Infection: Alaskan Undead Apocalypse (6 page)

Neil stopped in the middle of the road, took a deep breath, gripped the steering wheel, and turned sharply into the parking lot, heading straight for the truck. The woman’s assailant was on the passenger side of her truck so that was where Neil aimed his van. His engine growled slightly as he fed it gas and urged it forward quicker and quicker.

He hit the other man, sending him flying out of the parking lot and onto the grass that ran along the highway several feet away. Neil shot a look at the woman who was crawling out of her passenger door. Neil flipped the switch to the lock, but she was already pulling on the handle. Nothing happened. She pulled and pulled again. Neil was unable to do anything. Every time he hit the switch she was pulling. He finally reached across and flipped the lock open manually.

Screaming, she hopped into the door just as the man was getting back up and over to them. Neil now saw that it was a uniform the other man was wearing. It was an apparently battle-worn security guard uniform, and the name patch just above his shiny badge read: Lynus.

“You okay?”

Wild-eyed she demanded, “Just drive! Get us the fuck outta here!”

Neil swung the van around, dragging Lynus through part of the parking lot until the deranged guard fell off, rolling violently away. Just seconds later, Neil and his new passenger were heading south on the Seward Highway making their way toward the Midtown Fred Meyer, which was within sight of them even as they got on the main road. Neil, never taking his eyes off of the road, said, “My name is Neil.”

Chuckling quietly to herself, the woman answered, “Rachel.”

“Why did you laugh?”

She looked over at him and answered, “That’s the name of the guy I was talking to on the phone back there.”

Neil answered with a nod and nothing more. The rest of the drive was highlighted only by the repeating cycle on the radio of the Emergency Broadcast System. It was just under five minutes before they were pulling into the nearly empty parking lot of the big box store. He pulled right up to the front doors and stopped.

Rachel looked at him and asked, “What the hell are we stopping here for...some early Christmas shopping?”

“We need supplies.”

“You think this is going to be some kind of fucking camping trip? We need to go to the police. We need some protection.”

“Listen, I don’t know if you could hear or not, but I think I heard every siren in the city heading toward the hospital. My guess is that there aren’t any police left to help us. And until they can, we’ve got to help ourselves. There is something really weird and really wrong going on right now and what I’d like to do is get out of its way.”

“What’d’ you have in mind?”

Authorities in bunkered hospital offices tried desperately to determine what was happening and what could be done about it. They watched on surveillance cameras as groups of fleeing survivors moved from floor to floor and from department to department. There seemed to be no exits still available. There was also no time to talk or to plan as each door or stairwell that was barricaded was systematically broken down and hordes of attackers poured through. As each new area was abandoned, fewer and fewer members of these groups continued. They were being exterminated little by little.

In one fleeing group, Dr. Caldwell, who had attempted to treat little Martin Houser much earlier that morning, was starting to understand that any bite, regardless of severity or treatment, was lethal. Even more troubling was that he was also beginning to understand that the bites also initiated a biological change in the victim that ultimately led to...the reanimation of dead tissue. It was nearly impossible for him to accept. He was a man of science and healing and this was the stuff of science fiction.

The reanimated victims were only human in appearance, retaining no memory, no faculties aside from basic ambulation and senses, and no restraint or fear. What they did develop, however, was a seemingly insatiable hunger and a ruthless disregard for any sense of compassion. They became, in essence, cannibalistic homicidal machines.

The horrific things he had seen today made his head swim and his stomach turn. Patients, restricted to their beds by injury or illness, were butchered were they lay. Recovery rooms had become hellish smorgasbords. He shuddered to think what had happened to those innocents in the nursery and in the NICU. Maybe the monsters hadn’t made it that far yet. Maybe the security doors had been blocked and had held the mob at bay.

