The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious (8 page)

My knife hand shakes. I use my left hand to steady it and bring the blade down two-handed. It bounces off his skull and almost out of my grip, but it also drives his head away before his mouth connects. Zombiehood hasn’t softened his skull any. He lunges. I stumble back, almost off the desk.

I knew I’d have to kill them, but I couldn’t foresee the reality. Up close, the stench is pungent. His intestines leak shit. His skin is cracked and veined. The idea of touching him is revolting, but I have to—and I have to do it before the woman’s presence makes it impossible.

On his next lunge, I push at his forehead with my left hand and shove my knife into one of his yellowed eyes. The steel grates on bone. I yank it out before it gets stuck, sure I haven’t gone deep enough and dreading a repeat performance, but he collapses as though I’ve flicked a switch. One down.

The woman digs her fingers into my leg. My first instinct is to shake her off, but I wrap my hand in her long hair and yank back to raise her face. She gurgles, cracked lips leaking black liquid. I send my knife toward her uvula. The crunch when my knife breaks through the back of her throat travels straight to my gag reflex. But I hack deeper. I don’t back down from fights and I’m not about to start now, when the stakes are so high—one tiny cut and I’m dead. The woman drops. The thud of her chin on the desk is loud in the now quiet room.

Maria rises from her knees. Her face is speckled with brown. Eleven bodies in various stages of decay leak reddish-brown fluid from their heads. Jorge spins slowly, the same fluid dripping from his cleaver. “Everyone all right?” he asks.

Everyone is, and we step over the bodies toward our goal. Now I know I can kill them if necessary, but I’ve had enough for today—for a lifetime—and I fervently hope those are the only ones. I’m disappointed but not surprised at the sight of more in the next corridor. They stand between us and the Promised Land: a room with an overhead sign that reads Dialysis.

Kearney mutters, his nostrils flared and mouth meaner than usual, and then races toward them. He stops at the closest zombie and swings his pipe with such force its skull is crushed down to eyeball. He rams it into the next one’s eye. His yell is vicious, but nowhere near as vicious as the damage he inflicts.

He’s using it—the frustration, the anger, maybe even the fear. All the emotions that give me pause have spurred him on. I don’t like him, but he’s on to something. This isn’t going to get any easier if I pussyfoot around the creatures that want to eat me alive.

I run for a tall doctor with horsey teeth. I hate those teeth. I hate his noises. I hate his smell. I hate that he scares me. I sidestep his hands and grip under his chin, repulsed by the feel of dead flesh through my glove, then shove my knife upward—a move I regret when copious amounts of muck gush onto my arm and shoulder.

Hands tug my arm. The woman attached to them spins me around. I elbow her to the floor, pleased by how easily I can, and then kneel to shove my knife under her chin. This time I pull back faster. When I stand, Jorge, Clark and Maria have taken care of the others.

We run for the dialysis room. Lights hum over the line of empty beds, each with its own large rectangular machine by its side. Jorge rolls one to the door.

“We need these.” Maria hands the rest of us translucent jugs of liquid from a closet. “Okay, let’s go.”

A few zombies amble down the hall, but we’re faster. Kearney and I trot backward, jugs sloshing, and turn once we’re through the double doors. Jorge runs upstairs for the elevator while distant thumps on the doors become a steady bassline.

The elevator doors open to reveal Jorge. His hair is half out of its ponytail and his clothes in complete ruin, but his face glows under all the muck. We pile in with our loot, and he pats the dialysis machine with a wild laugh. “We did it.”

Maria leans against the wall with a grin. Clark lets out a whoop. I forget Kearney’s a jerk and beam at him, and he responds with a smile that looks out of place on his features. I don’t care—I’m so happy I could kiss that jerk.

We’ve saved Manny. We can’t do a thing about the other nine million problems that wander around outside, waiting to steal our futures. But, at the very least, Manny has a chance at one.

Chapter 11

After a marvelously hot shower on the pediatrics floor—which alone makes killing zombies worth it—I change into the stylish outfit of a long-sleeved shirt under scrubs, then stop in Manny’s room. My euphoria has faded to fatigue. I’ve averaged a few hours of fitful sleep a night and the crash is coming.

