Afterbirth (26 page)

Nixon reached up and pushed the pistol away. “That’s not true,” he whispered. “You can help me stop this.” The blood-soaked paper towels fell from his injured finger. His arm was blue and swollen and the tourniquet kept the bleeding to a minimum.

“Where’s the baby?” Corey asked.

Nixon pressed his hands to the wall and eased himself up. “He’s dead.” He wiped his sleeve across his face to keep the sweat from running into his eyes. “I need to get to the first floor. There’s an antivirus in the old Security Office.” He had no idea if that was still true, but it bought him time and he was willing to bargain. He locked eyes with Corey, the best he could given the haze that settled like fog over his vision. “If I turn between here and there, you shoot me.” He hated the sound of it, but he had Corey’s attention. “If I don’t turn and you help me, the first dose of cure after mine is yours. It’s a second chance at life and I’m the only one who can give it to you.”

A moment passed while Corey considered the offer. “Deal,” he said and opened the stairwell door. “You first.”

Nixon tightened his uninjured hand around the railing and moved as quickly as he could down the steps. His thighs burned and his feet went numb making it hard to keep steady. His breathing had become labored and the ash made him sneeze as he entered the first floor. He hurried through the atrium to the ransacked Security Office.

“So where’s this antivirus?” Corey stayed a safe distance behind with his pistol drawn and ready.

Nixon pulled open the top in a three drawer cabinet underneath the monitoring station. He tossed aside lanyards, blank badges, and felt around in the darkness. “They’re here somewhere. Check the bottom drawer over there.” He pointed to the gray, metal cabinet lying on its side.

“What am I looking for?”

“A needle. A syringe. It’ll have a clear liquid inside of it.” Nixon clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

Corey did a half-assed search, at best.

“Come on, keep looking.” Nixon pulled the drawers out of the cabinet, one by one, and prayed something had fallen through. He reached into the narrow space between the bottom drawer’s track and the floor and felt the familiar, tube-like shape.
Thank God.
He prayed it wasn’t a pen, and almost cried when he laid eyes on the single, life-prolonging dose. “Got it,” he said, alerting Corey to the good news. He pulled up his lab coat, injected himself, and fell back against the wall, waiting with his eyes closed for the worst of the symptoms to subside. Several moments passed and he enjoyed the peace of full breaths. The tightness in his chest melted away, and when he opened his eyes, he could see. He looked up at Corey, meeting his inquiring stare, and grinned. “Better?” He could tell the white film had lifted.

Corey took a good look at him. “For now.”

Nixon reached out for a hand in getting up, but Corey refused. He got to his feet and untied the tourniquet which at this point was causing more harm than good. “I’m going to need the power back up. You know where the diesel generator is, right, out back through the receiving entrance?”

Corey nodded.

“Can you start it?”

“Of course, that’s what you asked me to do in the first place.”

“You do that, then.” Nixon headed toward Ambulatory Surgery in search of proper bandaging for his finger. He stopped at the bloody drag trail, which he hadn’t previously noticed. Black swirls of fluid dried in the ash, heralding the birth of a hybrid. The dark amniotic fluid had been unique to them.

Corey stopped and held up a finger. “Oh, there’s something I was supposed to tell you. Zach and I found a set of clothes up on the second floor, which is where we had to leave Allison by the way. The wallet in the pants belonged to Brian Foster. Zach said you should know.”

Nixon tensed at the name. “Get the power up, now,” he said. “We need to get this place locked down.”

He held pressure on his finger and waited for Corey to be out of sight before following the trail to the examination room not far down the hall. The smell hit him as soon as he opened the door. A foul taste coated his tongue and he spat on the floor to get rid of it. A nearly naked woman slumped against the wall and her dark hair covered her face.

Miranda.

He bent down, brushed the woman’s hair back, and lifted her chin. Everything he believed about the boy, about his experiment, and his own fate change in the moment he realized that the body wasn’t hers.

Michael’s eyes strained to adjust to the fluorescent lighting as power was restored to the center. A sinking feeling followed the realization that he wasn’t alone. There was only one person he could think of who would want this place up and running. Michael knew it in his gut that Nixon had returned to reclaim his center and that he harbored enough ill will toward Michael to be the biggest threat to Adam. Nixon always went for those closest to the people he wanted to hurt.

Michael had to hurry if he was going to use the power to his advantage.

Amelie fussed and went back to sleep in the bassinette.

