Midnight for the Broken (13 page)

“No.”

The doctor peers over the screen. “You're not hungry at all?”

“Oh, I'm hungry,” I answer. “I haven't eaten since yesterday.” I squeeze my fingers together. They've started shaking again. “And I'm a teenager. I'm always hungry.”

He shoots me a questioning look and then steps away from the computer. “Well, I'm afraid we won't have your normal diet until Monday. But let's see if we can't stop the shakes, shall we?”

I nod. “Thank you.”

He gives the nurse a list of instructions, including drugs that I should be given right away. We don't have food for me, but there's plenty of medicine. She thanks him and then tells me to get dressed.

There's some confusion about protocol, but eventually the nurse receives permission to take me to the pharmacy. She directs me into the elevator and we take the silent trip to the fourth floor. It's eerily dark up there and I flip on a hall light as soon as I'm within reach. She sighs with enough relief for both of us as the floor brightens.

“You'll need to wait here,” she tells me, pointing to a small lounge next to the pharmacy. She fumbles with a handful of keys and then steps inside, leaving me alone.

I'm rarely brought to the fourth floor and though it looks much like the third floor, it feels lonely and hollow here. There's no one walking down the hall, no guards or nurses. Some of the chairs around me have been pushed into a corner, as if no one intended them to be used again. The windows are tinted and dusty. I see the parking lot across the street, the freeway in the distance, and a tiny strip of the lake in front of Antelope Island. From here, the world looks peaceful and calm.

There's a clatter in the pharmacy and then glass shatters from behind the closed door. I run to help, but the nurse yells at me to stop.

“I'm okay,” she says. “I'll be there in a minute.”

I'm not okay. As I stand alone, I wonder if we're the only ones on this floor, and why? I wonder why she's the one getting drugs and what's happened back in the pharmacy. Is the pharmacist locked out of the hospital, like the cafeteria personnel? I remember the other patients who were dragged away and never seen again. Were they brought here?

I stare down the hall and search for an indication that someone’s waiting behind another door. As I imagine the SWAT team bursting from behind a counter and filling me with holes, my hands start trembling again.

“Did you miss me?” The nurse's voice makes me jump. “I'm sorry,” she says. “I didn't mean to scare you.” She holds up a bottle of pills and then pours one into her palm. “Here,” she says, “take this.”

I study the pill for a moment; it doesn't look familiar. If it's poison or sugar, I don't know the difference.

“It's a protein pill,” she tells me, closing the cap. “It will help control your hunger.”

There's no water, or drinking fountain, so I choke down the pill and wince at the flavor. It tastes like grassy chalk. I smile a thank you at the nurse and then follow her back to the elevator.

“We'll keep these in the examination room,” she tells me. She tucks the pills into her jacket pocket and presses the main floor button on the panel. “Come see us if you're hungry again at dinnertime.”

I tell her okay, but I'm lying. I have no intention of being here after dinner. I have a prom to attend.

It's five o'clock and I still can't figure out this bowtie. I've tried a dozen times and several different ways and it doesn't look right. Plus the neck on my shirt is tight and rubs against the Second Skin. With a frustrated groan, I tuck the tie into the inner pocket of my coat. Three hours until I’m due to arrive at Jessica's house. This is going to be close.

The pill the nurse gave me has done a good job quelling my hunger. I'm fidgety though, and I can't tell if it's from the pill or from my nerves. When I sit down to lace my shoes, my knee bounces up and down like I'm dribbling a ball. No word came to me from downstairs and Mr. Jackson never showed up to solve the problem with my ride. It's too late to worry about that now. I'm determined to sneak outside and get to the bus stop.

After a thorough inspection in my mirror, I fold the letter from Jessica and tuck it along with my tickets for the dance inside my coat pocket. It's crowded with the tie, but it's the only place I trust to keep anything right now. I play some music on my computer, a long playlist that will last a few hours. It's a sound distraction that, along with the running shower and closed bathroom door, should deter anyone looking for me. I toss a pair of boxers onto my bed as an additional prop before peering out my door.

Someone's wandering down the hall. He's far away and not looking at me, but mumbling and limping on one leg. When he reaches the nurse's station, he's taken inside and the door is closed. Perfect. I dash out of my room and head for the stairwell. My new dress shoes feel awkward and slippery; I'm not used to them. I hammer and bang against the steps, seeming to warn anyone listening of my dangerous intentions as I descend to the first floor.

