This Rotten World (Book 2): We All Fall Down (3 page)

Zeke stepped out of the way. He
had seen people make the mistake before of trying to catch people jumping from
high places. It was a good way to get cracked in the face with an elbow. The
last thing he wanted was for both of them to be lying on the ground unconscious
because they had bashed heads when he tried to catch Lou. So he watched the
impact, and moved in quickly to help Lou to his feet.

"You alright?"

Lou was having difficulty
catching his breath.

"You alright?" he
asked again, looking up at the window to see arms attached to leering faces
snarling down at them.

Zeke dragged Lou down the
sidewalk, away from the window as the first of the dead tumbled down to the
ground. Its landing was not as graceful as Lou's had been, and it smashed it's
face into the ground. When it looked up at them and tried to rise to its feet,
its face no longer looked like a face.

They moved away, Lou gasping,
while Zeke tugged him along with his free hand under Lou's elbow.

"What's wrong with
you?"

"My balls. The shock of
landing smacked my balls all around."

"Jesus. You must have some
pretty big balls."

"Yeah," he said.
"That makes two of us. Where the hell are we going?"

"Beats the shit out of
me," Zeke said as they stumbled through the afternoon street, zombies
tumbling out of the window like lemmings off a cliff behind them.

After they notified the CDC of
an impending apocalypse, morale was fairly low. Finding out that the entire
world was essentially in the same boat as they were would naturally have that
effect. The stress of the previous night had washed over them, and they had collapsed
into a sleep that was fitful, but refreshing. They had slept, waking at every
knock on the door, of which there were less and less. When Joan finally sat up,
blinking the sleep out of her eyes, everything was just as they had left it.

On the black and white monitors
that were their only link to the outside world, the dead wandered the halls. A
former quarantine officer was plastered to the door of the office they were
occupying, his fingers shredded to the bone from scratching at the magnetically
sealed door. In the hallways, others shifted about aimlessly, making circuits
across the linoleum floor, as if they were unable to leave. They reminded her
of sharks, cold and lifeless, just circling until prey made itself available.

Joan heard Clara stir behind
her. She knew that Clara still harbored an anger that was finely honed and
aimed right at her heart. Joan didn't blame her. She watched as Clara
stretched, running a hand through her tangled, caramel brown hair. Her eyes
were puffy, and the make-up that had looked so great when she had first met her
in the emergency room was now smeared, giving her an abused appearance. Clara
had every right to be angry. If it hadn't been for Joan, she would be out on
the street. She was strong. She was a survivor. But in here, she was trapped. Hopefully,
Joan could make it up to her.

Joan's responsibility was
finished. She was a doctor of a hospital whose only patients were of the dead
variety. The speed with which the hospital had fallen still shocked her. They
had been prepared. They had known how to deal with this. But knowing and doing
are two completely different things. For instance, Joan knew that they couldn't
stay hidden in the room they were in indefinitely; there was no food, no water,
and if the power went out, there would be no way to open the magnetically-sealed
door that was keeping the dead out. The cramped office would become their tomb
if that happened. She knew this, without a doubt. She knew they had to get out,
but doing it... well, that was another thing entirely.

Clara rose from the bed, hopping
along the linoleum floor of the office on her sprained ankle. The swelling was
bad, but Joan didn't think there was anything structurally wrong with it. It
would merely slow her down at a time when being slowed down was the last thing
a person would want. Clara leaned over Joan's shoulder, her morning breath
forming a miasma that hung in the air. It was an unpleasant smell, but
considering the situation, Joan didn't feel like making a big deal about it. Joan
also had a feeling that her own breath was probably not the most wonderful
thing in the world either.

"No change, huh?"
Clara asked.

Joan shook her head. Then she broached
the topic that had been on her mind since she had awoken. "We have to
leave."

Clara laughed a little bit,
until she saw the look on Joan's face. "You're serious? Fuck that. We go
out there, and we're going to get torn to shreds by those things."

Joan shook her head. "I
know. I know what's out there and how it will likely end up, but look at the
alternative. If we stay here, what happens? Best case scenario, we die from
dehydration, hoping that someone will come and rescue us. If the power goes
out, we're going to be locked in here. We'd never even know if someone did come
to rescue us. If we wait much longer, we'll be too weak to fight our way out of
here. We don't have time to waste."

