S.W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND, Season One Omnibus (36 page)

“
I should shove this down your throat, you sick bitch.” Instead, I tie up her feet with it. It stretches even more than the IV line, but it's stronger. It won't break.

She doesn't move. She's stopped struggling and now just lies on the floor with her cheek pressed against the linoleum. Her eyes follow me as I search for my clothes.

“
Where's the alarm for the motion detectors?” I demand.

She doesn't answer.

I take a step toward her and she flinches.

“
Where?”

“
In my pocket. It's in my pocket!”

I reach under her and find her Link. The screen is already awake, flashing. I thumb it off. I bend down and place my lips up next to her ear.

“
Now, where are my clothes?”

“
Burnt, torn. I don't—”

“
Where can I get some?”

“
I—in the supply closet, I think. I don't know.” Then she half-laughs, half-coughs.

“
What's so funny?”

“
Nothing.”

Blood trickles from a cut on her scalp. I reach up and pull the sheet from the bed and use the corner of it to dab it away. She winces.

“
Just a cut. You'll live. Too bad. Now, tell me: where are we? What is this place?”

“
You're choking me.”

“
You can breathe just fine. Where are we? Answer my questions if you want to live.”

“
You wouldn't kill—”

“
I don't think you want to find out. One last time, then I really am going to hurt you: Where the fuck am I?”

“
Someplace you'll never escape from.”

I grab a handful of her hair and yank. Her head whips up. She inhales sharply.

“
You'll never get out of here alive,” she says. “You or your friends.”

“
Bonus question. Answer this and I might let you live: Where is my friend Ashley?”

She doesn't answer.

“
I know what you plan on doing to her. I know about the new implants and the injections. Who else is here?”

“
Fuck you.”

“
Brave words coming from someone in your position,” I spit. “You should be begging for your life.”

“
You're just a kid. You won't hurt me. You can't. You need me.”

Doubt begins to trickle in. I don't know if she's right about me needing her—maybe I do—but now that she's got me thinking about it, I realize she's right about the rest. I'm not a killer.

“
You don't know who you're dealing with.”

“
I know you're with Arc. What do they want with us?”

She laughs again. “Arc? You just don't get it, do you?”

“
Then explain it to me.”

“
Maybe you should ask your grandfather. He's the one responsible for all this.”

This shocks me for a moment. “I've heard that all my life, bitch. It's nothing I haven't heard before. Tell me where my friends are.”

“
It's too late for them,” she says, wheezing as she cough-laughs. “They're already dead. Just like you.”

“
Oh, I'm very much alive.”

“
No, you're not.”

Something happens to me then. Rage swallows me. Fear overwhelms me. I don't know where it comes from, but when it does, it consumes me.

I pull her head up. “I told you that you didn't want to find out what I'm capable of.”

I rocket my arm straight down, shooting my hand toward the floor. Her head hits with a loud, sickening
crack!
I can feel the jolt all the way up into my shoulder. She gurgles once, then her chest collapses beneath me.

And doesn't rise again.

 

I don't know
how long I sit in shock on Nurse Mabel before I realize something is dripping down my arm, something warm and sticky. Slowly, my eyes tilt down. I don't see anything there at first, but then there's the faintest glistening on my skin. I'm crying. I'm actually crying.

Except my cheeks are dry.

I stumble to my feet, gasping, reeling backwards until I hit the bed. It moves out from behind me and rolls away, throwing me onto the floor on my ass. I sit there for several more minutes staring at what I've just done.

I killed someone.

But I'm not a killer!

And it's not tears on my arm, it's my blood.

Zombies don't cry, and they don't bleed.

The lying bitch. Why'd she have to lie like that?

Finally my body begins to react to the knowledge of what it did. It starts to shake with the truth—not the panic or the remorse, but the pleasure. I liked doing it. I just killed someone and I enjoyed the thrill it gave me. What the hell kind of monster have I become?

Not become
, my mind whispers.
It's what you've always been
.

Eric knew what I was capable of. That's why he had me take hapkido. He knew I had a violent streak inside of me. He knew about the pain and the fury I've always kept bottled up inside of me.

Maybe yoga would have been a better choice.

I let my head drop into my hands. “This is not me,” I moan. “I'm not like this. I'm not a killer.”

But the proof is lying in a pool of blood in front of me. I let my rage get the better of me and now a woman lies dead on the floor. I can't stop staring at her. But neither can I bring myself to wish her back to life. I want her dead. I want her to pay for what she's done to me.

She doesn't move.

I can't look at her anymore. I bury my head in my arms and focus instead on my breathing techniques instead.

Eventually I realize I should be moving. The time on the nurse's Link tells me it's past two in the morning. Only a few more hours before dawn and the prep nurse from ArcWare and that man return. I need to find my friends and get away before they do.

I raise my head.

Mabel's head rests in the middle of her congealing blood. Her eyes staring glassily at me, filming over.

Her jaw twitches.

It startles me. I stare harder at her face, paralyzed with a mixture of both fear and hope. But it's just my imagination. She really is dead. She didn't move. Or, if she did, it's just her muscles relaxing.

I get up and untie the bindings from her hands and feet. I can't stand seeing her like this, her body twisted and drawn to itself, an unnatural pantomime of agony. The IV tubing has sliced into her fat wrists, leaving purple ligature marks that will never heal, not like my own bruises, given time. The catheter I've tied around her ankles is stiff and taut, refusing to untie. It reminds me of the zombie fingers that grabbed me in the Midtown tunnel on the way to LI. I shiver and yank on it until it snaps free of her heels. Her feet fall back to the floor with a
thuh-thunk
. I toss the tubing to the side.

