A Plague on All Houses (4 page)

I gave one last scream of despair mixed with fury; this was
so
not how I wanted to die. I mean, zombie chow? Fuck my life.

A red light suddenly danced in the center of the front zombie's forehead. Just as suddenly, there was a loud burping sound and a neat little hole replaced the light and the zombie fell to the ground. The rest of the ghouls closing in on me were dispatched with similar efficiency as I cowered against the blackberry bushes, nearly fainting with fear and pain, yet harboring the smallest hope I might make it out of this alive.

A tall figure appeared in front of me dressed in black. I shrieked again and struck out with my fists. Strong, gloved hands caught my wrists and a deep male voice yelled, “This one's alive!”

Maybe not for long, though,
I thought as the blackness around the edges pushed inward. I gave myself up to it and let the blackness take over completely.

Waking up is hard to do
…

I struggled to find my way back to consciousness, swimming through a sea of fever, pain, and nausea, all wrapped in a battening of cotton around my brain. I knew I felt like shit, but either shock or some medication prevented me from feeling the full effects of what had happened to me.

What
had
happened to me?

I opened my eyes and stared blearily at my surroundings. I was lying on a bed of sorts, covered by lightweight blanket. The room looked like some sort of temporary hospital ward, something out of a war movie or the
M*A*S*H
reruns my parents loved to watch. I think they called it a triage unit. A dozen or so flimsy-looking cots occupied with moaning, crying patients, IV fluid set-ups, lots of people in olive drab Hazmat suits, the kind meant to protect someone against chemical or biological nasties. You know, like Dustin Hoffman and Rene Russo wore in
Outbreak
, except I couldn't see anyone's face through the protective goggles and faceplate. Some carried medical gear and others held firearms.

WTF?

I tried to move, but it hurt so I stopped trying for the moment, shut my eyes, and lay there, becoming more aware of every ache and pain in my body with each passing second. My right shoulder and arm, for instance. White-hot poison bubbled inside them. Itching, burning toxins coursing through the skin, muscles and blood vessels. If I could have ripped out the pain and the itching, I would have done so. But I couldn't move my arms, so I just suffered in a fog of pain and confusion.

Someone groaned nearby. I slowly turned my head until I could see the cot next to me. The man occupying it thrashed in apparent agony, head whipping back and forth so fast, his features blurred.

“She's awake.”

Someone standing above my head spoke. I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman; everything was filtered through the bass drum pounding in my head.

“Ashley? Are you hungry?” The same oddly neutral voice spoke right next to my ear. I forced my eyes open and saw one of the faceless Hazmat-suit wearers standing next to my cot. He/she held a Styrofoam container holding a chunk of raw, bloody meat, waving it in front of my nose as if it were some gourmet dish.

I gagged at the sight, trying desperately not to puke. “Get that away from me!” I tried to move my left arm so I could get the nauseating thing out of my face, but something held me down. I tugged violently against whatever restrained me and the movement was enough to send shards of glass burrowing into my head. My vision blurred and my eyelids slammed shut as someone yelled, “We've got another Wild Card!”

Another wild
what
?
I thought before passing out again.

* * * *

When I woke up again, I still hurt, but the pain was less intense, as if someone had kindly poured Novocain inside all of my wounds. I knew the pain was there, but it was muted. Almost bearable.

“Ashley.” A familiar voice I couldn't quite place. “Ashley, can you hear me?”

I opened my eyes and blinked once or twice. My eyelids hurt and my vision was blurry, but at least no one was shoving raw meat in my face.

“Ashley?”

I focused on the figure in front of me, trying to place the voice. Blurred lines and features slowly coalesced into the familiar features of Professor Fraser, still dressed like Katharine Hepburn in her prime, sitting in a chair next to me. Her presence was totally out of context. I found it oddly comforting.

“H—hi.” Oh, it hurt to talk. My throat felt as though I'd swigged a glass of Drano. Probably all the screaming I'd done.

Professor Fraser smiled down at me. “How do you feel?”

I struggled to sit up, but quickly gave it up as a bad idea when a wave of nausea and weakness swept over me. “Crappy.”

“Not surprising.” Professor Fraser laid a cool hand on my forehead; it felt good. “You've been through an experience most people wouldn't survive. Here.” She held a straw to my mouth. I sipped and was rewarded with a mouthful of cold ginger ale. I don't think anything in the world ever tasted as good.

