DISEASE: A Zombie Novel (23 page)

Alex heaves open the door as Lot lunges for him, her hip catching a side table and spilling it to the floor. A lit candle tumbles to the ground where it rolls to a stop, right on top of the frayed decorative edge of a rug.

Alex sprints out of Lot’s bedroom with her right behind him. She screams at the top of her lungs as he eludes her grip and races down the hallway, putting distance between them quickly. Lot pursues him into the darkness.

Back in her room the candle’s flame creeps from the candlewick to the rug.

Lot howls in the darkness. The little brat is gone! Disappeared into the bowels of the hotel. She screams, her vision red with fury, each step drawing her deeper into the corridor. She stumbles through the hallway, gripping the side with her bleeding hand and shrieking.

Bobbing candlelight rounds a corner and rapidly floats toward her. Another comes after it, and another, accompanied by the sound of feet pounding the thin carpet. There is shouting and guards surround her. She clenches her bitten hand, concealing the dripping blood.

“Find him!” she snarls at a guard. “He’s bitten! Find him now and kill him.”

Surprised faces circle her, candlelight bouncing off their skin. Lot swats one of the drudges, veins bulging on her forehead.

“Did you hear me? I said the child is bitten. Find him and kill him before he infects anyone else!”

A guard stammers. “Want me to find Opie?”

Lot bites her lips. She wants to scream some more, wants to slap this peon’s face, but she has to rein it in, has to save face. She takes a deep breath, holds it a moment, and exhales. All eyes are on her.

“I’m sorry. This is a very urgent matter, and it seems to have gotten the best of me. We must assemble a search party and go room by room if necessary. One of you take me to Opie.”

Two of the guards dash away, lifting their candles high, trying to pierce the gloominess of the hall. A third stays and soon after he is escorting Lot to find Opie.

***

It isn’t long before news of the bitten boy spreads through the colony. He’s a threat, a bio-bomb counting down, ready to explode at any second. Able bodies assemble rapidly in the lobby for the search.

Lot looks down at her hand. The bite wound on her finger is small, the skin barely broken. It bled profusely at first, but stopped quickly and no one has noticed it yet. It may not look like much, but she can feel the inflamed pulsing of infection eating its way up her arm. Red tendrils of death spiral out from the wound and she can feel the corruption of her cells. They are giving in to the impurity that circulates through her bloodstream.

She keeps her hand low, careful not to use it too much. No one is paying attention, and it’s hard to see by the single fire burning in the hearth, but the red spider veins are becoming more noticeable by the second.

There’s discontent. Alex must be found before he turns, and no one knows how long that will be. For some of the bitten it takes days, a fever building and breaking, infection spreading slowly but diligently. For most it’s only a matter of hours, or less. The same holds true for the dead. No one can be certain of when a body rise, all they know is that it always happens, without exception.

Lot shudders. Her joints ache, her head aches, everything about her aches and she feels as though she’s coming down with a nasty bout of the flu. If only it were that simple.

Alex must be found. She will see him strung up next to Danny if it’s the last thing she does.

***

Alex takes the stairs two at a time, his single shoe slapping each step. The stairwell is pitch black and he trips, his foot missing its mark. He catches himself and hurries on. There’s muffled shouting and below him the beam of a powerful flashlight breaks up the darkness. A man’s voice shouts.

“I found him!”

Alex blasts through the door to the next floor and stumbles into the hallway. It’s lit with candles and lanterns. Sitting in the middle of the corridor a gaggle of children huddle around a tattered board game. Their sallow faces turn toward him questioningly. Alex stares back with a soldier-like expression, bloodied baseball bat in hand.

“Wanna play?” asks the oldest looking one, the boy is just about to throw a set of chipped dice. Voices fill the stairwell, riled up by the hunt and Alex darts away, narrowly avoiding the staring children and their game.

This hallway looks the same as all the others, rows of closed doors and nowhere to hide. His pursuers reach the top of the stairwell as he rounds the corner. Just up ahead and to the left there’s an opening and Alex dashes inside. Long empty ice and vending machines greet him in the cramped quarters.

He hears the search party coming and his distressed eyes scan the tiny enclave. Alex drops to his knees in front of the vending machine where there’s a four-inch gap between its bottom and the floor. He rips off his knapsack and stuffs it under the machine, along with Casey’s bat.

