Z Children (Book 1): Awakening (16 page)

“What the hell
are you talking about, Stephen? I just emailed you about a few sick kids. It’s
no big…”

Stephen paid me
back with his own rude interruption. “They started showing up at the hospital
around 2 AM- dozens of kids, all with similar symptoms. Some more advanced than
others. By 7 when I got back here, the ER was in chaos. Whatever it is changes,
mutates. One minute these kids are just tired, next they spike a fever and show
unprecedented levels of adolescent aggression. A boy bit a nurse’s ear off, for
Christ’s sake.”

The line went
silent for a moment.
It couldn’t be the same thing.
“You’re being a tad
alarmist, Stephen. My kids here are tired and one spiked a fever, but they’re
responsive. Facial cavities clear, lungs too. Their eyes are a bit strange-
almost like a new strain of pink eye maybe. It really can’t be the same thing-
not at the same time halfway across the country.” I tried to make my voice
reasonable. Stephen had always been a bit of an alarmist- the kind of doctor
that prescribes preventative rather than responsive treatments.

“Their eyes are
glazed over? Like with an opaque film, broken capillaries and extreme
dilation?” Stephen acted like he hadn’t heard my rationalizations.

I nodded and
then realized that Stephen couldn’t see me. “Yeah, that’s right. Do the kids
there have that too?”

“Jesus. Jesus,
this thing is everywhere.” Stephen’s voice trailed off and when he spoke again,
it was with more urgency. “Virginia, these aren’t just sick kids. You can’t
treat them like that; they’re dangerous.”

“They’re just
kids, Stephen. Kids. We aren’t talking about homicidal maniacs.”

“Virginia. Do.
Not. Hesitate. If they are exhibiting symptoms, get the hell out of there. Call
the CDC. Our hospital is on lockdown; it’s a damn Level 1 unknown outbreak and
that is what’s happening there. Believe me. Do not mess around with this shit.”

“What the HELL
are you talking about Stephen. I’m not leav….” I heard a crash on the other
line, glass breaking. “Stephen… Stephen, are you alright?”

“Damn it,
Virginia. Listen to me. Get out of there. Do not let one of them bite you. Just
get the hell out of there!” Another crash and a bang. I could hear Stephen
yelling. He wasn’t holding the phone any longer.

A scream, a
scream that cut through to my core.

And the line
went silent again; this time, Stephen’s voice did not break the silence.

As if echoing
Stephen’s yell, a high pitched scream echoed through the halls of my small
practice like a Claxton in an old fire station. My reaction was automatic,
thoughtless. I  scrambled from behind my desk, unlocked my door, and threw
it open wide- not even caring that the knob slammed into the protective plate.
A second agonizing cry reached my eyes as I stepped out into the hallway. My
entire body tingled, fear settling in as Stephen’s words rattled in my head.

Duke and his
mother were no longer inside exam room A. They were in the hall. And I
struggled to comprehend the picture in front of me. Mrs. Morgan was prone on
the ground. Duke straddled her; his face was planted against her breasts and
his mouth worked greedily. Blood spilled down his mother’s sides, pooling on
the terrazzo floor. I began to move forward, wanting to take action, reprimand
the boy, save the mother, do something. But my movement caught Duke’s attention
and when he lifted his head, I nearly collapsed in shock.

The terror
inside me grew until it was its own monster. I could not take my eyes off his
face, the face of the once cute boy with the ‘oh-so’ Texas name. I had treated
him so many times- for scraped knees and head colds. Now his face was
contorted, alien; his eyes were soulless and nearly all white, the foggy film
thicker and obscuring color.  Blood ran from his curved, cruel lips, creating
a river from mouth, to chin, to chest.

Duke rolled off
of his mother’s body and onto all fours. It was animalistic. It was predatory.
I gagged and stumbled backwards as Denise Morgan began to lift herself up from
the ground. Her skin was pale, her eyes lifeless, but otherwise unchanged; she
looked at me… and I knew she was dead. I moved further away, clanging into a
rolling table of equipment in my hurry to escape the scene unfolding outside my
office. The noise seemed to activate something in the boy and he leaped toward
me, snarling and spitting. Little droplets of saliva mixed with his mother’s
blood sailed toward me. Without thinking I grabbed the door to exam room B and
swung it open as hard as I could. The resounding crunch told me that I hadn’t
missed my mark, I peered around the door- which now acted as a barrier between
me and the horror. The boy was on the ground, motionless, his frontal lobe
caved inward like a divot in the ground caused by a driver in the hands of a
skill-less golfer.

