Infected (7 page)

“Get this bastard off me,” Weiss said.

Max came into the room and pulled the fat man off of him. Weiss got to his feet and said to Lori, “Are you okay?”

The front of her lab coat looked as if she'd spilled red jelly all over it, but he recognized the mess as blood and brains. Her chest heaved and she let the hammer slip from her hand and clatter on the floor. She pressed herself into Weiss' arms and he hugged her close.

He took a peek over his shoulder at the dead man, whose head looked like it had been squeezed in some sort of industrial press. He had to get Lori out of the hospital.

Maria had thought her ER rotation had been bad, seeing a man with a knife jutting from his neck, blood pumping like it came from a squirt gun. But it had been nothing compared to what she had run from in the ICU. All she could think about was Jake, her twelve-year-old son. He was home alone right now, probably watching
The Walking Dead
and chowing down on the chocolate cookies she'd told him not to eat. She wanted nothing more than to kiss the top of his head. He'd let her do that when she walked by, even if he bristled at hugs. Too big and cool to kiss Mom.

She'd get home to him. No question. But she couldn't leave other patients without warning them. She got off the elevator on eight, which was the surgical floor.  There was a young nurse with a mop of curly red hair at the nurses' station. Her ID badge indicated her name was Hannah McGuire. “How many patients up here?”

“Just one, why?”

“You heard the code over the loudspeaker?” Maria asked.

“Who wouldn't?”

“We need to get your patient out of here. There's something loose in the hospital.”

The woman shook her head. “What do you mean?”

She was about to say something that would qualify her for a stay in the psych ward. “This flu. It's causing people to come back from the dead. They're violent. I just escaped one down in ICU.”

“What happened to them?”

“I don't know. I didn't look back. Is there anyone up in peds?”

“I'll call up there.”

Hannah picked up the phone and dialed the extension for peds. She looked up at Maria and said, “They've got one patient up there.”

“If they can move the patient, bring them down here. Then we'll move them out.”

Hannah gave the instructions, hung up, and said they'd bring the patient down.  Being a small town hospital had its benefits, one of them being they had times where there were few patients.  Less to protect.

Maria introduced herself and Hannah gave her a quick smile.

“Where's your patient?”

“This way.”

They went through a set of double doors and down the corridor to room eight fifteen where a plump, gray-haired woman was reading a
People
magazine. She had a dour expression on her face, one Maria associated with stern school librarians.

Hannah said, “Evening Cynthia.  This is Cynthia Stone. Knee surgery.”

“You already gave me my meds. What do you want?”

“We need to get you out of here. There's some dangerous people loose in the hospital,” Maria said.

“Can't security handle it?” Cynthia said, looking at her magazine.

“Afraid not. I'll get a wheelchair,” Maria said.

“I'm not going anywhere. My knee hurts like a bitch.”

This was going to be pleasant, Maria thought. But she left the room with a fake smile plastered on her face. She just wanted out of here.

Emma and George stepped off the elevator to find a body of a man on the floor. He was dressed in blood-soaked scrubs. Half the skin was missing from the man's cheek, the bone visible through the wound.

“Looks like our friends have been here,” Emma said.

“God, that's friggin' horrible,” George said.

They stepped around the body and moved down the hallway. Emma saw a sign that read
Blood Lab
and an arrow that pointed further down the hallway. Hopefully the blood lab staff faired better than this poor guy. They passed several doors, and trying them, Emma and George found they were locked.

They reached the end of the hallway and followed another sign to the blood lab. A frosted glass door read
Blood Lab.
Emma nodded, indicating George should open the door. She raised the shotgun. He swung the door open and they entered a waiting room. There was high counter where the receptionist would sit and a row of folding chairs against the opposite wall.

A larger, wooden door led into the actual laboratory. So far there were no dead people. Always a good sign not to find stiffs. They went into the lab itself, down a narrow corridor with patient rooms on either side. Each of those were empty.

The actual lab was at the end of the hallway. People didn't fare so well here. Two more bodies, both female. Their lab coats had been white at one time. The amount of blood that had soaked into the fabric made it looked dyed red. They were both sprawled on the floor.

“I think our sweep is done on this floor,” Emma said.

“Smells like a slaughterhouse,” George said.

“You ever actually been to one?” Emma said.

“If I was, this is how it would smell.”

“Fair enough,” Emma said.

Emma heard a door slam; someone had entered the hallway.  They crept out of the lab, each of them taking a side of the hallway so they wouldn't be in each other's field of fire. Buckshot in her ass would not improve the evening.  

Someone stepped from one of the patient rooms. Emma recognized him as the dead guy from the hallway. His skin reminded Emma of old cheese. His eyes were dead and white.

After a moment, it seemed to notice them and came forward. Emma aimed and fired, the dead man's head exploding and showering the walls with gore. The man stumbled and slumped against the wall.

“C'mon. We got the rest of the hospital to cover,” Emma said.

They walked around the dead man and were nearly to the waiting room when Emma heard footsteps slapping the floor. Someone jumped on George's back and drove him forward. She spun around to see a second person – one of the dead lab techs – coming at her. She drove the butt of the shotgun into the woman's face, driving her backward. Then she blasted her in the face.

She turned to see the other dead tech gnawing at George's neck. She slammed the shotgun into the tech's head, but she didn't budge. Emma grabbed her by the hair, slicked with blood. She pulled the howling woman backward, both of them ending up on their asses. The woman lunged for Emma, but George got there, slamming a boot into her head. He proceeded to beat the zombie's head in with his shotgun stock. When he was done, he stood panting, his uniform shirt specked with blood.