I put a hand on his bed so I don’t topple over. “Hey, buddy. I didn’t bring you a chocolate bar this time, but I promise I will next time.” I look to where the nurses ready his machine and whisper, “But you can’t tell
them
.”

A nurse titters. The grandmotherly nurse squeezes my arm and then crosses the room to open one of the jugs. She stares down at the liquid, shoulders quaking. It takes me a moment to realize she’s crying, and then I have to blink a whole lot in order to stave off my own tears.

“Thank you, Sylvie,” Manny says. His eyes are so lively now, even before dialysis, that I have a hunch he might have known his fate and not let on. That spark is even better than my hot shower.

“No problem. Just get well. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I give his ankle a squeeze and leave for downstairs. I tell Grace what transpired while I eat my half of the Twix, then curl up on my thin mattress.

When I wake, I’m starving for the first time since I came to the hospital. I wash up and find Grace in the kitchen. “Good morning,” she says.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, it’s tomorrow. You slept all night. You needed it.”

I know I needed sleep, but anything could have happened while I was comatose. As much as I hate insomnia, being awake means I don’t miss anything important.

“Everything’s fine,” Grace says. “When we brought up breakfast this morning, Manny looked so much better.”

I sit on the counter and try not to be too pleased, but I want to jump in glee and high five everyone.

“Could you get off my counter?” Dawn asks.

Except for Dawn, who will get a punch instead of a high five.

“Could you get out of my business?” I ask, which sends her to the fryer after mumbling what sounds like
bitch
. It isn’t the first time I’ve heard it, so I don’t bother to reply. Nothing can bring me down.

“Don’t start fights,” Grace whispers while she cuts apple slices. “She’ll spit in your food.”

“The problem with people like her is that they think they can get away with being dickheads,” I say loudly, “but they only can if you let them. She’s a kitchen dictator, and this, my friend, is a democracy. We shall rise up against our oppressors and fight for our freedom.”

“Nice speech, Che Guevara.”

I pop an apple slice in my mouth and raise a fist. “Power to the people. What else is there to eat besides apples?”

“What, too healthy?” Grace hands me a bowl of cold French fries and gravy. “I saved you breakfast.”

“This is breakfast?”

“It is now. The gas is off. Everything is now microwave or fryer. And no more hot water.” I heat the bowl in a microwave and, while I eat, reflect upon my luck that I had a shower yesterday. Grace chops her apples and asks, “Are you proud of yourself? You should be.”

I concentrate on my fries. I am proud, but it’s not as if I’m in line for sainthood. And I had a lot of help. “Maybe a little.”

The chopping stops. I look up and into Grace’s smirk. “I know you are. God, stop bragging and get to work, Che. You think this is a hotel or something?”

I whack her on my way to the knives. After we’ve finished, I bring our second meal upstairs to find Manny looking a good deal less puffy. I can see cheekbones. His eyes are round and brown, and I hope the light in them is as permanent as the nurses seem to think. He licks his lips at the Hershey bar I tuck under his blankets, and I don’t feel the least bit guilty about taking it from downstairs. Kearney will probably lock me in the slammer if he finds out.

“Feeling better?” I ask.

“They let me get up to play today. I got to play with the Xbox.”

“What’d you play?”

“Resident Evil.”

“They let you play that here? What kind of hospital is this?”

Manny giggles. “They tell us to imagine it’s our disease and we’re beating it.”

I pat his shoulder; he’s one of those kids I like, snotty nose or not. “You’re beating it. In fact, you’re gonna kick its ass.”

Score one for humans.

Chapter 12

The week we’ve been in the basement feels more like a month. Twenty-three days to go. I repeat it like one of Grace’s chants. Twenty-three days until freedom. I don’t know what that freedom will look like, based on the fact that the view from the roof is the same, only less smoky, and the emergency broadcasts have stopped. But, with the zombies gone, we’ll collect Grace’s family and figure it out. Maybe we’ll stay in the city. Maybe we’ll go to the country, which is where Maria’s daughters are supposed to have gone.

The cooking and washing of dishes seems never-ending. There’s another number: forty-six. Only forty-six more meals to cook, now that we have only First Meal and Second Meal, both of which have gotten smaller. My scrub pants are a drawstring waist, so it’s hard to tell, but I think I’ve already shaved off a pound or two. This wouldn’t be the worst news in Normal World; in Zombie World I wouldn’t mind those extra pounds as a hedge against starvation.