As fast as he can, he climbs onto the top of the ice machine and uses it to launch himself onto the top of vending machine. The gap between the machine and the ceiling is narrow, but he manages to jam into it. A split second later someone steps into the enclave.

A flashlight reflects off the dusty glass of the vending machine. The person peeks beside it and lifts the lid of the ice machine. Above, just inches from the investigator’s head, wide-eyed Alex holds his breath as he listens to the person’s nose whistle. Satisfied that the boy isn’t nearby the person steps away from the enclave.

The hunt goes room to room, tearing apart every nook and cranny Alex can hide in. Eventually it dies down and the group decides that he left the floor via the second stairwell. The light from the candles and lanterns falls away and the children in the hall are herded into safely into room. They are commanded to play inside and not to come out unless someone tells them it’s safe. Finally, Alex is left in pitch black.

His muscles cramp, and itches dance across his body. The hallway is quieter than a morgue, but he’s afraid to move, afraid that the second he does someone will round the corner and discover him. His heart pounds in his chest, skipping a beat every time he thinks he hears a noise.

After what seems like hours he finally allows himself the luxury of movement and stretches from his hiding place, lowering himself to the ground. It’s so dark he can’t even see his hand in front of his face.

Alex gropes around on the floor, reaching under the vending machine until he locates his bag and the bat. Unable to see, he traces the zipper until he finds the tab and unzips the knapsack, then reaches his hand inside. He slides his fingers over the cologne bottle, begging to partake in ritual.

Try a little harder.

Alex forces himself to seek out the matchbook, forces himself to focus. Everything the outside world has to offer is like an icepick in his head and he wants to shut down, to leave it, but he knows he can’t, he knows that if he does he’ll never FIND DANNY.

He pulls the matchbook from the knapsack. He can’t see it, but he runs a finger along the solitary stick that clings to the cardboard. The phosphorus-coated head scrapes against his dirty nail. He holds the match up to his nose and inhales, allowing his mother’s last perfume molecules to embrace him. In two seconds that scent will be gone forever.

Alex grasps the match between his fingers and plucks it from its bed. He turns the cover inside out and wraps it around the stick, trying to cling to its maternal aura as he draws the match against the sandpaper strip. The friction ignites it and the smell of burning sulfur infiltrates his nostrils, destroying the last relic he had of his mother.

Alex’s pupils instantly contract with the birth of the flame and he fights the sudden impulse to sneeze. He stands carefully and holds the match up to illuminate something that was caught in the searcher’s flashlight beam a while ago: a fire route map. He studies it. Along with elevators and stairwells, the kitchen area is clearly marked.

The flame sputters, drawing his attention and he stares into it, looking away only briefly to drop the empty shell of the matchbook back into his knapsack. He stands in the enclave, watching the fire as it burns slowly toward his fingers. Even when the heat becomes unbearable he continues to hold onto the match, unable to let go. Finally, the flame sputters and dies, leaving Alex with nothing but an afterimage and singed skin.

From somewhere far away more shouting makes its way to Alex’s ears. He can only make out one word: “Fire!”

***

For a while there’s nothing; the complete absence of anything, there’s not even darkness. There is no knowledge, no feeling, and no being. All pain, fear, and despair has evaporated, existing no longer in the empty void of oblivion. Then slowly the darkness begins to unfurl itself, filling the void with great undulating shadows. Danny floats among the swells, knowing only the blackness that laps at his mind, attempting to disintegrate him, to carry him away.

The pain is what he is aware of first, only the pain, far away, like an ache that hasn’t yet been noticed. It’s playful, tickling his perception until it becomes a full assault on every last grain of his body. It’s the pain that rips him from the lulling siren’s call of darkness, shredding the fabric of unconsciousness and hurtling his mind back into his small, encapsulating body.

“Fuck.”

The word squashes through Danny’s blood caked lips and pierces his eardrums. He moans, rolling over on his side, head throbbing and side on fire. The stench of his own clotted blood surrounds him, repulsive and nauseating.

Gingerly he pulls his arms beneath him and pushes to a sitting position. He’s dizzy, most likely from the loss of blood, he thinks and wonders how long he’s been here—hours? Days? Minutes?

