Afterbirth (13 page)

The sun was hot at Scott’s back, the afternoon the warmest in over a month. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and took a break from the tireless pulling. The run-down, old generator behind Michael’s office was coated with dirt and refused to start.

Earl, the older and more muscular of the two guards, reloaded his rifle. He stood silently to Scott’s right and kept his attention focused on the main gate.

Randy, who didn’t look a day over twenty, leaned a ladder against the one-story office. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, climbed onto the roof, and looked at something in the distance.

Scott followed his gaze.

A run-down institution dominated the clearing at the top of the lowest nearby mountain.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” said Randy.

Scott nodded, though his thoughts were inside, where his deepest, most painful fear was playing out for a second time. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled them up to his elbows. “How long has it been since someone tested this thing?”

Earl adjusted his rifle and didn’t as much as glance in Scott’s direction.

It was a small thing, but Scott was already on-edge. He peeled off his sunglasses and squinted at Earl. “You have some kind of problem with me?” he asked. “If so, I’d like to know what it is. If we get ambushed I can’t say I feel safe with an enemy watching my back. You shouldn’t either.” The implication wasn’t subtle.

Randy threw an acorn from the clogged gutter at Earl and it ricocheted off his chest. “Cut it out, would you?”

Earl huffed out an annoyed breath. “Generators are a bad idea. They cost people their lives. We keep it quiet around here, and whatever you said or did to get the doc to agree to this, I hope it’s worth it.”

Scott flexed his cramping hand, his fingers curled as if still around the starter handle. “Are you married?” he asked.

Earl flashed the gold ring on his left hand. “Twenty-five years.”

“And if your wife was pregnant and having complications, would you risk yourself to help her?”

He nodded. “I have two grown boys out there that I haven’t heard from since The Collapse. We don’t know if they’re dead or alive.”

Scott softened his tone and expression. “Then you understand why I have to do this.”

“Here, hold this.” Earl handed Scott his rifle and fidgeted with the carburetor, and then the spark plug. “Plug wire’s loose.” He tightened it and took back the gun. “Try it now.”

Scott pulled the starter cable a final time and the generator roared to life. He took his pistol from its holster and followed Earl to the entrance gate, wishing he could be inside with Miranda.

* * * * *

The office lights flickered and Michael promptly shut them off. “I need you to lie down on the table.” He pushed in the stirrups, pulled out the foot of the bed, and patted the paper runner for Miranda to take a seat.

Miranda swallowed the lump in her throat, terrified the news was going to be bad. Sweat rolled down her sides and the sound of the generator rumbling outside made her already upset stomach feel sicker. She stepped up on the metal footstool and climbed onto the table. Her foot slipped and Michael grabbed her arm to steady her. She held onto his hand, unable to immediately let go.

“This is going to be fine,” he said. “I’ll talk you through it.”

She found it hard to be at-ease with him, alone, and after all that had happened. She couldn’t imagine what Nixon promised him that was worth putting her through this.

The ultrasound machine booted up and she stared at the screen.

She let out a slow breath and crossed her arms over her chest. For nearly seven months she’d told herself everything was fine and now, faced with an answer, she imagined the worst.

“I need you to unbutton your dress and lie back,” Michael said.

Miranda’s hands shook as she undid the buttons. The material fell open and a tiny lump moved across her stomach.

“This is going to be cold.” Michael squeezed a large pool of ultrasound jelly over her belly button.

She clamped down on both sides of the examination table with a white-knuckled grip and shivered.

Michael moved the wand slowly left to right. The gel warmed almost instantly and became slippery on her hot skin. “I’m looking at the baby’s arms and legs. Here’s the head and spine.” He wiped the gel rolling down her side, scribbled something in her chart, and hit a button.

The printer whirred and spat out a picture. He repositioned the wand and printed again.

Miranda listened to the familiar
glug-glug
of the fetal heartbeat coming through the machine. Whatever was inside of her was still alive. Her hands ached and she loosened her grip, wishing Scott were with her.

