Z Children (Book 1): Awakening (14 page)

He wouldn’t be
that big of a threat, not if the other changed adults were any proof, but an
adult zombie also meant that at some point, there’d been a child zombie.

I tried to see
everything at once – into shops, behind trash cans, around corners, anywhere
that might hide one of the monster kids. As I searched, the adult shambled
closer. I could see him in detail now. His eyes were framed in purple bruises
and his left clavicle was seeping burgundy blood that quickly changed to onyx.
The fluids nearly obscured the deep teeth marks- a narrow set from a small
mouth.

“Sherry, shake a
tail feather, Mamacita. You’ve got a friend.”

Sherry was
already turning when I spoke, and the change in position did two things – it
made her see the adult nearby and it drew more attention to her as a target.
Not only for the ambling fully-grown male, but also for the short,
ginger-headed child that had just emerged from a store named “Lana’s Little
Bites”. It was, apparently, a sweets store specializing in cake pops and miniature
cupcakes.

Child-sized
treats.
Now if that isn’t damn ironic. Perhaps they have a flesh-flavored
petit fours…

“Mierda, Sherry,
Mamacita, you need to run.”
For a moment, she was frozen with fear.
“Run NOW!”
I yelled this time, my voice cracking as I stepped out of the RV
and toward the ginger child- who was staring at Sherry. A forgotten cupcake
fell from his hand. It was half-eaten, the white icing tainted by the drying
blood already decorating the boy’s mouth.

That seemed so
odd to me… that a zombie child would not lose its sweet tooth. Unless the
changed taste buds made grey matter and buttercream go amazing together.

The ASP was
raised above my head as Sherry’s body brushed against mine; she nearly fell up
the RV stairs in her hurry to get to safety. The full grown zombie had lost
interest now that the kid had shown up. It was now turned toward the opposite
direction, moving slowly away, like its job as a sentry was over. But the boy
was not leaving; he was moving from side-to-side, a sort of boxer-like prance.
His head moved jerkily as his gaze studied my body’s position and the weapon in
my grasp.

My body was
blocking the RV entrance. He wouldn’t get past me.

Quicker than my
brain could process, the boy was darting toward me, his upper body bent as his
short legs worked furiously. I kept the ASP raised and held my left hand out in
a quarterback block. He was almost in baton range.

Almost. Almost.
Just a foot more.

I gasped as my
feet were forced out from under me by a large, furry mass that had shoved
between my parted legs and launched itself toward my attacker. “Frank!” I
shouted, emotion making my voice crack. “Frank, no!” In a short time, I’d
become attached to the big dog. I didn’t want anything to happen to him.
“Frank!” I left my position, slammed the RV door closed, and turned back to the
fight.

The Rotti was on
top of the boy now, pinning him against the ground. Two of his large paws
rested on the boy’s shoulders, the other two were planted firmly on the
concrete. His foreleg muscles were bulging with the strain of keeping the
struggling monster kid down.

Coming up on
Frank’s left, I lifted the ASP once again and quickly sent it descending
downwards, toward the boy’s head. His…
its
… eyes widened as the baton
was about to make contact. With a guttural cry, the zombie kid shoved upwards,
shifting Frank off of his body and allowing him to roll away from my blow.
“Damn it!” I quick-stepped backwards, avoiding the kid as he recovered and came
at me like a striking viper.
Jesus, these things really are super human!
Frank had that thing pinned and it just pushed him away like a sack of grain.

Frank was there
again, coming to my rescue.

But the big dog
made a mistake this time.

He launched his
body into the air, sailing toward the zombie child. Frank wasn’t going to give
the monster any lenience now, small child or not, it was game-freaking-on.

The large dog’s
mouth was open wide, his white teeth glinting in the late afternoon light. The
jugular of the boy was his target, the soft flesh beneath the chin. There was a
split second where I thought the dog would be successful.

The boy
sidestepped leisurely and brought both arms down hard against the dog’s
airborne body- shifting Frank’s trajectory in mid-flight. Frank’s head snapped
around, trying to lock jaws on the child despite falling towards the ground.
There was a crunch as his body awkwardly hit the asphalt; he yelped in pain.
 He immediately tried to get up, but stumbled slightly. Something was
broken, more than one something probably.

Frank wasn’t
allowing his right front leg to touch the ground and he was obviously hurting,
yet he still tried to meet our enemy head-on. He was slower now, weakened by
the cannibal child’s ferocious blow. The evil bastard was just too fast; Frank
didn’t stand a chance on his own; there was no way he could win.

