War of the Undead (Day One): The Apocalypse Crusade (A Zombie Tale) (5 page)

He was dying and no amount of so-called “bravery” on his part would change anyone’s minds about what a fuck-all good-for-nothin' he was. And even if he could change people’s minds about him, he wasn’t going to put Jaimee through the same hell he had gone through. And he certainly wasn’t going to leave her destitute.

As soon as Mrs. Lafayette unleashed her last look of disgust his way and left, John got into his battered Corolla and went to
Mac’s Easy-Pawn
and for the first time ever he wasn’t going to drop something off.

He was shopping for a gun.

Since she was so tall the flimsy hospital gown came to rest just above her knees and though she frequently wore tiny miniskirts that her mother considered scandalous, Stephanie Glowitz felt embarrassingly exposed sitting up on the exam table.

In nervous agitation she kept tugging at the hem and flattening the wrinkles so that the gown lay smoothly on her thighs.

“It’s going to be ok,” her mom assured. Winnie Glowitz was a rock. She patted Stephanie’s leg with a palm as dry and soft as talc.

“Yeah, it is. I know it. I feel good. No, I feel great; better than I have in years. And I think I look better, too. You know the sexy checker at the supermarket? Yesterday, when I ran to get your hair color, he was all like
dammmn
,
girl
.”

The combination of chemo and radiation therapy had been the most horrid experience of her life. She had felt like killing herself almost on a daily basis, but it did have one plus: she’d lost a ton of weight and was fitting into clothes she hadn’t been able to squeeze her fat ass into since high school.

Winnie made a face like she had smelled something odd. “That checker is a gay, dear. Everyone knows that. But it doesn’t take away from the fact that you are looking so much better. I just wish your hair would grow back faster. Why aren’t you wearing the wig? That fuzzy cap is…childish. You’re twenty-eight not five. It just doesn’t suit you.”

“I kinda want to feel like a child,” Steph replied, touching the soft
acorn
cap. It was pink in color and angora-soft. “All this was like a real big deal. I don’t know how to explain it other than to tell you it feels like I’m reborn, you know? Like now I get this do-over. Like I get my life back but with a fresh start. I feel young again."

“I guess I can understand that.” Winnie stared up at her daughter feeling a warmth of pride in her bosom. “Really, you do look younger with that cap. If your dad was alive he’d swear you were his little Bubbles again.”

Stephanie choked and put a finger to her lips. “Don’t ever say the
B
word out loud. You know how long it took me to lose that nickname?” The truth was that it took until she was a freshman at Vanderbilt where she traded in the nickname Bubbles for the name
Stone City
, though people tended to call her
Stoney
for short.

The reminder of her nickname, the newer one, not the sweet one her dad used to call her, had her jonesing for a joint again and her foot started to shake. That was the only positive to being on chemo—she was able to smoke all the weed she wanted and no one would say shit about it. Not even her mother. Whenever Winnie would catch Steph “self-medicating” her lips would get tight and her smile would turn crooked but she never said shit.

“Oh man, this wait is killing me,” Stephanie said, her thumb subconsciously coming to her mouth. She started to nibble at the edge of the nail. “I mean, how long does it take to look at a CAT scan and say: clear, next.”

“It’s going to be ok,” Winnie said a second time. “There were a lot of people in the waiting room, remember? Dr. Wilson is a great oncologist. He probably has just a ton of people to get through before…”

A knock at the door stopped her. She looked up at Steph and their eyes met—they were both suddenly afraid. The knock hadn’t been Dr. Wilson’s usual peppy knuckle rap. This knock had been two low taps.

“C-Come in,” Steph said, her voice cracking.

Dr. Samuel Wilson was tall and dapper. His usual smile radiated from his deep brown face with confidence and showed a real pleasure in living life. His smile just then held a strong suggestion of pity.

Stephanie started shaking her head from side-to-side. “No. Uh-uh. I f-feel good. I feel great, ok?”

“Is it that obvious on my face?” he asked coming forward, not to listen to her heart with his stethoscope, or to take her temperature, but to hold her hands. “I’m sorry, but the first cycle of chemo wasn’t successful.”

