Dead and Beloved (10 page)

Brooks shoves me inside the hospital as soon as we arrive. There's no Scream Room, no examinations, and no check in this time. The attendant slides the entrance door closed behind me and keys a code into security panel. With mechanical clicks and a dozen beeps, two iron bars slide across the doors and lock into place, sealing us inside.

At the lounge, a dozen patients and nurses are gathered around the
TV watching a breaking news report. A soldier on the screen stands at a podium.

“What's happening?” I ask.

I'm met by a wave of shushing.

“Vaccines are being distributed to vital personnel,” says the soldier. “Our armed forces are receiving their doses at this time.”

The screen changes to a video of lined up soldiers, each receiving a shot in their arm. There's grumbling in the lounge. Someone shouts an insult at the screen and starts flailing his arms. A nurse stabs him in the neck with a Daphenine shot and two hospital guards drag him away. I look around. Everyone should be here. If this is that big of a deal, the room should be packed. Where is everyone else? The soldier onscreen continues talking.

“Hospital staff will be next, along with emergency responders.”

The nurses around me glance at each other and smile.

The solider directs the cameras to a schedule. “Citizens of the United States will be given the vaccine according to last name and last digit of their social security number.”

Another image comes onto the screen, indicating injection locations. As we're watching, a thud shakes the front door of the hospital. A man is banging on the glass, trying to get in. Keller walks to the door and points at the man. We clamber around the corner to watch.

“Leave,” Keller tells him. “There's nothing here.”

The man backs up. Then he runs at the glass and strikes it with his shoulder. Over and over, he tries to get through the door.

“Why is he trying to get in?” asks one of the zombies next to me. “Doesn't he know the Virus is in here?”

The man outside backs up and tries again. When the door repels him again, he steps away, grabs a stone, and raises his arm to hurl it. There's a popping sound from outside and the man falls to the ground, dropping the stone at his side.

And suddenly I understand. “This is a hospital,” I say. “He thinks we have the vaccine.”

“Thought,” adds Keller.

The man outside is dead.

~ O ~

Word of the vaccine and the distribution process is everywhere online. News sites have set up step by step guides for people to get access to the drug, retailers are selling the latest vaccine recovery kits at inflated prices, and political sites are praising the funding efforts of the government along with Dr. Snow and his team.

Buried in the fray of relief and opinion that evening, there are also stories about events like what happened at the hospital entrance. People are frantic to get the vaccine, so frantic they are killing themselves for an early injection. There's mention of me, too. I leave the lounge when my name comes up on the screen. Whatever the news is saying, it can't be accurate; it never has been accurate. Knowing I'm a topic for discussion again gives me motivation for a lengthy workout.

~ O ~

I've heard sirens in the night before, but tonight they bother me. In the distance, I hear faint popping sounds. After every shot, I’m unnerved, wondering who has lost their life. Was it someone trying to get their hands on the vaccine? Was it someone like me? The noise doesn’t end, so I slip my ear buds on and try to fall asleep to music.

There's a flurry of commotion when I leave breakfast and head to the lobby for school. Brooks and Keller are organizing something with a group of policemen. Through them, I get glimpses of the front door. There are splatter marks and even a bullet imbedded into the glass in one spot. Outside, an attendant sprays the concrete with a hose. Red water washes down a drain.

As I stand waiting, a black van pulls in front of the hospital. It's an armored van with SWAT painted on the side. At Keller’s orders, the locked doors of the hospital open and I'm rushed to the van. Computer screens, flashing lights, and radio broadcasts fill the inside. There's no place to sit, so I drop to my knees and try not to rock too much as the van speeds us away.

I don't ask any questions during the ride. I keep wondering if this is the same van that came to Viewmont after my fight with Tyson. The same men, who thought they were protecting normal people from me, are now protecting me from normal people. I stare at their helmets and wonder how many of the faces behind the plastic hate me. Yeah, I'm afraid. These men have guns.

We arrive at the high school without any delays or traffic. It seems that a hospital shuttle can’t weave through cars as well as a SWAT van. We pull up to the front where Mr. Todd meets us. Some orders on the radio, a few commands to the men in black attack gear, and my guards lead me inside.

“Ryan, we're going to keep you out of the halls between classes,” Mr. Todd tells me. “Stay in the office until the late bell. You'll be escorted once it’s clear.”

“Why?” I ask. “There's a vaccine now. I'm not a threat to anyone.”