The sight of the
loyal dog injured and still trying to defend me made any residual guilt over
killing a child expel violently from my body. I reacted on instinct, coming
toward the boy swiftly with the baton rigid in my grip. Frank continued to put
up a fight, lunging forward, avoiding his injured front leg. The boy’s face was
fierce, determined. To my surprise, the big dog made contact, clamping his
large mouth onto the boy’s calf; his teeth sunk easily into the delicate flesh
and he seized bone. Give a dog a bone… expect him to chew it.

Frank was mad
now, blood-fueled rage filling him with a barely-controlled power. His large
head began to shake violently, pulling the boy off of his feet like a crocodile
in a death roll and shattering his bones with the force of his massive jaws. As
the boy fell, he jerked his upper body to bring it closer to the dog. In
disbelief, I watched the child latch onto the dog with his own mouth, sinking
his own small teeth into fur and flesh. He had to have insane pain tolerance,
to not feel the damage Frank was doing to his slight frame.

I still moved
toward them, ASP in hand, wanting to save the dog, end the fight, but they were
moving so quickly, rolling along the ground- rogue tumbleweeds in a bloody race
towards the finish. I was almost in position, almost there; the child continued
to rip away chunks of Frank. Blood squirted out, making macabre murals on the
sidewalk and store windows.

The more the kid
bit the more focused anger surged through Frank. I could see the dog’s eyes go
crimson as he fought to protect his new family. I couldn’t seem to move fast
enough to help my friend. My feet felt like they were strapped into lead shoes
as I closed the gap. I watched as Frank smashed the boy into the ground; the
kid’s legs separated at the knee joints and his body slid towards me. My blood
boiled when I saw my friend’s fur dangling from the cannibal’s mouth as it
tried to stand up, but its legs were unable to support its weight. They were
busted, flailing about like rubber, boneless appendages.

Him. It. Him. I
didn’t know what to call these things, these monsters trapped in child-sized
bodies.

It was at my
feet. I was close enough.“¡Chinga usted, Pendajo!”

The ASP made
contact, the tip smashing into the boy’s head, sinking into grey matter and
squishing like perverse silly putty. I raised the baton and once again brought
it down to meet the mush of head littering the ground.

For my part, I
saw it in slow motion. I saw the flesh slowly cave in, the first bite of blood
spray out in a fan of lethargic droplets as I acquired some small amount of
revenge for the pain it had caused my friend. My blood was pumping violently
through my veins and I began to get the shakes from residual adrenaline. 

***

Getting Frank
back into the RV was nearly harder than killing the monster child. I didn’t
want the big dog walking on his injured leg and he sure as hell didn’t want to
be carried. Like a true Gladiator, he wanted to walk out of the arena. After
some whispered coaxing and ear rubbing he finally let me pick him up and I
staggered to the door.

As we pulled
away from the shopping center, my body finally stopped vibrating with the
adrenaline after throws of the fight. Frank was now resting on the lower bunk
bed; his breathing was labored; I could hear it from where I sat in the
driver’s seat. Not looking at Sherry, because I held her in some ways
responsible for Frank’s injuries, I spoke. “We aren’t stopping again. And if
your damn friend and her boat aren’t at the marina, then I start calling the
shots.”

“She’ll be
there.” Sherry tried to sound confident sitting in the passenger’s seat, but
her voice quavered.

“Did you
actually talk to her? Did she answer her phone?”

A stifled sob
escaped Sherry’s mouth before she could speak again. “She answered. I heard her
voice. She said my name.”

“And?” My voice
sounded meaner than I intended.

Another sob.
“And then the line went dead… but she
will
be there, Juan. I know it.
She told me the name of the marina once, I know she did. I just have to
remember… God, why do I have to be so stupid and forget things like that? I
have
to remember.”

I looked at Sherry
now, saw the tears making wet tracks down her face and heard the way her voice
had disintegrated. “We can find another phone when we get to Corpus. Maybe
she’ll answer again.” My voice was kinder now, but only slightly so. Actually,
I still sounded pissed. “Can you go back and tend to Frank? I think I saw a
medical kit in the bathroom. Those bites need to be flushed. And I think his
right front leg’s busted real bad. Frank might be the toughest beast I’ve ever
seen, but an infection could take him down for good.”

“All right, I
can do that. And for what it’s worth…” Sherry’s swallow was audible. “I’m
really sorry.”

“We’re all doing
the best we can.” It wasn’t the best thing I could have said; I could have been
more forgiving, but I needed to cool off a little more before I could tell her
it was okay. Maybe I was being an ass. Hell, maybe I was being the king of the
kingdom of assdom, but it was apparently a damn apocalypse and taking on the
‘king of asses’ crown might keep us alive.

