Time of Death Book 2: Asylum (A Zombie Novel) (21 page)

"Meg," I whispered by her side, "you need to
keep it together. I'm afraid for your brother."

She looked up at me, aghast at my comment for
a split second before realizing I meant the brother that still
lived. She cut her eyes to Jake, still standing by his bike facing
away from us.

"I don't think I can, Emma," she cried. "He's
gone. But he can't be gone." She dissolved into hysterics again,
and I felt Striker at my back. He'd done it again. Either he was a
ninja, or my instincts were severely impaired in the presence of
Vinny's dead body. Maybe it was a combination of both.

"There's no other option," I told her,
looking to Striker for support. He gave me nothing in return. The
man fought his own demons. I took Daphne from her arms and helped
Meg up, physically pivoting her toward the bikes and giving her a
slight nudge to get moving. The dog was smart enough to interpret
the somber mood of our group and licked my chin; her equivalent to
a pat on the back.

Watching Meg walk away, I waited until she
was out of hearing distance and stepped closer to Striker. "I've
never seen him like this before. It's like he's checked out," I
shared, keeping my voice low.

"What do you expect?" he replied. "He just
lost his brother. You know he feels responsible for you all, right?
Like it's on him and no one else to make sure you're safe."

"That's just stupid!" I hissed. "There's no
way he can control what happens to us, no more than I, or even you,
can. That much pressure is too much for one person to bear."

"You'll never know just how much," Striker
said, startling me with his statement. There was more to this man,
a story, and one I suspected I would never hear. I knew, beyond a
shadow of a doubt, that when we arrived at Asylum he would turn
right around and disappear back into obscurity.

Chapter 13: Code Gray

Without conscious thought, I rubbed my shoulder.
Jake's lack of emotion and empty eyes sparked a memory of a scary
day during nursing school. My first experience with schizophrenia
was something that would stay with me forever. You don't get the
full scope of how dangerous a person diagnosed with schizophrenia
can be, especially when not taking their medication. It's almost
like a switch is flipped. One moment they may see you as an ally, a
trusted confidant, but not the next. Anything can trigger their
psychosis.

I've never been as scared for my safety as I
was that day. I had worked hard to earn the trust of a male
patient, Craig, and we would walk the halls, discussing his
treatment and progression. Craig had been displaying increased
moments of lucidity and decreasing delusions. Tammy, a new nurse,
had moved to the unit, and I noticed the more time she spent with
Craig, the less he trusted me or other staff members.

In a very short span of time, the
nurse-patient relationship became nontherapeutic. Manic outbursts
resulting in physical altercations were par for the course during
days in which Tammy wasn't working. At least one time per shift, a
facility-wide code gray boomed from the loudspeakers, indicating
violence requiring all hands on deck to either verbally or
physically diffuse the situation.

The facility was notorious for under staffing
to boost profitability. With a census of thirty-two patients, they
felt it appropriate to schedule only two nurses and three mental
health technicians, also known as the bouncers. Only one of the
nurses was qualified to perform assessments, take off physician's
orders, chart check, and write incident reports. Those tasks were
outside the scope of practice for an LPN. I remember feeling pity
for the charge nurse on duty, especially considering an incident
report was time consuming. Throw a seclusion or restraint into the
mix, and the workload multiplied exponentially. And let's not
forget student nurses. Somehow, they needed to find the time to
provide us with an educational experience.

One Saturday, the medication nurse called in
sick, leaving the charge nurse alone. So it was no surprise when
instead of teaching me, they used me like an additional employee. I
worked with patients and the psychiatrists and led the afternoon
nursing group. Craig had isolated himself in his room all day,
refusing to take medications or eat.

The charge nurse was on the phone with the
physician, transcribing an order for medication, when I heard
yelling. This was a psychiatric hospital; shouting, crying, and the
random giggles of mania were the norm, not the exception. She waved
in the direction of the disturbance and shooed me off to handle
it.

