Zombies! (Episode 4): The Sick and the Dead (4 page)

Luco didn't answer. She had been there during Todd's brief bout with the illness. She'd been responsible for treating him when he was alive. And she hadn't done anything. She knew then that she couldn't save him so she didn't even try. Instead, she'd studied the progress of the disease uninterrupted. To say that she'd learned nothing would be a lie, but she wasn't sure that the knowledge was enough to make up for Todd's suffering. It had been only three weeks since then but it seemed like ages. This was how she knew him. Affection was the wrong word to use in describing her feelings for Todd. Pity was closer. Guilt was closest. She didn't bother to correct Solomon.

As they moved further down the corridor, Todd looked up at the group, his meal still in his blood soaked hands. Juarez wouldn't even look at him, the sour taste of vomit still burning his throat. In fact, nobody saw Todd look except Seaver, who was bringing up the rear. For long moments, they looked into each other's eyes. Seaver didn't exactly see intelligence there but what he did see, while being unidentifiable, chilled him to the bone. Cell phone in hand, he snapped a quiet picture.

They passed several other specimens on the way down the hallway. Luco pointed out a few of them and paused when they reached the cell housing Dr. Mwabi. The poor woman was wearing one of the hospital gowns they'd seen the other patients wearing. She'd obviously been transferred quickly after her death. There wasn't a mark on her, but that didn't help her to look any more alive. Her pallor was waxy and her eyes were clouded over. She shambled around the room, her hands jutting out in front of her. Every few seconds she'd point her nose in a different direction and sniff. She was nothing like Todd, whose motions seemed almost calculated. His actions were usually with purpose. Even when he was fed live animals, he attacked them in a very calculated way, usually from behind. He capitalized on their fear of him and his environment. To Luco, Mwabi looked blind. And frightened. She was distinctly unzombie-like.

At the end of the passage, Luco stopped in front of one room. Unlike the others, this one still had furniture. Its occupant had been placed inside before any others had come through their doors, even before the complex had been dedicated to the zombie infection. The men crowded around to have a look at this poor freakish thing with little blonde curls and glazed blue eyes. She was huddled underneath the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest.

"This is Zoe Koplowitz," Dr. Luco introduced. "Our first."

"She's just a little girl," Lochschenborg exclaimed.

Luco nodded slowly. "Her father was the first zombie encounter in the city. He was killed on the street and the policemen who went to his apartment encountered Zoe and her mother. They shot the mother in the head. Zoe bit one of the officers but the other managed to trap her in the bathroom."

"What happened to the officer who was bitten?" Juarez asked.

They all looked at him as one, as if the question was the most ridiculous they'd ever heard. Because it was.

Zoe stared up at them, sniffed the air once, and then went back to her huddling. Despite her stature and childish features, there was no mistaking her for anything except what she had become. Pale in life, her skin color had almost completely drained. Her hair, too, had lost most of its color. Looking at her, one could barely discern any blonde in it all. She didn't look quite as lost as Dr. Mwabi, but she was no Todd Mayfield.

"We don't feed her," Luco said quietly. "We're hoping Zoe will give us a good indication of life expectancy."

More long moments passed as they stared in at Zoe. A month before, Detective Anthony Heron had watched his partner die in the next cell and ceased to think of Zoe Koplowitz as anything more than an abomination. But without that personal attachment, the staff at
Arthur Conroy
were moved by her. They felt pity for the child and guilt over their own feelings of disgust at what she had become.

Solomon cleared his throat. "Have we seen enough, now, Dr. Luco?"

Once again, Luco didn't show him the respect of looking in his direction. She continued to stare at Zoe. "You tell me."

"While I can certainly see the urgency of your work, it doesn't change the legality of our issue.
Candid
can still produce
Head Shot
and bill it any way they like."

"I hardly think so," Lochschenborg interrupted.
He
looked directly at Solomon. In fact, he got right in Solomon's face. "You'll inform your clients that their misrepresentation of the disease is a violation of federal health laws and they will not only recall the product, they will offer up a public explanation and correction at their own expense."

"Mr. Lochschenborg…"

"In fact, Mr. Solomon, they will have five hours from now to do so."

"Five
hours!
" Solomon cried. "Have you lost your mind? I'll have a stranglehold on you in three."

"Don't play chicken with me. Public health is my job and, after seeing this complex, I assure you that I will be pulling no punches when it comes to this disease. In five hours, I will be issuing new warnings to the public. The very first of those warnings will instruct them not to believe what they read on labels of sensationalized medicine bottles."

Luco couldn't help but smile. She was almost as elated by Lochschenborg as she had been by Lance that past weekend (although in a very different way). After their earlier conference, she had been convinced that she was on her own. Lochschenborg had seemed like nothing more than an ineffectual figurehead. Sometimes, it was good to be wrong.

***

THREE
weeks earlier, zombies invaded the
Sisters of Charity
emergency room. One of the young doctors on duty that afternoon was a man by the name of Peter Ventura. He watched three colleagues die that day as well as two of the hospital’s security guards. One of the dead was Dr. Veronica Leke, the head of the ER. He hadn’t particularly cared for her, but he had respected her well enough. She’d run a tight ship. The ER was closed down for a week after that. Truth to tell, there was no rush to open it up again. Once the news broke, people left the city in droves. Peter wasn't one of those to flee but it wasn’t due to any sort of inner strength. Unlike most of the panicked all over the city, he had faced zombies firsthand and survived. And survived was just about all. In the wake of the trauma, he spent just about every conscious minute in his apartment. He downloaded and watched every last zombie movie he could get his hands on. This had the predictable effect of rubbing his agitated nerves raw to the point of anguish. He spent hours and hours scribbling plans on paper and figuring out just how he was going to survive the apocalypse, comparing his notes with the actions of the survivors in those movies. The trouble was that all of the movies seemed to end badly. His planning became more frantic as the days wore on. He couldn't sleep. Surely the world was crumbling right outside his door…

That was his first week.