Sherry’s body
was sort of huddled, collapsing into itself. She didn’t like that I was mad at
her. That meant something to me, that she cared about what I thought. It melted
my anger, left it in a puddle so that I could be sincerely kind now.

“I’m sorry for
being so rough on you. The fight… this whole end of the world crap… it’s just
got me a little shook up. Thought we lost Frank.”

“It was my
fault. We should never have stopped. I really am sorry, Juan.”

As Sherry stood
up and walked toward the back where Frank was, I kept my eyes trained on the
road ahead of the RV. “Don’t die on me, you dumb, brave dog. I can’t keep these
idiots alive without you.” A whispered prayer, but I wasn’t too hopeful it
would be answered. My guess was that God would be a little too busy to hear me.
I imagine he has his hands full with dying people and endless prayers right
now.

There was
silence for some time before anyone spoke again. And when the silence was
broken, it was Marty’s voice, which made me realize that I hadn’t paid one bit
of attention to the boy since carrying Frank back into the RV.

“I’m really
sorry about Frank, Mr. Juan. I never had a dog before, but he’s pretty awesome,
isn’t he?” Marty spoke quietly from where he was sitting next to Frank on the
lower bunk; his fingers stroked the large dog’s head as Sherry cleaned Frank’s
wounds.

 “Yeah,
Marty, he’s pretty awesome.”

The RV lapsed
into silence again.

This time, I
found the silence unsettling for some reason. Even though it was normal- the
calm after the storm so to speak- it was an uneasy absence of sound. I was just
about to ask how Frank was doing when Sherry yelled out, her voice triumphant.
“Sea Ranch Marina!” She screeched. “Sea Ranch Marina! I’m sure that was the
name!” Her voice cracked on the last few words. 

“Sea Ranch
Marina.” I said back calmly, realizing I’d half-hoped she wouldn’t remember the
name.

A road sign was
a green landmark in the near distance. Corpus Christi – 48 miles.

Sherry’s soft
vocal plea of ‘you better still be there, Susan,’ was at odds with my silent
one-
I’m not getting on any damn boat, no matter who’s in Corpus waiting at
Sea Ranch Marina
.

4

VIRGINIA LYNN,
MD

I was often late for work.

In a way, that
didn’t matter too much. I owned the practice. But it also wasn’t very
professional to show up five minutes before my first patient- no makeup, hair a
mess, and a pile of files to go through. There was a reason I showed up later
on certain days though.

Nurse Kayla was
an unpleasant woman, as unpleasant as they came. On days she was scheduled, I
just couldn’t bring myself to come in early. All the other nurses were lovely.
We’d brew coffee, chat in the break room, organize the day together. But she
was a beast in scrubs- obese, foul-mouthed, and usually reeking of cigarettes
and dollar store perfume. I’d resolved to fire her many times, but I hated
firing people. I hated the guilt, the expressions on their faces and- as was
the case when firing one volatile, young man- the possibility that they might
key my Range Rover.  

So, today, I was
late- rolling in with only a few minutes to spare before my first appointment.
This gave me an excuse to sneak in the rear entrance, duck into my office, and
completely avoid Nurse Kayla. I could hear her voice though, as I quietly
clicked the heavy door closed.

“No one made
coffee?! Why am I the only one that does shit around here? I can’t deal with a
bunch of snot-nosed brats without caffeine.”

The thickness of
the door was nearly enough to block out her brutish, grating voice. I sighed,
leaning against the dark wood. “I
have
to fire that woman or I’m going
to lose all my patients… and my mind.” So, once again, I resolved to fire her.
Maybe this time, I’d follow through. A girl can dream.

Thankfully, I
didn’t need to go into the break room to get my coffee buzz. A small espresso
machine sat on a sideboard near my desk. It took only nine seconds to warm up
and soon I was sipping on a Brazilian bourbon bean blend that tasted like
heaven. Moments later, I was sitting at my desk, warm cup in hand. Life could
throw me all the curve balls it wanted, as long as I had a decent cup of joe to
warm the cockles of my…

“Dr. Lynn!”
Nurse Kayla’s brutish voice broke into my peace like a jackhammer against
delicate china. “Dr. Lynn!” A fist beat against my door and I almost dropped
the small teacup in my hand. It was once my grandmother’s, hand painted in
sweeping pastels and trimmed in real gold. The ancient cup really should be
stored in my house, but I loved using it here in the practice every morning.
Nana Doris had been so dear to my heart and most of her things had been lost in
a house fire many years ago. “Dr. Lynn!” I started, nearly dropping my
grandmother’s cup again.

