Afterbirth (17 page)

A foul odor putrefied the stairwell air. Foster turned the corner toward the next landing and the smell intensified. The bodies of undead patients covered the stairs and had clearly been there for months. Males and females blended together, their skin decomposing into a single, rancid pool. Shattered bones, crushed it appeared, by someone who trampled over their bodies long after their deaths, formed a gruesome amalgamation. There was no way around them and not enough time to try another stairwell.

“Shit.”

He holstered his gun and reached up for the length of steel girder that steadied him as he secured a foothold on the trim above the mess. The toes of his boots barely fit on the narrow ledge and his body tensed as every muscle engaged for the climb. The smell turned his stomach, the nausea becoming worse as he exerted himself and his breathing became deeper. He became lightheaded, and by the fifth stair, his hands had frozen into two aching claws.

He stopped for a minute, flexed his fingers, and looked past the sea of partial faces at how far he still had to go. Pairs of misaligned jaws protruded from the pile at awkward angles. Teeth peppered the putrid slime. He powered through the next few steps and leapt triumphantly onto the landing.

The fifth floor hallway was a maze of construction and plastic sheeting from the renovations Nixon commissioned before the escape. Foster held still and listened. Hearing nothing but silence, he hurried to Nixon’s office.

The entire hospital had become a museum to that night. Strewn paper and toppled cabinets littered the room, a pair of handcuffs, the ones that had held Zach to the radiator, dangled from the pipe. Nixon’s desk had been thoroughly tossed, and if there had been shots there, someone would have taken them that night.

Foster waded through the disaster, stepped over a toppled credenza, and went into Nixon’s private bathroom. He collected a large roll of duct tape from the back of the toilet tank and searched the three-drawer plastic cart in the corner. He pocketed several personal care items, but found no shots. He checked the time on his watch.
Fifteen minutes.
This was taking too long. He looked around the pedestal sink, inside the stand-up shower, and around the toilet, and only paused at the sight of his reflection in the mirror. His reddish-blond hair was grown out and disheveled and his pale complexion made the purple bags under his eyes all the more prominent, even with his glasses on. He reached up, hooked his fingers around the mirror’s chrome edge and pulled. The vanity magnet let go and when the door swung open, he sighed with relief. A stack of six syringes lay neatly inside. He prayed they were enough, and when he turned around to leave the bathroom, he swore something moved in his periphery.

“Hello?” He called out, wondering if one of the others had come looking for him. “Someone out there?” He added the syringes to the supplies already in his breast pocket and buttoned it to make sure they were secure. “Hellloooo?” A crash startled him and he adjusted his grip on the pistol.

The woman’s back was to him. A bird’s nest of gray hair wrapped in a sloppy bun and her matronly frock dress gave her away as Lois, Nixon’s secretary. He stepped out into the office, knowing he had to hurry.

The woman turned around, locked her custard-colored eyes on his, and lurched forward in a clumsy, ragdoll limp. Her lips receded and she appeared all broken teeth and pale gums. She stumbled through the mess, her arms stretched, and clawed at him with blood-caked nails from some unfortunate victim before him.

He danced around her, moving closer to the door with each step. He needed to get back to the others and if he could do it without shooting, he would. Lois couldn’t be the only infected.

He looked around for anything he could use as a silent weapon and found nothing.

“Dammit.”

His boot lace caught on the ragged edge of a hacked-up file cabinet and he toppled, barely able to break his fall for fear of the gun discharging. He reached down to pull the lace free, but it had splintered and was tangled in the metal. Lois was immediately on him. He kicked her as hard as he could with his free foot. She fell backward, but quickly recovered. He took aim and fired. A single shot into the middle of her wrinkled forehead shattered her elderly skull and her face collapsed in around the hole.

Stagnant, black blood sprayed the wall behind her and the smell of death that followed made the odor before it seem faint by comparison.

He gagged back the spit filling his mouth and swallowed. Something moved in the hallway. Foster sawed his lace wildly across the jagged metal to get free. Finally, the lace broke. He got to his feet and ran, but it was too late.

