Afterbirth (7 page)

“This is probably the brightest room to do it in,” John said.

Frank followed John through the battered rectory door which dangled from one hinge. Bright wasn’t the first word that came to his mind. A sunbeam spotlighted the dusty desk where Father Matthew had penned hundreds of inspiring sermons. Dried, bloody cast-off spattered the walls and floor and a severed hand rotted behind a growing nest of cobwebs in the corner.

John pulled up a chair and cleared a workspace for Frank to tend to his wound. He removed the bandage for a second time and laid his hand palm-up.

Frank opened his kit, arranged his supplies, and mixed a capful of iodine into a tumbler of sterile water. “I can’t stitch that, you know. Not yet. It’s too infected. If I close it now, there’s no way to properly clean it.” He prepped an irrigation syringe and flushed the debris from the deep gash that ran from John’s wrist to his elbow. “Any deeper and you’d have been dead.”

John shrugged. “If I’d have known that two weeks ago, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He squeezed his hand into a tight fist. “Jesus that burns!”

“Then you’re really going to hate this.” Frank dipped a small brush into the solution and scrubbed at the dirt clinging to the wound’s rough and reddened edge. John’s eyes closed, and for a minute, Frank worried he’d pass out.

“Hang in there. One more time and I’ll cover it up.”

John pulled the flask from Frank’s pocket and opened it with his teeth. He drank until liquid spilled from both corners of his mouth and set it down on the desk. “You’re gonna need a refill.”

Frank grinned and scrubbed a little harder. “That
was
the refill.”

John hissed through his teeth as Frank rinsed and patted the wound dry.

“This ought to stop the bleeding.” Frank pinched the wound together and applied a row of steri-strips. He wrapped John’s forearm with a clean roll of gauze and taped the loose end in place. “We’ll leave it alone for a day or two and I’ll clean it again.”

John’s eyes lit up. “You’re going to stay?”

“Let’s not make a big deal out of it. I owe you one, and besides, you looked like you were ready to faint. I don’t see how you can clean it yourself. You up to showing me where you keep the goods?”

John set his hand on the corner of the desk and stood, wobbling and then moving more steadily. “Anything useful is in the catacombs, where I’ve been staying.” He took two penlights from his pocket and handed one to Frank. “I found a bunch of these in the storm kits Father Michael put together for the blizzard a couple of years back. I’ll take you down there and you can see what’s left, as long as we’re sticking together.”

The last bit sounded as much like a plea as it did a negotiation. Frank considered, for a minute, having someone else to look out for, another mouth to feed, another liability, and then he remembered John, knee deep in the hole Holly would later be buried in, digging when he was too weak to. “Yeah, why not?” Frank organized his kit. “Solitaire gets old.” He left behind the trash and followed John out the door.

A tattered paper runner from a long-forgotten wedding crinkled as Frank walked down the aisle toward the decimated altar. Blood clung to the pews and the white marble steps leading to the pulpit.

“What the hell happened?” The fall breeze blew through the shattered windows and sent a chill up Frank’s spine. He grabbed the wooden podium and knocked the bible from on top of it. The crash of the hardcover on marble echoed in the cathedral ceiling and a flock of pigeons ascended from the balcony.

“Father Matthew tried to get us all down here.” John pushed on the ornate wooden door that matched the wall perfectly. Frank would never have seen it without it being pointed out. “We didn’t have guns or any weapons, really. People who came here believed they wouldn’t need them. There must’ve been a hundred infected, mostly elderly, so I’m guessing they came from the old folk’s home up the road.”

Frank coughed as he stepped through the entrance to the dimly lit catacomb. The rough stone walls looked hand-cut, supported by only a few weathered, wooden beams, and he feared a collapse. Dust coated his mouth and throat and he wished John hadn’t drained his flask. “You’ve been living
here
? No wonder you tried to kill yourself.”

Parishioners’ corpses were stacked against the wall.

“There were so many more,” John said. “I couldn’t bury them all.”

Frank couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You dug a mass grave somewhere?”

John looked offended. “No, individual ones.” He bent down and sorted his stockpile of supplies.