Taking a deep breath,
I set the cup down gently and answered. “Yes, Nurse Kayla. I’m in here.”

My door swung
open with some force, knocking against the corresponding wall. I winced, but
knew the wall was protected. Once I’d discovered Nurse Kayla’s pension for
slamming things, I’d installed door knob protectors on all the walls in the
practice. Well worth the few dollars spent. “We’ve had four walk-ins with
flu-like symptoms. The waiting room is packed. Not a great day to be late… like
usual.”

My nurse’s tone
was stern, like she was berating a small child or an employee- instead of
speaking with her boss. It was almost enough to piss me off, almost enough to
make me finally say the words ‘you’re fired, you cruel, tactless, fast ass
cow,’ but her body looked giant, taking up nearly the entire doorway and I felt
small hunkered down in my aged, leather office chair.

The most I could
manage was a mild reminder that I was the boss, not her. “Well, the great thing
about owning my own practice is that I set the schedule. Please get the first
patients into the rooms and bring me their files.” Pitiful. My voice held no
authority. I was pitiful.

Nurse Kayla’s
frown deepened- if that were possible. “They’re already on your desk.
Underneath that silly cup of yours.” I looked down at my desk and, sure enough,
there was a stack of manila folders, each labeled and organized by appointment
time. “Oh. They are.” I looked up, any crumb of authority lurking in my body
dissolving into cowardly goo. “Thank you, Nurse Kayla. I’ll be out to see…” the
first folder read ‘Morgan, Duke’ “Duke as soon as I finish my cup of coffee.”

“Fine. He’s in
exam room A.”

The door slammed
behind Kayla as she left my office. Her departure was my invitation to slump down
in my chair and close my eyes. I just needed to block out the world for a
moment. When I’d moved here, I’d thought I was going to be so happy. No more
big hospitals, demanding research, no more desperate bids for the stray
research grant or two. The money was never enough; the projects would always be
stuck in limbo- no matter the great leaps of science I was making. It had all
been too much. So I’d left. Chosen to buy a small practice, in a small town,
and start over.

I loved the town
in many ways. It was beautiful, the little shops were charming, and I’d made
several good friends since settling down. Sometimes, the people could be a
little racist for my taste, a little close-minded when it came to
relationships, politics, and religion, so I kept my life my own and out of the
rumor mill. Someday, of course, everyone would know everything about me (that
was just the way of small towns), but perhaps by then, I’d be blissfully in
love and too occupied by life to care about petty gossip.

I’d been that
happy in love once before. I wanted that feeling again.

Chris had been a
doctor at the hospital in Georgia where I’d completed a neonatal fellowship
after my third year of med school at the University Of South Carolina School Of
Medicine. An infectious smile and large brown eyes that could seem so sad, yet
so alive in the same instance… I’d wanted to have the whole package with Chris-
white picket fence, marriage, children.

We’d dated that
entire summer- haunting around Atlanta, going to the aquarium, the High Museum
of Art, holding hands at the symphony. So many experiences, so many memories.
Even a proposal from Chris. But then that summer had ended… and long distance
is nearly always a relationship killer.

I smiled,
thinking about how life could rip people apart and then bring them back again.

Chris had moved
to Texas from Georgia six months ago to work at the Children’s Medical Center
in Dallas and surprisingly had touched base with me. We’d spoken a dozen times,
had dinner twice. The love was still there. When we looked at each other,
unspoken words hung in the air. But we… No,
I
… wasn’t ready to try
again. Even when the engagement ring had made an appearance out of Chris’
pocket… it just wasn’t enough to make me risk the hurt again.

***

Picking up my
grandmother’s cup, I quickly drank down the remaining coffee. Duke Morgan’s
file was now decorated with a pale ring of spilled liquid. I picked the folder
up and wiped the wetness against my black pant leg.

The Morgan’s
were a nice family, for the most part. Both kids were relatively kind and the
Dad was a firefighter, who often helped with our local blood drives, but the
mother had made a few cruel remarks about Susan Fields last visit and I got the
impression that she wouldn’t be too fond of me if we got to know one another
better. I never got along well with petty, hateful people. . I considered Susan
an inspiration to adopt; she made me feel like I could do it on my own if I
wanted to. Or, if Chris and I did get back together, there were so many Latin
American children needing homes; it would be perfect. When I’d been younger, I
had always envisioned myself pregnant, but I wasn’t young now. 