A few more sips settled my stomach and I risked moving my head to look around me. The surreal movie-set med ward had been replaced by an equally surreal small room, windowless except for a little view panel in the door. Sterile white walls, no closet, no bathroom, no other furniture except the chair occupied by Professor Fraser and a little table next to the bed by the door. Someone needed a serious shopping binge at Ikea.

“Where am I?” I expected some bullshit “this is a secret facility and I can't tell you” answer.

“You're in a lower level of the med lab behind Patterson Hall.”

Okay, not so secret.

“What's going on?”

“What do
you
think is going on?” Professor Fraser stared at me steadily.

“What is this, Psych 101? Is that a trick question?”

“No. I'd just like to hear your take on your experience.”

“My take?” I
so
was not in the mood for head games. “My boyfriend and I were having a picnic and we were attacked by zombies.”

“Zombies?” She continued to study me as if accessing something, most likely my mental state.

Too bone-weary and sick to be defensive, I shrugged, then immediately wished I hadn't. Too much movement. I had another swallow of ginger ale before I answered. “Yeah. Zombies. Unless you have a better word for people who look dead, smell dead, and act dead, except for the whole walking around and trying to eat the living part.”

“Well,” said Professor Fraser, “Traditionally zombies were thought to be created through a combination of voodoo and a special powder containing textrodotoxin, the same toxin found in pufferfish. This combination was said to create a state of living death in its victims. The etymology of the word ‘zombie’ is in and of itself absolutely fascinating, and—” I stared at her and she stopped. “Erm, yes. ‘Zombie’ is an adequate term to describe the creatures that attacked you. Although,” she couldn't resist adding, “‘ghoul’ is another popular word in the nomenclature assigned to the reanimated dead.”

Uh-huh. “So you're telling me these things are real. You're not gonna tell me I'm crazy or on crack or whatever.”

Professor Fraser shook her head. “No. You experienced something outside of the norm, but not outside of reality.”

“So … so those were really dead people walking around? Hungry dead people?”

A hesitation, then, “Yes. I'm afraid so.”

I looked at my bandaged arm, felt the throb in my neck and shoulder. I had enough pop culture savvy to know what that meant. “Am I … I'm going to become one of them, aren't I?” She didn't answer right away. I reached out and grabbed her hand. “You're going to shoot me in the head, aren't you?”

“No,” said Professor Fraser, “but that's a very good response on your part.”

“Professor Fraser, tell me! I've been bitten, so I'm gonna die and come back, right?”

“Simone.”

“Huh?”

“My name is Simone.” Professor Fraser gently extracted her hand from mine, but then took my hand in hers and looked at me. “We'll be working together now. Silly for things to stay so formal.”

“Working together?” I had no idea what she was talking about. My head suddenly pounded to the rhythm of my heartbeat, my arm and shoulder throbbed, and I wanted more painkillers. “I'm not dying?”

Professor Fraser shook her head. “No. You need to rest and let your wounds heal, that's all.”

“How do you know?” My face flushed with fever heat as my anxiety ramped up another notch. “How can you be sure I'm not gonna die and try to eat you?” I struggled to sit up, but she placed a firm hand on my uninjured shoulder.

“Trust me, Ashley, I've seen this before—”

She had?

“—and you exhibit none of the clinical indications we've come to associate with eventual reanimation.”

I searched Professor Fraser's face for some sign she was lying, but saw nothing but calm certainty there. I lay back down. “What … what about Matt? Is he here?”

Was it my imagination or did she hesitate before replying? “Yes. He's in another part of the lab.”

“Is he okay?”

A definite hesitation this time. “He's still alive.”

“Can I see him?”

Professor Fraser—Simone—shook her head. “Not right now. You need to rest.”

“But I want to know what's—”

“I know you do. And I'll explain everything to you when you're a bit more up to it.”

The door opened to admit a skinny, ginger-bearded, rodent-featured man in his early fifties. I thought I recognized him too.

“Doctor Albert?”

He jumped a little as if startled. “Erm … hello, Ashley.”

“What are you doing here?”

Dr. Albert smiled soothingly. “I'm the head of University Medical Services.” He took something out of his pocket. A syringe. “Now Ashley, this will help with the pain and let you sleep a bit more.”

Sounded good to me. I'd save the questions, including the one about Dr. Albert's unexpected appearance, for later. He was my doctor, after all, so it made sense for him to be there. I lay still while he administered the shot. The effects hit almost immediately and a welcome wave of numbing drowsiness washed over me. I drifted back off to sleep, content in the thought that I'd see Matt when I woke up.

