Z Plan (Book 2): Red Tides Page 5

  “Keep running!” Naeem shouted in Arabic.

  No translation was needed, as Cale bounded up the stairs. He skipped a step with each bound, stopping only when they reached the fourth floor. The door was slightly ajar, and Cale took the exit. Naeem had no choice but to follow. They worked in unison to barricade the stairwell door, grabbing gurneys and wheelchairs. A large shelf with towels and linens was also used to strengthen the make-shift barrier. The noise they made didn’t go unnoticed on this floor either, and a few infected exited the rooms.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Cale said, breathing heavily.

  Naeem noticed a door that read ‘Supply’ and bolted for it. Cale trustingly and quickly followed as Naeem speared the nearest infected, leaving his weapon in the thing’s face so he could open the door. Frantically, they entered the room and slammed the door.

  “Help me with this,” Cale ordered as he tried to pull a shelf over to block the door.

  Naeem didn’t hesitate, and with great effort they moved the metal rack, scraping it against the tile floor. The odds that the undead would somehow turn the handle and get in were low, but they didn’t want to take the chance. Decaying fists now bombarded the wooden door. Cale let out a sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his forehead. They were safe for now, and he could properly catch his breath. Naeem was relieved to do the same. Cale sat down on a cardboard box, and Naeem leaned against one of the shelves.

  The room was mostly dark, lit only by a red emergency light mounted high in the corner near the ceiling. It gave the room a demonic air. As Cale thought about that, he was pulled backwards off the box.

  “Oh shit. Shit! No!” he yelled.

  An infected, hidden in the room, grabbed at him. Cale fought to keep her face away from his. She scratched at his clothing, but her finger nails peeled back. She leaned in to bite his face, her teeth gnashing loudly, just an inch from his eyes. Her full weight was on his upper body, and he was at her mercy.

  8.

  The Operating Room

  Pashet sat in the nurse’s chair behind the triage desk, swiveling idly back and forth. He fiddled with Zach’s knife, trying to get a feel for the weapon. His rifle lay across his lap. The fat man returned the knife to its sheath on his hip, and began looking through the papers scattered on the desk. None of the paperwork belonged to the same patient, but the complaints on them were all the same: bites with localized swelling, chills, nausea, and fainting. Pashet didn’t care about any of it. No one’s problems were worthy of his concern. He started going through the desk drawers, finding mostly office supplies and papers, but one of the drawers contained a billfold. Inside, he found 486 Egyptian pounds. Even though society and governments had fallen, Pashet pocketed the cash. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be a waste for him after all. He leaned his weapon against the desk and continued to search the area, mostly for more money. He stopped occasionally to listen for anyone approaching.

  Another drawer contained 734 pounds, floating free in its interior. Pashet smiled greedily as he folded it and placed it in his pocket. While he crouched down by the triage desk, the solid door he’d seen earlier slammed. Someone was in the room with him. He scrambled for the rifle he’d left by his chair, and then jumped up, ready to fire at the newcomer.

  There, before him, was one of the other scavenging teams, looking terrified and out of breath. They stared at him for a moment, clearly confused that he was hiding behind the counter. Pashet lowered his weapon.

  “What are you doing?” asked the handler.

  “It’s none of your business! Don’t question me!” Pashet said arrogantly.

  The handler didn’t know what to say. It was uncommon for an officer to be part of a scavenging crew. The crews themselves were relaxed when on mission. Rank didn’t matter to them out here, just survival.

  “Where are your refugees?” the handler asked, before he could stop himself.

  Pashet looked furious. Blood rushed to his face.

  “I said, don’t fucking question me!” he shouted.

  The handler ushered his group so quickly through the emergency room doors that the glass cracked as they closed. Pashet watched them disappear between two wrecked vehicles, and then went about his business once more, looting drawers for valuables. A loud thump startled him, and he quickly pointed his weapon in the direction of the sound. Someone was pounding on the door the scavenging crew had just come through. He wondered if it was the other crew, and so he slowly approached the door, which was shaking violently under the assault. Pashet reached for the handle to pull it open, but it began to open on its own. He stepped back, as mutilated and decaying hands reached through the crack. The doors burst apart, spilling a mob of undead across the floor. The greedy ensign stumbled back, tripping over his own feet.