Winnie stood up. Her eyes roved all around the room and could not find a single thing to settle on. They bounced from floor to ceiling to Wilson's shiny shoes. “Then we do another. Isn’t that what you said? If the first didn’t take we do a second round.”

Dr. Wilson nodded but there was a hesitancy in the movement. “Yes and no. Unfortunately…unfortunately your daughter’s cancer is no longer in the limited stage. It’s progressed to the extensive stage, meaning we have found tumors, very small ones in the pleura and in her left lung.”

Stephanie’s eyes were doing the opposite of her mom’s, she was staring at a button on Dr. Wilson’s suit. It was round, grey, and wholly ordinary, but in some fashion it seemed to be hypnotizing her. “Pluera,” she said and didn’t know why she did.

“It’s the membrane that encases the lungs,” he explained. “When we find cancer there, it’s a sure sign of it progressing to the next stage. I suggest we do a more thorough screening to find out exactly where the cancer has spread.”

“Ok,” Stephanie said. Her jonesing to get high was gone. In its place was a feeling of doom. “How long?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. How long is the test or how long until we can schedule it?”

“How long do I have?” Out of nowhere tears rushed from her eyes. “To live.”

“That’s not easy to say,” he said, with a grimace. “It depends mostly on your genes. Most people don’t realize this, but genetic predisposition is the main factor not only in getting cancer but also in fighting it. Your father’s colon cancer advanced far quicker than the average and you, you’re not even a smoker and yet you have lung cancer.”

“She smokes pot!” her mother exclaimed. It came out like a combination of an excuse and an accusation. “If she promised to stop right now and never did it again would that help?”

Stephanie began to shake her head; her eyes still focused on that nothing of a button. “Marijuana isn’t a carcinogen, mom. It’s natural.”

“I wish that was true,” Dr. Wilson said. “The latest studies suggest that both tobacco and cannabis smoke contain the same cancer-causing compounds and, depending on what part of the plant is smoked, marijuana can contain more of these harmful ingredients.”

“So she should stop, right?” Winnie asked.

The doctor puffed up his cheeks and gently blew out a long breath. “The doctor in me really wants you to stop, however the realist thinks that it won’t make much difference at this point.”

“How long do I have?” Stephanie asked again, her voice barely a whisper.

“It depends on…”

“How long!” she cried.

“Patients diagnosed with extensive stage small cell lung cancer have a median survival rate of six to twelve months. Possibly, with more chemo and radiation therapy, we can extend that.”

Winnie leapt up. “Then that’s what we’ll do! You’re going to be my partner in this Dr. Wilson. I want the next cycle started up as soon as humanly possible. Today if we can. I’ll call into work; it’ll be no big deal. We can lick this, Stephanie.”

“No we can’t.” She was going to die. There it was. A doctor told her and that made it fact.

“With the right attitude we can,” Winnie insisted.

Stephanie finally looked away from the button, but her eyes were so unfocused that she didn’t really see anything. She shook her head. “No. No more chemo for me. I’m done.”

When he got the news, Chuck said two words: “Well, shit.” He stood up while his doctor went on talking about surgeries and tests and all the rest. Chuck wasn’t listening. He tugged off his gown and was putting on his pants one leg at a time like he always did, or almost like he always did.

Unaccountably he had left his underwear sitting on the floor.

His doctor, a young’un with a poor attempt at a beard scrabbling on his cheeks pointed at the under drawers. When Chuck made no move to pick them up, he went on, “Those are your treatment options. I’d suggest the brachytherapy. Mr. Singleton are you listening? Brachytherapy is when we install a catheter inside the effected bronchial…”

Chuck ignored the doctor's mumbo-jumbo just like he ignored the underwear; deciding at that point to go commando for the first time in his life. He slipped his boots on and pulled his t-shirt over his lean torso.

“Mr. Singleton what are you…um, where are you going?”

“Gonna quit ma-job,” he replied. That seemed about right. No sense hanging around the shop as he wasted away. ‘Sides he needed a vacation. Chuck Singleton, at thirty-seven had never had what one would call a real vacation. Sure, he’d taken time off to go see his folks and every year he took a week during the season to go after white tails, and he enjoyed a four-day weekend on occasion to pull bass out of Canton Lake.