He looked at what remained of their group. There were maybe twenty people with him. They were exhausted and terrified and not sure where they were going to go next. He wasn’t sure on what floor they were, but knew that they couldn’t keep going up indefinitely. Eventually they’d come to the top floor and be trapped. If only they could know where to go or what to do, but even then he could hear the moaning from the stairwell getting louder and closer. They were still being followed. He knew they had to keep moving, but before they did he wanted to do a quick assessment of their group.

There was one police officer with them, though his pistol had proven largely ineffective in even slowing the pursuers, let alone discouraging or stopping the pursuit. There were a couple of maintenance workers in long blue coveralls, some nurses (both male and female), and a collection of administrative personnel such as office clerks and secretaries. Perhaps most troubling, especially if his hypothesis about the effects of the bites was true, there were three members of the group who had been bitten and one of them was starting to look more and more like that little boy from the emergency room, the Houser boy.

He took the police officer aside to express his fears. The officer nodded as he listened but his face twisted in incredulity. He listened to everything the doctor had to say and then asked, “So what are you saying, Doc? Should we leave those three here or just shoot them now?” There was a certain degree of skepticism in the officer’s words but enough seriousness to indicate that the officer was at least aware that these were very serious options that needed to be considered.

Just then, the two of them heard a phone ringing in an open office to their right. It rang three times, then stopped. Then it rang another three times and stopped. As it began to ring again, Dr. Caldwell picked it up and cautiously answered, “Hello? This is Dr. Caldwell.”

“Doctor,” a voice began, “I need you to head to the top floor. Do everything you can to block any and all doors. We’re going to get you out of there, but you have to put some space between you and them. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but how do you—”

“We’ve been keeping an eye on you with the security cameras. The trackers are about two floors down from you but headed your way. We need you to get moving now. Get upstairs as fast as you can, but remember to block the stairs and any doors as well as you can. Do any of the maintenance men with you have their keys on them? Can they lock the doors?”

“No. Their keys don’t work in this tower but we’ll do our best.”

“Doctor, I don’t want to hear that you’ll do your best. We need you to take charge and get those people out of there. Do you understand me?”

“Yessir.”

“Okay, if you get to other phones and need help, call me back at extension 1138.”

“Thanks, but who is this?”

“My name is Simon.”

Owen Hollander, battalion commander for the Anchorage Fire Department, was only vaguely aware of the scale of the chaos in the hospital area. He was acutely aware, however, that Providence Hospital, one of the most important emergency response centers in the city, was burning. The lack of any firm communication from the area caused him even more concern. While he had heard of looting and some possible homicides being committed, he was relatively certain that even looters and murderers would allow a fire engine to pass. Even at their worst, most people recognized the value and benefit of a functioning hospital and would not interfere with firemen trying to do their jobs.

With that in mind, he ordered two engine companies of firefighters to report to the hospital with a third to stand in ready reserve. These men were dispatched within minutes of the onset of the tumult at the hospital. Unfortunately, due to some unforeseen atmospheric interference, he had lost contact with his men shortly after their arrival at the scene. After several attempts using a wide range of tools to re-establish a communication link, he had decided that he and the third engine company would wade into the fray to lend their support to their comrades already engaged.

He climbed into his red sport utility vehicle that served as his command vehicle and led the way. As they got nearer, he saw more and more people running from the scene. It must be worse than he originally thought. There were abandoned police cars on either side of the road and other vehicles scattered here and there, some still in the road with engines idling. The sun was still coming up, so he was unsure what the objects were that were lying about, though they seemed eerily similar to bodies. He was suddenly worried that perhaps there had been a chemical spill of some sort that was posing a respiration hazard. He called back on his radio to the engine following him and voiced his concerns about possible toxic fumes in the air. He and the company chief decided that they needed to press on and would observe the strictest caution in their approach.

They were soon on Providence Drive and only a handful of blocks from the hospital. It was here that things really began to sour. Owen could see the pulsing lights of one of his engines in the distance. It didn’t appear as if it had actually made it to the hospital. He tried to reach his silent teams with his radio and then with his cell phone. Nothing. He was going into the emergency scene completely blind as to what to expect. It was troubling, but he was a firefighter and, as such, was expected to think on his feet and use his better judgment in just such scenarios.