* * * *

I don't know what Simone shot me up with, but whatever it was, I slept like the un-reanimated dead, a long and dreamless sleep. Waking up this time was better; I could open my eyes without sending ground-glass pain into the lids and sockets. Everything looked much as it had before, except that the chair where Simone had been sitting was currently unoccupied.

The door to my little room was closed, but I could hear an occasional voice and the sound of footsteps. It felt good to know I wasn't alone.

I pushed myself up to a seated position with much more success than my last attempt. My shoulder and arm still throbbed under their bandages, but other than that, I felt pretty damn good. I was wicked thirsty. I was probably dehydrated from the drugs, not to mention the hundred-yard-chased-by-zombies-dash I'd done, but I actually felt rested, like the first good sleep-in of summer vacation. Except I usually didn't start my summer vacation with chunks of flesh missing from parts of my body. That was gonna suck come tank-top weather.

A glass sat on the bedside table, condensation frosting its sides. I nearly drooled, it looked so good. I reached for it with my left hand, wincing when the movement put pressure on my wounded arm. Ouch. I'd have to watch that. The pain was worth it once I took a swallow of cold ginger ale. The taste reminded me of childhood and being home sick, with my mom bringing saltines and glass after glass of ginger ale to settle my stomach.

My mom.

My thoughts turned to my parents in Ukiah. Was this zombie thing happening all over the place or just around Redwood Grove? Would they be safe? My parents’ house is one of those old Craftsman-style bungalows, lots of windows and no second story. I love my parents, but they have no pop culture sensibility to speak of, so how would they know to smush the heads? I needed to call them, but my iPhone was gone, probably somewhere in the woods or the field, covered with blood and gunk.

I fought the urge to leap out of bed, mainly because I'd most likely fall over in a heap if I tried to do anything quickly. I pushed the blankets off me and very slowly and carefully swung my legs over the side of the bed, pausing to see what the rest of me thought of this movement. My head felt a little woozy and I doubted my bite wounds would like anything at this point, but—not too bad. Encouraged, I set my feet on the ground and stood up.

Whoops.

I held onto the rickety metal bed frame and waited for things to stop spinning, or at least slow down a bit. Closing my eyes helped.

“What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

The voice came out of nowhere: male, angry, and familiar. My eyelids flew open and I let out a startled yelp, letting go of the bed frame. Bad move; things started to go gray and my knees went wobbly. My face and the floor were on a collision course, but strong arms stopped the fall before impact, scooping me up like I weighed five pounds instead of—well, whatever—and carefully set me on the bed while cursing under his breath.

I lay there for a minute until I was sure I wasn't going to pass out, then took a look at my visitor.

Gabriel glared at me, arms folded. He wore green fatigues and a black T-shirt, and looked about ten pounds lighter than the last time I'd seen him in class. The weight loss didn't harm his good looks; his cheekbones were more defined than ever. Too bad his personality checked my pheromones at the door.

Okay.
Most
of my pheromones.

“What are
you
doing here?” My voice sounded feeble and kind of petulant even to my own ears.

“Stopping you from hurting yourself, obviously.”

I would have rolled my eyes if I didn't think it would probably hurt. I contented myself with a glare of my own. “I almost hurt myself because you startled me.”

“You shouldn't be out of bed.” Gabriel plunked himself down in the room's only chair. “Professor Fraser sent me to check on you.”

“Why are you dressed like Rambo?” The dizziness had passed. I started to sit up, only to have Gabriel put a restraining hand on my shoulder.

Ignoring my admittedly snarky question, he said, “You need to rest.”

“I've been resting for…” I stopped. I had no idea how long I'd been asleep. “I need to call my parents.”

An unreadable expression flashed across Gabriel's face, quickly replaced by a stoic mask. “No phones.”

“What do you mean, no phones?” I knocked his hand off my shoulder and struggled up to a sitting position, ignoring the pain in my arm and shoulder. “There are always phones!”

“Not now, there aren't.”

“That's a shitty answer!”

“It's the only one I have right now.” He crossed his arms and stared straight ahead.

Bedside manner? Epic fail.

Maybe he was pissy because Professor Fraser didn't let him call her Simone.

Whatever.

Son of a bitch.

“I'm going to get Professor Fraser. She wants to talk to you.”