But just then he wanted more. “Think I’ll go see a mountain. I hear Colorado’s full of them.”

“Um, yeah,” the kid doctor said, uncertainly. “But what about your treatment? When are we going to start you on that chemo?”

Chuck knew what chemo was. He’d read what he had needed to on the subject and he’d be damned if he was gonna shoot radiation into his body on the off chance that it would kill his cancer. “What’s the Vegas line on me, Doc?”

“Vegas line? I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“What’re ma-odds?” he growled, feeling annoyed at wasting time. Seconds were suddenly a might bit more precious to him than they had been five minutes before.

“Odds, yes. Ok, with the right therapy we can likely increase your quality of life significantly. As for prolonging your life, we have made rapid advances in…”

“Let me help you,” Chuck said, interrupting. “What’re ma-odds of dyin’ of ole age?”

The doctor started to hem and haw, but when Chuck turned his green eyes on him and gave him a hard stare, he sagged and admitted, “One in a thousand. Maybe not even that good, but it doesn’t mean you can’t have a good life between now and…you know.”

Chuck had read about the sickness and the depression and the pain and the wasting away. Thanks but no thanks. “That’s alright, Doc. You can save your radioactive pellets for the next guy. I’m gonna go see the mountains of Colorado and I think Hollywood. And, iffin I live that long, New York City. I just gotta see what all the fuss is about. S’long.”

The young quack just shook his head, until his eyes fell on Chuck’s tighty whities. “What about your underwear?”

“You can have ‘em Doc. Maybe someday you’ll grow into ‘em.”

“You can do this, Edmund,” Kip said, flashing his white teeth and clapping his partner on the shoulder. “In fact, you need to do this. We are on the verge of something huge! Our Com-cells are going to be bigger than…I don’t know, the light bulb.”

“The light bulb is illegal in case you forgot,” Edmund shot back. He considered the banning of the light bulb the biggest bit of tomfoolery he had ever heard of, besides global-warming, that is. Edmund was seventy-five years old and for the last twenty of those years he couldn’t seem to get enough global-warming. Here it was seventy degrees and he had a sweater on under his suit coat.

Kip made a face. “I’m not going to quibble. We both know you become argumentative when you’re nervous. It’ll be ok. They aren’t sharks.”

Rothchild laughed. “You call them sharks, quite literally after every press conference.”

“But this will be different,” Kip shot back. He took Edmund by the shoulders and started to gently push him to the first floor conference room where a bevy of reporters were standing around eating expensive pastries and drinking gourmet coffee. “You see today we are announcing a breakthrough in the fight against cancer. They’re going to eat it up. They’re going to be more like sweet little kittens, you’ll see.”

Edmund wasn’t convinced. “There are breakthroughs all the time.”

“Not like this there isn’t. You’re the one who sold me on the idea, now sell it to them.” When Edmund looked unconvinced, Kip went on, still guiding the older man, “I’ll be right next to you in case things get awkward. Just be yourself. Let the teddy bear out.” Once upon a time, many years before, Edmund’s wife had accidentally called him by his bedroom nickname while at a party. Very few had the chutzpa of Stephen Kipling to bring it up.

“Pissing me off isn’t helping my nerves,” Edmund said, as they approached the podium. He began to feel his pulse pick up and his smile felt phony and frozen. There was nothing in the world Edmund hated more than public speaking. The journalists seeing them enter the room went to their seats; those from the more important news outlets pushed to the front and stared up at Rothchild, expectantly.

Kip nudged him and after a shaky breath Rothchild launched right in: “First, I’d like to thank you for coming, especially on such short notice,” he said. It seemed like a fine opening but for some reason Kip was smiling at him in a very strange way. Edmund tried to ignore him. “Um, I uh, have an announcement of some importance concerning a research project that has shown great promise…” Now Kip was grinning at him like a maniac. It was completely throwing off Edmund’s train of thought. “One second,” he said to the journalists and then leaned into Kip and asked, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Try smiling a little,” Kip said, around a gentle smile of his own. “You look like you want to kill someone.”

Whenever Edmund was particularly anxious the stress tended to settle in his face and neck. His muscles were so taught that he had to will a smile onto his wrinkled face. It was only marginally better. He’d gone from looking like a murderer to some creepy old, pedophile asking children if they’d like some candy or a ride in his van. It was the best Edmund could do under the circumstances.