I couldn’t
repress the bile as it flooded my throat. I let it loose, barely missing the
boy’s body as I added my vomit to the growing pool of blood on the floor. Still
feeling sick afterwards, I looked up and found Denise Morgan shambling towards
me. Her face- as lifeless as it was- held some understanding. Her gaze moved
from her once-alive son to me and I knew I’d pissed off mother zombie.
Zombies.
They’re not fucking zombies, Virginia. Get a damn grip.
But what else was I
going to call them. Zombie kids and zombie parents. That would do for now.

“Jennifer, you
have to calm down. You have to calm down.” Jim’s voice pulled my attention away
from Mrs. Morgan. I’d opened the door to exam room B, but never looked inside,
never checked on Mr. Marsh and his daughter.

The sight inside
the exam room was nearly worse than out in the hallway. Nurse Leslie was on the
floor, leaning against the wall, nursing a large wound on her arm. Jim was
pushing Jennifer down against the exam table. The girl was kicking and snarling,
trying desperately to bite her father.
I have to get out of here. Stephen
was right. I have to get out now.

I slammed the
door to the exam room shut again, just as Denise Morgan’s hand gripped my upper
arm. I screamed, slapping her away. Now, I was regretting not taking the free
martial arts course Juan Mendoza taught at the community center last spring. I
screamed again, this time bringing up my right leg and kicking at the woman.
Mrs. Morgan’s head came dangerously close to my shoulder, but my kick landed
squarely on her upper left thigh. I was short, mismatched against the taller
woman, but the blow was enough to push her backwards. She tripped over Duke’s
body. Once next to her son, the woman whimpered and seemed to give up, wrapping
an arm around her inert boy. Somehow it was sad. Sad and disturbing.

Racing quickly
away and past the file room, I yelled for Nurse Kayla, but the only response I
got was the sound of breaking glass and a cacophony of ear-splitting screams.
If it had been Leslie manning the front desk, I might have gone in, tried to
see if she was okay. But it was Nurse Kayla… and I could not bring myself to
risk my own neck to save hers. Save me a seat in hell, I didn’t give a shit.
Past the file room was a one-way viewing window.

The waiting room
looked like a murder scene. Blood was everywhere, like a monochromatic mural of
red on the floor, walls and ceilings.  I could see the source of the
breaking glass sound now. The large front window of my practice was shattered.
Nurse Kayla was shoved onto a large spike of remaining glass and a red haired
child bounced atop her body like it was a trampoline and not the remnants of a
person. There were children outside the building, moving quickly and with
purpose. In contrast, their adult counterparts seemed directionless and void. I
could only imagine what had unfolded within my practice… Duke and Jennifer
times ten.

They weren’t
children.

They were
clawing, biting, scratching, tearing little things… hurting the ones that loved
them most. Rabid.

Rabid like a
pack of wild dogs.

Outside, the
children moved together, clawing at a station wagon as it tried to leave the
lot. I recognized that vehicle. The Fields family owned it. Maybe they were
okay. Maybe one family made it out of this hell unscathed. Somehow I pulled
myself away from the gruesome scene. I was shaking violently and it took every
ounce of willpower I possessed to calm down. I’d only been still for a moment
studying the fall out, but now that I’d returned to the present, I heard Jim yell
and remembered that there was still one zombie child I had to worry about.
Gripping the key card around my neck with shaking fingers, I darted toward the
secured supply room- not the one with tongue depressors and gauze. No, this one
had the more expensive items, the controlled substances, the things that sticky
fingers might be tempted by. I kept a number of items here meant for the
walk-in clinic across town. Things that might be useful- like bandages,
antibiotics, and mild painkillers.