A frantic woman outside has commanded the attention of everyone in the lobby. The SWAT team, the nurses and the rest of the hospital staff are staring at her, gasping because they know what's about to happen. Her misfortune becomes the distraction I need to escape. I mouth a silent thank you to her before creeping into the service hall and slipping toward the exit.

I'm almost there—the door is a few feet away—when another door in the hall swings open. I steal a glance at the guard who opened it and duck into the closest room. I press the door shut behind me and flatten against the wall. The guard has heard me and he grabs the handle of the door from the outside. I see his breath pressing a cloud against the tiny rectangle window in the door. I'm in an examination room. There are plenty of sharp objects, but that's not why I'm here. An attack on a guard will ruin my chance for a stealthy exit.

The moment feels like it lasts forever, but only thirty-seven seconds tick away on the old analog clock on the wall. It's the longest thirty-seven seconds of my life and my heart beats ten thousand times while I wait. I see the metal handle twist free of the man's grip and, through the window, I catch a sliver of him wandering away. I'm safe for the moment. I wait in the room, allowing my breathing to catch up to my nerves while planning my next move. I'm so close to the door. On a normal day, I could run for it, but in these shoes, I'd make too much noise and the guard would notice me.

I'm thinking about taking off my shoes and my socks when an alarm goes off on the guard's radio. The siren is an electronic, pulsating blast that echoes through the hall. I peer through the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of what’s happening. The guard calls something back to the radio, then walks back toward me.

Whatever heat was in my blood turns ice cold. I freeze and wait. The guard passes my hiding place and keeps walking. I drop lower and watch. He stops at the exit door, my exit door, and shakes the handle. Pleased that it doesn't open, the guard says something else into his radio. I slide out of sight as his eyes seem to catch mine. But the man walks past my hiding spot and doesn't stop. He leaves the hall and goes into the lobby.

Seizing my moment, I open the door and rush to the exit. I swipe my key badge over the lock and wait for the green light, ready for a breath of freedom. Nothing. The lock doesn't even click. I wipe the key and try again. Nothing. I pull on the handle, but the door refuses to budge.

I glance back down the hall as the door I had left clicks into place. I try the door again. “Open,” I growl, pulling so hard this time that the handle twists out of shape.

“Hey! Where are you going?” At the end of the hall, the guard I had been eluding is blocking my path back to anywhere.

“I left my tickets for the dance in the examination room,” I tell him. I pull out my tickets to add to my lie. “I was going to wait outside for my ride.”

“You can’t leave,” says the guard. When he reaches me, he examines my suit and takes the tickets I offer him. “Nice tux.”

“Thanks,” I say. I snatch back my tickets and tuck them securely into my coat pocket. “Maybe I'll wait up front.” I walk past the guard, trying to look casual; hoping that he can't see my breathing has increased from my panic. I'm certain my pulse is one ninety or higher.

“I told you, you’re not leaving. The hospital's on lockdown.” The guard follows me.

“It's okay,” I tell him, without turning back. “My lawyer is coming.”

This shuts up the guard and allows me to enter the lobby. I suddenly wish I hadn't. All the cops have taken positions near the front entrance. There's a lot of radio traffic between them and officers outside. The woman from before is dead on the pavement.

A cop sees me and whistles. “Would you look at him,” he says to the others, pointing and tapping them on the shoulders. “Someone's got a hot date.” I smile because he knows. I've been telling the SWAT guys all week about prom. It was only last night that my plans changed.

I force a smile back and give half a wave. A couple of the men surround me; they tug on my suit collar and give me the business. I'm feeling haughty and proud as they examine my tuxedo. These men are friendly and it feels good to be admired.

“I was supposed to get a ride,” I tell them. I'm happy that there's a chance now that I'm in the good graces of the men with guns. “But my plans changed. Someone is picking me up.”

Romero nods and then calls into his radio. There’s silence, a few other comments from the electronic voices and then the answer I feared.

“Negative,” says the man on the other end. “No entry or exit.”

I must be grimacing because Romero pats me on the shoulder. “Sorry, Ryan,” he tells me. “Some other time, huh?”

There's not going to be another time. And it wouldn't be with Jessica. Suddenly I'm angry with these men. They are keeping me from my goal. There, ten feet in front of me, is freedom. I can see the pavement. There's only glass in my way. As I walk toward the front entrance, Romero shoves my shoulder.

“This isn't a good place to be,” he says. “Supposed to be worse than last night.” He shoves me again. “Go back to your room or something.”

