The Last Hour Page 3

  “That’s a bad sign,” I murmur.

  My stomach is tight, not just because of what happened here but because I suspect it’s out there. There’s no way this only happened here, not on this scale. Had zombies started biting people, the police would’ve come, if they could.

  But they couldn’t since the zombies are everywhere.

  It’s possible Grace is right, but I have a guess I’m the one who’s correct on the state of things in the world.

  Either some of these freaks from here have made it out of the gates, or the world is long gone and one of them made it in the gates, already infected, and we were hit after everyone else. Either way, nine-one-one being busy means we’re screwed.

  We’re on our own.

  I’m on my own.

  I need a weapon.

  I’d feel better with a gun.

  It’s not my favorite weapon, but it's the one I’d recommend during a video-game-style zombie apocalypse, even if the zombies are more like remote-controlled monsters.

  I wonder who has the head controller?

  “Focus.” I hit myself in the head and turn in a circle. “Guns?” I ask the room, not crazy enough to expect an answer.

  A large blue locker, one I’d expect to find in a police station, sits in the far corner. I assume it houses the weapons. It seems to be the only likely answer to the question of where guards would keep them since they never carry guns, just Tasers and batons.

  Insane people rarely require a guard to have a gun. Most of them piss their pants when someone shouts, but I believe if someone like Lester’s here, the guards are required to have weapons to break up issues. Big weapons.

  The locker’s bolted up tight so I search the room, rifling the desk drawers and bins, but there’s no key.

  I’m out of breath and getting annoyed when I start looking for the guards in amongst the bodies lying about the floor outside the door.

  But there’s not one.

  Defeated and uncomfortable being so alone, a different kind of alone than I’ve ever been, I mosey back to the guardroom to do another search.

  That’s when I notice it.

  It’s not what I expect to see.

  It reminds me of a gas station where they let you take the bathroom key, but you have to carry around some ridiculously large keychain made up of a stick or a huge plastic sign.

  It’s a key attached to a cutout of a hand, like a drawing of a hand that’s been laminated with the letters GRL written in Sharpie. It’s hanging on the wall just next to the locker. GRL?

  “Guardroom locker.” A smile crosses my lips, almost laughing at the guards for being so ridiculous, but honestly, it’s a madhouse and most of the staff are as nuts as we are.

  As I grab it and open the locker, disappointment hits hard. Taser sticks and batons are the best they have.

  There isn’t a single gun. Not even one bullet.

  “What the hell?” I slump and reach for the baton, my favorite of all police weapons. I have rage issues and a lack of self-control, so the baton is my sort of good time. But it isn’t the ideal weapon in a moment like this. And the Taser’s less effective than the baton.

  Deciding it’s better than nothing, I strap a Taser to my belt with a holster and grab three batons. Two for me and one for Grace.

  Her name makes me pause.

  It’s odd that I’m going back for her, I could leave her. She’d slowly die in there, starving and thirsty and weak. That’s a funny death for someone like her, a nutritionist.

  But I don't want to.

  It’s a feeling I am unfamiliar with.

  I don’t want to be alone.

  Being alone right now, possibly more alone than I want to consider, frightens me. I have something tangible to fear, something I’ve not experienced before, similar to the lion finding out dragons are real and it’s no longer the king of the jungle.

  The biters are terrifying. Imagining the sensation of someone’s dull human teeth digging into my skin and ripping, dragging away stringy meat and tendons, actually disturbs me.

  It’s surreal and annoying, realizing I’m vulnerable.

  Self-awareness is a gift and a curse.

  Because this isn’t how I want to die, I have to go back for her. I want her to guard my back and in return I will guard hers.

  Becoming a biter is not in my plans.

  I don't see myself as much of one.

  Germs gross me out.

  And what if I bit someone with hairy skin?

  I shudder, owning that scenarios like hairy arms and backs are part of why I’m going back for Grace and giving her a baton.

  The locker has a duffle bag of pepper spray and other useless weapons. I leave them all behind, taking only the Taser and three batons.

  Walking back to Grace, I feel less and more of everything bad, as if I’m the prey being watched and stalked and hunted. Only, in my head, I give the biters my skills. I make them more than they are. I imagine them creeping along corridors and watching me from around corners. I sense their eyes on me and end up walking faster. I don't pay attention to the noise I’m making. I need to get her and get out of here.

  Seeing the door where she is makes everything better. I’m less vulnerable, less alone.

  As I put the key in to open it, she stands up, sighing because I came back. She’s relieved, she doubted me. It’s a fair assessment of her situation and me.

  The lock clicks and her face changes, her eyes widen and her mouth parts, suggesting she wants to scream or say something through the glass.

  I don't turn to check behind me at what has her so scared. I don't have to.

  In the reflection of the window, I see it.

  A terrifying face getting bigger and bigger.

  I spin, grabbing for the Taser but the large man launches at me. He moves with speed and ability his body didn’t have before this moment. I’ve seen this lazy piece of shit before. He didn’t even move this fast for the good seats in the common room, his second home.

  I hit with the baton, enjoying the feel of the hard metal striking his soft neck. But he doesn't notice the strike. He grasps, needy and desperate.