“It’s a girl,” Michael said. “And as far as I can see, she’s perfect.”

The words floated like reassurance in a dream and she couldn’t make herself believe them. She stared at the image of her daughter, head down and sucking her thumb.

“Placenta looks good, umbilical cord, too. She has a strong heartbeat. Nothing looks out of the ordinary.”

Miranda sniffled. “How is that possible?” For as much as she had wanted news that her baby was normal and healthy, she spent all of her time obsessing over the worst case scenario. It was what she prepared for.

“Looking over your file, my best guess is that the gene which prevents the infection from spreading stopped the virus from claiming her. That’s why Nixon wanted you. The virus spreads faster than the antiviral he made can kill it. Your daughter’s stem cells can stop that.”

Miranda struggled to understand what he was saying. “Stem cells?”

“Every type of blood cell begins as a stem cell. They’re like blanks. They can produce other blood cells that function as needed. Mostly we deal with stem cell therapy in bone marrow transplants for patients with leukemia or types of anemia. Nixon saw beyond that.”

“So, you’re saying that my daughter isn’t infected?”

Michael shook his head. “Not exactly.”

A gunshot went off and the ultrasound monitor went black. The generator cut out and for a single, heart-pounding moment there was absolute silence.

A thud came at the side of the building and quick footsteps pattered overhead as someone ran across the roof.

Michael stuffed a wad of tissues into Miranda’s hand and tossed the ultrasound pictures into her file. “Stay here.”

Miranda froze, panicked by the thought of losing Scott.

“Miranda, did you hear me?”

She closed her hand around the tissues and tried to breathe as an unfamiliar tightness spread through her chest. “Scott.”

Michael unsheathed his knife. “I’m going to help him. Clean yourself up and lock the door behind me.”

A second gunshot sounded, and then a third.

Michael took off and slammed the exam room door behind him.

The tissues crumbled and stuck to Miranda’s skin as she hurriedly wiped the gel from her stomach.  She slid down off the table and crouched as low to the floor as she could manage. A hail of gunfire rained down outside. The familiar sound of Scott’s pistol rang out over the others. It was a sign that he was alive and fighting. She’d take what she could get. She buttoned her dress, locked the exam room door, and waited for the shooting to stop.

Reid stared down the barrels of two pistols and a shotgun. The men on the other side of them reminded him of himself a year before: blue uniforms, clean-shaven, and crew haircuts, though he had been bald. They exuded rigor and purpose and he didn’t need to ask who had sent them. He knew it was Nixon and wondered what kind of men would walk past strung up corpses to complete a mission.

The largest of the guards, Brett, called the shots. 

“Drop your weapon.” Brett advanced his pistol to an inch from Reid’s head to emphasize his point.

Adrenaline coursed through Reid and urged him to run. He scanned the room for a way out and assessed the competition. Two of the guards were smaller than him and Brett was about the same size. He weighed whether he could put all three down before any of them fired and decided that no, he could not. He was cornered, outnumbered, and a fist-fight with men, who appeared better fed and more rested than he was, seemed too big a risk.

Sometimes, the little things gave the biggest advantage.

Reid set his pistol down and sighed.

Brett kicked the gun across the floor and under a cabinet, well out of anyone’s reach. “Dr. Nixon would like a word with you.”

“What does he want?” Reid asked, though he was almost certain he knew the answer. Too much time had passed with him in hiding and there’d been no leads on Miranda.

Brett looked to one of the other guards who bore a distinct, jagged scar from the corner of his right eye to his chin; the kind of scar that came from rough bar brawls. Broken bottles made excellent weapons and Reid had several friends with almost identical markings.

“Corey, did Nixon tell you what he wanted with this sack of shit?” Brett laughed and shook his head. “What the doc wants with you is his business. I’m just here to see it gets handled. Nate, what’s going on over there?”

Nate looked over his shoulder at the infant swaddled in the bassinette.