Sliding the card
down the reader, I entered the room. I’d be safe in here for now. Pushing down
my emotions, I began gathering supplies, stuffing everything into plastic, red
biohazard bags. They weren’t sturdy, but they’d work until I could find a
replacement. I took as much as I thought I could carry, enough that I could
help anyone who needed it. This was still my town. I was still a doctor. I had
a duty.

Once I had three
over-filled red bags, I realized I was going to have trouble carrying all three
by their small white, flimsy handles. I needed to put them all into something,
something that would allow me to navigate outside with my hands free. Just in
case I needed to defend myself.

 The only
thing I could find that even marginally fit the bill was one of the large blood
drive gift bags from the previous year. It really wasn’t suitable for carrying
weight, but it had string straps and that was better than nothing. I shoved the
biohazards bags into it, shouldered the supplies, and mentally prepared myself
for a quick exit. As an afterthought, I put on a P-100 mask and gloves before
leaving the supply room. I didn’t know what had caused this outbreak, but so
far, I wasn’t infected. I’d do whatever I could to keep it that way. The bag on
my back was angular and clunky; I shifted my shoulders restlessly, trying to
get the weight of it to settle more comfortably on my back. It was a fruitless
effort. And I need to focus.

Only a few
strides took me from the supply room to the emergency door. I peered
tentatively through the sliver of reinforced glass which posed as a window. I
could see the back grassy lot and immediately wished that I had installed the
employee parking lot that year, but the contractor quotes had just been too
damn high. Sixteen grand for a slab of concrete. Ridiculous.

Course, if I’d
just paid the damn money, my car would be parked conveniently out back. As it
was though, my Land Rover was out front along with zombie kids, zombie moms,
zombie dads, probable death. It wasn’t worth the risk. I’d rather run home than
risk my neck for the advantage of four wheels. The nearest building wasn’t far,
just across the two-lane road that ran parallel to Main Street. I could make
that easily. The angle though… one of
them
might see me.
I can do
this. I can make it across the road and the three miles to my house.
Heart
racing I adjusted the awkward pack again and pushed on the door release.

It didn’t open!
What
the hell?
I pushed harder and looked down to see if the door was locked. My
eyes were greeted by a little red sign over the release lever. HOLD FOR 15
SECONDS UNTIL ALARM SOUNDS.
Crap. That’s less than ideal. They’re going to
hear that sucker a mile away and make a beeline for my ass.
Holding my
breath, I pushed and held the release in place.

The emergency
alarm blared to life and a split-second later, the door clicked and swung open.
Without hesitation, I bolted across the threshold and ran. My legs pumped back
and forth, my sensible shoes slapping the pavement in a rushed rhythm.

A gunshot sounded
to my left and I turned quickly, almost falling over my own feet and
face-planting on the asphalt. John Croxton, one of the deputy sheriffs, was
firing warning shots over a crowd of people moving toward him. Coming to a
halt, I opened my mouth to yell, to warn him that the mob couldn’t be reasoned
with. I saw the children in the crowd, they moved faster than the adults, moved
toward John… closer, closer. John fired again. I couldn’t look away. Morbid
fascination- a brutal car crash on the freeway.

The children
were upon him now. I watched as his body disappeared beneath the swarm of
ringlets and bloody, cherub cheeks. I listened as he fired a last desperate
shot into the air. And then his gun was silenced, replaced by his screams… an
infinitely more disturbing sound than a gunshot.

Something told
me to move, something primitive, something ancient. My inner self prodded me to
run- like a hot poker on my backside. I snapped into action. The emergency
alarm was still screeching and the infected children were beginning to look my
way. My feet started pounding against the pavement again. I counted the
footfalls, trying to ignore the snarling and spitting in the distance behind
me.

I was almost at
my house. So close. Only one more street to cross.

Everything
around me was in ruin. People were screaming; a man was beating a child with a
garbage can; an elderly woman was lying on the ground, an old wooden cane her
only defense against an attacker with blonde pigtails. Percy, the local
handyman, was fending off a preteen with a hammer. But he couldn’t defend
himself from all sides. I gasped as a boy bounded on all fours towards Percy
from behind. I was close enough to hear the squelching, flesh-ripping sound as
the man lost a chunk of his calf. I flinched as Percy fell forward, the hammer
useless against such calculated viciousness.