An undead construction crew of six men blocked the door to the stairway. Foster looked through the plastic sheeting, unable to tell how many others there might be. Two wore hardhats and he wondered how he’d get to their brains without being closer. He fired several consecutive rounds, most of them hits, a few lethal. A rogue bullet blew out the knee of one of the men wearing a hardhat and when he fell, the hat skidded away. Foster took the headshot. Two more headed straight for him. He couldn’t outrun them and was low on ammunition. He picked up a folding chair from outside Nixon’s office and opened it for cover.

“Get back!”

He knocked one of them down and ducked into the stairwell.

The other followed.

Foster descended the stairs, his footsteps tapping in quick succession as he kept an eye over his shoulder for the infected construction worker giving chase. He was out of breath and his heart hammered so hard his chest hurt. He fired a shot and missed, the sound much louder in the stairwell than it had been in the hall. Halfway down the flight, his feet went out from underneath him and he howled. A jarring pain knocked the wind out of him as he fell flat on his back in the gelatinous mess he’d been too preoccupied to avoid. He scrambled to recover, the sharp bones protruding like punji sticks beneath him, and shook the putrid mush from his hand. He reached for the railing and pulled himself up. A piercing pain in his back made it hard to walk. Each slippery step sent debilitating pain through him. His wet clothes clung to him like a wretched second skin. He inventoried for wounds and wondered how long the virus lived in a dispatched host. Hopefully less time than these bodies had been there.

He stumbled onto the second floor and Penny limped down the hall after him.

“Brian!”

Foster held up his hand. “I’m all right. Don’t touch me. Please, I don’t want this stuff on you.”

“What happened?”

He unbuttoned his shirt pocket and handed over the syringes. “Take these to the doctor. Tell him to hurry. This place is crawling with infected.”

“Push, Miranda. Push!” Michael stood at the foot of the birthing bed, his shirt spattered with blood and amniotic fluid.

Scott helped Miranda sit up and braced her weight so that she was in a half-squat. She hooked her arms through his and squeezed his hand. Sweat ran down her back and face, and even with the fall chill in the air, she’d never felt so hot in all of her life.

“Push!”

The stabbing pain of the contraction peaked and she bore down, holding her breath and tucking her chin to her chest as she worked to get the baby to crown. There was intense stretching and burning and she feared she might tear.

Michael shifted his position. “I see the head.”

“You’re doing great,” Scott said. “She’s almost here.”

Miranda only managed to draw a single deep breath before the next contraction hit. She screamed, pushed until she saw stars, and forced the baby’s head from inside her.

“That’s it, that’s it. Keep pushing! She’s halfway there!”

Penny limped into the room, scattered the syringes on the countertop, and begged for everyone to be quiet.

Michael all but ignored her. “Good, Miranda. I’m just going to rotate her shoulders and she’s here.”

“Please, stop screaming.” Penny begged.

“Penny, get out of here,” Scott shouted.

Michael clamped and cut the cord then took the baby away to the bassinette where, when she didn’t immediately cry, he began working on her.

Scott pressed his forehead to Miranda’s and wept.

Miranda’s stomach cramped as her body began expelling the placenta, but her mind was elsewhere. She laid back in the bed, the silence of an unresponsive baby transporting her to her prior delivery when the same quiet fell over the delivery room, and Michael gave her the news that Rosalie was dead.

“Scott, hand me that bulb syringe,” said Michael.

Scott let go of Miranda only long enough to hand the blue, plastic suction device over.

“Is she okay?” Miranda asked, expecting the worst.

Michael continued working without answering the question. The room was silent except for the occasional sniffle and the wet sound of suction as Michael cleared the baby’s nose and mouth.

Miranda refused to be ignored, and each passing moment cemented her panic. “Michael, what’s happening?”

Michael slapped the soles of the baby’s feet to stimulate her breathing and a cry erupted. “She’s okay,” he said. “She looks perfect.” He swaddled the infant in a blue and white receiving blanket and handed her to Miranda.

“She’s beautiful.” Miranda held her close to her chest and pressed her lips to her forehead.

The infant’s skin slowly came up to color, the last traces of blue leaving her with each breath. Miranda unbuttoned the front of her dress and placed her daughter skin-to-skin against her breast.