Clara laughed. "If you're
trying to make the case for me to kill myself, you're going to have to try
harder than that."

Joan looked at Clara. She was
right. Walking out that door was suicide, but so was staying inside. Slow death
by dehydration or a quick one by cannibalism, it was a hell of a choice to
make. "I'd rather risk it all than sit here waiting for the
inevitable."

Clara sat down on the floor, her
head against the wall. "I wish I had a cigarette."

"Now there's something that
will kill you," Joan said.

Clara stood up, sighed, and
dusted off her jeans. "Well, cigarettes aren't just going to come walking
in here on their own. I guess we ought to try. What's the plan?"

****

The door popped open with a
click, and the creature on the other side of the door hesitated. It had been banging
on the door for so long that it was almost as if it had no idea what to do next
now that the obstruction was gone. It didn't have to think for long. Plastic keys
clattered on the hard floor as Clara brought a computer keyboard crashing down
on the man's face. The former quarantine officer was massive, and the keyboard
did not slow his advance. Behind him, more of the infected were drawn to the
commotion.

Time was important now. If they
were slowed here, they were as good as dead. The keys of the keyboard crunched
under her feet as Clara stepped sideways. Joan stepped up to fill the void, and
she smashed the security guard across the face with the metal chair legs that
they had liberated from the single office chair in their would-be tomb. It was
an unwieldy thing, harder to use than the keyboard, but its starfish shape and
solid metal construction gave it more of an impact. The guard fell to the
ground, and they hopped over him.

Over the hours that they had
slept, the quarantine ward had emptied somewhat. There were less infected, but there
were still enough there to turn the hallway into a deadly obstacle course. They
ran across the foyer, just like they had discussed, stooping to pick up the
discarded weapons of the overrun quarantine detail, guns that they had no idea
how to use. Still, they would make better bludgeons than a chair leg or a cheap
plastic keyboard.

Clara liked the feel of the
metal in her hand. Its weight was reassuring. She aimed the gun at one of the
infected, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, so she reversed the weapon
and swung it like a baseball bat at a female quarantine officer, her face torn
to shreds, and her biohazard suit splattered with blood that was in
mid-coagulation. The impact was satisfying, the crunch loud and solid. The
female quarantine officer fell to the ground, and Clara readied for another
swing, but the quarantine officer didn't get up.

They moved through the double
doors at the end of the hallway, Clara limping on her ankle and dodging the
outreaching arms of the dead. Clara threw her shoulder into the metal bar of
the door, and it flew open, the metal handle springing back into place with a
loud clang. Joan followed Clara closely as they moved through the hallway,
avoiding the elevators, and making their way to the stairs. The hallway was
long, filled with benches and windows set into alcoves. Several of the infected
stood in the hallway, and the two women swatted at them as they grasped for
them. All the while, they could feel the presence of more infected behind them,
slowly marching towards their position. They had to get out, or they would be
trapped forever.

The hallway was stained with
gore. Bloody footsteps marred the carpet, and a pile of guts sat on a bench in
one of the alcoves. Clara still couldn't believe that this was happening. Only
last night she had been at a punk concert with her future husband. Now he was
dead, but still alive, and the world had been turned upside down while she
continued to fight for her life.

Her thoughts evaporated as one
of the undead reached out to her, a patient in a gown that hung down her arms.
Her naked, gray body sent a wave of revulsion through Clara, and she grasped
the gun in both hands, jamming the butt of the rifle into the creature's jaw
and sending it sprawling. Ahead of her Joan did the same to an older gentleman
with crooked glasses and an arm that had no flesh on it. Despite the use of
only one good arm, it grasped at Joan, clawing at her. Joan smashed it in the
face and it fell to the ground, dragging Joan down with it by her hair. The man's
mouth opened wide as he pulled the struggling Joan closer.

Before he could take a bite out
of Joan, Clara was there, smashing the creature in the face. It fell on its
back, its nose shattered, and blood oozing out of the split skin. Clara reached
down and grabbed Joan, pulling her up to her feet and shoving her forward while
the old man dripped blood down a faded green, cardigan sweater.

They were halfway through the hallway.
Joan looked behind her to see every creature that they had passed marching towards
them, undeterred. They could ill afford any more hold-ups. Joan ran ahead,
while Clara limped along behind her, her walking boot bearing some of the shock
that her injured ankle felt, but it was still on fire, and her breathing was heavy.
Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead as they ducked and dodged their way
past the staggered handful of infected that ruled the hallway.

