The Hospital

The West Wing

"Chief! What the hell was that? An explosion?" Mark almost ran into Jimmy just as the Sherriff came out of the office.

"Looks like it," Jimmy replied and unholstered his handgun. Distant screams mixed with gunshots echoed across the hallway meaning only one thing – the infected breached the barricade. Jimmy picked up pace towards the reception, his mind still processing the conversation with Feldmann.

"I'm coming with you," Mark said and rushed after him.

Jimmy took another step before suddenly stopping. "It's just crazy, but if he is right then…." he muttered and turned around. "No, I'll need you to do something else."

"What are you talking about, boss? To do what?" Mark stared back at him.

Jimmy looked around. There were other people in the hallway, and he stepped closer to Mark not to be overheard. He looked at Mark's injured hand and sighed, the expression on his face almost painful.

"Listen to me carefully," Jimmy said quietly and pointed towards the far end of the corridor leading to the west wing of the hospital where most of the bodies were stored. "According to Feldmann those corpses over there are about to come back to life and attack the living."

"Sorry what?" The confusion on Mark's face said it all.

"Just listen and don't interrupt." Jimmy put his hand on Mark's shoulder. "If he's wrong, it will be just another of his drunken ramblings, and we can all laugh about it later. But if he is right, and that explains those random attacks earlier, including on you," he pointed to Mark's wrist, "then we have to make sure none of those things gets out of there, do you understand me?"

"Not sure I do, boss." Marks said, still struggling to believe his ears.

More screams and gunshots echoed. Jimmy squeezed Mark's shoulder, emphasizing every word. "Doesn't matter if you understand. Just do as you are told. I will take care of the situation at the front if I still can, as for you, make sure no one gets in or out through those doors. If Feldmann is correct, once awaken those things have no memory nor conscience. Have you seen the movies about the undead? Well, this is pretty much it. You can't reason with zombies and if any of them try to get out, shoot them. Do you understand me, Mark?"

"Oh boy, this is messed up," Mark mumbled but nodded.

"Good man. And keep this knowledge to yourself. We don't need people to start panicking until we know for sure, ok?"

Mark nodded again.

"As soon as I can, I will be back with others and figure out what to do next."

Keys rattled in the background, and both men turned around just as Feldmann locked the office door behind him.

"Doc, be so kind as to patch his wrist up, will you?" Jimmy said loud enough for Feldmann to take notice. Not waiting for a reply the Sheriff smiled to Mark, turned around and ran towards the turmoil. "Every able-bodied man, follow me!" his voice echoed somewhere behind the crowd.

"I must be dreaming this shit," Mark muttered. Staring at the faces around, he saw confusion and fear. He hated to feel helpless, but more than anything, Mark hated to be left behind. This very moment, his friends and colleagues were fighting out there, and he was supposed to sit here like some useless child? "To hell with it," Mark cursed and started walking towards the reception.

"And where do you think you are going, young man?" the sharp voice called him from behind. Feldmann caught up with Mark and pointed to the wounded wrist. "I believe your boss wanted you to get this patched up?"

"It's nothing, doc," Mark waved, clearly not wanting any help.

"Let me be the judge of that, son." Feldmann adjusted his glasses and pulled Mark's injured wrist closer. He gently removed the towel and examined the wound. The bleeding has stopped, revealing deep marks of dental bites. Feldmann sighed and quietly said, "I'm sorry, kid."

"What for?" Mark asked. "It's just a scratch."

"If you say so," Feldmann replied. "All I can do is put a bandage on. I'm afraid we don't have any painkillers left."

"Don't worry, doc." Mark moved his hand away. "This towel will do. Listen, Jimmy just told your crazy theory that dead people might come back to life and become like those crazies outside?"

"Well, in theory, yes." Feldmann looked at Mark and squinted. "What else did he tell you?"

"That's pretty much it." Mark shrugged shoulders. "And I shouldn't let anyone in or out from there." He nodded towards the double-sided doors leading to the west wing.

"I see. Smart man, your boss, is," Feldmann said and tapped Mark on the shoulder. "You do that, son. Keep your eyes peeled, and those doors closed. Oh, and if I were you, I would move these bodies out of here." He pointed to five corpses covered with hospital gowns lined up by the wall.

"Do you really mean it?" Mark asked, to be sure.

"Just in case, son. And for all our sakes let's hope I'm wrong. Now, if you don't require any more help, I have plenty of other patients waiting." Feldmann fixed his coat and walked away, feeling guilty and at the same time tempted to tell Mark the truth. But he couldn't force himself to do it. He has seen what losing hope can do to a person's mind, and right now, hope was probably the only thing separating them from a complete breakdown.

"This day just gets better and better," Mark mumbled and flexed his injured wrist. It was still swollen and now was beginning to itch. Annoyed, he sank into one of the empty chairs by the wall and listened to the gunfire outside. From the sounds of it, the battle has intensified, and Mark was beginning to wonder if he still shouldn't just ignore Jimmy's orders and join the fight. But Mark trusted his boss and always followed orders.