Kip jerked his head towards the journalists, suggesting that Edmund should go on with the briefing.

“Right. As I was saying,” Edmund said. “Through the tireless work of our scientists, R & K Research Industries has made a stunning breakthrough in the treatment of cancer, uh, lung cancer specifically. The technique is guarded by patent laws but I can tell you that small cell lung cancer which, as some of you know is the most deadly of all carcinomas, will no longer be the death sentence it once was.”

He thought his statement was just fine, not realizing that when he had said the words:
death sentence
, the words were low and raspy and that he sounded like the crypt keeper. He went on, “The FDA has given us fast-track approval which means we will begin our first clinical trials in one month. We are now looking for proper candidates.”

“What sort of candidates?” one of the reporters barked out. “Can anyone get in or are you going to screen them like you did with your insulin study? Isn’t that what you’re being investigated over? Skewing results?”

Edmund looked at Kip in surprise. What happened to the reporters being sweet as kittens? Kip raised a finger and answered the question, “We are not able to comment on a case that is still under investigation, other than to say the accusations are false and we look forward to being vindicated.”

“I can at least talk about the candidates for our trial, correct?” Edmund asked his partner who nodded quickly and then looked emphatically at the journalists, who seemed amused at the befuddled, old man. “Sorry about this, it’s usually Dr. Kipling who does these sorts of things. About the candidates, we are looking for second stage, or what’s called extensive stage patients afflicted with small cell lung cancer. The only screening that we anticipate is age related and of course viability.”

“What do you mean by that?” the same reporter asked with more than a hint of suspicion in his voice. “You only want the ones that will live anyway?”

Edmund glared down at the man, wondering:
Who was this jackass?
“First off, young man, I have a doctorate in microbiology and thus it is only polite to address me as Doctor Rothchild. Secondly, your question is so steeped in ignorance you should be embarrassed at having opened your mouth.”

The reporter, who had been snarled at by scarier men than this old codger, shrugged and said, “By that,
Doctor Rothchild
, I take it you are refusing to answer the question?”

“The question was asinine. Once someone reaches the extensive stage of small cell lung cancer that person is deemed incurable. They are going to die no matter what. Do you understand that simple concept?”

“Yes,” the reporter replied, this time without the sarcasm.

Edmund, who had become emboldened, went on, “By viability I mean a chance at a normal life after the treatment is concluded. There are some end-stage patients who have such extensive lung damage even if their cancer were to be cured, they’d likely die Anymore questions?”

A woman raised her hand and started speaking even before Edmund acknowledged her. “Can you give us an inkling on the specifics of the cure? Is this a targeted genomic breakthrough?”

“It’s not,” Edmund said, grinning. “It’s better, at least when it concerns lung cancer. We haven’t have had the same success with other forms of cancer, yet.”

The reporter, who had been rude earlier, smirked. “Sounds like a bait and switch. There are some who say that big pharmaceutical companies like yours don’t really want to cure diseases. They say disease maintenance and symptom management is where the real profits are made. They say that companies like R & K are not in the business of cures because that would put them out of business.”

Edmund’s mouth came open and he began to splutter. “Who? Who says this?”

“People who think you profit off of misery.”

The reporter was a slight man, thin through the chest and when Edmund stepped forward with fire in his rheumy eyes, the younger man flinched back. Kip grabbed his partner before he could do something that would make the evening news and not in a good way.

Edmund, shaking in fury, said to the reporter, “I think you need to leave right now. Your questions are not befitting this press conference.”

The reporter stood up and seemed about to leave when Kip stopped him. “Wait, I want you to have these.” From the inner pocket of his suit coat, Kip produced two pictures. Edmund was surprised to see they were pictures of his wife and daughter. “If you think money is our only goal I want you to talk to these two people," Kip said, heavily. "This is Gabrielle Rothchild, Edmund’s daughter. She’s dying of lung cancer even as you waste our time with these stupid questions.”

“Kip, no…” Edmund said in a weak voice.

Kip ignored him and strode forward to stand in front of the gathered reporters, his face livid. “And this is his wife. She died of pancreatitis, so I guess you’ll have a tougher time asking her if she thinks her husband doesn’t want to find a cure.”