My neck itches where the hole from my IV has finally clotted. It feels sore, hot. I scrape the dried blood off with my fingernail and glance at the door. I need clothes. Nurse Mabel's would be both too short and too husky for me. And I don't want to undress her just so I can be dressed. I need to find the storage closet where she said there'd be clothes.

I step over the body and bend down to grab the sheet off the floor. It's covered in blood—some hers, some mine—but it's better than going out there naked. I shake open it and wrap it around me. The feel of the cold, partially stiffened, blood-soaked fabric makes my skin crawl, but I try not to think about it. Instead, I tuck the corner in under my arm, then tie the IV line around my waist and cinch it snug so I'm not flapping in the breeze.

I freeze when the whisper of a sound comes from behind me, a wet, sticky noise that sounds like rubber tires peeling slowly off the hot pavement. I whirl around.

Nurse Mabel is on her knees, her head hanging down between her arms, blood and saliva dripping from her lips. Her hair is plastered against the side of her face. She wobbles a moment, her arms shaking. For a moment I'm not certain of what I'm seeing. Joy courses through me knowing she's not dead. Joy and anger. She's supposed to be dead. How am I supposed to leave her now?

Tie her up. She'll only cause problems and get in your way.

But she also needs medical attention. I really did a number on her head. She'll be lucky if she doesn't have a concussion. Or worse.

She doesn't move, just hovers there on the floor on her hands and knees, looking like she's trying not to puke.

“
This is fucked,” I mutter.

Her head snaps up. She bares her teeth and hisses. There's nothing in her eyes, not a shred of light or life. They're as black as night and as soulless as a grave. The side of her head is sickeningly flattened. Her mouth gapes open and her tongue lolls out.

That's why we have contingencies. I'm sure you can appreciate that more than anyone else, Mabel.

“
Oh, god,” I whisper. “Please, no.”

She moans her first death moan and I know it's true. It's a sound I'll never forget from LI, the sound of death and hunger and desire. Cold fingers sweep up my spine and twine around my neck, choking the air from my lungs.

“
You're not supposed to come back,” I tell her, as if speaking one truth will somehow negate another. The dead do not come back on their own. They either have to be infected by another zombie, or they have to be reanimated by injection with the government's virus. They don't just happen.

That's why we have contingencies.

We don't get very many volunteers, such as you.

She moans again and lurches unsteadily to her feet. Her body lists to one side and crashes into the blood pressure machine. They both slam into the wall. She recovers too quickly—frightfully so—and moves toward me.

I manage to step to the side just as her arms reach into the space I'd just occupied. She crashes to the floor again. This time, she lies there without moving for several seconds.

Get out of here!
my mind screams, but all I do is stand there staring, wasting precious moments.

She moans again and begins to contract, pulling her arms and legs beneath her. This time she's quicker. It seems impossible, but it's like her body is readjusting to its new life-in-death state. Before I have a chance to react, she's on her knees and gotten a foot under her, ready to launch herself at me.

I spin around and grab the closest thing to me—the IV stand—and lift it above my head. I try to swing it down on her, but the base wedges itself into the ceiling and stops. I lose my balance and slip on the bloody floor. Only my grip on the pole keeps me from breaking my arm.

Nurse Mabel—or whatever she's become—advances while I scramble away. My back hits the wall. She lunges forward, groaning and hissing. Her hands reach out at me. Her head tilts unnaturally toward the side I crushed. She looks like she's suffered a massive stroke. I guess she has.

I skitter to my left. Her fingers reach for and catch my hair. I kick out with my foot, connecting with her knees, but it only pushes her legs out from under her. She falls directly onto me, her mouthful of teeth and infected saliva barely missing my knee. Instead, her chin hits my kneecap, knocking her head back. I hear a crack as her neck snaps. She rolls off me but immediately begins to move forward again, her head at an even more awkward angle.

I lash out again with another kick, this time to her neck, spinning her away. I scramble to my feet and my hurt knee gives beneath me. The door's further away to my left. I slide over, hands behind me on the wall, helping me stand, feeling for the handle. I keep my eyes on her as she gets clumsily back to her feet.

I turn the knob and, just as she charges, twist the handle and yank on the door.

But it doesn't open! My fingers slip away and I lose my balance and tumble to the floor. I need the cardkey, but it's on her belt!

Her momentum slams her into the wall. Just as gracelessly, she turns around and finds me. I scramble to the far side of the small room, putting the bed between us. It's the only thing I can use to protect myself.

With the bed in her way, I gain a few seconds. I look frantically for something to use as a weapon, anything that'll help me get that cardkey off her belt. But there's nothing on this side of the room for me to use.

I move behind the foot of the bed, keeping it between us. Mabel circles toward me in the same direction. I wait until she's square at the head before shoving all my weight into the bed frame. It lurches forward and pins her to the wall with a loud bang. Her elbow sinks into the drywall. She moans and waves her hands longingly at me, but she can't get free.

Still leaning onto the bed, I check the wheels and find a lever. I push it down until I feel it lock into place. Then, ever so slowly, I let up. The bed stays put despite Mabel's attempts to push it out of her way.

I move quickly now. The bed won't hold her for long. I reach up and yank the IV pole down from its place in the ceiling. A tile falls, showering me with dusty bits and cobwebs and mouse droppings. I lift the pole to my side and take aim at Mabel's neck, angling one of the pole's feet forward. Then, with a grunt I swing it at her. She doesn't duck or try to move out of the way. Zombies don't duck.

The foot of the IV stand sinks deep into the wall two feet past her head. I lever the pole over her neck and shove the top against the wall on this side until the bag holder penetrates the drywall. It sinks all the way in and the hook acts like an anchor. She thrashes against it, but the pole stays put.