Frankenstorm: Survivors (3 page)

“Two.”

He reached behind him and found the door’s handle. He unlocked it, pushed it down, then stepped forward as he opened it.

“Three.”

Corcoran slipped out the door, alone and unarmed, and into the blackness of the windy corridor, resisting the urge to scream.

4

The subbasement of the Springmeier Neuropsychiatric Hospital was like a horror movie set and Ollie didn’t like it, but he shoved that deep down inside of himself and ignored it. After finding Delgado in the stairwell, he’d gotten three of his men to accompany him down to the basement, and they weren’t going back upstairs until every test subject down there was dead.

He’d brought McCoy, Baker, and Axelrod because they hadn’t hesitated to follow orders when they were outside getting the sheriff. When Baker had found the test subject lying in the road—Kaufman had later told Ollie he’d run over the man with his car—trying to crawl away, he’d shot it without pause. He needed men like that with him down in the basement, especially the subbasement, which he had expected to be everything it turned out to be.

Axelrod had already shot one of the test subjects in the basement and their adrenaline was pumping. They were ready for more.

Ollie tried to keep his adrenaline under control as they slowly made their way through the damp darkness, their feet crunching over the rocky dirt floor. He had put his ski mask back on and was glad of it because the light from his headlamp kept glinting off of cobwebs, and with the mask on, he could walk through them without feeling their tingling, sticky touch on his face.

Ollie was about to tell the men to break up and cover more ground, but not to get
too
far apart, when there was a loud crash that made all four of them jump. The sound was immediately followed by an angry voice, and it was coming from somewhere in that inky darkness ahead of them, a darkness so thick that it was heavy and created an almost physical pressure as it closed in from all directions.

They walked around damp pillars and stacks of rotting cardboard boxes and old wooden crates and decayed office furniture and piles of unidentifiable material that formed menacing shapes in the murkiness.

Ollie spotted the source of the noise up ahead. One of the piles of junk had collapsed and someone had been in the way. Even a filing cabinet had toppled over onto the mess. Now there was movement as someone crawled out, chattering angrily.

They gathered on one side of the pile, where an arm was reaching out, pale, bare, and covered with cuts and scratches. Then a head. It was a woman, short and stout. As she rose from the mess in her grimy hospital gown, their headlamp beams revealed a horrible wound in her neck where flesh had been torn away. It had been there a while and was swollen and infected.

“Oh, Jesus, Vera,” Ollie said when he recognized her.

She held up a hand against the light and said, “Who’s that?”

Vera Washington had been homeless for years. Her story was a heartbreaking one, but not uncommon. She’d lost everyone and everything in her life by the time she was forty—her husband, her two children—and after that, she’d forgotten how to live life, how to function properly throughout the day, and she kind of fell apart. She hadn’t spoken to her aging parents for years because they’d refused to attend her wedding and acknowledge her husband, who met with their disapproval. They had no interest in helping her. She lived on the street for a while, then started taking advantage of the local shelters. But she did more than eat and sleep at the shelters; she started pitching in and working at them, helping out, doing whatever needed to be done. Now, that was her life. Working mostly from the Bayview Homeless Shelter, she organized blanket drives and food drives and fund-raisers for all the local shelters. The homeless shelter had become her home and her life. It had given her something around which to build a new life. She had become productive and was the busiest person Ollie knew besides himself who worked for the homeless. She still considered herself a homeless person and always looked like one as she roamed the streets in third-hand clothes looking for new people to bring to the shelter.

“Who
is
that?” she said.

“Oh, Jesus, I’m so sorry, Vera,” he said, shaking his head.

“Ollie?” Her face screwed up as she craned her head forward and squinted at him, shading her eyes from the light with her upheld hand. “Is that
you
, Ollie?”

He turned his head away from her for a moment. He was afraid she might recognize his eyes. He didn’t want her to know it was him because she’d think he was there to help her.

“You!” she said, pointing a finger at him. “
You
, Ollie!
You
were the one who did this to us!
You
were behind this,
weren’t
you?” Spittle flew from her mouth as she spoke.