He pressed his accelerator and sped ahead of the more cumbersome fire engine. If he could get a better idea of the nature of the emergency, he might be able to better prepare his men for what to expect. He wasn’t quite sure what to anticipate himself, but for what he saw there was no anticipating.

One of his dispatched fire engines was just around the bend in the road and just short of the hospital. It was sitting slightly off the road with its lights still flashing. The eerie thing about it was that there was no one around. Not a single one of his men could be seen. There were helmets and some other emergency gear scattered around, but no firefighters. He called again on his radio. Still nothing. He slowed his vehicle to get a better look, then lowered his window and called on his radio again. Even from there he could hear his voice come from the radio in the open cab of the large emergency vehicle.

Then he saw a body lying face down on the side of the road, wearing a firefighter’s heavy coat. He slammed on his brakes and leapt from his truck. Instinctively, he put on his helmet and ran across the road to the fallen fireman. Owen ran through his training and followed the proper routine for approaching a potentially injured person in an emergency setting.

He called as he neared him, “Can you hear me? I’m here to help. Are you okay?”

There was no response. He picked up his pace and was almost next to the man when he noticed some movement. A group of screaming, fleeing people caught his eye and distracted him for a moment. He looked back down and the man was slowly lifting himself up onto all fours. Owen leaned down and got an arm under his fallen comrade to help hoist him up onto his feet. His hand was immediately wet and sticky. He withdrew it involuntarily and was disgusted to see that it was covered in blood...rich, bright red blood. He almost fell backward.

When the firefighter was fully on his feet but still not facing him, Owen asked cautiously, “Are you okay?”

The stricken man spun around and grabbed hold of the Battalion Chief, sinking his teeth into his cheek. Owen kicked the other man hard in the leg, knocking him off balance enough to get away. He turned to escape, but ran headlong into another person, a woman, whose left side of her face was mutilated. Her eye socket was ripped open horribly and her eye was gone. Her ear was also missing and huge swaths of skin from her neck had been shorn away by something. Owen tried to speak, but she was on him before a single word could be uttered. The firefighter still behind him was also grabbing at him as the two pulled him from his feet.

His radio was squawking desperately as the fire engine following him arrived on the scene.

After their official, if brief, introductions, Neil and Rachel formulated a plan, deciding what was absolutely necessary should their time be cut short. She was going to get a cart and head toward the canned foods, bottled water, granola bars, and anything else that required the least amount of preparation. He headed for the Sports Department to look at the guns and camping gear.

The Sports Department was more or less in the middle of the store. Even without the signs pointing him that way, he could have found it by moving toward the fishing poles whose long necks peered up and over the tops of the tall shelving units that delineated shopping aisles. In the midst of the department sat a locked glass cabinet, behind which stood a bank of carefully displayed rifles and shotguns. He had never owned a firearm before, but was not intimidated by them either. He realized, however, that he wasn’t entirely sure what to get. He climbed over the counter and was immediately overwhelmed with the varieties. He knew that he wanted at least one hunting rifle with a scope, maybe a couple of shotguns, and at least one smaller rifle. The glass cabinet holding the handguns was also of interest to him. He wanted to have everything that they might need. Deciding on the handguns first, he retrieved a fire extinguisher from a support column and smashed the top of the cabinet. He just started grabbing everything onto which he could lay his hands. He grabbed heavy revolvers and lighter, sleeker automatics. There were some laser sights and other accessories in the bottom, but he elected not to get these. He then moved his shopping cart over to the wall behind and by the armloads started to empty the shelves of ammunition. He grabbed everything; not a bit was left. On top of all of this he piled several rifles, more rifles than he had originally intended. Of course, all of the firearms had locked security bolts essentially freezing their triggers. Noting this, but deciding to move on and deal with it later, Neil next went to the camping section.