  I hit again but it doesn't knock him back.

  His fingers dig in, gripping and clawing. I push him but he springs forward as though his arms are made of rubber.

  Screams are leaving his lips and mine. Muffled ones come through the glass from Grace.

  We get into a battle of strength, him pulling me in, pressing me into the wall while I push back, desperate to get him off me. His neck shakes with the tension of the attempt to bite as my hands push. We’re frozen in this trembling war that gains no ground.

  My muscles start to ache, unlike him I feel this battle. I make a foolish choice.

  Thinking I can stun him, I reach for the Taser once more but lose my footing as I get it in hand. He takes me to the ground, landing on me at the same time his teeth sink into my shoulder. I blast him with the stun gun, electrocuting him in the neck. He seizes, his mouth still biting down on me, clenching harder. He screams into the bite and I scream from it.

  I lift the Taser and stun him in the temple.

  When he stops screaming, I stop pressing the button.

  His teeth stay lodged in my flesh, as if he’s died and gotten lockjaw.

  I’m shaking, almost feeling like I’ve been electrocuted as well.

  Sounds I hate, weak sounds, ones I swore I’d never make again, leave my lips as I drop the stun gun and lift my trembling hand to his mouth, prying his blood-soaked face from me. He falls over, stiff as a board and then relaxes. The blood on his lips moves back into his mouth as if retreating into a cave.

  My lip quivers while I cover the wound on my shoulder and wait for it to hit.

  It’s hot.

  It’s burning hot.

  Noise brings me back from my uneasy moment of waiting for the craziness to overwhelm me.

  Grace is slamming on the window.

  I’ve locked her in again.
The fight against the door pushed it closed.

  Her eyes are wide and terrified.

  My mind whispers to leave her there, let her die with me.

  But there’s something else, someone else inside my head. Someone that tells me to let her out. I don't know who the voice belongs to, but it wins. It wants me to be with her. Or rather it wants her to come out here with us.

  I wrestle with the man to move him away and get to my own feet to finally stand, dizzy and anxious. The key’s still in the lock.

  My mind contemplates what a fate, what a tragic and dramatic end. Grace is alone in the cell, staring at the key from the window, wishing she could turn it and escape, but she’s stuck in a room she chose. It’s a Hitchcock ending, one I would normally enjoy.

  I want to leave her there but my hand lifts and turns it, freeing her with a tiny click.

  I step back, giving her space to step out.

  Her eyes land on the wound on my shoulder, the one seeping blood through my tee shirt. “You’re bit.”

  “I know, genius.” My sarcasm has survived the attack.

  “What are we going to do?”

  I have only one answer for her as I hand her a baton. “Run.”

  Tears fill her eyes as if she’s sad for me, but I know she’s sad for herself. She doesn't want to be alone either. Her fingers tremble as she takes the baton and nods. “I’m sorry.”

  “I suspect you will be, Grace.”

  Her eyes widen and she runs. Her feet slap against the cold floor, getting quieter and quieter until I’m alone.

  I stroll back into my cell, keeping the door propped open with the dead guy’s arm, and lie down on my bed, waiting for it to hit me.

  The ceiling swirls after a moment as I swallow and realize my sore throat from screaming is gone. Sweat and aches cover me, replacing one pain with another. I close my eyes and wait for it, the moment when I will be an observer of what my body does.

  I close my eyes and let it hit.

  Chapter Three

  Dreams and flashes of color and my mom screaming wake me. I recall it all for a second before I realize I’m alone in the dark.

  Weird dream.

  I try to swallow as I blink and stare at the dark ceiling, but my throat’s dry as hell. I sit up, smacking my lips together and getting my bearings.

  It takes a solid minute for me to recall where I am.

  Waking up in solitary isn’t weird for me.

  Waking up cotton mouthed and confused isn’t out of the ordinary.

  But waking with the memory of human teeth sinking into my skin hits like a hunk of wood to the side of the head.

  I jump, searching the room for anyone else. I drag my shirt down, noting the sticky blood and the tear where that piece of shit bit my shoulder. I touch the wound, noting a serious lack of pain registering. And it’s not bloody anymore, healed better than I thought it would be.

  Unless I’ve slept for days and it’s healed then.

  That would explain my thirst.

  Wait, I got bit.

  I should be different.

  I should be moaning and biting too.

  Did I already do the head jerking and spinning?

  I don't feel weird, not much weirder than normal, and my brain is registering everything. I move my hands, making fists while I blink and open and close my mouth. The desire to run and bite and attack is no different than normal; it’s absent. I hate running and I’ve never been a biter. And if I want to attack someone, I don't want them to know it’s coming.

  I’m still me.

  I don’t feel changed, at all. And there’s no way it’s only been a moment since the zombie bite happened. It’s dark and there’s no sound at all. No whistle or hum or flickering of lights and my arm’s healed.

  So how am I not one of them?

  I was bitten.

  I passed out.

  And yet I’m okay?

  Viral resistance does a lap or two around my mind.

