Outbreak Page 2

  The white sheet still covered Rebecca Longley’s face as she sat upright on the table and the room fell silent.

  Rebecca sat motionless like a covered statue. She had been dead for ten minutes and the fact that she was sitting upright now sent chills up Janice’s spine. And even though she was sure it was nothing more than a muscle spasm, the unflappable Nurse Janice Beatty, was visibly shaken.

  The nurse moved hesitantly toward Rebecca Longley as though she were moving through a dream. Something was more than unusual. Something was more than wrong. Janice’s throat closed in a spasm as an indescribable sensation threatened to overwhelm her.

  “Don’t touch her!” she screamed. Had she said that aloud? No, she was certain of it. It had been an internal warning alarm.

  Nurse Beatty pulled the sheet away from the dead woman’s face.

  The patient’s eyes were closed as she sat unmoving. It was as if an internal spring had forced her dead body to bend upward at the waist.

  “Doctor, I believe it was just a—”

  Rebecca’s eyes opened and her body stiffened.

  “She’s alive.” Janice gasped.

  The white sheet fell away from her injured body as she slipped off the gurney and stood. Nurse Beatty tried to steady her and return her to the gurney.

  “Please, you must lie down for me,” Janice sputtered into Rebecca’s face. “Please—you are hurt,” Her years of work as a trauma nurse pushed through the dreamlike haze of the situation.

  Rebecca reached out and scratched her face. Her other hand knocked the white cap from the nurse’s head and latched onto a handful of hair.

  “A little help here would be nice!” she yelled, and Adam Riker was jolted into action.

  The doctor thrust his right arm between Nurse Beatty and the struggling patient in an attempt to separate them. Rebecca’s eyes focused on the nurse’s throat and with a faint whimper, she curled back her lips, and clamped down.

  The doctor’s reaction was swift. He slammed Rebecca in her neck with a force he normally reserved for the biggest, meanest, PCP psychos that came into the trauma unit.

  Nurse Beatty shrieked out in pain.

  The skin ripped away from beneath her left ear as Rebecca was forced back by the Doctor’s well-placed blow.

  “God Almighty!” Ron Whiteman screamed. He had been watching the scene play out for what seemed like minutes, but could only have been a matter of seconds. His first impulse was to run from the room, but this was part of the big pile up on Route 78, and he could not move. Like a deer stopped cold by the glaring, blue-white beacon of oncoming headlights, Ron Whiteman could only stand and wait for the impact.

  The woman who had been dead for ten minutes moved with ungainly steps toward him. The scissor-like retractor instrument still held the skin and breastbone away from the wound and it rattled as she approached.

  Whiteman stepped back and tripped over a box of supplies behind him and hit the floor in an unceremonious sprawl. Rebecca was on him before he could process what was happening.

  He screamed in agony as she bit into his left arm. In one potent twist, the flesh tore away and blood gushed out in red jets that splattered the wall behind him in rhythm with his beating heart.

  Rebecca sat down cross-legged on the floor and pushed the flopping chunk of flesh into her mouth. As she feasted on her prize, her dead heart dangled loosely from the open cavity. And as Ron Whiteman watched in horror, it appeared as if her heart might snap free and bounce away, but it only wiggled and dangled, held in place by the aorta and vena cavas.

  Doctor Whiteman stumbled to his feet and fell into the corner where he removed his belt and used it to create a makeshift tourniquet. Rebecca was on her feet again and lunged for Adam Riker. He met her attack with a powerful thrust and then threw her back onto the operating table.

  “Help me tie her down for Christ’s sake,” Riker screamed to no one in particular as Rebecca snapped at him.

  ***

  Upon hearing the commotion, the guard charged through the double doors. Michael Longley had taken notice as well and followed him, catching the doors on his way through.

  Michael followed the guard down the hospital hallway terrified of what he might find; his wife was in there somewhere. The commotion was coming from the room just ahead and to his left. He’d heard a woman’s fear-filled cry and the bellow of a man screaming as though he were being slowly tortured.