Adam lay still, sedated on a stainless steel examination table more suited for lab rats and corpses--a thing he’d yet to consider his boy.

Michael ran his fingers through Adam’s white-blond hair and assessed the damage to his thumb. Adam had always been a thumb-sucker, which, to Michael, meant that whatever had happened to Adam, he was still himself underneath it all. He repositioned the flaps of gnawed skin, reconstructed the thumb as best as he could, and taped a thick, gauze bandage around it to keep him from damaging it further.

He tipped Adam’s chin so that his eyes were in full light, and pulled open his lids to check the treatment’s progress. The white coating had thinned and, in places, his blue irises appeared through the clouded cornea. Michael shined a pen light and though he couldn’t reproduce the effect a second time, swore Adam’s pupils responded. Adam opened and closed his mouth and rolled his head in Michael’s direction.

“Adam, son, can you hear me?”

The boy groaned and Michael wasn’t sure if it was because he was aware or hungry. He fastened him to the table, making use of the leather restraints, which at the center, were never far from reach. The heaviness of constant worry lifted, and for a moment, Michael was hopeful.

“It’s going to be all right.”

Adam’s system needed to be rebuilt from the inside out and there was no precedent for this sort of thing. Michael considered his residency at County Memorial and likened Adam’s condition to those of the leukemia patients whose immune systems had been rebuilt. There was only one solution, if the change in Adam’s physiology would accommodate it.

Michael turned to Amelie, who, in contrast to Adam, was pink-cheeked and full of life. She had dark hair, like Miranda’s, and pouty, almost lipstick-pink lips, which must’ve been an attribute she received from her father. “I’m sorry to have to do this,” he whispered, refusing, with others lurking, to waste a single second. He injected her with a dose of sedative he swore would be the last he’d give her, and rolled her onto her stomach. He unbuttoned her white, one-piece bodysuit, pulled her tiny, pink fleece pants down far enough to expose her back and hip, and released the tape that fastened the side of her diaper. A bone marrow aspiration kit lay open on the tray table next to her. The blue, t-shaped needle with its half-round top seemed too large for her tiny body, but Michael told himself that the needle was small and that she wouldn’t hurt for long. He swabbed her hip and gave her a local anesthetic, wanting her to suffer as little as humanly possible. Adam fidgeted on the table, rousing from sleep. The serene calm about him was more human than monster.

Michael pressed a pink pacifier to Amelie’s lips and waited for her to take it. She sucked and stopped, her breathing becoming heavier as she fell deeper into her medication-induced sleep. Michael inserted the needle through her delicate skin, carefully advancing it until he felt it reach her soft bone. With a skilled twist of his hand and wrist, he advanced the needle into the bone’s center and drew out a sparing amount of marrow.

Amelie let out a scream as Michael finished the procedure. He set the sample aside, lifted her up, his coat and all, and rocked her.

“I’m sorry, baby girl. All done. I swear.” She continued to cry and refused the pacifier. He was terrified the sound would call the attention of the others. “There, there.” He changed his pace and motion, but not even the drugs, which Michael swore were at limit, consoled her.

Adam came around, thrashing and tugging at his restraints. The peaceful calm left him and Michael second-guessed his assessment.

Things were starting to unravel.

The treatment was wearing off.

Michael shushed and patted Amelie while pacing the floor, the same way he had done so many nights when Adam was an infant. He wanted to soothe her, but knew there wasn’t time. He set her back in the bassinette and went back to Adam whose reprieve from the infection had been disappointingly short-lived.

“Please let this work.”

He held Adam down, careful to avoid being bit, and rolled down the top of his jeans to expose his left hip. He took the syringe of fresh marrow and repeated the harvesting process in reverse, forcing the needle into Adam’s bone and giving him less than half of what he had taken from Amelie. He used what he had to, but was mindful not to waste anything.

He was confident he had all of the key elements of the cure. He just needed to figure out the combination.

A sound out in the hallway caught Michael’s attention and he strained to hear over Amelie’s crying.

If someone was coming he had to get Adam out of sight.

No one would understand what he’d done.

As much as he hated to do it, the sedative made Adam compliant. He gave him enough that he could be safely handled, unfastened the leather restraints, and was about to lift him when a green-eyed man with short, blond hair appeared in the doorway and held him at gunpoint.

“Get away from the baby.”

“Please, I can explain,” Michael said.

The man lifted Amelie from the bassinette and folded her small, quivering body into his chest. “Who are you?”

Amelie’s crying subsided.