I'm not going back to my room. I'm going to prom. I ignore his prods and walk to the door. As I reach for the handle, a cop outside reacts and points his rifle at me. I feel a pull and I'm yanked away. Out of instinct, I grab the arm of whoever pulled me and throw them against the glass. They bounce off and I hear a dozen clicks. I've upset the men with guns. I stare around me. There's a circle of automatic pistols aimed at me. If I move, they'll kill me. I run.

Before the first shot is fired, I'm at the stairwell, using the metal door as a shield. I slam it shut behind me and sprint up the stairs. The door opens almost as quickly, but I'm already exiting onto the third floor.

The guard there seems surprised to see me, and his radio sounds an alert as I strike him in the chest, knocking him to the ground. I kick him in the stomach and run toward my room. A bullet splits the fabric of my sleeve.

I yank open my door and, once inside, slam it shut and lock it. It's not a heavy duty lock, and anyone with a swipe card can get in, but I'm hoping it will keep the cops back. My music is playing loud and the shower in the bathroom still going. I stare out the windows. I'm three stories up. I can jump. I know I'll make it. I grab my chair and toss it at the window, then cower back to avoid the glass. But the chair bounces back. Soundproof, no. Bulletproof, yes. A bullet rips through the door and plants itself in the pane behind me.

Another bullet. I leap onto my bed and jump against the roof tiles to knock several free. In my room, I'm dead. I need an escape. I scramble up my wardrobe and into the hollowed places above the ceiling panels as a dozen bullets rip apart the metal of my lock. There's no place to crawl. It's cramped, so I grip the edges of a big metal beam while clambering away from my room.

I hear the men below me. They've entered my room and someone is trying to climb up after me. I leap toward another beam but don't make it. I fall through the ceiling panels and into the hall, then scramble to my feet. I’m face to face with a screaming nurse. I dash past her, prepared for a volley of bullets, but none come. At the end of the hall, I fling open the door to the stairwell and leap to the bottom.

My shoes are still slippery though, and I slide into the door to the lobby. There, it's a madhouse. Bullets are pounding off the outside of the glass and the nurses are screaming. I give up on the front entrance and race down the utility hall. It's a race for my life. If the cops reach the hall before I'm out, I'm dead. They'll shoot me into the door. I slam into the door, denting it, and rip off the handle. I stick my hand into the scanner. A jolt of electricity runs through my fingers, but the frame of the door loosens. It's not enough to grab. I smash my fist into metal, cutting my hand, but making a hole I can grab. I pull out my hand, reach in again, and yank with all the force I can muster in a heartbeat.

There's commotion behind me as I toss the door down the hall toward the cops chasing me. I don't look back and hear them yelling as I race into the cold freedom and the bushes across the street.

I quickly discover that the hospital had kept the real chaos outside. In the bushes I meet a man who claws at my face. He's one of the new Broken. A Formula, according to Romero. I can tell by his uncoordinated swings. But he's deadly. The man grabs my leg and tries to bite it. I kick him in the head and scramble away. Sirens and screaming and gunshots are everywhere.

I race to the sidewalk and try running there, but it's covered with people. A jeep swerves toward us and someone stands up to fire a shotgun. As I'm ducking for cover, I take a pellet in the leg, a pellet meant for a couple of the new Broken growling their way down the street. I think I recognize one of them, but I don't get a chance to investigate as I dive behind some hedges. The jeep takes a wide turn and comes back in my direction. I'm already climbing a fence to escape.

It's tough to get to the bus stop this way. I'm fighting lawn chairs, garbage cans, and a couple small dogs as I leap over fences and work my way west. My leg is bleeding from the pellet shot, but there's nothing I can do. I'll be dead before it heals.

When I arrive at Fourth West, the road is busy, but I don't see any sign of the jeep. I leave the safety of the bushes and cross the road. Then I take a seat at the bus stop.

I take a moment to check the schedule, though I have no idea if the bus is running late or on time. I don't have a phone or a clock, and there's no one to ask, so I stare at the traffic, smiling at the few cars who slow down to look at me. A limo drives by; I imagine that it's carrying some of my classmates to prom. The minutes pass and I shift in my suit. It's starting to feel hot and smothering. I stand up and lean toward the street, trying to see if a bus is coming. Nothing.

Sirens break the calm. I see the red and blue oscillation coming from the south and decide that I don't want to mess with any more cops. I escaped a dozen of them while fleeing the hospital. I don't want to get caught and I don't want to get shot. I'm going to prom.