  Michael stopped cold, and watched the scene unfolding through the open doorway.

  The guard was helping a nurse sit down. She was injured and bleeding profusely from her neck. “She needs help now!” the guard shouted to anyone who might be able to help, or coherent enough to respond. Another doctor stood visibly trembling in the corner wrapping a wound on his right arm. Then he saw Rebecca.

  Rebecca’s upper body was held firmly to an operating table by wide, canvas straps with aluminum buckles. Her legs were free, and she pushed and thrashed against the straps in an attempt to break loose. A hideous squawk erupted from her throat as Michael ran toward her. “She needs help.”

  Doctor Riker turned quickly, “STAY AWAY FROM HER!”

  Michael froze mid-stride, trying to mentally compute the reason for the doctor’s distress. As he inched forward, the horror of the situation became clear. His head began to spin as he stared at the gaping wound in his wife’s chest. He slowly moved his fingers to his lips. They were dry, as was his throat. Rebecca turned her head toward him and moaned an unintelligible, feeble plea.

  Michael’s breathing became uneven and he felt himself become weightless. “Becca…Oh my Go—”

  Adam Riker reached out and grabbed him as he spun toward the rising tile floor, pulling him upright and propelling him from the middle of the room.

  “Someone, for the love of God…tell me what’s happening,” Michael was unaccustomed to the rising panic he felt in his chest.

  No one answered his plea, caught up in their own chaotic emotions at the bizarre scene playing out around them. Ron Whiteman still cowered in the corner where he had pulled himself, blathering hysterically.

  Nurse Beatty had collapsed to the floor in a pool of blood. The guard knelt beside her. Her eyes stared blankly into space.

  “I—I think she’s dead.”

  Doctor Riker moved to the nurse’s side and took her wrist, feeling for her pulse. “This can’t be,” he whispered. The nurse’s arm slowly slipped from his grasp.

  Riker stood and stared incredulously as Rebecca strained to break free of her bonds. What he was witnessing was just not possible. This woman could not be alive. Yet she somehow was.

  “Dear God.” The guard gasped, and Riker turned.

  Against the far wall lay two patients who had been declared dead on arrival, and were covered with white sheets. The sheets fell from their faces as they too sat upright on their gurneys and stood. They wailed mournfully with their arms outstretched as if to feel their way around a dark room.

  Adam Riker grabbed Ron Whiteman by the shoulder and they both backed away.

  “What in Hell is happening?” Whiteman strangled on the words as he uttered them.

  Rebecca slipped free from the straps that held her.

  Nurse Beatty opened her eyes.

  2

  “I don’t give a damn what you have to do, just get here!”

  Captain Roy Burns slammed down the telephone with enough force to grab the attention of every policeman in the room, squinting narrowly at the stunned assemblage. They avoided his withering glare and quickly went back to their duties. No one wanted to be the next one singled out to draw his wrath.

  It was early in the shift, but the night was already wearing on his frazzled nerves. Roy Burns was a career cop. It was in his blood, as it had been in his father’s blood before him. His job as a cop in Manhattan was his life’s passion. He was certain at this rate it would also be the death of him.

  Roy looked into the eyes of Darren Holsinger who was standing in front of him nerv
ously twisting his Class ring. The crazy events of the night were bearing down hard on the young cop. In Roy’s opinion, the kid was not ready to handle the rough streets of New York City, despite Holsinger’s assurances to the contrary. Just two weeks ago he had been gung-ho and ready to single-handedly fight crime and clean up the city. That was always the way with the new ones until the first real crisis. Then you found out what they were really made of. Darrin Holsinger was a perfect example.

  “Sir, we’ve got more on the way.” Holsinger said. His voice was unsteady.

  “How did we ever get along before you got here?” Roy wondered aloud and shaking his head.

  Normally he would have found the kid’s sudden lack of bravado funny, but at the moment, it was only serving to further try his patience with its underlying, whining presence.

  “Damn it man, why can’t you bring me some good news? After all that’s happened tonight, I’m ready for some good news,” Burns snapped.