“What?” Ollie whispered as he watched her face turned into a mask of hatred that was focused on him alone. “I didn’t—”

“You son of a bitch
bastard
you should
die
for doing this to us you
fucker
!”

As she launched into a screaming rant, she swung her left arm back. Her hand was clutching something as she lunged forward and swung the arm in the other direction, slashing at Ollie. It caught his upper arm as he lurched backwards, and hot, searing pain rose in that spot.

Vera kept slashing so fast, he couldn’t see what she had in her hand, but it was sharp enough to draw blood. He felt hot moisture spread immediately on his arm as she caught him across the chest.

The others raised their guns but Ollie shouted, “No!” as he kept jumping backwards to avoid her hand. But he wasn’t talking to them. “I did
not
do this! I came to
stop
it!”

“Lying sack of shit,” Vera growled as she stabbed and slashed at Ollie with what he could now see was a filthy, rusted, old box-cutter. “Fucking
killer
and a
liar
and a—”

Ollie watched her mouth move furiously to form the words, her round, flat face twisted into a venomous look of hatred. For a moment, he was with his father, his gibbering, wasted father who would not let Ollie help him, who would not accept a home, food, money, who angrily rejected everything in favor of his own addiction and insanity. A burning rage rose up in Ollie, hot, bilious frustration and disappointment and guilt lodged in his gullet and he fired his gun. But he fired it again, and again, shouting, not forming words, just releasing all that anger and frustration.

Three bullets put her down.

Ollie said nothing, just stared down at Vera’s body.

“You okay?” Axelrod asked.

Ollie was glad, once again, that he was wearing his mask. They couldn’t see the hot tears running from his eyes.

A rumbling, crashing explosion occurred somewhere in the hospital. It was big, though, big enough for Ollie to feel it in the dirt floor under his feet. It went on for a while and all four of them stopped to listen, looking at each other with concern.

“Sounds like this place is falling apart,” Baker said.

“Jesus Christ,” Ollie said. He coughed, took a deep breath, and said, “I’m gonna have to go up and see what that was. Get the rest of them that are down here and come back upstairs when you’re done.”

“What about Bursell and Castillo?” McCoy said.

“If you find them and they’re okay, bring them up with you. If they’re not okay, then . . . do
not
bring them up with you.”

 

 

“What the hell was
that
?” Emilio said after the rumbling and crashing stopped. He was seated in a chair in Fara’s office.

Fara was getting a blanket from her closet for Sheriff Kaufman when it happened, whatever it was. She stepped out of the closet and said, “That was in the front part of the hospital. It sounded a lot like the last one. A tree.”

“Are there trees in the front?”

“Two huge oaks. One is in the middle of the parking lot, the other’s right in front of the hospital.”

“Sounds like the storm is worse,” Emilio said, listening to the noise outside. “How long does one of these things last, anyway?”

“I don’t know.” She took the blanket to the couch and spread it out over Sheriff Kaufman.

His face was a lumpy collection of small wounds, but they were clean. He stirred occasionally and Fara suspected he was awake, but he kept his eyes closed and said nothing. He didn’t have a fever, but he was feeling cold.

“If that’s not warm enough,” she said, “let me know and I can put some coats on you.”

Fara was wearing her own coat now because it had gotten so cold.

“Are you sure you don’t want a coat, Emilio?” she said. “I can probably find something for you in the closet.”

“No, thanks. When I’m anxious like this, I always feel hot. If I had a coat on, I’d be burning up.”

There was more gunfire in the building, some of it machine gunfire.

“Where the hell is Corcoran?” she said. “He’s been gone too long. He’d better get back before Ollie, or—” She stopped and listened as more rumbling and crashing came from the front of the hospital.

“Another tree?” Emilio said.

“No, that just sounded like . . . something collapsing.”

“Yeah. This building.”

 

 

Eddie Loomis lay screaming in the water in front of the dead, black Springmeier Neuropsychiatric Hospital, but no one heard him.

