Z Children (Book 2): The Surge (5 page)

 I let
him work for a little longer before I put the poor bastard out of his misery.
The crack of the .45, even with the suppressor attached, was harsh in the total
silence. The blood spray was cinematic under the glow of the blue light I still
held. I watched as the Z adult slumped over the work desk. Great retirement
plan. The guilt. I felt it “killing” this man that was no longer a man.

But
part of him is still in there. So he is. Whatever this is, this virus or plague,
it doesn’t fully kill the adults. Why?
I had a feeling it would be a long
time before that question was answered.

An
access card on the dead man’s belt, bearing only a few drops of blood on its
glossy surface, tempted me. It would have opened every door in the hospital.
Would have.

With
the power down and the generators not on, all the magnetic door locks would
have released, giving free roam to me…and creating a hunting ground of
orderlies, other patients, nurses and docs for the brain-eating short stacks.
Maybe some of the kids had died before they could turn—life support running
out, hell breaking loose during an operation. It was messed up, to think that
any kids that died instead of turning were better off, but they were.

Better
off dead. It was time to move on. Into the shit now with serial killers around
every corner.

It
seemed like it had taken forever for me to reach the second door. The deadbolt
was thrown. At least the poor sap did me that favor after he bailed into the
room. If he hadn’t, there was no telling how many of the things would have been
down here with him.

“Thanks,
brother.”

My
whisper seemed to echo behind me, but he wouldn’t hear it. Everything about him
was dead now. Truly gone.

The
lock slid silently. I’d feared it was going to scrape and send sound into the
hospital. Opening the door slowly, I peered into the hallway—which was not
pitch black after all. The door had just been an incredibly tight fit into the
frame keeping any light from seeping through. A fire wall more than likely.

Each
way I looked, twice down each of the three halls—one left, one right, one
stretching out directly in front of me, I saw sterility, not a thing out of
place. And there were so many damn doors. There wasn’t going to be time to
clear as I went, even if I had two additional guys at my back, which meant I’d
have to break one of my cardinal rules—slow and steady, leave no possible enemy
behind me.

No,
this had to be in and out, fast and quiet. Hundreds of patient rooms; and even
if only a small percentage of those spaces were occupied by Z’s…

And
no Range Rover and flare to save me this time.

For
some reason, my thoughts flashed to the girls and Ranger—maybe it was because
I’d thought of the Range Rover—and I hoped to God they’d listened to me, that
they’d kept their asses in the hotel suite and hadn’t gotten brave (which in
their case would mean stupid). An urging in the center of my body made me want
to rush back through the service room, past the dead man, and back to the girls
to make sure they were safe.

I
didn’t know this Chris, but I knew them. I wanted them to be safe. Chris was a
stranger.

But
I made a promise. And I didn’t make promises and then break them.

Keeping
the .45 out, preferring silence over firepower, I moved down the forward hall
and to the first intersection. A directory, large and color-coded, graced the
wall. Virginia had told me to look for the pediatric surgery ward.
I was
not surprised to see that it was on the far side of the hospital and, of
course, an enormous ward spanning two floors. Lot of area to cover, lot of
places for the diminutive face-munchers to hide.
A promise is a promise.

Sometimes,
being honorable wasn’t worth it. It just wasn’t. It made you fight other men’s
wars and die in other men’s places.

Things
were so quiet right now. That made me more nervous than if the halls were
crawling with the somewhat dead, both tall and short.
Where were they all?
I kept moving, almost afraid to stop for too long for worry of busting whatever
spell was keeping danger at bay, but I was equally worried about moving too
fast. It was like stirring a pot of rice. You’ve got to let it simmer, stir it
only now and then and not too fast.

In my
civilian life, I’d always burned my rice. White on top, dark brown and crusty
on the bottom. I had little finesse in the kitchen. But here, in the thick,
lack of finesse could mean the end. And in this hospital, I was playing the ultimate
game of cat and mouse, stirring a pot of rice that meant life or death.

