Life Among the Dead (Book 4): The End (10 page)

26

Having found a way out of Breckinridge, Nina races north faster than her headlights can handle. She tries to make the forty-five minute trip to Waterloo as short as possible. To the east to sun teases that it will be rising soon, like a glimmer of hope.

With one hand on the steering wheel and the other clutching her cramping stomach, Nina sweats profusely. Whatever it is being passed around, she knows she has it bad. She has nothing to go on but hope that she will find aid in the Wilkes lab at Memorial Hospital, a secret facility she once worked at. Need be, she can buy their help, or return to them their missing sample in exchange.

The streets of Waterloo are just as congested as Breckinridge, stalled traffic makes for a frustrating journey. Large hordes of clearly infected individuals have her redirecting as well. Roads are being blocked off by soldiers.

She is able to pick up speed through the park, having navigated well out of her intended path and heading south now through the city. Quiet suburban homes are a blur as she careens on the final stretch. Her vision darkens around the edges, her head swoons. Waves of nausea increase in her gut becoming a rumbling hurricane. Nina fights to stay alert as she nears the Emergency Room entrance. The big red letters are an announcement that help can be found here, the bleary eyed woman accidentally steps on the gas rather than the brake. She fails to navigate around the concrete lined lawn and instead plows through, briefly aloft skimming the frontage like a stone on the water. The lot is full of cars carelessly parked, folks like her desperate for help. She misses striking the other autos, and instead smashes into the building.

Her door opens during the impact, the girl falls out. She lies on the walk, unable to feel the bumps and broken bones of her journey. Her head had rebounded off the wheel and she hadn’t even noticed, she thankfully can’t feel a thing.

Too weak to move, she remains on the cold rough concrete and lets her mind wander to the day she saw an opportunity to take the sample, the day of the accident in the very lab she was trying to get to. The dead wander around her, drawn to the noise of her collision with the building, some climb out through the breech she has made in the glass vestibule. None of the ghouls give her so much as a moment’s notice, they don’t see the girl on the brink of death as food.
This can’t be good,
she thinks.

27

The police and firefighters still bravely serving the city of Breckinridge get the word out, telling all they can find to head towards the northwest corner of the city for evacuation. The public broadcast that has been informing folks of places within the city to go to for help has been halted. Anyone capable of making it out is to proceed to the designated point of departure, those that are incapable are advised to stay put and take precautions.

One to hear the call to leave wishes nothing more than to get back home, he waits for his security detail to come retrieve him. After being shot down in the hotel bar, Paul Coburn, followed the blonde’s advice and called his wife and told her he loves her. Then, he rented a pornographic film through his room’s television. The deed didn’t take long, and as usual what he felt after was hardly worth the price, a department store flyer could have served the same purpose. He drank away the shame with tiny bottles of alcohol from his mini-fridge while watching himself rant on television until drifting off to sleep.

The irritating tone used by the emergency broadcast system to get the attention of viewers did its job and woke him up. Under the safety of his blanket, on the California King-sized bed in the presidential suite, he listened to the repeating message as well as the screams in the halls.

Now that the people calling out for help have long been silent, he slides slowly off his mattress, still under the safety of his thick blanket, and to the door. He hears nothing on the other side, none of the yelling, or the moaning he heard before. His hand slowly reaches for the handle and freezes in place. Paul has to gather the nerve to open it.

He pokes his head out into the corridor that serves the higher priced suites of the top floor, encircling the rest of the hotel like a balcony that looks down over the lobby, fountain and restaurant area. The view is dizzying as his eyes scan each floor for movement. He has no idea where his protective personnel are, or which floor the service his network uses put them on. Across the way he sees a few slow moving figures wandering the lower floors and has an urge to call out to them, see if they know what’s going on or where his aides may be. He refrains from doing that, according to what he heard on television, people who have been bitten must be avoided and for all he knows the lumbering folks are infected.

