, much like his father. Frankly, I'm amazed. The Big Apple is rotting-literally. Just the biological threat from those things down there alone is enough to make you both sicker than you are-not to mention the wounds you've suffered. We know of a group that was hiding out in a publisher's building on Broadway. One zombie managed to get inside. They destroyed it before it could murder any of them, but the disease on the corpse killed them all within days."

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Jim whistled. "I never even considered that, and I've had some pretty close contact with these things."

"You're very lucky. This other group wasn't."

"How did you stay in contact with them?"

"Radio," Quinn said. "Hell, they radioed us even after they were dead."

Stern put his pen back in his shirt pocket. "I think you'll both be okay, though I want to keep an eye on that shoulder of yours. I'm giving you some strong antibiotics to help with the infection, but both of you are to take it easy for at least a week. Everyone pulls their own weight here, and you'll have plenty to do soon, depending upon your skills-so think of this as a one-week vacation."

Jim nodded.

"Besides," Stern said softly, "I imagine you'd like to spend some time with your son."

Jim blinked the tears away. "You don't know how bad."

"Believe me, Mr. Thurmond, I do."

"If you guys don't mind," Quinn said, "I'm going to hit the sack. Been up for over twenty-four hours now and I'm pretty wiped out."

Jim stood up and shook the pilot's hand.

"I just want to thank you again for saving us. If you and your partner hadn't shown up when you did-well, let's just say I thought we were done for."

"Don't sweat it. Besides, we almost killed you ourselves with the U.B.R.D."

"What the hell is that thing anyway? My head still hurts from it."

"A remarkable device," Stern breathed. "Basically, it utilizes ultrasonic sound as a weapon."

"The doc can explain it better than me," Quinn said,

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"so I'll let him take over. I'm sure we'll see each other around. This building is big, but it ain't that big. See ya, Danny!"

Danny waved. His fingers and mouth were stained red from the lollipop.

"Bye, Mr. Quinn! Thank you for helping us."

After he left, Jim turned to the doctor.

"So it's a weapon?"

"Oh, yes," Stern replied, "and a very useful one at that. The technology was a safety feature, used to keep birds away from aircraft, farms, buildings, and such. They are very sensitive to sound, you see, much more so than a human or even a dog. It's really quite extraordinary. They have a strong hearing ability. It assists them while hunting and helps them communicate with each other while in flight. Our device turns that strength into a weakness."

"You're telling me it gives them an ear ache?"

The doctor chuckled. "Not quite. It does much more than that. Ultrasonic sound creates extreme heat, and disrupts the nerves when played at a high frequency. It actually damages the living cells in a body. In the case of the birds, because of their sensitivity to sound, the mechanism's effects are greatly magnified. The stress forces them to flee. That's how it was used in commercial and military aviation. In our case, we simply cranked it up a notch, to use one of my grandson's favorite expressions. We broadcast at 1MHz, which virtually destroys a zombie bird's brain, and thus, destroys the zombie itself."

"But why?" Jim asked. "Why does it work on just the birds and not the other zombies? And I thought you said it only worked on living cells?"

"As for why it works on their brains even when the cells are dead-we can only speculate. These things,

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whatever they may be, seem to originate in their host's brain. It is my theory, and the theory of my associate, Dr. Maynard, who I'm sure you'll meet later, that deep within the host's brain, these entities may reactivate some of those dead cells and tissue. That's what gives them their mobility and reasoning capacity. The U.B.R.D. causes a loss of function in those reactivated cells inside a zombie bird's brain because of that sensitivity to sound, and because of the placement of their ears in relation to their brains."

Danny watched his father and the doctor talk. His eyes never left Jim.

"Going back to your first question," Stern continued, "we simply don't know. The effect is sporadic on the human zombies-it acts as a deterrent, but it doesn't incapacitate or destroy them. Probably because they don't have the same sound sensitivity that a bird's body does. It just isn't effective for a large-scale assault against any other creature."

"Seems like it would be," Jim mused. "I sure as hell felt it on that rooftop."

"We tried, of course. Both of our helicopters were outfitted with the devices. The first one flew over the city, using the U.B.R.D. in the streets below its flight path. The zombies did indeed fall back, and it even seemed to damage some of them, but not enough."

He paused.

"What happened exactly?" Jim asked.

Stern sighed. "The zombies had a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. They shot down the chopper while it was conducting the experiment. All onboard were killed. After that, Bates and Mr. Ramsey decided to limit its use to only the birds, since it proved effective on them."

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Finished with his lollipop, Danny began to grow restless. He swung his legs back and forth beneath the examination table. The white paper covering it rustled.

"Who are Bates and Ramsey?" Jim asked.

