The Hospital

The Hospital

By

Keith C Blackmore

The Hospital

By Keith C. Blackmore

Copyright 2012 Keith C. Blackmore

Cover by Kit Foster

Edited by Lynn O’Dell

Formatted by Jason Anderson

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The sun was directly overhead, but blotted out by low storm clouds as depressing as suicide. Underneath this, a single Chevy van pulled off the main road and approached the low expanse of the hospital. The van had no windows in its sides, and all of the lights had been smashed. The rear windows were also shattered, with heavy planks of wood patching the gaps. It pulled into the parking lot, did a quick u-turn, and backed itself up to the main doors with a huff of gas. The vehicle idled for a few moments, wary, ready to bolt if anything seemed dangerous. A small freight carrier in the old days, it was now war on wheels with enough scratches and dents in its hide to give any carjacker pause. It had a “Don’t fuck with me” menace about its battered bulk and might have been the inspiration for many a poster in the late ‘80s.

The engine died, and its drone evaporated into stillness. The van shook on its chassis, as if the beast were having a mechanical seizure. It continued for less than a minute, then thumps and other sounds emanated from within the Chevy’s guts, slowly making their way toward the rear. After a pause
,
the doors swung wide, and two motorcycle boots were shat to the pavement.

He wore black leather, from neck to shin. Knee pads and elbow pads protected his joints, a dark brace covered his neck. Dark, fingerless gloves covered his hands to allow a better grip on his shotgun. An aluminum baseball bat was slung across his back, Samurai-style, in a crude scabbard next to a large backpack He held a twelve-gauge shotgun before him, its butt tucked firmly against his shoulder, its strap dangling in a loop below its length. He pumped a round into the chamber, the
schlack
as loud as thunder. A motorcycle helmet and visor hid his features. He was protected against the horrors of the world, as it would take a strong bite indeed to gnash through the leather. He wore an extra layer of denim jeans underneath the pants, which he had taken from the same leather goods shop where he had gotten the jacket and boots. Only his fingers were at risk, but he needed those bare. He hadn’t found a pair of gloves that were both thin and strong enough to resist a bite, anyway.

Augustus Berry studied the double doors to the hospital for a moment. He listened. He could see no movement beyond the glass; the dark corridors inside seemed empty enough, but he didn’t think they were. He quickly patted his pockets, feeling the extra shotgun shells, and then reached over his shoulder and felt the bat, ready to grab if needed. He had combat knives sheathed in both boots, but it was rare that he got to use those. He brought them along nevertheless, remembering the old line,
it was better to have and not need, than need and not have
.

Gus shook his head once, clearing it, then moved forward, the barrel of the shotgun wavering ever so slightly to and fro, like the dark head of a Doberman giving fair warning. If anything not living came into line of sight, Gus would blow its fucking head off with extreme prejudice. Another line from another old movie, but he didn’t care. It was truth. And if it
was
living, he would exercise caution. People in these desperate days were not to be trusted. He had heard stories. There were bad people about, scavengers like him, but worse.

He reached the doors and peered into the shadowy interior. He huffed once, not liking the darkness in the least, and flicked up the visor of his helmet. His eyes were an alert blue, with lines at the corners. He took another contemplative breath. Of course they were in there, somewhere, waiting for him. For anyone. But he needed what the hospital potentially offered.

He cursed and looked behind, taking in the open doors of his waiting van and the empty space of the land to the tree line beyond. There was nothing else in sight, but he couldn’t be certain it would stay that way. And the hospital was big. The medical supplies could be anywhere in there. It would take time, and he was wasting it thinking.

“Shit,” he muttered, and pushed at the doors. They didn’t budge. He glanced up and saw the dead motion detector mounted just over the frame. There was a push door at the right, however, and he eased it open with his shoulder, his shotgun ready.

The hall was empty and shadowy, with the only light coming from a skylight at the far end of a waiting area. Debris cluttered the floor: newspapers, half-torn pamphlets, broken glass and shredded bits of clothing. Bulletin boards hung halfway to the floor on single nails. Vending machines had been raped and punished. Dark splashes stained the walls, and Gus did not give them any more attention than necessary. Dried blood was commonplace these dreary days. It was the fresh stuff he was more concerned about. The faded stench of something rotten lingered in the air.

He proceeded cautiously, drifting close to the right wall, and headed deeper into the gloom of the hospital. His shoulder rubbed against broken glass, making it tinkle, and he turned to see a receptionist’s room behind a counter that had been assaulted. It was darker there, but he could make out the floor smeared with blood, dried in gruesome swirls done by fingers and bare hands. Bloody palm prints decorated the walls, on and over a photocopier with its lid ripped off. Paper littered one corner like a foul nest, and Gus could see bones sprinkled there, dried, old-looking, and gnawed.

He moved to the corner, listened, and peered around it like he had seen U.S. marines do in action movies, side first rather than the top of his head. The corridor was long and empty. A wide blood smear from something being dragged went in that direction and disappeared into darkness. Gus pulled back. He wouldn’t hunt the thing if he could get what he wanted without incident. Two more corridors branched off from the foyer, leading off to places unknown and two stairways, one going up while the other led to the lower level. The place was big, too big to explore in a single day, and the medicinal supplies he sought—bandages, splints, and drugs—were not as visible as they would have been in a convenience store or supermarket. He would have to root around more. He’d already tried the drugstores, but those he found had already been looted, their shelves and back rooms picked clean as if devoured by a swarm of something huge and famished.