Reid had placed one of the plastic covers from the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit over him to muffle the sounds of his crying.

“You know how we handled traitors when I was inside?” Brett asked.

Brett’s cold stare said he enjoyed his work. Nixon had an affinity for ex-cons and Reid wondered just what this man had done to earn his good graces.

“I have an idea.”

The baby’s crying escalated in pitch and became constant.

“What’s its problem?” Corey asked.

Reid shrugged. “My guess, he’s hungry.”

Nate lowered his shotgun and moved closer to the bassinette. He scratched the side of his head where the shorn, brown hair met a red ridge that told of recent stitches. The group’s injuries formed a picture that Nixon might have patched them up.

Nate peered through the small door on the side of the bassinette cover. “What the hell? Brett, take a look at this.”

Brett shoved Reid against the wall. “Don’t move. You hear me? Corey, keep an eye on him.”

Brett wandered over to the bassinette and peered through the plastic lid. “What am I looking at?” He scrunched up his face and looked disgusted.

Reid watched, waited, and refused to warn them.

“Grab an end, would you?” Brett took one side of the bulky covering and Nate took the other. Corey, whose hands were shaking, chewed his lower lip until it bled.

They lifted the lid and the boy whiffed the air as Nate and Brett closed in. He blinked his cloudy eyes and stopped crying.

“Is it blind or something?” Nate moved the swaddling blanket to get a better look and the infant clamped on to his hand with his teeth.

“What the fuck?” Nate recoiled and stumbled into Brett whose eyes went wide with shock. He shook the boy loose with such force it unwrapped him from his blanket. Blood rimmed the infant’s mouth and a chunk of flesh peeked out from between his lips. The bite had been deep enough to expose muscle.

Nate held his hand up and inspected the jagged wound. Blood ran down his arm and turned the navy blue sleeve of his shirt black.

“What the hell is that thing?” Brett shouted at Reid.

Reid refused to answer. He watched and waited for his opportunity.

Nate’s face twisted in pain. He wrapped his arm over his stomach and vomited at Brett’s feet.

Brett moved back to avoid the spray. Nate vomited again. Fetid chunks of food splashed on the tile floor, and then, with the last bout of retching, bright red blood.

“Help me.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Corey lowered his gun and stepped quickly away.

Reid watched the effects of the virus and wondered how these guys, who worked for, and were sent by Nixon, didn’t understand what it was they were dealing with.

Nate coughed and gasped, expirating a fine mist of blood in all directions. The telltale white film came on fast and masked his dark brown irises. Reid had never seen such a fast reaction and wondered if something about the virus in the boy was different, stronger.

Nate staggered around the room, vomiting and groaning. He collapsed to his knees and blood spilled from his ears and mouth.

The others looked on in horror, and when Reid was certain they were distracted, he charged Corey and stole his pistol.

“Get out of the way.” Reid checked that the safety was off.

Brett turned to shoot at Reid and Nate, now fully infected, ran at him.

Reid leveled the pistol and fired three rounds into Nate’s head. The holes formed a near-perfect triangle and Nate fell instantly at Brett’s feet.

Brett stared, stunned, and Reid knew he had the upper hand.

“Two against one, I’ll take those odds.” He held the gun steady and with purpose. “Put the gun down,” he said to Brett who was shaken from the attack. “Now.”

“What the hell is that thing?” Corey asked.

Brett backed farther away from the bassinette, his eyes fixed on Nate’s body which was rapidly bleeding out. The puddle spread to an inch from his boots, but he refused to be disarmed. “Nixon wants you brought in. You’re coming with us.”

Reid fired a notice round, landing the bullet in the wall an inch to Brett’s right. The sound echoed in the empty basement and the room fell silent.

Brett ducked and there was a moment of visible self-assessment as he contemplated if he’d been hit. “What the fuck d’you do that for?”

“Consider yourself warned. I’m coming with you,” Reid said, picking up the screaming infant. “But on my terms, not yours.”