Afterbirth (3 page)

Max Reid stepped out of a cold shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He flexed his chest and arm muscles and rotated his aching shoulder. The scar where Scott Penton had shot him had finally started to fade, but the puckered, white star in his skin served as a constant reminder of his failure. He hadn’t delivered Miranda and made a fast enemy of Nixon who he knew was responsible for the men hunting him now.

He smoothed his hands over his light brown hair, turning to see the pistol tattoo that barely showed through the new growth, and covered his head with a cap of white shaving cream. He’d considered leaving the center more than once, venturing out to find a nice-looking woman to keep company with, but it was too easy to stay. The place was well-stocked with everything from personal care items to medical supplies, and the few who dared enter, hadn’t made it out. He wet a disposable razor and made the first pass over his head. The freshly exposed skin made a white line where it met the last of the summer’s tan. He tried not to think too hard about winter as he made the next few passes and dressed in a clean Nixon Center uniform shirt. He left the navy blue button-down open, pinched the diminishing pouch of fat covering his muscular abs, and injected the antiviral solution meant for “just in case."

Living with the infected, risk was inherent. The same could be said about crossing Nixon. Reid hoped that using the antiviral as a vaccine would buy him time if he were ever bit. He deposited the empty syringe in a near-full sharps container bolted to the wall and opened the blinds. The shot was his last and he was going to have to go to places he’d been avoiding to replenish his stash.

The same few cars, which had belonged to patients, visitors, and work crews, rusted in the center parking lot. The canopy of the vast acres of trees had thinned out to the point that he could see the minor in-roads he hadn’t been able to keep watch over until now. He squinted and pressed his face to the cool glass, struggling to make out something in the distance. An unfamiliar, blue pick-up truck sat parked in the employee lot. He looked around for signs of its owner, and finding none, grabbed his pistol.

“Nice try, Nixon.”

He wondered how many men he had sent this time and prepared to do whatever was necessary to stay alive.

Abandoned construction materials cluttered the fifth floor hallway. Buckets of taping compound propped up stacks of unused drywall. Plastic sheeting hung from the ceiling and there were several tool boxes from which to choose a weapon from.

Reid picked up a crow bar and went quietly into the stairwell. His eyes darted left then right as he searched for intruders. He crept down to the fire-ravaged lobby which had been burned-out the night of the evacuation. The fire smoldered for almost two days and consumed several dozen bodies which were now piled in the remains of Ambulatory Surgery. He didn’t even notice the smell anymore.

The elevator car, which was still the only way to the basement, had gotten stuck somewhere on one of the upper floors. Reid pried the doors open and used an extension ladder to get down to the dark, windowless space where many of the supplies were stockpiled.

He hated it down there, but it was the only place he knew of that would have more shots.

His heavy footfall echoed against the aluminum and made it hard to hear much else. He turned on an LED flashlight and descended with the crowbar tucked under his arm in case.

Body parts had spoiled with the lack of refrigeration and the decomposition produced a gas that irritated his eyes and made a smell far worse than that of the charred first floor. He pulled his shirt up to cover the lower half of his face and moved the flashlight back and forth in search of others.

He walked toward the grim kitchenette where he’d once prepared meals for the infected and doubled over as the thick stench reached down his throat. He barely moved his shirt in time before vomiting and spat, several times, to break the thick string of saliva. The cotton was little help as a filter so he breathed through his mouth, which now tasted sour and bitter. A green-yellow liquid pooled at his feet and coated the bottom of his boots.

He had no choice but to keep going. His stomach cramped as he stepped into the defunct operating room Nixon had used for extraction and insemination. Few things bothered him the way decomposition did and he closed the door behind him to block the smell. He maneuvered past the storage containers that, for all he knew, might still have infected sperm inside, and went into the scrub suite. He searched the cabinets, the cupboards, and the dressing area but found nothing other than some sterilized scalpels next to the toppled autoclave. He pocketed several.

“There has to be shots in here.”

There was no way Nixon would operate without them.

He shined the light inside the supply tray drawer and found two syringes underneath a stack of gauze.

“Better than nothing.”

He froze at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Hey, I found something.” An unfamiliar male voice came from the hall. “Looks like fresh vomit.”

Reid set the crowbar down and opened one of the scalpels. He turned off his flashlight and pressed his back against the operating table.

“I’ve got footsteps over here,” said another, deeper voice.

Reid’s heart pounded as footsteps shuffled outside. The door opened and a pool of white light spread across the floor.

The man lowered the drop-down doorstop, but as soon as he was inside, the rubber foot let go and the door slammed closed, causing him to drop his flashlight.

“Dammit.” The man stumbled into the surgical tray and recovered.

The flashlight rolled along the uneven floor and settled out of the man’s reach.

Reid watched from the shadows for his chance at freedom.

Miranda Penton locked the front door and waddled down the porch steps of the home where she and Scott had lived before their divorce, and where she returned to after her escape from the Nixon Healing and Research Center. Two hundred miles from Strandville, she couldn’t stop feeling like a prisoner.