“How do we know if she needs the shots?” Scott asked.

“Nixon’s notes said the first sign of infection is a clouding of the cornea.” Michael delivered the placenta. “If nothing happens in the next few minutes, I’d say she’s okay.”

Scott leaned over her. “Look at me, Miranda.”

She was too preoccupied with the baby to want to be fussed over. Nothing felt different and she ignored his request.

“Miranda, come on. Let me see your eyes.”

“I’m fine.” She indulged him just so she could focus on the baby. “Good, right?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Good.” Scott straightened her hair with his fingers. “You know me. I never stop worrying about you.”

Michael did a final examination and set to cleaning up. “Everything looks as it should.” He pulled out the foot of the bed and put away the stirrups.

Miranda adjusted her position and was thankful to no longer feel exposed and dangling. Scott straightened her dress and took a white, cotton blanket from one of the drawers to cover her. He stroked the back of the baby’s perfectly round head and smiled. “What are we going to call her?”

“Amelie.” Miranda hadn’t planned a name, but when Scott asked, it just came out.

Michael sealed the placenta and umbilical cord inside a container. “I need to keep these preserved,” he said.

“What you need to do is pack up.” Foster appeared in the doorway, dripping wet and wearing a pair of green surgical scrubs that matched the ones Penny had changed into. He hunched over, barely able to walk, and Penny took his arm. “We have to get out of here. Get what you need and let’s go.”

“What the hell happened to you?” Scott asked.

“Let me take a look,” Michael said.

Foster refused. “We don’t have time for this. We have to go.”

Penny wiped the tears from her face, her swollen eyes red and bloodshot. “Please, listen to him.”

“You’re hurt,” Michael said. “Both of you. At least let me have a look at you while I have the supplies to fix the problem.”

“How much of anything is left?” Scott asked.

“Some rooms are more picked over than others.” Michael shrugged. “Survivors have surely been here, but I wouldn’t guess many. Come on, sit.” He motioned to Foster to sit in the chair. “Scott, watch the door.”

Scott lifted Miranda’s chin and looked into her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Go.” The sudden show of firearms and the thickening tension made her nervous. Amelie began to fuss. “Shhhh. It’s okay.” She hummed and tried to calm her down.

Scott guarded the door.

“May I?” Michael went to Foster and held out his hand. “What happened?”

“I fell on the stairs.”

Michael lifted the shirt and grimaced. “Just on the stairs?” he asked.

Miranda turned her attention from Amelie to Foster.

“Yeah, why?”

Michael examined Foster, pressing and asking about pain. “Because you’ve got a nasty cut. I’m going to have to clean this. You have no idea on what?”

Foster put his head down. “No, I was running and I fell. I was trying to get back here for Miranda.”

Penny looked as though she were about to say something and stopped.

“And that was worth a cold shower?” Michael asked.

“Blood spatter. I shot at least four or five infected. I was covered. You can’t be too careful.”

“No,” Michael said. “You can’t.”

“You know, I don’t think you two were even introduced,” Scott said. “Brian Foster, Dr. Michael Waters.”

There was a spark of recognition and a long silence.

“Nice to meet you.” Michael smiled. “I don’t think anything’s broken, just a bad sprain, but I have to close up that wound. How about you take that seat?” He rolled a wheeled stool toward Foster and rummaged through his supplies for sutures, anesthetic, and something to clean the wound. “You sure you feel all right? You feel warm to me.”

“I’m fine,” Foster said. “Better if you can get this done and we can get out of here.”

“I’ll do my best. There are things we need for the baby. I want to see what meds I can find and collect what I need to work on the cure before we go. We have something no one else has.”

Miranda straightened up in bed, his tone causing her to assert herself. “You’re not going to hurt Amelie.” It was more a statement than a question. She covered her partially exposed breast and looked, pleadingly, at Scott. “Tell him you won’t let that happen.”

Scott puffed out his chest. “I would die before I let something bad happen to either of you.”

“You know I don’t intend to hurt her,” Michael said. Miranda could see he was offended. “Unfortunately, I’m not the only scientist out there.”