Embarrassed, the reporter mumbled something that sounded like an apology and hurried from the now silent room. All eyes were on Kip. He held up the two pictures.

“Sometimes we are too eager to find a cure. Sometimes we want to help our fellow man so much that we rush things. That’s where that investigation into our insulin study stems from,” Kip said, lying smoothly. “Trust me, I wish it was all about money. Money is easy. Watching our friends and families die while we struggle against useless rules and regulations, and battle against pig-headed bureaucrats, that’s what’s hard to do.”

He paused, letting the silence work for him. He had such a natural understanding of dramatics that just then he seemed more like a stage actor than a scientist.

Kip smiled suddenly, breaking the tension that had built up. “But we shouldn’t be worrying about any of that. Not today. Not when we have a cure for cancer in our sites. This is not another of the vague promises of some far away tomorrow that we’ve all grown accustomed to. I’m talking about a cure using a combined cell process that unleashes the natural healing power within all of us. Think about it, no more radiation, no more chemo, no more losing our hair. And what’s better, no more useless deaths.”

Another pause allowed that to sink in. He nodded to each reporter and said, “I’m sure you have some more questions.”

There were, lots of them, and he answered them easily, fluidly, and no one questioned Kip’s veracity. He had cemented in their minds the concept that he and R & K research Industries were the good guys here. This had been is ultimate aim. Things had been going steadily downhill for the company; shareholders were losing confidence, stock prices were plummeting, capital was drying up right when he needed it to finish the new facility.

So Kip had orchestrated this little song and dance, and he had played the reporters like a virtuoso. No one asked if Mrs. Rothchild had died of a different form of pancreatitis than the one they were being investigated over. And no one questioned who the rude the reporter was.

They had no idea that the man was actually a local actor and had been handsomely paid to play the villain. Not even Rothchild knew. Edmund was far too innocent, far too naïve in his view of the world. He stood there shaking, casting sad glances at the pictures Kip had made sure to have on hand just for the press conference.

They would go back in his office drawer at the end of the day. They were, after all, just a prop to Kip.

Deck was supposed to be impressed by the buildings and the grounds, then again the facility was supposed to have been completed by then. It wasn't.

"This is what happens when people can't make up their minds," Hal Kingman said in his own defense. He was the lead architect in charge of the Walton Facility and Deck wasn't impressed by him either. The man had on a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The way he wore it seemed almost to mock the construction workers who were busy as bees in every building. It was as though Hal was
just
about to do some actually work. "Ask me what I'm supposed to throw all my men into today? Go ahead."

Deckard just kept walking to the main building. He wasn't there to play guessing games; he was there to check the state of security in this supposed fortress-like facility. In his opinion it looked like a college campus, and a pretty one at that. The existing trees had been preserved during construction so they could throw their shade over the winding walkways and the stately red, brick buildings, while shoots of ivy, perennials, and shrubs of all sorts were being nurtured so that in a few years Deck figured the place would resemble the Garden of Eden.

Other than a glance, he ignored the trimmings and the opulence just like he ignored Hal.

Hal's smile failed him, as Deck didn't play along. He hurried to keep up with the taller man. "Well, I'll tell you: yesterday it was security. Today it's the hospital. Do you know they want to have the fifty-bed hospital up and running in four weeks and three days? Who knows what they'll want prioritized tomorrow?"

"The fence," Deck answered him, stopping suddenly and pointing at the black, wrought iron fencing that went around the property. The fence was fine for stopping a few teenagers from getting in and sprawling graffiti on the walls but it wouldn't slow a professional for more than a few seconds. "At a minimum it should be fifteen feet high. I want a team replacing it tomorrow."

Hal looked at the fence in surprise. There was nothing at all wrong with it as far as he could tell. It was supposed to be a security fence and, by golly, it sure seemed secure; he was certain he couldn't climb it. "What's wrong with the fence?"

"It's too short."

"What? Too short? What do you mean? It's...it's..." Hal spluttered for a few more seconds and then smiled and threw up his hands as if the fence was nothing. "You want a new fence? Fine, but it isn't going to happen tomorrow. It's not that easy you know."