“You helped with the vaccine,” he says. “You were part of the process.”

“Part of the—” I'm cut off by the fire alarm.

“That's the signal for lockdown.” Mr. Todd points toward the administration offices. “Wait in there.”

I'm shoved past the clerks and into Mr. Todd’s office. Keller slams the door behind me and locks it.

“What is going on?” I yell. “I don't have the vaccine in me.”

Brooks snickers. “You didn't see the news.”

I nod my head. “Yes, I did. They're giving out the vaccine. Everyone who hasn't been infected will get a shot according to their name and such. ”

Keller smiles, turns to Brooks, and they both laugh. “No,” he insists, “you didn't see everything. Your picture was on the news. You volunteered while you were at that clinic in Salt Lake. Your blood was the key to fixing this.”

I stare at the men. “My blood?” I grab the nearest chair and toss it over Mr. Todd’s desk. “I never volunteered anything.”

The men are smiling again, and don't seem to care about my outburst. I don't know why. I feel the air boil and I'm furious. I'm furious at Dr. Snow, I'm furious at my lawyer. None of this seems right. I'm not any better than I was a month ago.

“You're saving lives,” Dr. Snow had told me.

Not my own. I touch my neck. Do they know I'm getting worse? How can a vaccine with my blood help someone? “They've got it wrong,” I say. I'm panting now because I'm so upset. “We need to tell someone. There's no cure in my blood. There can't be.”

“Too late, kid,” says Brooks. He pushes back his sleeve and exposes his shoulder. “Got my shot last night.” He grins at me. “Thanks.”

The late bell sounds and it feels like forever until Mr. Todd comes to his office to get me. He doesn't give me a chance to talk, ordering us to follow him before rushing down the hall. As we hustle to my first class, there's radio traffic between the guards, Mr. Todd, and the SWAT team outside. We wait outside the door and Mr. Todd goes inside to talk to Miss Reeves. Then I'm taken into class.

Midway through Biology, my neck begins to bleed. There's some confusion with Brooks and Keller about safety, but after I insist that Nurse Jennings can help me, I'm allowed to go to the nurse's room.

Once inside, I press the door closed and whisper. “What is going on, Nurse Jennings? Has everyone gone crazy?”

She examines my neck and hands me a towel. “Didn't this get cleaned last night?” she asked. “Ryan, you look worse.”

I shake my head. “Everyone was worried about security and the excitement about the vaccine. People tried to get into the hospital. They were shot.”

Nurse Jennings looks up at me. Her eyes are wide. “Did they examine you? Did they see my report?”

“I don't know what they saw.” I swallow and grip the edge of the table as she peels the remnants of yesterday's Second Skin application.

“Everything is happening so fast,” she says. She tosses the skin into a bio-hazard bag. “Ryan, I need to scrub this. It's already infected.”

Those aren't the words I want to hear. Not in this room. Not from Nurse Jennings.

I try to squirm away, but she grabs my leg. “I'm sorry. This is going to hurt.”

There's pounding on the other side of the door, though my screaming drowns most of it. Nurse Jennings cries and opens the door. After one look, Brooks turns green and leaves us. Nurse Jennings resumes her scrubbing. When she finishes, she wraps my neck in Second Skin and gives me a shot for the infection.

“I'm sorry,” she tells me. She buries her face into her palms and sobs. “I'm so sorry.”

I lean toward her and take a gasping breath. “Nurse Jennings, please tell me what's going on. No one is clear about anything. They say my blood is in the vaccine.”

She doesn't look up.

“Please. You need to tell someone I'm getting worse. Don't let them give any more shots. Not if my blood is in there.”

She finally looks up. “It's not your blood, Ryan. They already had a formula designed to fight off Breytazine. The first injection includes both the Virus and that formula.”

“Wait a minute,” I say. “First injection?”

“That's right.” Nurse Jennings wipes her eyes. “The first injection doesn't cure. It's a vaccine.”

“And the second injection?”

“It's not for everyone. I think it's only if they don’t respond well.”

I don't like what she's saying, and fear the rest, but I ask her anyway. “If who doesn’t respond? What is the second injection, and what does it have to do with me?”

Nurse Jennings shakes her head. “No one is saying. The news is only announcing the vaccine. They're telling everyone that your blood was used as part of the cure. It's the same formula they had before, only it—”

“What?” I grab her shoulders.

“It doesn't work on everyone. Ten percent will still get Breytazine.”