  “Sorry sir. Bad news is all I have. They’re bringing in another one now.”

  The Captain shook his head, “What the hell? Is it a full moon tonight? Why does everyone have to lose their fucking mind when it’s a full moon? Goddamned freaks. That’s all I get to deal with. It’s this city, you know?” Rubbing his temples, Burns could feel the beginning of a migraine. “It attracts them.”

  Two officers entered the revolving doors facing Broadway dragging a man behind them. They stopped in front of the Captain with the handcuffed man squirming on the floor.

  “Let me guess,” Burns asked when he saw that the man was bound and gagged. “We’ve got another biter?”

  One of the officers held up his left hand. Blood dripped from his index finger. “Yeah, the son of a bitch bit me. How’d you know?” he asked, with a crooked grin.

  Burns grimaced, “Get your ass over to the hospital and get that looked at. There’s no telling what kind of disease this prick might have. Hepatitis or something worse, the filthy fuck.” Burns glanced at the other officer. “Are you hurt too?”

  “No, Sir,” he responded quickly, as if an injury would only serve to further irritate the Captain.

  “Good, then get this bum down to the holding cell with the others and out of the middle of my floor.” To add emphasis to his frustration, Burns shoved the biter’s backside with his department-issued, size-thirteen boot.

  The officer nodded and started to drag the man away.

  “Hold up!” Burns paused, furrowing his dark, bushy eyebrows as he reached down and forced the vile smelling, street bum over on his side to get a better look at his face. “He doesn’t look right.”

  “What?”

  “There’s something wrong with him,” Burns said.

  “Yeah, he’s a bum,”

  Roy said, “No, I mean he looks sick or something. Look at his eyes.”

  The man’s pupils were glazed over and his skin was ashen gray.

  Captain Burns bent down and placed the back of his hand against the man’s forehead. It felt cold and damp under his touch. He pulled away and motioned with a distracted wave of his large hand. “Just be careful. Make sure no one is careless with any of the inmates tonight. We have a growing number of uncooperative, unresponsive nut jobs down there already. Treat each one as a hostile prisoner. I don’t know what these people are on, but it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

  “Yes, Sir,” The officer said, and the two men started to drag the man away.

  “Not you, Givens. I want you to get to the hospital and have that finger looked at.”

  “I will, just as soon as we get this man squared away.”

  “Make sure you do,” the Captain said, “and make sure you get back here as soon as you can. We’re short-handed as it is. I need every man I can get tonight.” Then he turned away from the two officers and bound man lying on the floor.

  Precinct 34 was on Broadway. Any night was a busy night, but this one was different. A normal night in the precinct brought in the everyday, garden-variety prostitutes and petty thieves, nothing too radical. After all, it was the best neighborhood in all of New York City. Unlike the tough boroughs where he’d gotten his start, these were the upscale criminals who kept him in business. On a normal summer evening they could come out in droves. Preying on the tourists and chic Manhattanites, the local crazies could make a twelve-hour shift go by in no time at all. But tonight there seemed to be a pattern emerging. Hospitals were hotspots of violence, and accident scenes were becoming war zones. Victims were turning and attacking their rescuers.

  Roy turned and watched from the water cooler as the two young officers dragged the crazed bum from the lobby.

  He was letting the night get to him. He had just kicked a prisoner for no good reason. How would he explain that to his superiors should the man file a complaint? Unknowingly, he was rubbing his temples again, the pounding in his head, growing.

  Likely, there would be no complaint. The homeless man would just be happy to spend a few days in jail, get the free meals, and go on his merry way again. He was reassuring himself of that likelihood when his longtime friend and fellow New York cop, Daniel Flanagan, lumbered in from the street. For the first time that night, a slight smile creased Roy Burns’ face.