  “Aaaarrrhhhgg!” he shouted.

  He continued to scream, succeeding only in fueling their determination to reach him. Slowly, they stood and moved toward the fat man. Pashet began to fire wildly into their numbers. Some hit the floor, now permanently dead, but many continued the pursuit, unfazed. Pashet hastily got to his feet, and ran for the door Cale and Naeem had gone through. The hallway stretched out in front of him, and only a few infected roamed the halls. Pashet ran awkwardly down the passageway, pushing aside any infected in his path. Ahead, the radiology hallway was blocked, so he ran to the left toward the operating room. The zombies still following him were slow, enabling him to create some distance. Pashet walked backwards into the operating room, not looking where he was going.

  He allowed the door to close quietly. He could smell the dead on his clothing, or was it in the air? He smelled the collar of his shirt as he turned around. Instantly, he froze, the room was jammed with undead, trapped because of doors that swung inward. They hadn’t noticed him yet, and he felt for the door handle to retreat. One of them heard the slight creak of the door as Pashet pulled it open. Its moan set off a chain reaction, every infected moving toward him and the open door. He squeezed his large frame through and pulled the door closed.

  Two of the infected he’d pushed out of his way on his initial escape from emergency were now shambling toward him. Both had previously been patients. The flesh on the calves of one had been ripped off, exposing the space between the tibia and fibula. The other waved a bloody stump that had once been a hand.

  Pashet lifted his rifle and fired, but a metallic click echoed in the hallway. The weapon was jammed. He threw himself at the nearest door, and bounced off it helplessly. He tried another, but it too, was locked. Pashet desperately tried a third, and it opened, so he ducked inside. As soon as the door was closed, he began pulling anything he could grab to block it. He stacked a heart monitor on wheels, a janitorial cart, and a cart full of soiled linens in front of the door, and looked around as he backed away from it.

  He was in a staff changing room. Lockers lined the walls, with a long bench in front of each. The floodlight revealed that further in there was a tiled room.

  The fat man ran for it, hoping for a way out, only to find it filled with showers. What was left of a human leg lay on the floor; a trail of dried blood ran between it and the shower drain. Pashet went to the corner of the room and pushed his back against the wall. In the room he’d just left, he could hear the labored grunts of the infected. They had opened the door, and were now moving the small blockade he had placed in their path. They made quick work of it. He inspected his rifle, hoping to un-jam it before they got to him. He pulled the charging handle back and inspected the chamber through the dust port. A bullet had lodged itself at an awkward angle, jamming the mechanism. He reached his fat little fingers in and tried to pry the round out. He tried holding it upside down and shaking it, but nothing worked. The growls and moans were getting closer. He reached his pinky into the chamber and tried altering the angle of the bullet. The bullet fell out of the rifle, and the weapon’s firing mechanism slammed forward, crushing his finger.

  “Aaargh! Dammit!” he yelled, in his native tongue.r />
  The rifle fell to the floor while he cradled his right hand. Then the sound of flesh slamming onto tile brought his attention back to the entryway to the showers. One of the creatures had tripped over the lip of the shower space. Four others followed it in without falling themselves. Pashet pulled out his baton and extended it. The second to enter was faster than the rest. It didn’t move at quite a run but somewhat of a jog. Pashet bashed it across the face and proceeded to smash its skull in. “Destroy the brain,” he told himself.

  For a second, he remembered how crazy he thought everyone had been when the infection first started and how people had talked about ways to kill them. He’d thought it was all a load of crap. The dead walking? Yeah right!