“You okay, boss?” George asked.

“I'm in one piece. Your neck, George. Shit.”

Blood dribbled from a cut on his neck. It wasn't that bad, but she worried that the bite may have transmitted the virus.

He touched his hand to the wound, then looked at the blood. “Not so bad. Hope it doesn't make me sick.”

“Yeah, hate to have to shoot you.”

“You do, just make it clean.”

They were joking, but Emma was scared to death that it might become a reality.

Chapter Eleven

Lieutenant Matt Stamford had a crick in his neck and was sure the quick teeth brushing he did hadn't done a thing to kill sleep breath. He'd been woken up by one of the Colonel's staff and was presently hoofing it over to the boss's office. Something about trouble in a small town upstate.

He arrived in Colonel Chadwick's office to find the man sipping something from a styrofoam cup. He entered, saluted. The Colonel gave him a tired salute back.

“Stamford. You want some coffee?”

“No sir.”

Even at this time of night, the Colonel was squared away. Uniform sharp as a sword and not a hint of stubble on his face.

“Sit down.”

Stamford took a seat across from Chadwick's desk. On the desk was a picture of two incredibly beautiful girls of about nineteen.  “What's up sir?”

“We got a call from a cop down in Anderson. They've got some sort of mutant-things running around down there.”

“Sir?”

“I would've thought it was bullshit, but we had an issue down there a little while back. Some sort of bio weapons project they were transporting got loose. I don't know much about it, but from what command tells me, it's our problem to clean up.”

Chadwick knocked back the rest of his drink and threw the cup into the trash.

Stamford actually had a little tingle of excitement in his guts. He felt like he was rotting away on this base. After being sent back from Iraq, he'd been stationed here. He'd wanted to get into Special Forces, but didn't meet the requirements. He was single and had no family on the base, so most of his nights were spent watching Discovery Channel. Sometimes the occasional skin flick on cable. Some action would be welcome.

“What do you need me to do?”

“We're getting a chopper ready to go. I need you to take a squad in there and see what the hell's going on. It's a three hour drive to Anderson and people will need our help. I need you to assess the situation and give me a recommendation.”

“Recommendation sir?”

“Whether or not we need to open a bottle of whoop ass down there. Casualties, that sort of stuff. Get any civilians out of harm's way.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Get squared away and be ready to go in a half hour. Chopper and your men'll be waiting.”

“Yes sir,” Stamford said, and stood up.

“This is probably gonna be nothing like you saw in Iraq. Be prepared.”

“What am I up against?”

“From what I know, this project causes people to...reanimate. It was part of a weapons project designed to be dropped in enemy territory. The dead come back. They change. Extremely hostile. It was designed to be dropped in areas with heavy casualties, turn the enemy's dead against them.”

“Holy shit.”

“My sentiments exactly. I'd shoot for the head. Be sure it brings them down.”

A half-hour later, Stamford was climbing into a Blackhawk chopper with his squad. He had his M-16 ready to go. He had no idea what to expect. In Iraq, he'd killed two men. One an Iraqi regular and one an insurgent that had ambushed their convoy. He still could see every detail on both the men's faces. Often he saw them in his dreams.

He sat next to Chris Sampson, who was carrying the M-249 SAW. It had enough ammo in it to cut down a small army of whatever they were up against. He wanted to think zombies, but that sounded fucking crazy.

“You ready for this Lieutenant?”

“Flying into a horror movie you mean?”

Sampson was from Alabama, a blond-haired kid with a slow drawl. He loved Alabama football, evidenced by the crimson tide tattoo on his forearm. He had served with Stamford in Fallujah and promised if they ever got out alive, he would have his mother make them an honest-to-God Southern meal. Stamford was looking forward to it. Someday.

“About like that, yeah.”

“Beats sitting on my ass watching cable.”

As the chopper lifted off he scanned the men's faces. A few had their eyes closed, perhaps praying. Some looked down at the floor while others' eyeballs did a nervous jig back and forth in the sockets. He supposed each man dealt with fear in their own way. He'd never taken much to praying, although someone had seen fit to send his ass home from Iraq alive.  Supposed there was a God somewhere looking after him.

Although he didn't pray, he hoped God wouldn't take the night off.

“Get out of there,” Tim said.

“I need to get the key off of him.”

“We'll find another way.”

“There's no other way,” Rob said. “I have to kill him.”

“Rob-”

“Gotta go,” Rob said, and ended the call.

He couldn't pinpoint Carl's location, but he could hear the undead man in the hallway. Somewhere. He crept forward, urging Kayla to follow. He crept to the junction in the hallway. If he went right, he'd end up back at the cafeteria. Something crashed in the cafeteria, which told him the janitor – or what was left of him – was in there.

He knelt down and was face-to-face with Kayla. “I have to go in there.”

“No.”

“Listen. That man, or whatever he is, has the key to the van. We need the key,” Rob said. “I don't want you out here by yourself, so I want you to stay close. When I tell you, close your eyes so you don't see. Understand?”

“Uh huh.”

“Good girl,” Rob said.

He stood up and propped open the cafeteria door, Kayla at his hip. There was no sign of the janitor in the cafeteria, only tables that had been tipped over. He crossed the cafeteria, Kayla following close. There was another set of doors opposite the ones he came in. He checked the floor for footprints or any sign of blood and saw none.

The kitchen door flew open and the janitor with came storming at them. Half his head had been turned to jelly. One of his eyeballs hung by a thread on the cheek. Rob told Hannah to close her eyes and plug her ears. He aimed the shotgun and fired. The shot went wide, the buckshot cutting holes in the wall.