Frank walked the perimeter of the damp, underground room, thankful for the chill that staved off at least some of the rotting. The bony remains of bodies formerly interred in the catacomb’s walls were strewn about from the melee. An antique coffin, wooden with a fitted lid, lay open. Fingerprints peppered the thick coating of dust. An ammonia smell, like concentrated urine, hit him in the face. “Oh, what is that?” He coughed and pinched his nose closed.

“What?” John nibbled a stale communion wafer.

“God, I can taste it.” Frank smacked his lips together and grimaced. He went over to John’s sorted supplies and picked up a large jug of dark red fluid. He twisted the cap off the jug and drew a long sip.
Pffftt.
He sprayed the mouthful at John. “It tastes like vinegar.”

John mopped the spray off his face. “Used to be grape juice, I think.”

Frank mopped off his tongue with his shirt sleeve. “Is
any
of this stuff useful?” He looked through the packets of wafers, the spoiled jugs of grape juice, and the scant medical supplies. “Aren’t there any weapons?”

John fished inside the open coffin and pulled out a pointed butcher’s knife caked with blood. “Just this. It was in one of the kitchen drawers. It saved my life, and I’ve been sleeping with it since the attack.”

“Wait a minute. You’ve been sleeping in that coffin?”

John shrugged and nodded. “I was alone. I couldn’t have slept without hiding.”

Frank sneezed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Then this is all of it, everything worth taking?”

“There’s a shovel and pick ax out behind the tool shed where I’ve been digging, why?”

“Because we can’t stay here.”

“You have a better idea?”

“I’ll clear you a space in the van.”

“No offense,” John said, “but how is that
better
?”

“It comes with free medical care and it’s not full of corpses.”

Miranda pushed the pharmacy door until the gap was wide enough for her stomach to fit through. The door scraped along the dingy tile, the seal giving a bit of resistance. Pill bottles covered the floor. She looked around at the disaster and assumed that most of what was worth taking was long gone already. Prenatal vitamins, luckily for her, were neither recreational nor life saving.

A dozen rows of white utility shelves spanned the room. The chairs at the check-out counter were knocked over and blood spatter indicated a likely fatal struggle.

“Everything okay in there?”

She could tell from his voice that Scott wasn’t far off.

Her shuffling feet sent one of the bottles skittering across the floor and she nearly tripped. Her new, round physique kept her from seeing much beyond her belly.

“I’m fine,” she answered, sorry for having blown up at him. “I’m just checking for vitamins.”

“Jackpot on the size 1 diapers.”

She smiled, relieved at how supportive he was being.

None of the last seven months had been easy, especially for Scott.

A sharp cramp hit beneath her belly button and she grabbed a metal shelf to keep from falling. A dozen pill bottles crashed to the floor and bounced off the tile.

“Miranda? You all right?”

She inched forward, the pain making it impossible to run.

“Miranda?”

An infected, gray-haired male wearing a white pharmacist’s coat with the name “Arthur” embroidered on the pocket twitched. The wrinkles of his loose, sore-covered skin folded in on each other and his white eyes sank deep in their sockets. His rotten lips parted and a string of yellow liquid stretched between his incomplete set of jagged teeth.

Miranda stepped back, terrified to respond.

The sound of Scott’s footsteps put him somewhere near the door. “Miranda, answer me.”

The pharmacist moved slowly, stuttering like a stop motion character in a Japanese horror film.

The pain in Miranda’s stomach let up, but fear kept her from escaping. She tried to scream, but all that came out was a squeak.

The infected man crept toward her, dragging his injured right leg. She squeezed her eyes shut and stood with her back against the end of one of the shelves.
Please, no.
The smell of death gagged her, and she swallowed, trying not to vomit as he stopped in front of her and stared. His nose nearly touched hers and her whole body trembled.

“Miranda!” Scott ran down the aisle with his pistol drawn.

The pharmacist turned his head and the flesh along his collar tore. He snapped his rotting jaws and ran in Scott’s direction.

“Scott!”

“Miranda, get back. Cover your ears.”

The deafening gunshot rang out, and the pharmacist fell dead at Scott’s feet.

“Are you okay?” Scott held out his hand. “Come on, we have to get out of here.”

