Cure (19 page)

The ransacked kitchenette held the spoils of a body farm smorgasbord and provided a fleeting sense of relief that the others might still be alive. An ulcerated foot dangled from the mouth of a feral, male Id with his head lowered in line with his neck. Bloody holes dotted the drywall and white powder covered his dark hair. He’d rammed the wall.
Like a bull
. Mark froze, watching the infected man tear rotting flesh from bone. He was too consumed with its task to noticed Mark in the doorway.

A lump formed in Mark’s throat as he tried to quietly back away. The sole of his boots squeaked against the tile and caught the Id’s attention. He looked up, its white eyes like a blind man’s, and dropped its meal to the floor.
No, God. Please.
He stood from his crouched position and growled. A string of tendon dangled from between his teeth.

Nervous sweat poured from Mark and he forced himself to move.

He had passed a lab not far down the hall. If he could get inside and close the door, he might find a weapon or at least radio the others for help.

The infected man charged.

“Shit!” Mark tried to keep an eye on it but was unable to run backward
.
It hurried toward him, teetering like a child learning to walk.

The heavy firemen’s pants and clunky boots made Mark slow and uncoordinated. The Id quickly closed the gap.

“Get away from me!” Mark turned and slipped on a pool of blood. A sharp pain shot up from his right hip and he was laid out flat.
Get up.
His body wouldn’t cooperate. He scrambled in a spider crawl toward the lab. The infected man descended on him faster than he could move, stripping the skin from his forearm like it was peeling an orange.

Mark tried to push him away, to kick him, but the infection was already coursing through and weakening him. His muscles spasmed and his stomach ached.
I have to get out of here.
His thoughts became disorganized as his human life slipped from him.

“I’m sorry, Frank.”

The Id tore a chunk of flesh from Mark’s back and was occupied devouring it. Disoriented and in pain, Mark made it to his feet. Blood trailed down his back and arm. He moved in circles, his aching hip making it almost impossible to walk straight, and staggered into the lab. 

* * * * *

Scott slipped out of his oversized fireman’s jacket and handed it to Miranda. “Here, put this on.”

As relieved as she was to not be alone, she worried she had put Scott in worse danger. “Thanks,” she said, not feeling well enough to argue. She put her arms in the sleeves and her hands didn’t come out the ends.

 “Where have you been?” Scott asked Foster.

Foster pushed his glasses up his slight nose. “Looking for Ben to take care of Clarence.”

Scott motioned toward his pistol still holstered at his waist. “There’s only one way to handle him.”

“I honestly don’t know that,” Foster said.

Miranda struggled to zipper the coat. The lined, Kevlar blend was heavy and didn’t breathe. The weight of it strained her and stressed how weak she’d become. Foster tried to help her and she slapped his hands away.

“I can do it. I’m not helpless.”

Foster looked hurt.

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t mean to lash out. It was out of fear and her frustration with the circumstances.

“Can we make it to the elevator?” Scott asked Foster quietly.

Miranda snapped her head around. “What about the others?”

“We’ll come back for them,” Scott said.

“Like Hell. I won’t leave them. You have no idea what they’ve been through.”

Scott bristled. “Reid isn’t going to stay gone forever. What do you think will happen if he gets to
you
? Nixon wants you most of all.”

“
Why
?” she asked. “What’s so special about me?”

Scott cleared his throat.

“Foster, what does Nixon want with me? Why am I here?”

Scott’s eyes went wide as Foster explained the infection, the hybrids, and cure in the briefest terms and to the best of his knowledge. “No one knows everything,” he said.

Miranda couldn’t believe her ears.
This is impossible.
She grunted and crossed her arms over her stomach, starting to cry. The black amniotic fluid she’d seen with Annie was finally explained.
She was carrying a monster.

Scott caught her before she crashed to her knees. “There are options, Miranda. As soon as we’re out of here, we’ll take care of this.”

She pushed him away, searching her mind for a reasonable excuse. The raw emotion from losing their daughter made the idea of having an abortion inconceivable, under any circumstances.
What if this baby was healthy and normal?
She put the thoughts away to focus on escaping. “The smell is getting to me,” she said. “I need out of this room.”