“Michael.” He stuttered. “Dr. Michael Waters.”

There was a hint of recognition in the man’s expression. “Miranda’s doctor,” he said. “Interesting.”

Michael was too concerned for his son to inquire or fight back. Adam moved on the table and he reached for him slowly. He closed his shaking hand around his wrist and prayed he’d be still. “What are you going to do with the baby?”

The man looked around him at Adam and raised his eyebrow. “Maybe the same as you were planning to.”

“Please, don’t hurt her.” Michael’s hand was sweaty and he repositioned himself to get a better hold and to hide Adam’s face.

“What’s wrong with the boy?”

Michael raised Adam’s hand and showed the man the bandage. “He was hurt and needs stitches.” The lie came out fluid, like truth and he would have thought the man believed it until he went around the far side of the bed and stared into Adam’s eyes.

“Looks like a cut is the least of his problems.”

“Wait, you don’t understand.” Michael stepped between the man and his son.

“He’s infected. What is there to understand?” The man lifted his pistol and was about to shoot when the power went back out.

Miranda startled awake to the low humming of tires on asphalt. Heat poured, full blast, out of the old truck’s vents and she shivered, despite the fact that she was covered with a heavy blanket.

She looked around, disoriented by the miles of bare trees and unfamiliar, abandoned houses, which stretched as far as she could see. Only when she saw the blue “H” sign did she realize the direction they were headed.

Fear caused her to tremble. She adjusted her position in the seat and blood sloshed on the plastic beneath her. “Where are we going?” Knowing the answer didn’t stop her from asking the question.

Scott chewed his bottom lip and his brow creased with worry. “The bleeding isn’t slowing down. You need a doctor, Miranda. We’re going to find Michael.”

Something moved in her periphery and she looked over her shoulder to see John huddled up in the bed of the truck behind them.

“How do you know where he went?”

Scott accelerated, the truck nearly bottoming out as it crested the large hill. “Because he needs lab equipment at a bare minimum. Where else would he go besides the center?”

“And if Nixon’s there, too?”

“Then we let you bleed to death and wait for Amelie to come home on her own? There aren’t a lot of options here, hon.”

She was nervous enough without the sarcasm. A deep sense of dread and the fear of a bad end for all of them took hold.

A sliver of unfiltered sunlight broke through the clouds and she tilted her head back, letting its rays warm her face. Making the final turn, she realized that no matter how hard she tried to avoid it, all roads led back to the Nixon Center.

She drew a deep breath and set her hand to the wrinkled flap of excess skin that replaced her formerly toned belly. Milk leaked through her nursing pads and she knew wherever Amelie was, she had to be hungry. The pain of the build-up was excruciating.

The access road wound through the trees, past a guard shack and the employee lot from which certain staff were shuttled.

“Look.” Scott nearly slammed on the brakes.

Miranda caught sight of the white Yukon barely visible through a row of Arborvitaes. “You were right,” she said, though the only comfort she took from that was the thought of finding Amelie inside.

Scott hit the brakes, rapped on the truck’s back window, and waved for John to jump out.

Miranda could see his reluctance.

Scott rolled down the window and handed a loaded rifle from the gun rack to John. “Shoot twice at the first sight of anyone and get the hell out of here, you hear me?” John nodded. “This isn’t your fight.”

John shrugged. “Wasn’t my fight last time, either.”

A low hum caught Miranda’s attention and she rolled down the window to get a better listen. “What’s that?” she asked. She felt woozy, lightheaded from blood loss, and wondered if she was hearing things.

John tilted his head. “Sounds like a generator.”

One by one, the lights of the Nixon Center came on, the last of them being the enormous light-up sign at the end of the main lot.

“Looks like Michael made himself at home.” Scott waved John away and drove up to the front door.

Miranda swallowed her fear. Amelie needed her and Scott was right, she needed Michael to stop the bleeding.

Scott opened her door and she eased out in small steps, bleeding through her clothes as she shuffled toward the main entrance. The automatic doors spread open and Miranda’s whole body went tense.

Two men wearing Nixon Center Security uniforms appeared in the hallway.

“Don’t move!” A middle-aged guard held them at gunpoint. The more muscular of the two secured a pair of trunks stocked with weapons. Both men were covered in blood and gore, making their ability to kill obvious.

“We don’t want any trouble.” Scott stepped in front of Miranda and reached back to hold her hand. “My wife needs help.”