  He swung wildly, shouting as he destroyed the creature, but the next two came at the same time, surprising him. He dropped the baton, and backed himself into the corner. Quickly, he pulled out the American’s knife; it was his only hope. He stabbed viciously at them, trying to push them away, so he could finish them off. He managed to push one back, and it fell, while the other, on its knees, fought to take a bite out of his leg. He brought the knife down on its skull, but the blade glanced off and penetrated its shoulder. He used the handle of the knife as a lever, pulling the infected over. He began stomping on it but quickly became winded. His lungs burned as he fought for his life. The one he’d forced back then returned to the struggle, and behind it, the one that had fallen clumsily stood up. Pashet tugged the blade out of the zombie on the floor, and used it to stab the eye of the incoming attacker. It slumped to the floor, lifeless. The fat man used that moment to retrieve his rifle. He chambered a new round and raised it to fire at the nearest assailant. His shot struck it in the face. The one on the floor was chewing on the tip of his boot, so he kicked it, hard. The creature flew back, the impact strong enough to break its neck. Pashet put a round into its head at point blank range, just to be on the safe side. The shot reverberated loudly in the confined space. His ears were ringing, and he was sweating excessively. He fought to catch his breath again, as his vision blurred and narrowed. He eased himself to the floor, hoping no more would come.

  He closed his eyes for a moment; shapes and colors danced beneath his eyelids. When he opened them again, other than himself and the infected he’d killed, the room was empty. He wheezed and coughed as his heart thumped crazily. His ears continued to ring, but his vision began to clear. All he wanted to do now was get back to the ship. He wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing; he was an officer for crying out loud. Once he told his father about this, heads would roll.

  What Pashet didn’t know was that his father was already dead, one of the infected roaming the streets. Pashet, sadly, refused to see what the world had become. He sat in the coagulated pools of blood awhile longer. After he’d fully recovered his breath and his heartbeat became steady, he stood. His hand hurt, his arms were sore, but most of all, his lungs hurt. He recovered the American’s knife, and his baton, and reloaded his weapon.

  Finally ready, he left the shower and entered the locker room. It too was empty, and he made his way to the door and into the hallway. The undead in the operating room continued to pound on the door. Pashet wiped the sweat from his eyes and went back the way he’d come.

  Uncertain what to do next; he stood where the halls intersected. To the right he could see the infected through the small glass windows; there were a large number of them in the lobby now. He looked toward radiology; the hallway looked clear. He moved in that direction, slowing to listen. He heard footsteps coming from around the corner, where a domed mirror mounted on the wall enabled him to see down the bisecting halls in both directions. To the left he saw two figures in the mirror. He readied his weapon; he would wait for them to round the corner, and then blast them. The first target emerged, and he fired.

  9.

  Reflections

  Naeem leapt up and, with lightning speed, went to Cale’s assistance. The infected nurse had taken them both by surprise, and as he pulled her off Cale, he only hoped he wasn’t too late. She fell to the floor, and Naeem quickly wrapped the excess chain around her neck, looping it once. He placed his boot between her shoulder blades and pulled up on the chain. Her screams changed pitch as her vocal cords were crushed, and the scissor effect of the chain all but severed her head. Once she stopped flailing, Naeem checked on his partner. It was hard to see if Cale had been bitten, so reached down and pulled the American soldier to his feet. Naeem inspected his face and neck for bites, while Cale checked his hands and arms for injury. Finding nothing, they both let out a sigh of relief.

  “Thanks,” he said to Naeem, who nodded.

  The two of them looked around the room, ensuring no more infected were hiding among the shelves of supplies. It was a windowless room and empty—except for their new friend, who now lay dead on the floor. The pair took the time to steady themselves, while undead still pounded on the door to the hall, and it suddenly dawned on them where they were. They were in a supply room. Together they seized the opportunity to fill their bags with whatever would fit.

  Cale returned to his perch on the cardboard box and looked down at the zombie that had almost gotten him. It had been a close call, too close. Cale thought about what might have happened had Zach been there.

  “Zach would have killed her faster,” he told himself.