“Miranda, I’m sorry.” Scott tried to talk to her about the pregnancy and she held up her hand.

“Not now. Please.” She shook her head. “Just leave it alone.”

Scott sniffled and steadied his crooked frown. “The elevator isn’t far. Stay behind me.”

Miranda tucked a tangle of unwashed hair behind her ear. “Either you two help me get the others or I’ll get them myself.” The odds of them coming back once she was safe were slim. The thought of Penny’s grieving mother wouldn’t let her go. “I mean it.” Sadness softened her anger.

Scott sighed. “When have I ever said ‘no’ to you?” He took Miranda’s arm, despite her previous protest and shunned Foster’s attempt at helping him support her. “I have her. Get the door.”

Foster opened it a little, at first, and listened.

“You hear anything?” Scott whispered.

“Nothing close by.” Foster went into the hall.

Miranda took a deep breath and leaned on Scott when the cramps returned.
You are going to be fine,
she told herself, even if she didn’t believe it. There
were
worse things than Nixon and if she wasn’t careful, she could become, or give birth to, one of them. She focused on Scott and tried to match his calm breaths.

“The ward’s this way.” Foster pointed.

Miranda looked left then right, afraid to turn her back on either direction now that she knew what she was up against.

Scott nudged her along, but she couldn’t take her eye off of something down the hall.

“What are you looking at?” Foster’s glasses were clearly not strong enough.

Scott squinted.

“You see it?” The cramping settled down and she pulled away from Scott, standing on her own.

“I’ll go see what it is.” Scott said.

Miranda followed. “Oh my God.” She covered her mouth.

Bloody shoeprints lined the floor in an awkward drag-step pattern that wound in circles and faded into a closed lab door. A distinct separate trail led to the elevator.

 “Shit.” Scott lifted his foot and studied the tread. He turned to Foster. “The only other person wearing boots that match those prints,” he pointed at the ones leading to the lab, “is Mark.” He reached for his walkie-talkie.

Foster stopped his hand. “What if Nixon intercepts, or Reid? There’s no guaranteeing they won’t pick up this frequency. I’d save the radios for emergencies.”

“And this doesn’t qualify?”

Foster shook his head. “Whatever happened here, we’ll find out soon enough. Before we alert the hounds, we have to rescue the others.”

37
.

A low, rumbling growl echoed up the elevator shaft. Billy pointed the knife at John and snarled. “Get in.”

Clarence’s body lay at Billy’s feet. His head was nearly off and the frayed ends of muscle and tendon hung between the pieces.

John stepped back. “I don’t want to
.
What if it isn’t dead?”

Billy delivered a sharp kick to complete the decapitation. Clarence’s head hit the metal with a
clang
. “How ‘bout now?”

John clamped his hands over his mouth to stifle the climbing scream.

“I’m not gonna tell you again.” Billy stepped forward, slipped on a used syringe, and rolled his ankle. He slammed his hand into the wall to keep from falling. “Dammit.” He limped and walked off the pain, leaving bloody footprints on the tile.

John’s whole body shook. He wanted to go to the basement even less. He stared at Clarence’s remains and the syringe jutting from his bicep.

Billy plucked the needle out, careful to avoid the tip.

John moved back another foot, noting a shift in Billy’s demeanor.

“Looks like he was tryin’ to hold off gettin’ sick.” Billy kicked the empties. “It didn’t work.”

“The guard said it was temporary.” John swallowed the bitterness in his throat and tried not to vomit.

Billy held out his hand. “Maybe I should hold the rest of ‘em.”

John cowered and a door slammed, breaking the tension. He whipped his head around at the noise.

“Hey, you two, get away from that elevator!” A broad-chested, armed security guard ran toward them.

Billy grabbed John’s sleeve, but promptly lost his grip. “Get in!”

John was barely breathing enough to speak. “I’m sorry, I can’t.” Frantic, he took off in the opposite direction of the guard who seemed more focused on Billy.

Billy released the elevator hold and the doors closed.