I
moved to the next corner, peered around it cautiously, and allowed my eyes to
focus in the dim ambient light that was leaking from an ajar door some yards
away. I waited, heard nothing, saw no shadows playing across the floor in the
hall that would indicate that something in that room was basking in the fluorescent
beams.

Safe
to continue. Walk. Walk.

Peer
around another corner.

Safe.

Move
again.

Safe.

Finally,
when I let myself think that I was caught in the calm, and the big, bad storm
wasn’t going to get me, there, sitting in the middle of the hallway around the
next bend, was my first obstacle. A Z kid. Nine years old maybe. Or tall for
its age…the age its human self was before it died. Two parents and what appeared
to be a lab tech were milling around it. The mother and father, definitely
protective. But the lab tech was alternating between checking his watch and
drooling. If I attacked the others, I had a feeling his watch would take a
backseat to assisting his fellow deadheads.

Taking
a deep breath, I turned the corner. As if the little red haired girl who’d been
sitting on the floor—the girl with the crop of freckles that was now somewhat
obscured by bodily fluid yet still seemed too human—had known I was coming; she
was already standing and running toward me. The sounds of her snarling hit my
body and crept up my spine unpleasantly. She was only a few feet from me. But
that’s as far as she got.

The
pistol jumped in my hand. Once more. Twice more. Three times more, I fired.
When all four infected were prone on the cool floor, their bodies oozing
crimson blood that quickly turned pitch black, I walked forward. The closer I
got, the more the details of humanity came into focus.

A name
tag on the lab tech’s disheveled coat—Bill. Bill.

The
little girl was wearing a necklace that said—love. Love.

Her
mother was wearing a necklace also, one that showed a mother and father
embracing a child—three birthstones clustered about the bottom. Three
birthstones. Birth.

And
the father, his face still etched in worry—Worry even in death.

And
then I see one other detail. The little girl is wearing a hospital tag around
her wrist.

So
this is the end. For these people at least.
Rest in peace.

Releasing
the magazine, I methodically but efficiently replaced the rounds I’d used and
moved forward. I didn’t look at the little girl again. It made me think of a
little Z boy hiding in the back of a pickup. My first Z kill. I didn’t want
those nightmares to come back and, like always seemed to be the case, I was
running low on meds. Shaking my head, a gesture composed of both sadness and a
finality of understanding that you have to have to keep moving forward when you
think you’ve reached your breaking point, I began to advance again.

My
other weapons held more ammo—the M-9 Beretta. It felt good in my hand, decent
balance and fifteen rounds. But, like the M-16, it had no suppressor. Resorting
to either of those weapons would alert the entire zombie nation that I was in
the house. So, neither were options. Period. The only thing I could do was
shoot and refill. Shoot. Refill. Tedious, but quieter.

 Slipping
from hall to hall, I was surprised to find only sporadic contact with Z kids. I’d
thought the place would be crawling with them. Had they all gone outside? Like
children wanting to play in the sun? The thought of them functioning like real
kids—balancing on beams, swinging on swings, vomiting flesh and stomach juices
after a session on the merry-go-round—
Jesus, that freaked me the fuck out.

After dropping
a dozen or so more Z kids and their adult caretakers, I reached the pediatric
surgery and recovery ward. That makes it sound like it was quick-going. It
wasn’t. It was brutal. I shot kids holding torn teddy bears, kids with IV lines
hanging from their arms, kids who still looked too innocent.

War didn’t
ruin me.

But,
God, this would. Eventually, after weeks, months or years, this would shatter
whatever humanity I had left. This was not just war on the body or the mind,
this was war on the soul.

I’m
here. Now what
, I thought, tossing aside thoughts of souls and ruin.
There’s
still a hundred rooms or more. I can’t clear all those looking for one person.
Shit.
Nearby, next to a very large L-shaped desk, was a large cork board
next to several framed posters. The second poster to the left of the board listed
doctors, office numbers, and phone extensions.

“No.
No fucking way,” I said out loud without thinking after reading the entire
staff list.

