Fever (Flu) (4 page)

“You’re in trouble,” Johnson said to Blake.

“What do you mean, in trouble?”

“Dammit, man, you opened his body up! You’re not a surgeon here! That is
not
the protocol, and you know it!”

“Fuck protocol!”

Johnson sighed, rubbed his eyes.

As the footage continued to play, Blake leaned in closer. “Watch this bit,” he said to Johnson, pointing to the screen. “His eyes open. Just as I remove the heart, his goddamn eyes open. Can’t you see that?!”

Johnson said nothing.

Onscreen, Blake was backing away from the gurney where Jenkins lay. Soon the dead man had pulled himself upright and was clambering onto his feet. He stumbled, fell clumsily to the floor like some old drunk.

Johnson laughed humourlessly. “This can’t be happening,” he said. “It makes no sense!”

“Of course it makes no sense,” Blake said, his face deadly serious. “Dead men don’t open their eyes. Dead men don’t stand up and walk around the room and attack you. It’s nonsense! But you can see it as clearly as I can, Johnson. The video doesn’t lie. This happened just as I’m telling you it happened. And you know it!”

“M-maybe it’s some sort of joke,” Johnson barked, furiously pointing his finger at Blake. “Maybe you’re trying to make a fool out of me. You and the rest of them!”

“Why the hell would I do a thing like that!?” Blake yelled. He strode across the office, his face tight with anger. “You’re impossible!” he said to Johnson. “You were there, right outside the door. You saw it, just like everyone else.”

“I’ll tell you what’s impossible; all of this,” Johnson said.

He fiddled with his pen nervously. The pen slipped from his hand, colliding with the picture of his wife and kids, knocking it over. Johnson immediately righted the photo.

“Well it happened. Bottom line,” Blake said. “And you have to—”

“I have to do what?” Johnson cut in. “Report it to the funders?”

“Yes,” came another voice. Both men looked in its direction.

Ellis stood by the door to Johnson’s office. She wore clean scrubs. Her face was dry and sore from rubbing so hard with a cloth that the skin had peeled away. But she needed to get every trace of Alan Jenkins from her body. God knows, there was enough of the dead man left imprinted in her mind...

“Damn it!” Johnson fumed, slamming his fist on the desk. He glared at Ellis. “Do you know how vital this contract is to us?”

“Sir,” she began, coming through the door, “I hardly think that’s—”

“All of our jobs are on the line here,” Johnson cut in.

Ellis fixed him with a cold, hard stare, “This is a lot more serious than jobs,” she said. “We had a dead man walking around the room where his autopsy was held, for God’s sake!”

“The cadaver was mobile, but we can’t be sure it was alive in any other sense,” Johnson countered.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Blake protested.

But Johnson ignored the other man, rising up from his seat to confront Ellis. “You’re right,” he said. “It isn’t
just
our jobs we’re talking about; it’s much more serious than that. Each and every one of us will be dragged through the courts for this, hung drawn and quartered! Those of us lucky enough not to do jail will never work again.”

Ellis felt her eyes water. She blinked, but Johnson had noticed. He drew closer to her, right up to her face. She could smell his sweat amongst the expensive aftershave; could see the short white chest hairs under his thick gold necklace.

“What age are you?” he asked, and a faint smile crossed his lips. “Twenty? Twenty-one? Barely out of college, all excited about your new career in research.” He straightened, clicked his fingers. “A career that could be snuffed out like a fading match.”

“Stop it,” Ellis said, pulling away.

Her eyes were drawn to Johnson’s PC screen. She watched herself come into Room E21, searching for the scalpel and attacking Jenkins, hacking at the man’s throat until his head all but cut away from his body. She watched herself scream silently, the blood from the wounds she inflicted on Jenkins showering her, soaking her clothes, her skin, her hair.

She looked to Blake, tears breaking across her face. Blake’s eyes lit up in anger. He lunged for Johnson, grabbing the older man by the collar.

“No, Blake,” Ellis said. “Leave him! He isn’t worth it.”

Blake released Johnson, turned away and leaned against the door. His shoulders were shaking, and Ellis could see that he was tired, emotional.