* * * * *

Billy paced, taking shallow breaths through his mouth to avoid the spoiled meat smell of Clarence’s rotten corpse. “Goddamned coward.” He should’ve known better than to expect back up from John, a man too weak and scared to protect his own fiancé.

The elevator descended and the brief pause that followed put Billy on-edge. He adjusted his grip on the knife handle, but the slippery sweat making it hard to get a hold.

A growl came from the other side of the door and regret set in that he’d come down alone.

The doors parted and shock drew out time. Mark was on him before he could even think to get away.
Please, God, no.
The angry bite wound on Mark’s bicep festered, yellow pus coloring the muscle.

Billy pushed Mark backward and tried to clear the doorway. Mark knocked the knife from his hand before he had a chance to use it. Billy kicked and punched, clawing to get free, but the infection made Mark incredibly strong and he was undeterred by repeated punches to his head and neck.

“Get off o’ me!” Billy shouted.

Mark stepped forward and his boot cleared the track. The door closed and they were trapped. He quickly pinned Billy and attempted to bite.

“You ain’t gonna get me.” Billy dug his thumb into Mark’s left eye socket, pushing until he heard a pop. Warm vitreous fluid spilled over his hand. Mark howled and thrashed, groping the certain blind spot.

They feel pain.
If there were rules, Billy didn’t know them.

Billy kicked Mark, sending him tumbling into Clarence’s corpse. Mark faltered and the split-second shift allowed an advantage. Billy grabbed for his knife, mistakenly gripping the blade end first and tearing through four of his fingers.
Aaaggghh.
 The blood smear sent Mark into a frenzy. Billy fought the dizziness long enough to flip it around. He lodged the knife deep in Mark’s chest but Mark drove into it, impaling himself and sinking his teeth into Billy’s clavicle. Billy screamed and pounded the first floor button.
He had to find John and the shots.
The wound burned and the pain continued long after. Billy tried to recover his weapon, but Mark bit into his arm. Billy’s skin broke under the pressure and his muscle crunched as it was torn.

When the elevator door opened, Mark rushed into the lobby. Billy inventoried the damage. His clavicle wound was bone-deep and the flap of skin barely held on. Blood ran from his wounds and he was feverish, sweating, but freezing.
Changing.
Instinctively, he knew it. He struggled to get a hold of himself, wanting to believe he could overcome the transformation, but knowing it was unlikely.

He patted down Clarence’s body, checking for unused syringes. Neither the gore nor the smell could dissuade him. He foraged through the snug pants pockets with unsteady hands, fighting the marionette he’d become with the infection pulling his strings. His life seemed all but over when he found the lump in the shirt’s breast pocket.
A single syringe wedged sideways
.
Hallelujah.
He uncapped the needle, stabbed it into his left arm and wondered just how much time constituted ‘temporary.’

38
.

Miranda shivered as she walked into the ward, the memory of her insemination like an icy finger up her spine. Even free, with Scott and Foster by her side, she felt trapped and helpless. What happened in that room would never leave her.

The women looked worse than when she left, Annie’s absence forming a palpable hole in their world.

Penny, the youngest and most resilient among them, was the least affected.

“Miranda.” Penny smiled vibrantly. Her bobbed, black hair shimmered with the grease of having gone weeks without being washed. Still, there was radiant life in her blue eyes and her innocence was unspoiled by the hybrid fetus growing inside of her.

Miranda unfastened Penny’s wrist and ankle restraints, fighting with the coat sleeves falling in her way. “Can you walk?”

Penny rubbed her wrists and stretched, standing for the first time in so long that her knees buckled. Miranda caught her arm and steadied her. “I’m fine,” Penny said and hugged her.

The brief contact affirmed she made the right choice saving them.

Miranda smiled and set her hand on Penny’s shoulder. “We have to get out of here before Reid or Nixon comes back.”

“Hey, hello.” Foster unfastened one of the patient’s restraints and stood at her bedside, shaking her. “She’s not waking up.”

“Nixon keeps Holly and Amy sedated,” Carlene said. “So they don’t pull their stitches.”

Both women were postpartum and had cesarean wounds at different stages of healing.