A technician, Michael, accompanied me to
Craig's room. He was an African American man in his mid-twenties
and composed himself with a calm quiet that resonated well with
patients. Craig blocked us from entering his room, eyes crazed and
darting suspiciously between Michael and me.

"This is my room," he said without
emotion.

"Craig," I said, my voice quiet and steady in
an attempt to keep things from escalating. "Is everything
okay?"

"Everything's fine," he replied, annoyance
creeping into his tone.

"Do you want to sit and talk for a few
minutes, or take a walk around the unit?" I asked, waiting to see
his reaction.

"Why?" he asked in a booming voice. "You want
to give me drugs again? Is that nigger going to hold me down so you
can stick me with something to shut me up?"

I cringed at his racist comment. He spat the
words with such vehemence that spittle flew from his lips when he
spoke. "No, I just had some time and thought you'd enjoy the
company," I said, doing my best to keep my voice low and even.
Craig was a loaded gun, waiting to explode without provocation.

"Because I'm craaaazy, right?" To punctuate
his statement, he began wildly swinging his arms above his
head.

Michael stepped forward, ready to subdue him
if his behavior continued to escalate.

"Step the fuck back!" Craig pointed his
finger at the imposing tech. "You get the fuck away from me.
Nigger! Nigger! Nigger!"

Each time the word left his lips it sliced
through me. I hated the word and knew from the look on Michael's
face that he was working hard to show no reaction. I had no doubt
that had we not been in a psychiatric hospital and this was
happening somewhere else, Craig would have been toast.

I have analyzed the events of that encounter
over and over, trying to come up with anything we could have done
differently to diffuse the situation. Honestly, I don't think it
would have changed anything. Craig was off his meds and
decompensating. He'd reached the point of no return and nothing
could have stopped his inner bomb from detonating.

My instincts told me our continued presence
would only make things worse, so I reversed out of the doorway
slowly, not wanting to turn my back on the unpredictable man. His
pupils were constricted and his eyes drilled into me, not blinking.
I saw muscles in his jaw clench the moment before he sprung at me,
catching Michael off guard and knocking him out of the way. Both
hands grasped my forearm, gripping tight enough to send a jolt of
pain up my limb. I yelped and the sound served as an accelerant for
his diseased mind to increase pressure. Like a tug-of-war match, he
yanked on my arm, twisting his hands at the same time. I felt a
tearing sensation at my shoulder just before blinding pain radiated
down to my elbow. Instantly, my vision blurred and I tried to blink
away the spots floating in front of me. Each time I blinked, little
white dots exploded like fireworks.

Michael regained his footing and I was
vaguely aware of someone shouting code gray nearby. The pressure on
my arm released, and I stumbled back and hit the wall, clutching my
wrist close to my chest. At some point in the struggle, I'd slid to
the floor. Looking back, from the moment my rotator cuff tore, the
scene took on a dreamlike quality. My memories were limited to
snippets, like quick snapshots captured by a photographer.

I rubbed at my shoulder again, feeling the
pain dissipate to a dull ache when the memory ended and my thoughts
returned to the present. My breathing was shallow and my chest
pounded from fear as my subconscious fired, connecting the dots
between the memory of Craig and my husband's current behavior. I
shook my head in hopes of rattling loose the comparison. This was
Jake, my goofy and lovable husband, not a psychotic patient. But
the more I watched him, the less sure I was in my conviction.

* * *

We rode in silence, afraid that anything we
said would further break Jake's already tenuous hold on sanity. I
scoffed at the thought that we were journeying to a location named
Asylum. Striker came to a stop in front of me and turned to face
us.

"We're not far now, but it's going to be dark
soon. Once we clear this street there will be no place safe enough
to hold up if we run into trouble."

"What does that mean?" asked Meg.

"It means we're spending the night here." He
pointed to the house we'd stopped in front of.

"Do you smell that?" I asked, wrinkling my
nose at the pungent smell of death. Zombies were nearby, close
enough that their stench traveled on the breeze.