She went to comfort him, but he resisted.

“Blake, please—” she said but he opened the door and left.

She looked back to Johnson. “I should have let him rip your head off.”

“L-like
you
did to Mr Jenkins?” Johnson laughed, straightening his tie.

Ellis seethed, went to follow Blake out of the office. “That’s right,” Johnson chided. “Run along after your boyfriend.”

Ellis paused, looked back.

“Yes, I know all about that,” Johnson said. “The sordid little affair you’re having.” He smiled piously. “Have you met Mrs Farrow?” he said, reaching again for the photo of his own family. “A very pleasant lady. Sophisticated. Elegant...” He raised an eyebrow. “All the things you aren’t, dear child.”

Ellis grabbed the door handle angrily, intent on leaving before she
did
rip the old codger’s head off. But the door held firm. She tugged it again to no avail.

She looked to Johnson quizzically.

He pushed past her, tried the door, pulling it hard. But still it held. They were both somehow locked in.

Johnson returned to his computer. He swore and then began feverishly punching at the keys, all the while looking nervously to the screen.

“What’s happening?” Ellis asked.

He ignored her.

She drew closer to him, standing by his side as he continued to bang the keyboard. The company logo receded from the screen, basic white lettering taking its place, reading: QT SHUTDOWN.

“What is this?” Ellis pressed.

But Johnson didn’t look at her, still hammering the keys uselessly. “This isn’t right,” he said, more to himself than to Ellis. “This shouldn’t be happening without my authorisation.” He pulled away from the computer. “It’s Farrow,” he said. “It must be. He’s shutting us down!”

“What!” Ellis cried.

She ran back to the door, tried her card. It was useless, not even registering. She tried the handle, desperately trying to pull it open. Beat her hands upon the glass, calling Blake’s name.

The lights went down.

Ellis startled, feeling around in the dark, finding the edge of a desk. She clutched it as if expecting the floor to give way next.

Like a dream. Like a nightmare. Like some sort of hallucination. That’s how Ellis saw the world now, her mind’s eye filling the dark with its own creations, dancing to the steady beat of Johnson’s fevered breathing.

Time passed. She didn’t know how long. Hours? Days? A week?

She found a torch, clicking it on and off to save the batteries. Darkness or partial darkness.

She huddled in the corner.

Johnson remained on the other side of the room.

He’d been coughing, wheezing. Crying out for help.

The storeroom door hung open nearby, its contents strewn across the floor, Johnson no doubt trying to find something that would help him escape.

But there was no escape, their only exit still locked tight.

Ellis would have called for help, phoned someone, but everything was dead. The power was gone, the phones cut off. Their access cards were useless. No computer or internet. She’d left her mobile phone in her car. Not that it mattered: she couldn’t get a signal down here even at the best of times.

Sleep finally came. And with sleep came dreams. Ellis dreamed of monsters. She dreamed of Jenkins. She dreamed of her school days, of exams she hadn’t worked for, formulas she couldn’t understand, biology terms she no longer remembered.

But then the lights came back on.

The air was misty around her, but she could see.

Ellis looked over to Johnson, but he wasn’t on the floor. Instead, she found him floating in the air, his nails scratching into the wall, blood flowing down like thick red paint.

He turned to look at her, and his eyes were hollowed out, worms crawling through.

And then he said her name.

***

Ellis woke with a start, eyes flicking open to find darkness again. Her hands fumbled along the floor for the torch. Ellis switched it on, gripping the damn thing tightly, searching the room with its narrow beam. She aimed at each wall, then towards the door.

She reached her free hand to her mouth, gasping. The door was open.

Johnson?!

She shone the torch around the room again, finding him on his chair by the computer. His body was still. His hands were hanging off his gold chain. Scratch marks ran up his neck. His eyes rolled back into his head. Ellis knew that he was dead. She didn’t have to examine the body to know that.

But dead men sometimes move again...

Ellis slid up against the nearest wall. She shifted away, still keeping her back against the wall, torch fixed firmly on Johnson’s body. She inched towards the door, her foot colliding with something on the ground, kicking it across the floor. Her beam followed the hurtling object. It was just a cup.