I run north, the direction where the bus would come from. Maybe I'll arrive at another stop, or can flag it down once it meets me. I haven't gone more than a half mile when I see the tall mechanical beast rolling toward me. I smile at the driver as and wave my hand to stop.

But he doesn't stop. Without a second glance, he drives the bus past me.

“Hey,” I yell, chasing after the bus. “Wait.”

The driver glances back at me and speeds the bus faster. I pound on the metal, letting him know that I want to get on.

“Stop,” I tell the driver. “I need to get on.”

A few faces press against the glass to watch me. There's a flash from inside and I know someone has taken my photo.

“Hey!”

The bus rolls on. It's not going fast and I can outrun it, so I dash ahead to the stop and lean against the frame to wait. The bus doesn't stop. The driver stares forward.

Now I'm burning up in the tuxedo. “I'm at the stop. Let me on.” I run and catch up to the bus again. I smack the door at the center. The bus shudders and moves on. I can hear screaming as people scramble to the other side of the bus. I run next to the bus for another quarter mile, waving my arms and yelling for it to let me board, but the bus keeps rolling on. My ride to prom leaves me standing at the side of the road.

I'm watching my future fade away. Now there's no home for me, no Spring Prom, no Jessica. I think about tearing off my jacket when I have another idea. Nurse Jennings. I turn and start trotting toward home. Not the hospital, the place I've lived for two years, but the place I grew up, the neighborhood where my memories of life are kept. The place where I ran free so long ago. Where my family lived and died. Where Andre used to live.

I'm no longer worried about being seen by cops or men wielding guns in jeeps. I want to get to Nurse Jennings. She's the only one I trust and the only one who can help me now. As I turn a corner a few blocks from her house, I run straight into Armageddon.

At first I think it's a street fight, but I quickly discover that it's men against monsters. Crowbars, boards, and blood—a lot of blood—fly through the air. Someone smacks me in the back of head. It hurts so bad that I know it wasn't human. No one hits that hard. I drop to my knees for a moment, dizzy from the effect and spin around, coming face to face with the biggest, meanest looking Broken I have ever seen. His eyes are red, his hair half gone, and his arms are bulging with hate.

I fall back as a boot comes at me and realize something. I know him. I'm staring at someone I've seen before. Somewhere in my memory, the face is familiar. As I take a blow from a board that snaps across my forehead, I recognize one of the Broken in front of me. Tyson. Now I'm scared. No, I’m terrified. I've fought him before, when he was human, and had a tough time then. I'm on my butt, scrambling backwards, when someone else smacks my arm with a crowbar. I feel the flesh tear and my shoulder pops out of socket. I scream.

“Die, you freak,” yells the man who struck me in the arm.

I glare back at him, partly in shock, partly wanting to tear him to pieces. My arm hurts worse than ever before, though I can't feel my fingers. I'm twisting to grab the crowbar with my left hand when Tyson snatches the man by the collar of his shirt. He holds the man up and stares at him. Then in front of me, he tears out a chunk of the man's neck with his teeth. I'm mortified. I've never seen one of the Broken eat a person and I scream as loudly as Tyson's victim.

In a blink of an eye, the moment is over and the man is dead, limp on the ground in front of me. Tyson is tearing him apart, feeding on flesh and warm blood. My right arm feels useless and I know I'm no match for Tyson, not when he's like this, not in this arena. Around me, the Broken have taken their victims and are feeding like the crazy monsters the world has feared. Yes, I'm one of them, but I've never done what they are doing. This is maddening and it's making me sick.

I back away while Tyson feeds upon his prey. Tyson. I assume he's taken to the vaccine badly. I scramble away, running as fast as I've ever ran toward Nurse Jennings’ house.

~ O ~

It's strange to be in my old neighborhood. I've been back before; a year ago. Six months before getting permission to go back to high school, Mr. Jackson arranged for a shuttle ride around town. I had insisted we come here. Most of the homes are empty now, including the house where I grew up. Our neighborhood was hit hard by the Virus, and people won't buy a home whose inhabitants died from it. They are too afraid.

I stumble up the walkway toward Nurse Jennings' home. My right arm stings with every step and I've thrown up so much from seeing Tyson and the other Broken feed that I'm doubled over with stomach pain.

I pound on her door. “Nurse Jennings?”

There's no answer.

I knock again. “Hello?”

There's a flutter in the upstairs window curtains and I know she's peering to see who's at the door, though I don't see her face. I turn and smile and want to wave, but my arm won't work.

After several clicks behind the door, it opens.

“Ryan, what happened to you?”