Striker dismounted the bike and walked toward
Jake with apprehension. "Hey, bud, you doing okay?"

"Define okay?" retorted Jake, trying to make
light of the situation.

"We need to clear the house. I can't do it
alone. I need someone at my back," he clarified.

"Yeah, I'm good."

The gruff man searched Jake's eyes for lies.
He either found none or refused to undermine Jake's answer. Looking
first at Meg, then me, he said, "You girls stay outside, butt up
against the front of the house, and keep your eyes and ears open
for company. We'll come get you when it's clear."

We nodded in confirmation and plastered
ourselves against the house while the men entered the unlocked
front door and disappeared into unknown territory.

"Emma?" whispered Meg from behind me. We'd
faced away from each other to cover every angle. Her voice startled
me from my thoughts and I flinched.

"Mmm-hmm?" I asked.

"You saw it, too. Right?"

I sighed and closed my eyes for a moment,
snapping them open when I remembered I needed to pay attention to
my surroundings. "Yeah, Meggy, I saw it."

"He's changing," she sniffled. "I don't think
he'll ever be the same after that. Oh, God, I don't think I'll ever
be the same after that."

"Me, too, sweetie. He just needs some time to
digest everything." Even as I spoke the words, I knew they were
lies. My husband would not likely ever be the man I married
again.

"Yeah," she murmured without conviction.

My scalp prickled, the tell-tale sign the
something wasn't right. My intuition had never failed me, and I
searched the immediate area for danger. I heard the soft rustle of
grass snapping under footfalls, almost imperceptible at first, but
growing in intensity with each second that ticked by. "We've got
company," I whispered to Meg.

I raised BB in the direction of the sound and
tensed for action. A booted foot stepped from beyond the corner,
and I ran at it, howling like a rabid animal. I swung the crowbar
at the head as it came into view, realizing too late that the
intruder was Striker. Once again displaying creepy ninja skills, he
caught hold of the steel shaft inches before it impacted with his
skull and held it in place.

I felt my face go red from embarrassment and
pursed my lips into a tight circle. I'm pretty sure I mumbled out
something resembling an oops and he just shook his head, looking
slightly amused and annoyed at the same time.

"Oops?" He questioned, one eyebrow raised.
"You should really practice your technique for sneaking up on
someone."

If it was even possible, that one eyebrow
seemed to rise higher. Fuck, I really wanted to punch him in that
little bushy patch of hair. Or maybe I'd just grab it and pull.

"It's clear," he reported, seeing my eyes
travel to the new speckles of black goo on his tee shirt.

"Where's Jake?" I asked, my belly tight with
anxiety.

"Inside. He's watching the back door in case
our presence drew any looky-loos."

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow at his
colorful use of words. "Really? Looky-loos? You've barely said two
words since I've met you, and you pull that shit out of your
ass?"

He shrugged and looked to Meg standing behind
me. "Before we go inside, we should talk."

Meg came up beside me and bumped into the dog
carrier. Daphne rattled the side of the bag, reminding us she was
still along for the ride.

"Tomorrow I'll get you all to Asylum. You
already know I'm not staying, and I won't be there to keep an eye
on your man. That boy's got something going on inside."

I bristled at his choice of words; calling
Jake a boy. If anything, Striker was probably Jake's junior.

He continued, oblivious to my inner dialog.
"He's walking the tightrope of mental stability right now. I don't
think it will take much to push him over the brink."

"Got it," I chafed, pushing past him to get
to my husband. He grabbed my arm, halting my progression, and I
snatched it from his grip. "Get off me!"

The asshole had the nerve to look confused by
my reaction. Really? You've just insulted my husband and called him
crazy in the same sentence, I thought. Of course, I'd just
basically had the same conversation with Meg, but Striker wasn't
family.

Not acknowledging my barb, he pointed to the
front door, "In the front."

I spun on my heel and stalked past Meg, who
incidentally, was also looking at Striker like he was an ant she
wanted to crush beneath her shoe.

* * *