Miranda’s ears rang. She hurried along with her arms crossed over her belly and prayed for the baby to kick.

Scott grabbed the cart and pushed it to the truck. He opened her door and unloaded their haul into the narrow space behind the driver’s seat. Miranda couldn’t stop looking over her shoulder.

“Hurry, come on.”

Her ankles ached and her legs burned. She climbed into the passenger’s seat, slammed the door, and locked it. A group of hungry infected that must have been hidden somewhere in the store made their way through the entrance.

Scott jammed the screwdriver into the ignition and turned it. The truck roared to life and emitted a fog of exhaust. He slammed his foot on the gas and plowed through the aggressing mob. He knocked several aside and mowed one down with a thud.

Miranda held her hand on the ceiling and braced herself through the jolt as they tore out of the parking lot. She refused to look back, terrified by the thought that something like one of them fathered her baby.

Back on the highway, neither of them spoke.

Miranda replayed her brush with death a dozen times, wondering if it was her holding still that saved her life, or if there was more to it than that.

“Are you all right?” Scott asked. The aviators on top of his head held his hair back from his gentle, hazel eyes.

Miranda sniffled. “He didn’t want me.” She set her hand on top of her stomach. “We were nose-to-nose, and he just stood there.”

“You weren’t moving, Miranda. He didn’t even see you.”

“Or something about the baby has changed me. What if they can sense their own?”

“You’re being ridiculous. It was luck, that’s all.”

She couldn’t be convinced. “And if you’re wrong?”

A moment of silence passed between them.

“Then you made the wrong choice keeping the baby.”

Miles passed and Scott’s brutal observation sat like a wedge between them. She put her elbow on the window ledge and leaned her head against the glass. She closed her eyes, but couldn’t get the image of the pharmacist out of her head. Rolling into their driveway, she realized they had more immediate problems.

* * * * *

Someone had broken into their house.

“Stay here,” Scott said and reloaded his pistol.

Miranda turned to him, and her eyes welled up with tears. “You don’t have to go in there. We can just leave.”

Scott shook his head. “You know we can’t. Did you pack the bags?” He told her to gather their most valuable supplies—formula, diapers, wipes, and some clothes—in case they had to evacuate.

Miranda looked behind the seat. “We have enough to start over. Let’s just go.”

“Did you pack the bags or not?”

She nodded. “They’re in the nursery, but…”

He held up his hand, refusing to listen. “I’ll be right back.”

She sniffled. “Something bad happens every time one of us says that.”

He leaned across the seat and kissed her. “Today, we’re at quota.” He locked the truck and walked quietly up the front porch steps. The door jamb had splintered and sharp points of wood jutted out at knob level where someone had kicked it open.

“Hello?” He called out as he went inside.

A rustling noise came from the kitchen and he held his finger on the trigger.

“If anyone’s in here, I’m armed and I’ll shoot.”

A male infected, in dark, blood-stained jeans and a NY Giants t-shirt clawed at the pantry door, trying, for some unknown reason, to get inside. Scott looked around for signs of others and seeing only the one, took the pointed chef’s knife from the butcher block.

The sound of the blade against wood called the man’s attention and he charged.

Scott held the knife firmly overhand and used the island to keep distance between them. Determined as the man was, he couldn’t keep up with Scott’s rapid back and forth pace, and he stumbled. Scott, seeing an opportunity, thrust the blade into the man’s white right eye and drove him backward. He advanced the knife until the blade was buried to the handle and the tip came out of the back of the infected man’s head. The bifold pantry doors folded around him and a field mouse scurried across the tile floor. Scott shook the gluey, vitreous fluid from his hand, and headed upstairs for the bags.

Standing in the nursery one last time, sadness gripped him. Dust clung to the pink wall in the places where Rosalie’s name had hung in wooden letters over her crib. He forced back his sadness, knowing they had to leave for Miranda’s sake, and the baby’s. He picked up the two emergency packs, and as he was about to leave, a white rectangle of paper caught his eye. On the table next to the gliding rocking chair, a business card read “Michael Waters, M.D. Obstetrics and Gynecology.”

He couldn’t decide whether the card was an offering of help or another in a long line of threats.

There was only one way to find out.