Scott lowered the passenger’s side window of a red 1970’s Ford Ranger pick-up and gestured for her to get in. Sunlight glinted off the broad, chrome grill. Rust ate the fenders and spread through the faded paint toward the doors.

“Need a ride?”

She scrunched up her face and coughed from the thick smell of exhaust. “Where’s the Hummer?”

Scott scratched his head, roughing his scruffy, dark hair, and shrugged. “It’s bad on gas.” His smile implied sarcasm.

Miranda walked down the slight hill. The basketball in the center of her small frame made it hard to find or keep her balance. “And this is better?”

“It’s four-wheel drive.”

He could say what he wanted, but she knew the change was because of her. He worried that someone from the Nixon Center was coming for her and rightfully so. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in almost seven months, since the first break-in. Scott had been quick to dismiss the intrusion as looters, but nothing important was missing.

“You sure you want to come?” Scott’s gentle, hazel eyes held concern. “Maybe you should stay here, keep your feet up. I’ll be home before dark.”

“And miss a chance at shopping? No way.” She pulled open the heavy truck door and climbed into the cab. The outings, though fewer and farther between than they had been even two months ago, provided respite from the reminders of Rosalie, their stillborn daughter. They rarely talked about her, or the Nixon Center, or the divorce, and if Scott had noticed her gradually redecorating the nursery, he didn’t say. Despite what had happened at the center, she still believed in fresh starts.

Scott lowered his visor and a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses fell onto the seat. He put them on and looked in the rearview. 

“What do you think? Are they me?”

Miranda smiled. The arm was bent and the glasses sat crooked on his angular face, occupying most of the space not covered by his patchy beard and mustache.

She leaned up and examined her weary reflection in them, shocked by how gaunt and sick she looked in the sunlight. The countless nights of illness and nightmares had taken their toll. “Not so much,” she said and tried to get comfortable in the springy seat. She put her feet up on the dusty dash and hoped to ease the swelling in her ankles.

Scott rubbed her stomach, and then stepped on the gas. “Hang on.” The junky truck lurched forward and belched out a dark cloud of smoke behind them.

Miranda leaned her head back and watched out the window as the deserted streets passed by. The houses had fallen into disrepair. The overgrown lawns and shrubbery reclaimed the plots of land a few feet at a time. There was little humanity left in the world and if she was being honest, it was no place to raise a child.

The truck’s tires hummed on the desolate highway and she focused on the noise to keep her mind occupied. She closed her eyes and drifted off, savoring the peace.

They had put nearly fifty miles in their rearview by the time Scott turned off the exit and she woke in the parking lot of an enormous supercenter she hoped hadn’t been entirely picked over.

Scott parked in the front row and pulled a large screwdriver from the ignition.

“No keys with this trade-in?” she asked.

He smiled. “You’re right. I should probably ask for a refund.” He got out of the truck and grabbed one of a dozen shopping carts. “You know the deal. Shout if you see anything that looks remotely infected.”

He holstered a pistol at his shoulder under his quilted, red and black plaid hunting shirt.

Miranda climbed out of the truck with some difficulty and leaned on the shopping cart handle. Her swollen ankles ached and she prayed that walking would alleviate it. “I’m still not sure why you won’t let me carry a gun.” She moved toward the shattered glass doors.

Scott cleared a path with the toe of his boot and lifted the cart’s wheels over the remaining door frame. “You really want to go there?” He raised an eyebrow. “Besides, after the stunt you pulled at the center, I’m not ready to take my chances.”

“That was one time and I wasn’t going to let you leave the others behind.” The gunshot had drawn a horde down on them and they were nearly eaten alive.

“In that case, the noise is no good for the baby.”

It was logic she couldn’t argue with.

The shopping cart wheel squeaked loudly down the first aisle, offering them up as all-you-can-eat if the place was overrun. Scott stayed close to her, his pistol at the ready.

The air smelled of mold from the shelves of rotten bread. Produce rotted in bins and a dense colony of flies had found sanctuary there, despite the unusual, fall cold.

Pregnancy heightened Miranda’s senses and she felt queasy as she made her way to the nearly empty canned food aisle.

Scott picked up a few of the dented discards off of the floor and tossed them in the cart.

“It’s not looking good,” Miranda said and headed toward clothing.

Scott picked a purple, flowered maternity dress off the rack and held it up to her. “Not a total loss.” He looked across at the baby section. “There are still baby supplies.”

She put the dress, a couple of pair of maternity pants, and some tops into the cart and went to look for things for the nursery. The infant department had been separated into pink and blue sections and she wondered which she needed. She kept to yellows and greens, and when her mind recalled images of the monstrous hybrid corpses she’d seen at the Nixon Center, she started to cry.

“Hey, hey.” Scott pulled her into him, pointing the gun away as he wrapped his arms tight around her and kissed her head. He had to hold her sideways in order to get close. “It’s going to be okay.”

She wiped at her eyes. “You don’t know that.
I
don’t know that.”

“Then we should go see Michael. I don’t know of another option.”