Infected with what?
he asks himself, the news wasn’t clear. All he knows is that once someone is bitten they become violent. Some of what was said sounded like nonsense, the dead are rising to feast on the living. He scoffs at the absurdity and vows that if this is a hoax he won’t rest until the people involved are held accountable. The announcements mentioned the evacuation of the city, he’s always admonished those that ignored such precautions preceding natural disasters and then cried about how not enough was done to protect them, he’ll be damned if that will be him.

Slowly, and under the safety of his blanket, he heads to the elevator. He watches the floors rise up around him through the glass walls of the lift as he descends, all still lit up in the amber lighting that normally gives the place a cozy feel, it doesn’t do much to put him at ease now.

The air he breathes feels thick, it isn’t the environment, he’s on edge as he creeps out into the lobby. Paul fears the ding of the elevator arriving may have drawn attention to his presence. Moving in a quick shuffle he proceeds past the restaurant and dining area near the fountain intent on getting help at the front desk.

“Notorious GOP,” he hears a familiar condescending voice address him that stills him in his tracks.

Paul Coburn is torn, on one hand this is a living person, the first he’s run into since turning in for the night when the world went crazy. On the other, it’s not the person he was hoping to receive help from.
Of all people.

“I’m surprised to see you,” the triple threat continues. He carries a plate out from the breakfast nook where the hotel’s guests would normally have a chance to enjoy a complimentary gourmet breakfast come morning. “Thought you’d be well on your way to Washington to advise the president. Kickin’ it in his bunker. Of all people.”

Paul doesn’t know what to say, it throws him that the man utters his very thoughts in his direction like a mind reader. He just stares at the plate, perfectly prepared eggs benedict that smells divine. He’s as hungry as he is scared. The man sits at one of the tables, setting down his food. Next to the plate he places his utensils on one side and a gruesome, gore covered hammer on the other. “Then again, you aren’t exactly friendly with the current administration. You haven’t been spotted with this Commander in Chief at Camp David like you were the previous.”

“I’d rather be with my wife, actually,” Paul says as composed as possible. “You haven’t seen my security detail by any chance, have you? Large, serious looking guys.”

“Nope. You’re the first person I’ve seen. Most took off once they offered full refunds, rest bugged out after the announcements started.”

“You stayed?”

“I’m not going to Waterloo, I’m heading home. Figured I’d rest up and have a hearty breakfast before hitting the road.”

Paul can’t take his eyes off of the eggs benedict, comfort food at its best and he certainly can use some comfort. He can’t bring himself to ask for any, not from this man. The hungry glances at the plate don’t go unnoticed.

“I made plenty, if you’re interested…”

“Well, if you made extra there’s no reason to let it go to waste,” Paul quickly seats himself at the table, taking a napkin and draping it across his lap. He realizes he is still covered by his blanket and in his pajamas.

The triple threat gracefully rises and retrieves another plate from the nook. “I always wanted to cook for a living, love me some Top Chef. Bet I’d make it pretty far on that show with what my momma taught me after brushing up on the fancier side of things.”

Paul Coburn listens to his host, his voice sounds smooth and relaxing now that it isn’t being used to hurl insults at him. “So, why didn’t you become a chef?”

“Because radio pays better. I also love to talk, telling it how it is. I’m sure you can relate. Given the option I’m sure most would choose a modest amount of fame and money over their dream.”

Paul certainly can relate, he wanted to be a politician most of his life like his father. It was his zealous nature when talking about the issues that lead him to his current status as a political moderator. He doesn’t share this, or what his childhood dream career was. His plate is set down and it is the most gorgeous thing he’s ever set eyes on. “Thank you,” he says before taking a bit, unable to remember if the man had told him his name last night. He was more focused on getting away from him at the time.

“Abraham ‘the Truth’ Bishop, the voice of reason, freedom of speech never sounded so good. You can call me Abe,” the cook offers his full handle from the airwaves in his smooth radio voice. “I have been trying to get you on my show for some time now.”

“My people never mentioned it to me,” Paul says truthfully between bites of eggs. He doesn’t reveal that his people are paid to screen out undesirable offers.