Then they were at the door to
the stairwell. Joan pulled the door open and held it open for her. They ducked
inside, and Clara did a quick scan of the landing to see if there was any way
to block off the door they had just entered. There was nothing, just the stale
emptiness of the concrete stairwell, the walls painted white and orange, the
plain concrete steps oozing a coolness that Clara welcomed. She began her
descent down the stairs, wincing as the movement sent pain from her ankle
straight into her brain.

They weren't out of the woods
yet. Joan ran ahead of her, looking back up at her and yelling, "Hurry
up!" Clara was going as fast as she could, hopping down the stairs on her
one good leg, using the butt of the rifle as a makeshift crutch. She had
reached the first landing by the time she heard the door above her pop open and
the first of the infected shamble through. She saw the shadow of others, the
fluorescent lights above them transforming the shadows into absurd shadow
puppets against the wall.

Clara doubled her efforts. When
she reached the bottom of the next set of stairs, she heard a large clatter above
her. When she looked, she saw them tumbling down the stairs, their arms outstretched
before them. The old man in the cardigan was there, as was the naked gray
woman, her hospital gown lost in her pursuit of fresh flesh. Clara was moving
as quick as she could, but it wasn't fast enough. Behind her, she could hear
them, getting closer, tumbling over each other as if they were waves in the
ocean. They didn't care about stairs. They didn't care about falling. Clara
couldn't compete with that. At the third landing, she felt and heard them close
behind her, so close that she was afraid to look over her shoulder.

Clara did the only thing that
she could. She rested her bottom on the railing with the intent of sliding down
it. She lost a handful of hair as one of the infected reached out to her just
as she began her descent. The force threw her off balance, and she slipped off
the railing, rolling down the flight of stairs to another landing. When she
stood up, they were tumbling after her, broken limbs and gore flying
everywhere. She had lost her rifle in the fall, and the wave of infected
crashed over her, their hands grasping, squeezing, clawing at her, and
threatening to pull her under. She was dead. This was how it was going to end,
knee deep in a pile of cannibals.

Then Joan was there, sweat
covering her body, swinging her scavenged rifle at the infected. Clara broke
away from the mass, their clammy hands clawing at her jeans, and slid down the
next handrail. Joan followed after her, bounding down the stairs, two and three
at a time.

"C'mon, girl. It isn't time
to die yet," Joan said. It was a stupid thing to say. It was an action
movie thing to say, but it infused Clara with energy, forcing her to push
herself. She hobbled and slid down another railing, and she was about to continue
to the next when Joan put her hand on her chest. "Listen," she said.

In addition to the moaning and
groaning from above, below them was a buzzing sound, like the sound of a mass
of people talking. Clara leaned over the railing and looked down below. The
bottom of the stairwell was full of the infected, milling about, groaning and
bumping into each other, spinning off in a new direction only to bump, spin,
and continue the process. There would be no escape at the bottom of the
stairwell.

They hurried down the next
flight of stairs, careful not to alert the horde below to their presence. Joan
reached the door to the second floor and pulled it open. The entire hospital
was dead. They had yet to see a living person, and now their way out was
blocked by a mass of infected that was too thick to walk through.

Clara hobbled through the door
that Joan held open for her. The door closed behind them, and they were off
through the second floor of the hospital, looking out the windows to see if
there was any way down.

The second floor was different
from the rest of the hospital. It contained the cafeteria, a chapel, and
numerous waiting rooms filled with threadbare couches and chairs that had seen
better days. It was also populated with the infected, and Clara and Joan moved
quickly, sticking close to the windows.

"Where are we going?"
Clara asked.

"We need to get to the
backside of the hospital. There's a small parking garage for the staff there.
It's connected to the hospital by a covered walkway. If we cut through the
cafeteria, we can get there, get in my car and get the hell out of here."

They made it through the waiting
rooms just fine, only having to dodge a few lazy hands and bash a couple of
heads, but they skidded to a halt at the entrance of the cafeteria. The mass
that milled around in the cafeteria was far too dense for them to make it
through. Clara and Joan backed away as the infected noticed their presence, and,
as a single body, advanced upon them.