It wasn’t his first time suggesting it. She’d considered confronting her former OB-GYN, who sent her to the Nixon Center in the first place, but the thought of being back in stirrups, of anyone examining her after her forced insemination, terrified her. “I’ll be fine, please, just let me deal with this.” She shuffled down the cluttered aisle, past the vacant registers toward the pharmacy.

“Where are you going?” he called after her.

She sniffled and held up her hand. “I just need a minute alone, please. I’ll be right back.”

Clouds filtered the morning sun through the dusty log cabin window.

Allison had checked it months ago and found it nailed shut from the outside.

Birds chirped, chickens clucked, and the usually faint sound of rushing water had gotten louder with the recent influx of rain. She drew a deep breath of woodstove smoke and cedar and closed her eyes, trying to forget where she was, but it was pointless. She was still a prisoner and hadn’t the slightest idea of where she’d been taken.

She took a piece of shale from under her pillow and etched a fresh mark on the wall behind her bed. Almost seven months had passed without word from her husband, Zach, who certainly counted her for dead at this point. There were so many things she regretted not telling him: that it was him who had pulled her through when her disease was so bad she’d rather commit suicide and that she loved him so much she’d suffer a thousand more days just to hold his hand.

Nixon’s experimental treatment had put her cancer into remission, but remission was a mixed blessing. She felt physically better, but Nixon’s careful attention to her, his poking and prodding, and the secrecy with which he spoke to others about her made her fear that she was on the brink of something terrible. She’d heard the word “infected” more than once and stopped asking questions when most went unanswered. The cabin had no power. The phone never rang, no radio played, and no one visited. Something had happened in the world, something bigger than this place, and the others were determined to keep it from her.

The solitude and sadness were a living hell and the side-effect of the treatment that kept her in remission was almost worse than the cancer. It had been ten days since her last, the longest she’d been able to hold Nixon off so far. She’d played sick, too sick to handle another dose, and endured an archaic, direct blood transfusion from Ben, the only member of Nixon’s staff who matched her blood type, to keep up the façade. It seemed a small price to pay for the reprieve. Listening to the shuffling footsteps outside her door, she wondered if she was lucky enough to fool him for one more day.

She took the brush from her bedside table and smoothed her black hair over her shoulders. A plastic basin sat on the nightstand and she used the room temperature water left over from the previous day to wash her face. Her cheeks were slowly filling out with the recent increase in weight and the sores in her mouth were healing. Holding off the treatments, she regained some of her strength. Almost enough to get away, or at least, that’s what she hoped. She dangled her legs over the side of the cot and lifted them one at a time, counting the repetitions and ending at twenty.

Five more than yesterday.

Keys rattled in the lock on the other side of her door. The metal hasp creaked and the knob turned. She hurried back under the sheets, closed her eyes, and rolled on her side, facing away from the door.

“Good morning, Allison.” Nixon’s artificially chipper tone grated her nerves. Her eyelids fluttered and she struggled to hold still. “Allison?” His hand closed around her ankle and he gently shook her leg.

She coughed and moaned as if she were in pain.

“How are you feeling this morning?”

She smacked her dry lips together and tried to look as weak as possible. “Not good,” she whispered, impressed with her own performance.

Nixon placed a digital thermometer under her tongue and scribbled down notes in her chart.

Her tongue ached from the frequent probing and she waited to see if Nixon was going to leave. She’d managed to fake a few high readings with hot tea water and a lack of supervision, but Nixon wasn’t budging.

Ben opened the door and walked into her room as if he didn’t want to be there. The sleeve of his blue intern’s lab coat bulged where it was rolled over a white bandage that covered the wound from the WWII-style transfusion. Without electricity, much of her treatment had changed for the worse. She looked past Ben to the guard perpetually standing post. He was one of a dozen obstacles to her escape.

The thermometer beeped and Nixon withdrew the probe. She massaged her mouth with her tongue in an attempt at soothing the ache.

“98.6. Normal.” Nixon seemed pleased. “Follow the light with your eyes.” He shined a penlight into her eyes and she looked away, unable to stare at the brightness.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Vision clearer, today?” he asked.

Knowing blurred vision was one of the side-effects he watched closely, she didn’t want to say yes. “Maybe, a little, but...”

Ben smoothed his hand over his balding head. The horseshoe pattern had further receded over the past several months, possibly, she mused, from this action which she’d only ever seen him do around Nixon. He reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out the dreaded vial.

Nixon performed his usual, cursory review and shrugged. “I see no reason to further delay your treatment.”

“But...”

He refused to listen to argument.

Ben drew up a syringe, handed it to Nixon, and stepped back.

Allison pulled up the covers and held them tight to her chest with both hands. “I don’t need this anymore, please stop.”

“You don’t know what you need.” Nixon’s dark eyes appeared black as he forced the needle through the sheet without warning. It pierced her stomach where she’d been injected dozens of times before and felt like a spear running through her.

She let out a howl and drew her knees to her chest. The side-effects came on quick, igniting every nerve ending with blinding pain. The room spun and her heart beat in her ears.

Her vision dissipated and with it, her hope for freedom.