Gus knew the hospital might have had its resources taken as well, but he had to make sure.

“Just don’t be stupid,” he told himself. He had watched a fair amount of horror movies in his time, when the world was merely crazy and not fucking insane with things that bit and chewed living flesh. In watching as many movies as he did, he quickly gave up on the ones with the cliches, the action sequences and the stupid-as-fuck characters who, as soon as he or she died, caused the audience to cheer. Stupid mistakes. It was his code these days, and in reflection, he now knew those movies were more like visual survival guides. What to do and what not to do in an apocalypse. Gus learned from every God awful flick he ever had the misery to sit down and endure. Be prepared. Be protected. Watch your corners. Stay away from dark places––especially at night. Be quiet and talk in whispers. Clean your weapons, maintain your ride’s engine. Stay calm, and don’t be stupid. Being stupid got characters dead.

With that in mind, he left the long dark corridor alone. There was no need to place himself in further danger by wandering off where his vision would be further lessened. And there were the drag marks in blood heading down in that direction. Chances were, whatever was doing the dragging was still down there, dormant and just waiting for the sound and smell of fresh meat. Gus looked about and saw the stairways across the way.

Shotgun first, Gus headed toward a corridor to the right of the stairways. Tensed and ready for anything shambling toward him, he passed under the skylight. He turned a few corners carefully and saw a long row of seats laid out before open and closed doors of examination rooms. Across from them were men’s and women’s washrooms. The whole area was covered in debris, as if a tsunami of garbage had swept through the place.

Gus listened. Behind him, a strong wind rattled the skylight. The hospital was otherwise dead. Or sleeping.
Do the dead sleep? Really sleep?
Gus wondered, tapping the shotgun against his helmet-protected cheek. He shoved the thought aside and proceeded into the waiting area. He noticed a third door just before the washrooms and went to it. It had a doorknob, where the others were simply push-opens.

He paused at the door, breathing through his nose and taking in the stench of dried blood that permeated the air, as recognizable as coffee. It wasn’t so strong here, but it was still present. Keeping his weapon level, he reached down and opened the door with a jerk. He went into a firing stance as he pushed his way into the room beyond.

And hit gold.

It was a service room. Stacked as neatly as bullion in Fort Knox was the one commodity that Gus would have never guessed would be as valuable as water, gasoline, food, or even ammunition. It was a luxury that was, like all things, greatly underappreciated back when the world was only crazy.

Toilet paper. At least forty rolls of ass-cleaning goodness. There was toilet paper to spare in fact, and Gus smiled at the sight. He grabbed a roll with one hand and inspected the label. Two-ply. Goddamn. He’d hit the shitter jackpot. If assholes could smile, his would be grinning across both cheeks.

He kept the door open and searched for a power switch. When he found it, he wasn’t surprised that there was no electricity. He propped the door open and searched the rest of the room by the meager light of the hallway. There was an old Time magazine with an article on Vikings. That went into his backpack, as did a full bottle of Javex bleach and a number of toilet paper rolls. He found a box of latex gloves, opened but three-quarters full, and grabbed those as well. Two mops, a broom, and a push-bucket were located just beyond the doorway. A large wheeled hamper lay farther in toward the back of the room, partially hidden by the dark, and it took him a moment to realize how fortunate he was to have found it. Checking outside periodically, he slung his shotgun over his shoulder and piled the treasures inside the hamper, making it ready for transport.

When all was packed away, he went to the door and peeked out. Empty. The wind had picked up outside, sighing impatiently against the glass and making it rattle. But there were no gimps. That’s what he called them now. Gimps. It fit.

Gus pulled the hamper out of the supply room with his shotgun laid across a solid pile of Puffy two-ply rolls, his right hand never far from the grip. Once clear, he pushed the hamper, then cringed at the sound of a squeaky wheel.
Well, Jesus
, he thought, and froze. He looked about, any second expecting gimps to come tumbling out of the doorways across the way, arms outstretched and moaning their shit, but they didn’t.

After a few more seconds, Gus realized he was wasting time. He pushed the hamper through the corridor and back to the van without incident, the wheel whistling its tune the whole way, like a high dwarf going home to see Snow White. He got to the outer door and shoved the hamper through. Loading it onto the van proved to be no trouble at all. He backed it up to the open doors and started throwing things in until the hamper was light enough to haul inside. Once packed, Gus stepped to the lip of the chrome bumper and regarded the dark doors of the hospital. He hadn’t expected to find the toilet paper. He hadn’t even been
looking
for toilet paper. But when you were the only game in town, you took what you found, when you found it. He stood, hunched over in the doorway of his beast, and considered going back in. He still had plenty of room in the van. If he went back in, he might possibly find more toilet paper and the medical supplies he had come for. He only had to go back in. What was that Shakespeare line? One more time into ‘er, buddy
.
Or something like that, anyway.

Being greedy
? another voice asked him.

No, being real. There’s still daylight left to do this
.

Being stupid?

Fuck off,
Gus projected back, but he would be wary. He remembered the squeaky wheel. Anything could have heard it. Anything could be awake in there and waiting. He paused again, weighing the risks. Then he grabbed his shotgun and went back in.