  Could it be possible that I’m immune to whatever the disease is? I replay the horrible moments of the asshat biting down on me over and over, trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

  “I’m not a zombie?” I sigh, testing out my voice, relieved and confused when it works, hoarse but making noise. Maybe the small bite wasn't enough and that's why the others bit so much, tearing the flesh more.

  I turn my head, getting a feel for the situation. Being alone in the dark has never scared me, but being alone in a dark mental hospital with zombies everywhere doesn’t exactly give me hope.

  Standing and stretching, I roll the injured shoulder several times, trying to notice even a slight difference between it and the other one, but there’s nothing. It feels completely normal.

  Grace.

  I need to find her and see if she’s still alive. I suspect not. That pains me. I wasn't infected and made her leave for no reason.

  I walk to the door, gazing down at the guy on the floor in front of it. It isn’t easy to see in the dark, but he’s obviously still dead.

  I push him out of the way as I open the door and silently step out into the hall.

  There’s no sound at all.

  Being in a dark insane asylum at night with no noise and dead bodies everywhere would normally be my idea of a fun time, but I always imagined I’d be following some depressed kid, with an assault rifle and a grudge, out of the hospital.

  Never in a million years would I have thought I’d be living this daydream. Adding the zombies really is more than I needed. I’m less of a horror movie buff and more of a psychological twist fan.

  There’s no one alive here, not one single body stirring or moving like it might possibly be breathing, as I trek down the hall.

  I’m fine, walking along scanning my whereabouts, until I see the handwashing sink, then I run. My throat burns and my mind screams for water. I turn the handle, drinking until I feel sick, the water slows and then stops. I want more. I crave it in fact. It’s odd. I turn the handles but nothing changes. The water doesn't come.

  I lift my hand to smash it but a flash of regret fills me, suggesting my hand will hurt and I still won’t have water. It makes sense so I lower my hand.

  A need to go outside drags me to the stairs.

  I climb them, nervous of what I’ll find.

  When I get to the door to outside, I pause, listening. My arm hair stands on end as I turn and give the old hospital staircase one last look.

  I’ll take my chances with the zombies and whatever the hell my bite becomes before I look back at this place.

  As if meant as an ironic twist, I open the front door to find the head doctor on the huge concrete staircase. He’s dead with his stomach ripped open.

  It’s a fitting end. I pause as I walk past, lowering to dip my finger in his bloody guts and write the word asshat on his forehead and cheek.

  I won't miss him. Or this place. Or these people.

  My steps become more casual and less guarded as I make my way across the front grass, crunching on the lawn.

  The body count is bananas.

  There are dead people everywhere, with red faces from biting and injuries from being bitten. It’s the most confusing scene I’ve ever been in.

  I pinch myself several times to check if I’m dreaming but I’m not.

  This is real.

  This is the end. Or at least the end of Florida.

  I always knew it would start here or end here. That makes complete sense.

  When I get across the grass, close to the road where the large gate is, I stop.

  Panic punches me in the guts.

  I stop moving.

  I stop breathing.

  For half a second or so, my heart stops beating.

  I’m not alone.

  People are here, but they don’t look the same.

  Nurse Manahan, my favorite, is standing at the gates wearing her usual teal cardigan. She’s motionless, slumped and swaying like a branch on the overhanging trees surrounding the
compound.

  She isn’t alone either.

  Between me and her, I’d say fifty people are standing, swaying the same way she is. They’re in sync, perfectly in sync. There’s even a guard with a stun gun still strapped to his body. He’s swaying in the breeze with the others, dried blood all over his shirt and face.

  Taking a step back, I scan the area for an option. There’s no way I can get through them to reach the gate, or over it to the fence away from them, and there’s no other means out of here. It’s surrounded like the prison it is. Twelve-foot electric fences with razor wire on top.

  My brain starts to seek an answer.

  The power seems to be out, so the electronic fence and gate don't work. I could go back in, get a blanket and use it to climb the fence.

  Or I could get the biters away from the fence with a diversion and then get into the guardroom and leave through their doors to the other side.

  Just as I’m about to turn around and go back inside to get a blanket or cause a diversion, light shines on me. It flashes a couple of times like an SOS coming from the guardhouse. I lift a hand to my eyes, shielding them from the brightness of it.

  Through the crowd of people and the dots in my eyes, I see movement. Someone is in the guardhouse.

  They move again.

  Behind the mob of swaying zombies, someone else runs along the wall on the opposite side, someone big.

  When the person, who is just a shadow to me, clears the group, a noise bursts the silence. They break into a run, dragging a metal object along the chain-link fence.

  As if turned on by a remote, every one of the zombies jumps to life, spinning as a horde and running for the fence line, chasing the person making the noise.

  When the horde moves down the field away from us and the guard door opens, a confused face greets me, “Liam?” Grace’s eyes glisten in the doorway with the emergency lights.

  I don't run at her, assuming she’s thinking I’m a zombie too, but I walk quickly. “Yeah.”

  The light shines on me again, right on the shoulder. “What about the bite?”

  “I don't know. Either it wasn't a big enough bite or I’m immune. I fell asleep and woke up fine.” I don't know what else to say, the whole thing is odd. Not just my possible immunity, but also the fact that there are zombies running around the mental hospital. And not the normal ones.