“Ten percent!” I cover my mouth. I don't want anyone outside the nurse's office to hear me. “Ten percent?” I repeat, softer. “You're telling me that the government is giving the Virus to everyone, knowing that ten percent will turn into zombies?”

She nods. “That's why they need the second injection. I think those who have symptoms get the dose with your DNA in it. It puts the Breytazine into remission until—until a real cure is found.”

The reality of the moment hits me so hard that I can't breathe. I fall to the floor and lean over, sucking in air that doesn't seem to help me. There is no cure. “I'm dying, Nurse Jennings. And everyone who gets infected with the Virus will get nothing more than I have.”

Nurse Jennings is crying now. “I don't think anyone realized you were progressing. They should have checked your information. Someone should have known. I thought they knew.”

“So forty million Americans are going to be made into zombies in the next month?”

“Yes, Ryan. At least that many.”

I press my hand against the floor—it’s cold—and push myself up. “How do you know this? If it wasn't announced, how could you know?”

Nurse Jennings helps me to stand. She takes off her coat and then pulls aside the neckline of her shirt. “Because,” she says, showing me the taped gauze. “Dr. Snow told me after I was given the first injection two days ago.”

Outside the hospital, cops, orange barricades, and guns have replaced the honking protesters and their signs. My world has changed and it doesn't feel right. Security is tight and no one will listen to my warnings about the vaccine. My ear buds are my only defense against the constant blaring of sirens outside my hospital window. Every day, the cafeteria seems thinner and thinner. When I ask a nurse during my resumed sessions in the Scream Room, she won't tell me why people are gone.

All the while, I keep thinking about Jessica. The S's are still a couple weeks away and I wonder if somehow her father made arrangements for her to get the vaccine early. I'm nervous and my stomach churns every time I think about ten percent of the U.S. population turning into zombies. I spend a lot of time wondering where they'll all be treated and what the plan is with my blood. Dr. Snow, evil as he is, is smart enough to know that I don't carry any sort of cure. Or do I? The whole situation regarding the vaccine seems more like a publicity stunt than a cure, and that infuriates me.

More and more, friends from the hospital are disappearing. Today, I'm sitting alone in the cafeteria, surrounded by only seven other people. Sanders is gone. I haven't seen Glen since Saturday. Our basketball game had been intense and he left the court screaming and yelling about full court presses. I slide close to a girl I don't know, but who has been here longer than I have.

“Hey,” I whisper. “Where is everyone?”

She looks up from her protein and then darts her eyes nervously at the guard near the doorway. She shakes her head before digging back into her meat. The guard says something to his radio and I decide that whatever is going on, I'm not supposed to know. I smile at the girl and slide back to the end of the table to finish my breakfast.

At school, the excitement of the vaccinations is overrun by updates about prom. It's a week from Saturday and every hour an announcement comes over the intercom reminding students that tickets are cheaper if paid for in advance. I'm walking down the hall toward French when a poster catches my eye. Someone's posted the picture of Jessica and me on the board. I stare. I have seen that picture a thousand times, but today I take some time to study it.

Jessica is there, embracing me as I hold her, and she's pointing to a prom poster. I had forgotten. The two months since we kissed in the hallway have been so chaotic that I had forgotten my promise to take her to the dance. I wonder if she still expects us to go. I don't know how to talk to her, how to ask her.

I decide to use Adam Turner. I've got a few minutes until class, and since the vaccinations, I've been excluded from detention anyway, so I nod to Keller.

“I just remembered something,” I tell him. “I need to talk to someone.” I dash down the hall and my guards shove students out of their way while trying to catch me.

The stairwell is full and everyone seems to be coming up, so I leap over the railing and drop onto the first floor divider. There's chaos and scrambling behind me—I'm certain it's my guards trying to keep up—but I ignore it and head to the lockers where I last saw Adam.

“Hey, where's Adam?” I ask one of the jackets standing in my way.

He turns and smiles, then he grimaces. I think he's seen my guards coming. “I don't know,” he answers. “What's it to you?” He turns away and laughs.

“I need to find him. Where's Adam Turner?” Noting the obvious lack of care from the letterman, I turn to the others in the hallway. “It's important,” I say. “Anyone know what class he has next?”

Everyone scrambles away and I think it's to avoid my question, but then I see Brooks grab one of the students. He lifts the kid against the top of a soda machine.

“He asked you a question,” Brooks tells the kid, growling his words.