  He thought about how very different everything would be if Zach were still with him. Hell, everything would be different if Cacy and Travis were here too. He regretted never hearing what had happened to Travis. He thought about the last time he’d seen him. It was when Cacy and Travis had made their way across the company area to the southeast, toward their living area. Cale hadn’t said goodbye to either of them. What he wouldn’t give to go back to the days of playing Halo and doing stupid shit at the company area. How long had it been? Two, maybe three months ago? It felt like forever. He already couldn’t remember their faces. He was sure that by now he’d missed his daughter’s first birthday. It was in February. Having lost his watch, he’d also lost his ability to track time, and living on a submarine didn’t help either. He never knew if it was day or night in that thing.

  Naeem stood up and stretched. The infected still pounded on the door. He paced the room looking for another way out, and Cale sat on the box, watching.

  Naeem had an idea; he got Cale’s attention and pointed toward the ceiling.

  “What? The ceiling?” Cale was confused.

  “Ceiling,” Naeem repeated, pointing at the tiles.

  He coaxed Cale off the box, and then used it to step up. He raised one arm above his head, and steadied himself with the other. Naeem then moved the ceiling panel to the side, revealing a small space. Cale immediately understood what he was getting at.

  “Oh, we’ll go through the ceiling, and into another room?”

  Naeem didn’t understand but nodded and thought that the American must have understood the plan. They worked together, moving more boxes under the opening. Naeem tested the stability of their construction and found it supported his weight easily. He led the way, hoisting himself into the space. Cale followed him, carefully placing his hands and feet in the same places. The panels themselves wouldn’t hold them, but the railings would. The duo crawled cautiously through the dark. They could hear movement; there was an infected trapped in the patient room below them. They continued on their path, hoping to find an unoccupied room. The air in the confined space was dusty, and Cale fought the urge to sneeze. The iron chain rattled as they moved, and this drew the attention of the room’s occupant. It tracked them as they crossed the ceiling, toppling things throughout the room as it did. Naeem fought to keep his weight solely on the metal railing supporting the ceiling panels. The metal supports creaked and swayed.

  Suddenly, Naeem shouted, and a panel gave way, spilling him into the room below. The chain binding the two quickly pulled Cale down after him. Naeem fortunately landed on the patient’s bed, but the reanimated corpse broke Cale’s fall. His w
eight brought straight down by gravity; he pulverized the former patient, rendering her immobile.

  “Fuck!” Cale yelled, as he scrambled to get off of her.

  Her neck had been broken, which left the skull reanimated, but the body was dead. The woman’s jaw, being the only thing she could move, snapped ferociously. Her skin had dried and tightened around her skull. The woman’s eyes were sunken and dark, and the whites were stained yellow. Her once black hair showed bald patches where it had fallen out. The nose had flattened over time; decomposition had destroyed the cartilage. Cale hurried to his feet, and Naeem did the same. Together, they stared at the furious corpse. Cale felt disgusted as he saw how the virus had ravaged her body, but Naeem felt sorry. Even in this advanced stage of decomposition, she reminded him of his mother. He wondered if somewhere, in some mass grave, she was clawing to get out, to feed on the flesh of the living. He seized a medical machine from its stand, and attempted to smash the woman’s head in. Plastic from the machine cracked and splintered off with each blow, but eventually it served its purpose. Pieces of the heart monitor were mixed with bits of skull and blood.

  Surprisingly, the racket of them falling through the ceiling and dispatching the former patient didn’t draw the attention of the mob assaulting the stockroom door. From here, they could hear the wood splintering and the metal shelf scraping the tile floor: they had gotten in. Cale sighed with relief that they’d exited the room. Otherwise, they would be neck deep in undead. Carefully, they approached the door, another pull to open, which was why the woman had been trapped. The door opened without a sound, and Cale and Naeem shared a glance before cautiously entering the hall. To the left, the undead continued to flood into the empty storeroom. They were about to be very disappointed. Cale led the way back to the stairwell. Fortunately, he’d been born with a crackerjack sense of direction. Once he saw, or travelled a route, he could easily find his way back, even while plotting new courses in his head. They went to the right and down the hall, where three infected paced, looking for the source of the disturbance. Cale and Naeem pushed them out of the way and to the floor effortlessly. They then stood outside the stairwell, ready for what might wait. Neither of them had a single weapon, and they’d have to work together to ensure their continued survival.