Four more patients have died. We put their bodies on the third floor since the morgue doors still knock back. We have a plan: In the next couple of days, we’ll move everyone to the top floor and hunker down before the generator quits. We’re microwaving up a storm to get things cooked, and the freezer is full of containers of ice we’ll pull out at the last second to keep perishables cold.

It could be so much worse, but close quarters with people, no matter how agreeable, wear me down. Whenever my crankiness intensifies, I visit Manny; he may be a person, but he never wears on my sanity. The lethargic little boy has become a happy, animated boy who gives video game zombies a run for their money. I played yesterday only to find I do better with real zombies.

Grace, Jorge and I bring First Meal up to Pediatrics. We push the cart through the double doors into the corridor. The patient rooms are quiet—the kids spend much of the day in the playroom, virtually killing their diseases. We’ve shut off every light we can reach to conserve fuel, but they won’t have the video games much longer. Even Kearney voted that they be allowed to play until the generator quits. Maybe the apocalypse is turning him into a normal person.

“I’ll get the kids,” Grace says, and leaves for the playroom.

Jorge and I set to work. I’m in Manny’s room when I hear a shriek. I think it’s the kids being rowdy until it comes again, shrill and scared, not the happy yell we normally hear.

I meet Jorge in the hall, and we run for the nurses’ station across from the playroom. Grace stands on the desk, one hand gripping the light that hangs above. She kicks at what were once nurses and the parents who thought themselves lucky to be here. The kids’ hospital gowns hang limp and brown. Their small hands barely reach the high surface and they trip the adults, which is the only reason Grace is alive. They haven’t made it behind the desk yet, but they will, and then she won’t stand a chance.

“Grace!” I scream.

Grace’s eyes dart our way, white all around. I start forward. I don’t have a weapon, but I don’t care. There are people for whom you fight to the finish, and Grace is one of my people. Maybe the only one.

Jorge’s hands clamp on my shoulders. He drags me into a room and throws an IV pole into my hands, then lifts the wooden visitor’s chair. “I’ll get them away. You get her out.”

One end of the pole has two round metal projections for IV bags, the other four casters. The casters are attached to an X-shaped metal brace that might do damage. It’s heavier than I thought, and it’s better than nothing. I run back to Grace, sure we’ll find her in shreds, but all those years of yoga are paying off. As soon as one nears, she slams a foot into its chest and sends it into the others. It keeps their teeth away but doesn’t provide a path of escape.

“We’re coming!” I scream over the hissing.

A few of them turn for us, the more attainable meal. Jorge knocks the first parent out of the way. The little girl with cancer—chunk missing from her scalp and dried streams of blood on her cheeks—is a tiny wisp of a thing. Jorge sends her flying. I smash the casters into a preschool boy’s freckled face and hope whoever is in charge of Heaven will forgive me.

“Hey!” Jorge yells. He lets out the kind of short, loud whistle of which I’ve never been capable.

They turn when he whistles again. Jorge fixes his attention on the coming crowd and tosses the first kid against the wall. Grace moves to the edge of the desk while he draws them away, then she leaps into the opening and snatches up a nearby chair. I push my pole at the ones who’ve edged behind. Jorge and Grace wield their chairs like lion tamers.

Someone hits my back. Arms hug my waist. I look down and see kid-sized hands flaked with dried blood. A head nuzzles the small of my back and tries to burrow through my shirts. I kick, but it hangs on tight. For a little zombie, it’s strong. I wrench away and whirl around with my pole.

Manny stares back. His shy smile is gone. His dark brown eyes are now the color of weak tea. I can’t use the pole on him. Not until he attacks, and then I slam down the metal of the caster end hard enough to peel off half his forehead. He keeps coming, a thick slice of inside-out flesh covering one eye and his visible eye so horribly vacant that I can’t move.

A chair flies through the air and takes Manny down. Jorge drags me down the hall and through the double doors alongside Grace. I look back before the doors close. The mob is coming, Manny at the rear. Jorge propels me into the elevator.

Grace inspects my back and front, frantically pulling at my shirts. “Are you okay?” she practically screams.

I don’t answer. Nothing is okay.