The kid is scared, there's real terror in his eyes. I keep thinking about the fight I had with Tyson. It's not the impression I want to keep giving this crowd.

“It's okay, Brooks,” I say, jabbing him in the ribs. “I'll ask someone else.”

But Brooks doesn't drop the kid. He snorts back at me and holds his arm firm.

“Brooks,” I shout. “Let him go.”

Someone aims a phone at us. My heart races.

Then Brooks looks at me and I see something is wrong. His eyes. They don't have the commanding presence they usually carry. He's looking at the wriggling kid he's holding up like the boy is food or something. Food.

I shove Brooks in the back. “Let him go.”

Brooks’ arms start shaking and his fingers tremble. I see him fighting the urge, but I know his efforts will fail. I know what's coming; I've been around it for two years. I punch Brooks in the ribs. One breaks and Brooks drops the kid to the ground.

Keller grabs me, but I shake him away. “No,” I order. “Get Brooks. He's infected. He's turning.”

Screams erupt and bodies flee. Keller takes off with the other students, ignoring his duty as a guard while forcing his way through the bulging crowd. I look back at Brooks; he's no longer concerned about me or what I've done to him. He has ripped open his shirt collar and is clawing at his chest. Breytazine.

“Brooks?” My voice is muted compared with the screams.

Brooks eyes someone in the crowd and shoves past me.

“Brooks, no.”

He catches a girl who wasn't as fast as the others were and tosses her against the wall. Her head hits a locker and she falls limp to the floor. I leap toward Brooks and grab his arm before he can touch her again.

“Leave her alone.”

Brooks snarls and leans his head to bite my arm. I shove him away. Then I do what I've always done to fight the Virus. Therapy. Strike after strike, kick after kick, I beat the man who was supposed to be protecting me. Brooks fights back and hits me hard enough to knock my breath away. I fall back, stunned, and he pounces. He kicks me in the stomach and I want to vomit from the pain. But I don't. I can't.

I roll away and jump back onto him. Then I grab his neck. New zombies are strong and deadly, but so am I. I've been feeding on protein and steroids for two years. Still, this isn't like the dummy back in my hospital room. This is real.

We battle back and forth across the hall, denting lockers and breaking overhead lights. Brooks grabs my arm, catches my sleeve and rips it off, exposing the growing wound. The air chills as it touches me. I strike Brooks in the face, in the nose, and in the jaw. I try to swell his eyes so he can't see me. Brooks kicks my leg from under me and forces me to the ground. I think he's going to chase after the students who have crowded close enough to watch, but he doesn't leave. He seems focused on destroying me.

He steps on my leg and reaches for my stomach, but I twist, kick, and leap back to my feet. This can't go on forever. I'm tired, but not spent, and I know Brooks is burning energy fast. His face is darkening
around the eyes, a sign that he's been affected badly.

I grab an arm and try to throw him against a wall again, but there's a popping sound and no resistance. I'm holding his arm and it's no longer attached to him.

He screams and falls to the ground. I hear people gasp. I'm holding a human arm—well, a zombie arm. I drop it, suddenly freaked out, and yell at the crowd.

“Someone find Nurse Jennings,” I order. I'm winded, but I fight to say the words as clearly as I can. “Tell her we need Daphenine.”

Brooks is still on the ground screaming. There's blood spraying from his open shoulder. I circle him like a hunter to its prey, waiting for him to stand up or leap, or something. If he moves, I'll tear off his other arm.

But Brooks stays on the ground. His breathing grows heavy and course. When he looks at me, his eyes are red. He rips a handful of hair from his scalp and tosses it at me with a curse. Nurse Jennings arrives. She screams when she sees us. She’s shaking.

“It's one of my guards,” I tell her. “He's got the Virus.”

She's staring at me. I know she's not sure who to believe. Then Brooks lunges for her. She backs away, nodding at me as I leap onto Brooks’ back and force his head into the carpet.

“I'll hold him,” I tell Nurse Jennings. “Give him the shot.”

He's bucking and twisting, like a violent snake refusing to go flat. It takes most of my s
trength, but I turn Brooks over and hold him still enough for Nurse Jennings to act. The Daphenine is fast and effective. In seconds, Brooks’ breathing slows. He heaves a few more times before collapsing.

Cheers, clapping, and whistles erupt from the end of the hall. The walls around us spin and I see students applauding between flashes of light and Nurse Jennings' face. I try standing. I smile at them. I smile at Nurse
Jennings and everything goes black.