A shuffling sound.

Ellis whirled around, the torch’s beam finding Johnson’s chair. He was still there.

She found the open door with her beam, made her way carefully to the exit. She paused before leaving. Shone the torch back towards Johnson.

He was gone.

Ellis gasped, a cold sweat breaking across her back.

She searched the room frantically, finding Johnson on his feet, creeping towards the storeroom. He stopped. Turned. Looked to the light.

Ellis backed out of the doorway, into Corridor A1. Johnson began his slow and steady pursuit, his movements encumbered.

“Johnson?” she said, her voice but a rasp.

He didn’t answer. Nor would he ever answer. Johnson was dead. Dead like Jenkins, the man Blake had called time on. The man with no heart or lungs but eyes that flicked open. The man who lunged for the doctor even though it was physically impossible for a dead man to move, let alone attack with such aggression.

Ellis tried to flee, but her legs seized up, her joints stiff.

She reached forward, pushing Johnson away with as much strength as her worn-out body could muster.

He fell backwards, tripping clumsily on the clutter strewn across the floor. He hit the ground and lay there for a moment before pulling himself up.

He came towards her again.

“Jesus,” Ellis whispered, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus...” She looked around for something to use.

A trolley stood parked in the corridor. A flask and some cups rested upon it.

Ellis sat her torch on the trolley, careful to aim its light towards Johnson, then took the flask in both hands and waited.

Johnson reached for her, but she stood aside, the dead man tripping again, this time over her outstretched foot. He hit the floor hard and Ellis followed through, bringing the flask down hard on his head. She hammered again and again, Johnson’s skull caving in, blood and brain seeping out onto the tiled floor.

Ellis dropped the flask and grabbed the torch. She fell back against the corridor wall, allowing herself to slide down against it.

She took deep breaths. Felt herself gag. Dipped her head between her knees and threw up.

And then she was still, her heavy breathing the only sound within the empty corridor.

But then...

A sudden screeching noise. It seemed to be coming from C Block, the next block across.

That’s where the animals lived...

There was no sign of life in A Block.

With the exception of Johnson’s mutilated corpse, there was no sign of death either.

In the cold silence, even her flat shoes pounded hard against the tiled floor as Ellis moved down the corridor. Every step she took seemed to echo.

Another screeching sound. Definitely coming from the Animal House in C Block.

Ellis wondered just how long the poor little things had been left alone.

She thought of little Ginger, so young and innocent. She wanted to hold him, pull him close. In the icy chill of the powered down lab, Ginger’s warmth would be very welcome.

Ellis reached the adjoining door to C Block. It was hanging open. Yet other doors along the corridor remained closed tight, their readers non-functioning with the loss of power. Ellis wondered for a second why some doors just fell open, while others remained closed.

She was reminded of Chris Lennon, the sales rep. She’d forgotten about him with all that happened, but the man had broken in and taken something from Johnson’s office. He’d pulled a gun on her. Begged her not to squeal on him. And, God help her, Ellis hadn’t squealed. What was Lennon’s part in all of this? Was he responsible for the shutdown?

She pushed through the access door, leaving A Block and entering C.

More screeching. Louder now.

She searched Corridor C 1 with her torch, finding the storage room where the cats lived.

Ellis pushed the door. It gave easily, allowing her access.

Inside, the place was deathly quiet. She pointed the torch to the centre of the room, finding the cages. Ellis squinted against the light’s glare, but she couldn’t see Ginger. She couldn’t see
any
of the cats.

She walked over to the cages, giving them closer examination. They were open, like someone had hacked their way through the little door catches.

Ellis swept the entire room with the torch. Nothing. “Ginger?” she called.

The screeching noise again.

It was coming from the next room, where the birds lived.

Ellis pushed the door to the bird’s house, peering in.

She was scared. God, that was ridiculous when she thought about it. She’d tackled Dead Jenkins (hell, she’d tackled Johnson both alive
and
dead!). Hardly much to fear from a few chickens. Still Ellis held back, her torch doing a cursory sweep of the room before she stepped inside.