“I’m sure,” Abe responds knowingly. He watches the figures wander the above floors, they hear the men talking and linger at the rails casting down their full attention. One such figure needs to be watched, a tall woman in a luxurious robe, her endowments make her more top heavy than the others. As the DJ suspected, she topples over the guard and plummets to the floor below with a sickening thump and wet snaps. “Excuse me.”

Paul watches his host casually wipe his mouth with his cloth napkin and leave the table with his filthy hammer. If not for the sound of the person hitting the hard tiled floor, and the same person’s mournful moans, he would have forgotten all about the alleged zombies. He witnesses firsthand what it will take to survive, Abe strides to the woman where she stands on unsteady, broken bones. He sees through the lobby’s low shrubberies that she is not wearing anything beneath her robe, and has a body he’d certainly enjoy under normal circumstances, enough to yet again ignore his wedding vows. Abe knocks away the elegant woman’s reaching hands and unmercifully clobbers her on the head until they both are out of sight below the tops of the hedges, all Paul hears is the continued dull sound of the hammer whacking away.

As if he hadn’t just battered a human skull beyond recognition, Abe returns in his calm manner. “What were we talking about?”

“Is that the only way to…kill them?” Paul asks, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stares at the man that just resumes his breakfast after committing such a violent act.

“It’s not killing if they already dead,” Abe makes the distinction, casually ignoring proper grammar. “I’m just doing what they said to do if confronted. If destroying their brains is what it takes to survive that’s what I do.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Then, you won’t be lasting very long,” the radio host breaks the news.

Paul thinks about that, he needs to get to his wife. She has stood by him faithfully though the majority of the country hates him, was at his side through all the allegations from aides and interns of his sexual misconducts. “Where are you heading after breakfast?”

“Home. Baton Rouge, Louisiana.”

“I need to get to Georgia, my wife is there visiting family,” Paul states sounding hopeful.

“Good luck with that,” Abe answers the unspoken question quickly. “Like I said, I’m heading to the Big Easy.”

Abe rises from the table, taking his hammer. Paul desperately imparts on his humanity and confesses, “I don’t stand a chance out there! Prove you’re the better man and help me, please!”

“I guess it will give us a chance to talk through our differences,” Abe considers as if weighing the options. “But, aside from an interview no one will ever hear, and a debate that won’t affect change, what’s in it for me?”

“Money.”

“I got money.”

Paul Coburn is at a loss, money is always the answer, makes everything better. There isn’t anything in Georgia that’s his to give, getting to his Los Angeles home is out of the question as well. He takes stock of the dynamic and concludes that he is all there is to offer, “Me.”

“You?”

“If you help me get to my wife, I’m all yours,” Paul winces at the prospect of what he’s trading. He is relieved, and somewhat offended, when the response to the proposition is laughter. Raucous laughter that bends Abe over one of the chairs, he must cling to it lest he fall over.

Once the bought subsides, he wipes a tear away and admits after a cleansing whoop, “Bitch, you ain’t my type… I guess I can do the Christian thing and get you to your wife, Notorious. No strings.”

27

As the road out of town fills with hopeful people wanting nothing more than to find a safe haven, one person has beaten the exodus and made it to Waterloo but can no longer be called a survivor. Nina Turner is walking the halls of Memorial Hospital, dead on her feet. Her brain remains active yet is growing dim as it becomes starved of oxygen.

She knows she came here for a reason, yet can no longer remember what that reason is. She feels guilty yet is at a loss as to why. Could she remember, she’d look back to her experiences in the bowels of this very facility, six years ago, for the answer.

Just before she died, her last thoughts had her wondering if this could all be her fault, the fact that she had played a crucial role in the releasing of a large amount of Sample 6 into the environment. She pondered whether intentionally neglecting to install one gasket on a container that was to accept the secret ingredient in gaseous form could be the catalyst of this plague. She needed to create a diversion in order to get her hands on what she was being paid to steal, other than prepping materials for those working closely with the sample she’d never be within reach of it. Unless there was a major catastrophe.

It doesn’t matter now. Nina wanders the halls she used to know well, lost. She came looking for answers, now she seeks only to satiate the gnawing hunger growing in her gut.