As I left my
office, I let my fingers trail across a paperweight. The glass encased a
vibrant dynamite iris. The flower was precious to me- almost as precious as my
grandmother’s tea cup. It had been Chris’ parting gift to me. It was the name
of a song that they’d listened to together often. The lyrics still rang true,
living in this town with my happiness a thing that did not involve my romantic
inclinations.

Walking toward
the exam room, the words of the song listed through my head and I thought of
the past and how it had brought me to this practice.

And I don’t want
the world to see me

‘cause I don’t
think that they’d understand…

***

Despite their
character flaws and prejudices, most of the townsfolk were hard-working
Americans (with the constitutional right to like or dislike what and whom they
chose). They deserved more than the 85 year-old fraud that had owned the
practice before me. Doctor Miller’s eyesight and hearing had been subpar, his
hands had shaken during exams, and he’d often forget which patient went with
which diagnosis. Records didn’t help. He’d had dementia and it had taken his
two daughters and wife to convince him to retire and sell the practice.

After a year of
leisure, Doctor Miller’s condition had advanced to the point that he needed
round the clock care. Not long after his admittance to Rock Rose Assisted
Living, he’d passed away. Painlessly in his bed with classical music floating
around him.

Now, I was the
town pediatrician and I worked the walk-in clinic many days after my normal
office hours at the practice. Sometimes, I’d make house calls- when I knew the
patient personally or they were too stubborn to go to the clinic. On one
occasion, I’d even acted as the county coroner when Harry had up and quit with
no explanation. It would have been a lot for an average small town doctor, but
I didn’t mind; it kept me busy. And I was more than qualified. After leaving
Washington and the CDC, I’d had my pick of positions with different agencies.
The government rat race wasn’t the place for me anymore though; I’d lost my
craving for success and recognition.

So, after making
my parents insanely proud by earning my PhD in Emerging Infectious Diseases and
spending nearly a decade working for the CDC and NIH, I’d packed it in and
applied to med school. I knew I could do some practical good as a family
doctor, instead of spending day-after-day staring into a microscope, doing
research that wasn’t actually curing anything or anyone. What was the point of
all my education if not to better the world and help people? Classifying
viruses and pinpointing breakout patterns became mundane, useless, and
emotionally unfulfilling.

My mother and
father hadn’t understood. They’d said I was over 30, that medical school was
ridiculous and a waste of money. We hadn’t spoken for years now, but I still
occasionally sent a short letter with a large check to supplement their meager
retirement pension.

The completion
of med school led to jobs in big hospitals and a never-ending stream of
patients, none of which I bothered to learn about on a more personal level since
I’d likely never see them again. It was like I’d never left Washington, like I
had never made a dramatic life alteration. So I began searching for a small
town, for a small practice, for my own little niche in the medical community
where I could build relationships, connections. And that’s how I’d found Dr.
Miller- the old man who desperately needed to retire (and who probably hadn’t
read a copy of the New England Journal of Medicine, or any other like
publication, in over forty years). The prospect of a backwoods Texas town
hadn’t scared me; I didn’t worry about the social climate and how I’d be
accepted as a woman, because I was capable and tired of living up to everyone’s
expectations, but my own.

So, I just
decided to move and deal with the fallout however necessary.

***

And here I was-
round robin. I had owned the practice for 3 years now. And the only things
wrong with my happy little picture were Nurse Kayla and the absence of a
family. The towns people respected me and trusted me for the most part. And
being single wasn’t the worst thing I could be, although I did get an earful
from the occasional disgruntled wife when she caught her husband staring a
little too long at me, like it was my fault that her husband’s eyes were idle
and unsatisfied at home. It wasn’t like I went around in short skirts and
heels. I spent ninety-nine percent of my time in scrubs or running clothes. I
took exercise and nutrition very seriously, so my 43 year-old body was in good
shape and I still didn’t have a single gray in my black hair. I could thank my
mom for that little gem of genetics. The dark complexion and blue eyes were my
dad’s doing. .

My hand knocked
gently on the exam room’s door. “Here I come!” I called cheerfully, putting on
a good face for my patient, despite my soul-sucking interaction with Nurse
Kayla.

Entering the
room, I was surprised to see little Duke lying down on the exam table. He was
apparently not feeling well. Glancing down on the case notes, I saw the ‘sick
visit’ label in bright red. Not sure how I’d missed that…

Looking up from
the folder, I glanced at Mrs. Morgan’s face. It was pale and distorted with
concern.