  At fifty, Daniel’s fiery red hair was now mostly gray. He had been with the department for thirty years and was not about to retire anytime soon. Daniel could only be described as a gritty and honest Irishman. Gritty and honest were increasingly rare traits these days and ones that Roy Burns found appealing in a fellow officer. All too often in his career, Burns had run across dirty cops, the kind who would steal dope from a collar and sell it, or just as bad, use it. Cops who would have sex with some poor kid forced to prostitute herself just to survive, then take her cash and leave her to deal with an angry pimp. New York could be a heartless and unforgiving city of broken dreams, a brutal place full of brutal people. Burns had seen it all, and it had left him jaded. He’d seen a lot of guys move through the ranks because of dirty deals and be rewarded for their efforts with promotions and accolades, deals that only other cops knew about.

  Cops did not, as a rule, inform on other cops. Theirs was a brotherhood built on trust and loyalty. Even when trusting your brother was, in Roy’s mind, akin to getting a blood test for your cholesterol, an unpleasant, but necessary evil. Their dirty little secrets were safe. Even with honest guys like Roy and Daniel.

  Roy’s smile widened and tugged at the corners of his stern mouth as Daniel approached. It soon diminished though. Something was wrong. Danny’s face said it all. His expression was hard and determined as he moved stiffly and with a slight limp. Roy placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You okay Danny-boy?”

  Daniel nodded, “Aye, I’ll be fine. Just a bit of a tussle with one of the town folk. There’ll be a lot of strange ones out there tonight,” Daniel observed in his still thick Irish brogue. It was a charming trait he had never lost despite the fact that his family had immigrated to the states when he was just a tot.

  Roy said, “You don’t have to tell me. The pokey’s filling up with them. It seems that everyone’s coming unglued.”

  “They are indeed.” Daniel said gruffly, and limped to his desk.

  Roy Burns watched his friend fall into the chair with a heavy sigh. “You sure you’re okay?

  “I’m a beat cop, not a kindergarten teacher, Roy. Bumps and bruises come with the territory on this job.”

  Daniel raised his pant leg to expose a swollen ankle. “I twisted it tonight fightin’ off a nut on 42nd. Saints preserve us, somethin’s outta sorts on the streets tonight,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

  Roy had to smile. The incredulous look on Daniel’s face when he raised that brow made him look like a cross between Mister Spock and Jim Carrey. He was sure that Daniel was blissfully unaware of the exaggerated elasticity of his face. He spent so much time trying to hide his emotions from everyone. When he did something like raising his eyebrow, or smiling too widely, it gave him away.
You could see his true humanity in a single smile. In truth, he was as transparent as glass if you knew how to read him. It was Danny’s heart, not on his sleeve, but in that raised eyebrow. That is where he wore his heart and that was why he was Roy’s best friend.

  “It’s more than the streets, Danny. It’s the whole city. I swear I believe the lunatics are running the asylum tonight. Whoever opened the gate, I wish they’d close the damned thing.”

  Daniel laughed at his comment and dropped the pant leg down over his pure argyle sock onto his shiny, black oxford and covered the swollen ankle. “Well, I’m done for this night. My twelve hours are in and I’m goin’ home.”

  Roy grunted his displeasure. “I could use you a bit longer tonight… Overtime—gravy my man—gravy.”

  Daniel took a flask of whiskey from the top drawer of his desk and took a long pull from it. He looked up at the smoldering captain with a muted grin as the last drop of fiery liquid trickled down his throat. “Gravy? I think not on this night. Besides, I can’t be doin’ that now can I? It’s against procedures to be on duty—under the influence that is.”

  “I don’t give a damn if you’re falling down drunk. I need—”

  Suddenly a scream that could have shattered glass erupted from outside the precinct doors.

  The Broadway side of the police station allowed a good view of the street with its floor to ceiling windows and revolving glass doors. The façade would be considered stunning in a less intimidating setting. It did afford one the chance to see from the edge of the sidewalk to the other side of the thoroughfare. Unlike a newer building with smaller windows, the street traffic was visible to anyone standing in the main entrance. Precinct 34 was built in nineteen thirty-six and was straight out of a Dick Tracy movie. Its rich oak trim, high ceilings, and marble tiled floors would never be incorporated into a modern police precinct. It was too rich, too extravagant.