Of
course, after speaking in my normal voice, I looked around to see if I’d just
screwed myself royally. The sound of my speech echoed through the halls, like a
bullet bouncing off of reinforced steel and it just keeps going, keeps ricocheting.
Meanwhile, you’re cringing…waiting for it to finally hit something that will
accept the shot so it’ll shut the hell up.

It was
hard to believe, in a paradigm-shifting way. I mean, I was all for “don’t ask,
don’t tell” in the military, but not because I was a bigoted asshole who
thought socket and plug was the only way. I just hadn’t pictured her as a…well,
as that.

There
was no Chris on the list, no Christopher or Kristoff or any other variation of
a man’s name that might result in Virginia calling her beau Chris. First,
before it dawned on me, I was pissed. Thinking all sorts of shit:
This is
bullshit. That psycho woman brought us all here to die. Active fucking imagination.
Wishful thinking. I’m going to kill that woman. Shit. Shit. Shit. Swear to God,
I’m going to feed her to one of those…

And
then it had dawned on me, mid-mental threat.

There
was no Christopher or etcetera, but there was a Christine.

Christine
Hastings, PhD Neonatal and Pediatric Surgery. Third Floor. Office 312.
Extension -*312.

 
A
lesbian. A fish-taco-eating fanatic. Holy crap, that takes the damn cake.

End
of the world and I’m here with a mouthy kid and two guy haters! Thank God for
Ranger.

For some
reason, I thought that was the funniest thing I had ever run into, and I’d run
into a lot of gut-busting funny things—like an elderly woman back in 2008 in
Kabul that sold used condoms and ran a backdoor fertility clinic. She was off
her rocker of course, always surrounded by baskets of collected rubbers and a
payment basket that was always, suspiciously, full of afghani.

“Well
the good news is…” I was shaking with silent laughter now, although part of me
was dying to laugh out loud. I’d gotten by with speaking before, I shouldn’t
take more chances, “…I won’t be losing my edge, because of a woman’s
distraction. God, this is funny, funniest damn thing ever.” I wiped at my eyes,
drying the tears flowing from them. “Guess it’s time to play cavalry and rescue
the damsel in distress. No kiss for her hero, though.”

More
silent laughter.

Then a
pop of sound behind me sobered me, reminded me where I was. And I slowly,
cautiously began moving toward the emergency stairs.

The
elevators were down so the stairs were going to be the only way up to
Christine’s floor. Christine. That was really going to take some getting used
to. Opening the heavy exit, I glanced into near-total darkness. The only sliver
of light was coming from way, way up. Switching on the photon light again, I
looked around. The little blue beam flashed across the hideous face of a Z
bounding across the small stair landing on my level. I slammed the door hard
and fast, only to jam on the creatures arms as its hands reached for my face.

It was
strong, unbelievably so, and it was all I could do to keep it pinned into place
while I dropped the light and drew the Colt. Jamming the gun through the door,
I let off one quick shot and felt the struggle end instantly. A head shot will
do that. Releasing pressure on the steel door, I let the now-mutilated body
fall forward and kicked it out of the way into the hospital hallway behind me
before re-shutting the door.

“Crap,
way too close.”

I
checked my six then picked up the little light to try again, but this time I
was fast and ready. Door opened. Door closed. Two Z adults, immediate threat. Z
kid just past them on the stairs going down. Door opened. Snap off two rounds.
Two bullets, two Z adults. Door closed. Deep breath. Door opened. Z kid on the
first flight—one to the head and one to the chest. Door closed. Deep breath.
Door opened. Three adults were shambling down the stairs from above… bang,
bang, bang… reload. I was on my game now. I stepped into the stairwell,
shoulders straight and mind calculating. Just act, move, shoot. It was like
being in a training kill house, but while moving up stairs. Two more down. Then
one kid and three adults…reload. Three floors only took me seconds to navigate and
then I was at the door.

Looking
up, I could see movement coming down from a higher floor…fast. So, ready or not,
I opened the door and stepped through into what I was sure would be more chaos,
more killing.