After that he collapsed from exhaustion. He awakened hours later in his bed completely unaware of how it was he had arrived there. He was hungry and thirsty and dirty and he’d soiled himself while sleeping. His beard was seven days old and matted and greasy. On his way to the shower, he heard some noises outside and a thump against the door. He practically crapped himself right there. Grabbing up the nearest thing that he could use as a weapon, a bent whiffle bat, he went to the door and opened it. Peter lived in a studio apartment that was part of a house on Staten Island. His door led out to the side driveway. He could exit and turn left, which would take him to the street or exit and turn right, which would take him into the backyard. There was no sunlight. Cool night air blew in and stirred his matted hair and grimy face. There was no one there.

Timidly, he stepped outside and looked both ways. The only light came from inside his apartment and a streetlight down the drive and across the road. Huddled by the window, playing with the catch, was a man in a dark blue jacket. He looked up quickly when he caught wind of Peter and all the poor young doctor could see was the ghoulish skin and sunken eyes. And the teeth. Screaming, Peter dropped the bat and ran back into his apartment, slamming the door behind him. He turned the lock, fixed the deadbolt, and sank to the floor weeping.

So it was over. It was all over. This was the end of the world.

His first thought was to get back to his plans. Maybe it wasn’t too late. They were good plans. Get some food. Get some weapons. Dig in. Wait. Wait. Wait.

What would he be waiting for?

Did he really have what it took to survive the end of the world? He doubted it. Maybe in the daylight, he would just go out and find a nice easy way to kill himself. But if he was going to do that, then he wanted to be clean and shaved. It was important to be presentable when facing one's death. So he pulled a heavy piece of furniture in front of the door, another piece in front of the one window that looked out of his apartment, and went in for a shower.

In Peter’s state, he didn’t stop to think about the fact that he had hot and cold running water, a working toilet, and electricity. He didn’t consider the origin of the gas that came from his stove as he heated up a can of soup. He didn’t turn on the television because he was afraid of what he might see, but he wouldn’t have seen much. A week into the panic and the television stations were already growing tired of the stories. They’d started running their regular programming again, trying to win back the confidence of their sponsors.

He didn't sleep much that night. He stayed awake with the lights off and a long knife in his hands, terrified of the silence but more so of the noise. He heard a car go by every once in a while outside and wondered about the other survivors. Were they scavenging? Why at night? It didn't really matter. He didn't consider himself a survivor. From his perspective, he was just someone whose luck was simply going to run out.

As the dawn's light began to filter through uncovered portion of the window, he began to regain control of his senses. He waited a good long time for the full light of day to surface before clearing the window. Looking outside, he could see nothing. His window faced the side drive so all he had was a good view of the house across the way. If he'd been at all in a state of mind to be observant, he might have noticed the fresh newspaper sitting in front of the neighbor's side door. Still, he pushed the table away from the door and undid the bolt and the lock. With a deep breath he opened it, fully expecting to see the zombie from the night before waiting patiently for its breakfast. But the way was clear.

It was a chilly morning but not cold enough to compete with the blood rushing through his veins. His landlord's car was gone, the house dark. Had he up and left the city like so many others? Brandishing the knife, he went to the window, the one with which the zombie had been tampering the night before. There were some metal shavings along the ledge and the screws on either side were a bit chewed up. The zombie had been trying to get in. Apparently, the zombie had been trying to use some sort of makeshift tool to do so. Apparently, the zombie had had enough knowledge to go for the screws on either side.

Apparently , the zombie hadn't been a zombie at all.

The man Peter had seen had just been some looter trying to break into his landlord's house. Anything else had been a product of his own nightmares.

A car went by out front.

Peter ran out and looked up and down the street. Many of the houses were dark, the cars gone. A lot of people had left. But there was traffic out on the main road. The streetlights were working. At the end of the road, a lady was leaving her house and getting into her car. She looked down at him, gave him a tentative wave, and then was gone.

Peter was confused.

Running back to his apartment, he rushed inside and closed the door. He went to his bag, the same bag he'd carried to and from his last day of work. Rummaging inside, he found the rotted remains of a sandwich he'd never had a chance to eat. There was the spare shirt he always carried, a Robert Silverberg novel, and his cell phone. The phone was dead so he pulled out the charger and plugged it into the wall. Peter didn't have a regular phone. There was no reason for him to have one. Everyone he knew called him on his cell so he chose not to incur the expense.

After waiting a very long two minutes, he was able to turn on the phone and get his messages. There were eighteen of them. Most of them were from his parents in Cleveland. One was from Mariel, whom he'd met at a bar a week before his world had gone to hell. She wasn't very pretty, but he'd have been able to overlook that if she didn't sound like Ben Stein on downers. Two more calls were from Dr. Mancina over at the hospital.

He called Dr. Mancina first.

"Peter!" Mancina exclaimed when he picked up the phone. "We thought we'd lost you. You haven't been sick, have you?"

"No," Peter answered. "At least not in the way that you think."

"Well," Mancina answered, not quite sure what to make of that. "Well, that's good. Are you coming back to work?"

Peter didn't quite know how to answer that. He thought about what it would be like to return to the hospital. After his episode during the previous week, he wasn't sure if he had the strength to return to the hospital. Still, his rational side took over. "Of course, sir."

"Oh, good. Good. We've been open a few days now, you know."

Peter was looking out the window, noticing the newspaper. "I thought, well. I thought all of the people were gone."