He can’t believe he’s still alive, had resigned himself to dying. Had died already, several times over in his mind. Now he lies here, strapped with pain and unsure of the future. Why did Lot stop the execution? Is this just an intermission while she preps for the main event? Everything after being brought to the platform is a blur.

There’s a scraping noise outside the cooler and a shiver of fear runs through Danny’s spine. The enduring grip of death holds him steadfast as the door opens. He squints against the light of an oil lamp, the person at the end of the cooler doesn’t move. It’s a long few seconds. Danny’s heart threatens to escape his chest while his eyes take their time adjusting and bit by bit, a face becomes clear.

“Alex?”

The kid wears a smile, Danny wasn’t sure he could even do that.

The wounded man climbs to his feet, leaning against the wall for support, his shirt crackling with dried blood. It pulls from his wound and he grimaces. The bandage Julie put there must have fallen off at some point, but the bleeding is just sludge now, a minor leak. Still, the wound feels even worse than before. He stumbles forward.

Alex grins from ear to ear. It almost makes Danny laugh, except if he laughs the pain might knock him out cold. Hunched, barely able to stand, he guides Alex from the cooler and scans the kitchen. There’s no one else. As they exit Danny’s foot kicks the padlock and key Alex dropped to the ground.

“How did you get in here? Did anyone see you?” he croaks at Alex, his words almost unintelligible. “How’d you know where I was? Where’d you get that lantern?
How’d you get the key
?” And as the barrage of questions tumbles from his mouth he realizes he’ll likely never have the answers. Alex looks up at him silently, still smiling.

“Where the hell is your shoe?” Danny shakes his head in amazement and the world swims before his eyes. He reaches out to steady himself against a steel counter.

When he can see properly again, Danny points at the bat Alex holds in one hand. “Can I take that?” He’s not sure he can use it, but he’ll try if he must. The boy happily hands it over and Danny takes one more moment to gaze in wonder at the boy. “You’re not as dumb as you let people think, are you?”

No response.

Nearby a barrel of rainwater catches Danny’s eye. He stagers to it, suddenly aware he’s never been so thirsty in his life, then plunges his hands into the barrel and brings them up to parched lips, drinking deeply. Once his thirst is quenched he splashes the cold water on his face. It stings as he rubs at his cheeks, trying to jerk himself into a state of readiness blood loss forbids.

Danny wipes water from his eyes and looks around the room, trying to collect his thoughts. Near his prison cell, is a walk-in pantry where there are shelves lined with rows of neatly organized, nonperishable food items. He rifles through them, trying to grab a few high calorie items. Smoked meat and a few cans of condensed milk go into Alex’s knapsack. As an afterthought he grabs a box of Triscuits and throws that in the bag too, then snags a canteen and fills it with water.

All the while the boy follows him like a puppy.

***

Thick, poisonous smoke rolls along the ceilings and billows through the hallways. The bodies of those overcome by hot fumes already decorate the floor as the fire moves quickly, consuming everything in its path.

Anarchy settles in as people become aware of the situation. Many run, saving themselves, but those that would stay and fight find they are ill-equipped. Expired fire extinguishers spit and sputter and buckets of water turn to sizzling steam. Lantern and candlelight reflects off the walls of smoke creating a maze of patterns that lead many to their death. Those that do manage to find their way by touch struggle to breathe in the toxic air, each breath ushering in a myriad of chemicals, shutting oxygen out.

A few brave souls attempt to run deeper into the building, knowing loved ones are further back. They dampen shirts and hold them against their noses hoping to create crude filters. Still, others wrap themselves in wetted clothing to fend off the heat from flames they cannot even see yet.

In the lobby, still untouched by the fire, people gather, grouping in bunches, afraid, asking themselves the one true question: Do they venture outside? A woman in a tanktop grips the hand of a small child and implores Lot to find an answer. “What do we do? We can’t go outside! It’s not safe!”

Lot’s face is sweaty. She feels both hot and cold at the same time as her body burns with an infection it cannot resist. Amid this she finds herself unable to concentrate.

Someone else answers the woman with the child. “Better to take our chances out there then to burn to death in here.”

Another person puts in their two cents, “Maybe the fire will stabilize, you know, and burn itself out. We can just wait here until then.”