The doctor arched an eyebrow. "Surely, you've heard of Darren Ramsey?"

"The billionaire developer?" Jim asked. "The one with his own board game and books and a reality series on TV?"

"That's him. He is our host. In fact, he designed this building. I'm sure you'll meet him soon."

"Wonderful," Jim drawled, his voice thick with sarcasm.

"I take it that you're not a fan?"

"Truthfully, doctor? I always thought he was a jerk. Just another rich yuppie with too much power and too much time on his hands." Jim immediately wished he hadn't said that, but he'd never been good at censoring himself when he was tired.

Stern smiled. "Well, he certainly has both. Especially now."

"So who's this Bates you mentioned?"

"Mr. Ramsey's personal assistant and bodyguard. A very good fellow to know-but a dangerous one as well. We all feel a lot safer with him in charge of security."

"This place is pretty secure? Even with all of those zombies out there?"

"According to Mr. Ramsey, it's impregnable, and I must say that I'm convinced. Those things outside have made numerous attempts to get inside, but so far they haven't succeeded. We're safe here-safer than anywhere else, at least."

"As long as we don't go outside?"

"We've no reason to. We have our own electricity and

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our own air. There's plenty of food and water and medical supplies. We can withstand a long siege."

"Why don't they just burn it down?"

"They've tried." The doctor snorted. "They've also attempted grenade and rocket attacks, swarming us with birds and rats, scaling the walls, landing a helicopter on the roof. We've repelled every attack. Trust me, Mr. Thurmond. You and your boy are safe here. So are your friends."

"Don and Frankie!" Jim exclaimed, slapping his forehead with his palm. He winced-the action making his head throb again. "I'd almost forgotten about them. How are they?"

"Mr. De Santos suffered some contusions but otherwise, he's been given a clean bill of health."

"And Frankie?"

"My associate, Dr. Maynard, is examining her now. I imagine he'll start her on codeine or ibuprofen for the pain, and streptomycin or penicillin for the infection from her wounds. I'm sure your friend will come through just fine, as well."

Nurse Kelli dashed back in the room, breathless.

"You'd better come quick!"

"Maybe you didn't understand me the first time," Frankie spat, her hand wrapped around the fat doctor's throat. "I said you're not sticking me with any fucking needles!"

Dr. Maynard's eyes bulged and spittle flew from his lips.

"Young ... lady ... I... must ... insist ..."

"Frankie!" Don ran over to the hospital bed and grappled with her. "Frankie, stop it. You'll kill him."

"No shit, Don. That's what I'm trying to do."

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"He just wants to help you."

"He's not sticking me with that needle!"

"Can't ... breathe ..." Dr. Maynard turned purple and the veins bulged in his cheeks.

Don struggled to break her grip.

"Listen to me, Frankie."

"No! You don't understand." Her eyes were huge, her pupils dilated. Mucous ran from her nostrils as she trembled with shock.

The door opened. Don turned to see Jim, Danny, a nurse, and another doctor in a white lab coat staring in open-mouthed astonishment.

"Get over here and help me," he grunted. "She's killing him!"

"Can't..." Maynard wheezed, "br ..."

"Frankie!" Jim ran over to the bed and helped Don pull her off.

Dr. Maynard collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. His fingers probed the bruises on his throat.

"She-she tried to kill me," he retched.

"Frankie, what the hell is wrong with you?" Jim asked.

"She just snapped," Don told him. "One minute she was fine. Then she saw that needle in his hand and all hell broke loose."

"Jim," Frankie panted, "don't let him stick me. No needles. Please? I helped you. Now I'm ... I'm ... asking ..."

Her eyes rolled up into her head, and she collapsed back on to the bed, unconscious.

Don turned to Jim. "She doesn't like needles?"

"I guess not. I think-she may have had a problem with heroin at one point. There's track marks on her arms. Scars."

Danny watched from the doorway.

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"Is Frankie going to be okay, Daddy?"

"I think so, squirt. She was just tired. That's all." He tried to sound casual and thought he did a pretty good job-but inwardly he felt disturbed that Danny had been exposed to the scene. Sure, this was nothing compared to everything else the boy had experienced, but that didn't make it right.

Dr. Stern helped Maynard to his feet.

"That cunt," Maynard snarled. "I can't believe that she-"

Jim was in his face before he could finish.

"Mister, we appreciate all that you folks have done for us. But if I ever hear you call her that again, you'll be the one that gets knocked out. Do you understand me?"

Maynard blinked, and then mumbled an apology under his breath.

Don frowned. "Hell of a bedside manner you've got there, doc."

Stern tried to sooth them. "We're all under a bit of stress. Let's just calm down, shall we?"

"Yeah, sure," Jim grumbled. "Whatever."