He’d been in the tree for a long time, listening to the creaking and crackling sounds coming from the trunk as it was battered by the wind. The sounds came and went and didn’t sound too severe, so he’d stayed there and kept scanning the long-dead parking lot through his infrared goggles, looking for movement or something suspicious. He hadn’t seen any since the shooting outside had stopped and that had been hours ago. He was cold and wet and his ass ached from sitting on that branch, but he was determined to follow Ollie’s orders and do his job, which was to sit there and keep watching until they came out of the hospital and headed for the fence. Then he was to climb down and join them. Ollie was the father and brother and coach and friend he’d never had and Eddie wanted to make him happy and help him get his homeless friends out of there.

He’d been sitting there with his left arm hooked around another branch next to him, hanging on tightly as he listened to those creaking and crackling sounds, when he realized the sounds weren’t stopping and the tree was moving in one direction.

He started shouting, “Oh, shit!” over and over again when he saw the broad concrete steps that climbed up to the hospital’s entrance and then the building itself growing larger and realized the tree was going down.

Eddie had frantically started to climb down, but immediately knew that was pointless. With both feet on a branch, he’d launched himself away from the tree as hard as he could. The sound of the tree crashing through the front of the hospital was like the end of the world as he flew through the air, buffeted by the powerful wind, flipping head over heels at some point, all sense of direction gone.

When he made contact with the ground, all he knew was the pain that exploded in his right leg. He could not move the leg, and even moving other parts of his body intensified the pain. It filled his head with explosions of reddish-purple light and moved up his leg like a hot, electrified spike, so excruciating that he was no longer aware that he was screaming.

He lay there alone, screaming in the six inches of water that stood in the old parking lot, as sounds of further collapse continued to come from the damaged building.

 

 

Latrice lost consciousness, but it didn’t feel like she’d been out long. It was like several consecutive frames had been cut from a movie, making it jump ahead in time just a little in a split second.

She’d been standing in Giff’s living room watching the chaos and violence.

Giff and the sheriff’s deputy were still fighting on the floor, but now the deputy had the upper hand and was hunched over Giff, pounding on his face like he was tenderizing a steak.

Miguel was trying to make Mia stop using the fireplace shovel to stab and beat Marcus, who was a bloody, twitching mess. He kept shouting her name as he grabbed her arm, then she would jerk her arm away and go on bludgeoning Marcus until he grabbed her arm again. Without warning, she turned around and lunged at Miguel, rising up from Marcus’s body like an angered cobra and striking by leaping onto Miguel with a shrill scream, knocking him to the floor. Then she took the shovel to him, first pounding his face with the flat back of the spade, which made an ugly, thick, clanking sound against his skull. Then she turned the shovel over in both hands and stabbed with the sharp, straight edge, concentrating on his throat and neck.

And through all of that, Latrice heard another sound, one she did not recognize. It was a high, quavering wail, like an animal in pain, or sick with rabies, or both. Seconds after she recognized it as her own miserable voice, it was all swallowed up by the roar of an approaching monster that stomped on the house with a giant foot made of wood and bark and slapping, clawing branches. The world went dark and fell in on top of them.

That was when everything blinked out for a moment.

Next thing Latrice knew, she was flat on the floor, facedown, coughing because of the dust that filled the air. There were still small sounds of collapse around her. Something made of glass broke.

From somewhere in the house, someone was howling in pain, the voice rising to an agonizing cry. A child cried, and some distant part of Latrice feared for that child’s safety but was unable to voice that fear or act on it.

Someone in the darkness—it sounded like the sheriff’s deputy—laughed long and loud, then said, “Oh, man, fuck
me
, I am havin’ the weirdest fuckin’ night,” and continued laughing.

She tried to get up on her hands and knees, but something big, solid, and heavy prevented her from rising more than six inches off the floor. She crawled forward and was able to move freely. When she tried to get on hands and knees again, she succeeded, and she kept moving forward, shoving things aside when she could, moving around or over them when she couldn’t, but moving slowly.