“Interesting choice of words, Mr. Penton. Nuptials resumed, have they?” Dr. Howard Nixon emerged from a small room behind them, his dark eyes like two pieces of coal against his white skin. Blood covered his bandaged hand and spattered his lab coat. He pushed a wheelchair to the entrance and gestured for Miranda to sit. “Welcome back.”

She stared at the chair, the dizziness moving it in a way that would make it impossible not to fall. “Not him,” she whimpered, hating the way Nixon looked at her.

Nixon tilted his head and drew his eyebrows together. “Who were you expecting?”

“Anyone else.”

It seemed he knew nothing about Michael or Amelie.

“She needs help,” Scott said. “The bleeding’s getting worse.” He held Miranda’s hand tighter, “I’m not leaving you alone with him. You helped people once,” he said to Nixon. “Help her now.”

Miranda started to cry. “Not him, Scott. Please. I’m going to be fine. Let’s just go, before this gets worse.”

Scott lifted her chin and held her close. “I can’t risk losing you. If the bleeding doesn’t stop, you will die.”

She knew he wasn’t just speaking for himself. As much as she hated the idea, she’d become weak and felt life draining from her. “You’ll stay?”

“I promise.” He eased Miranda into the wheelchair and a pool of blood filled the seat. “This is your fault,” he said to Nixon. “Help her.” He pulled his pistol and aimed at his head.

The guards closed in and Nixon stopped them. “I’m as curious about what went wrong as you are eager to stop it. I’ll help her, in exchange for a favor.”

Nixon pushed the elevator call button and gestured for Scott to move closer.

Miranda squeezed the wheelchair’s armrests. “I don’t want to go back down there.” She put her feet out to stop the wheelchair. Even with Scott in some sort of control, they were outnumbered.

“Relax,” Nixon said, “We’re going upstairs.”

“I’m not going to let him hurt you,” Scott said, but he didn’t know Nixon like she did. She knew enough to be afraid of this
favor
.

“How long ago did the bleeding start?” Nixon pushed the button marked “2” and moved aside for his guards to join them.

“Why are they here?” Miranda looked over her shoulder at the blood-soaked men. “If you’re going to help us, it should be alone.” Her heart beat in her ears.

Nixon set his bandaged hand on her shoulder. “They’re just in case, Miranda. My team has swept the place, but there’s nothing saying we got them all.”

Them.
She wondered if he meant infected, intruders, or both.

“How long have you been bleeding like this?” Nixon asked.

She shrugged. “Since last night, I guess.”

“And the baby?”

She locked eyes with Scott. “The baby didn’t make it, just like I told you it wouldn’t.”

“I see. Let’s set her in there.” Nixon pointed at a nearby room.

Scott wheeled her inside and lifted her onto the bed.

“I’m going to have to put in an I.V.”

Miranda crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

“You’re going to have to trust me enough to let me help you.” 

“Trust is earned,” she said under her breath.

“I need to start an oxytocin drip to stop the bleeding.” He blinked several times and wiped his sleeve across his damp forehead. “I need to get your uterus to contract.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes and stared at his injured hand. “What happened to you?”

Nixon set up the supplies and showed the label on the smaller of the two bags to Scott. “Oxytocin, right? Just like I said.” He took a step toward the bed and teetered.

“Why won’t you answer me?” Miranda said. “I asked what happened. What’s under the bandage?”

The two guards watched with piqued curiosity.

“I fell, upstairs in my office, and caught my hand on a sharp piece of a metal filing cabinet. Now, please, give me your arm.”

A thick clot slipped from inside of her and painted the white bed sheet red. She held out her left arm and waved for Scott to move closer.

Nixon was proficient for a physician working with primarily one hand. He wrapped a tourniquet around her arm, plumped up a vein, and inserted the line. He hung two bags of fluid on the pole attached to the bed and adjusted the drip.

“I’m going to massage your stomach to help speed this up.”

Miranda tried to relax, but it was impossible with two armed guards at the door and Nixon’s hands all over her. She watched and waited for the familiar leather restraints, wincing when a stabbing pain tore through her belly.

“Interesting,” Nixon said.

Warm milk soaked the front of her already soiled dress. She crossed her free arm over her breasts, embarrassed. The pressure only made matters worse. “What’s interesting?” she asked through clenched teeth. The cramps were debilitating, but the bleeding had slowed already.

“You don’t normally see this problem in breastfeeding mothers.” Nixon sighed. “I’m only going to ask one more time, Miranda. Where’s the baby?”