Something stirred. Mark looked at the covered body on the floor by the opposite side of the wall. He thought he saw the hand twitching, but it was nothing. Goosebumps ran through his spine from the mere thought of dead rising. He looked back at his wrist. "What if it's like in the movies? Oh shit," he whispered to himself as another shot rang outside and the dead man's hand twitched again. This time it wasn't his imagination.

"Oh crap," Mark jumped to his feet, with shaking fingers trying to unholster his handgun.

Margaret Finan also noticed the twitch. And it happened to be her late husband, George Finan lying under that blanket. George died a few hours ago from internal injuries when one of the infected individuals managed to sneak into the hospital earlier that day and attacked him. Margaret had spent the entire time close to his body. Heartbroken, she had no one else left in this world and nowhere else to go. She regretted listening to George and leaving the safety of their flat. But after the Sheriff's announcement on the radio, he insisted that the hospital would be a much safer place for them. How wrong he was.

"What was that? Did he just move?" With a shivering finger, she pointed at the body. "I just saw his hand move!"

"So did I," Mark said and took one step closer towards the corpse. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he finally unholstered his handgun and aimed at the blanket.

"What are you doing?" Margaret asked and stood up.

"Ma'am, I will need you to stand back," Mark said, raising his left hand towards her.

"What do you mean, to stand back? It's my husband! He might be still alive!" Margaret yelled and rushed towards the body, but Mark stepped in front of her.

"He might be dangerous, ma'am."

"Dangerous? This my husband, you imbecile!" Margaret was becoming hysterical. "He wouldn't hurt a fly! He is alive! Let me to him!"

"I can't!" Mark pushed her back. "I have reason to believe he might not be himself!"

"Step aside, you idiot!" Margaret yelled and tried to force her way through, but Mark pushed her back again.

Nearby bystanders noticed the scuffle and few carefully approached.

"People, help me! My husband is alive, and he won't let me to him!" Margaret shouted, looking for support. She noticed the hand twitch again, this time George bent his fingers. "Oh, let me through!" Margaret smashed her fists against Mark's chest.

"What's going on here?" a man asked, stepping closer.

"Sir, stand back!" Mark growled at him. The situation was quickly spiralling out of control. More people approached drawn by the argument.

The body suddenly jerked and slowly sat up. With the left hand, George pulled down the hospital sheet and turned his head towards the crowd. His reanimated brain needed few more minutes to adapt to the new existence keeping him in a passive state. Seeing George move drove Margaret into a frenzy.

"George!" she yelled, slipped under Mark's hand and dashed towards her husband. "I knew you would come back to me," she whispered and hugged him.

"No! He is dangerous!" Mark shouted and grabbed her by the shoulder. Before he could drag her away, few bystanders jumped in, pulled him off her and pushed against the opposite wall.

"He is crazy!" someone screamed. "Take his gun before he shoots somebody!"

"You don't understand!" Mark yelped in desperation. "He is dangerous, like those things outside!"

But the crowd ignored his pleas. One of the men disarmed him with words, "Don't worry, officer. I will hand it over to the Sheriff."

George slowly raised his hands and placed them on Margaret's shoulders. His viral transformation has now been complete. Without ushering a word, he twisted his head and bit her to the left side of the neck. For a second, Margaret ignored the danger. The excitement of having her husband back was overwhelming, but as George sank his teeth deeper into her flesh, the sharp pain finally took over.

"George, what are you doing? It hurts! Stop it!" she yelled and tried to push him away, but George latched on firmly. Ignoring her attempts to get out, he ripped out a large chunk of his wife's neck. Her wild screams finally caught the crowd's attention. Still hesitant, people watched in shock as George gauged on his squirming wife.

"Get off me!" Mark yelled, finally setting himself free. "Give me that!" He snatched his weapon out of the man's hand and leapt towards the couple. "He will kill her! Pull her away!"

Few hands grabbed Margaret from behind and dragged away from George before he could take another bite. Still chewing on her flesh, George slowly raised his head at the handgun's barrel pointed right at his face. The zombie moaned with lifeless expression and reached out with his right hand when Mark pulled the trigger. The deafening bang erupted in a cramped hallway as the bullet repainted the wall with man's brain fragments before his body fell to the side, this time for good.

"Get her out of here!" Mark ordered and watched how several members of the public carried Margaret away through the crowd. "I told you he was dangerous!" Mark roared at the rest of bystanders. He was furious. If only they would have listened.

Confused murmurs echoed around, people still struggling to believe their eyes. Someone asked, "What about the other bodies? Are they dangerous too?"

Mark turned around at looked at the other four corpses lined up by the wall. "That's an excellent question," he mumbled, stepped closer, aimed at the head of the nearest and pulled the trigger. He then did the same to other three corpses before ushering, "I guess, that answers that."

A loud moan emanated somewhere behind the double-sided doors.

"Everyone, stand back!" Mark ordered the crowd, and with his gun out, slowly approached the doors and carefully peeked inside. Through the thin glass partition, he could see diseased lined up along both sides of the hallway, some now stirring under their sheets. More moans reverberated from the bowels of the west wing, where, by now, at least a few hundred bodies have been stored.

"That doesn't sound good," Mark mumbled and quickly inspected doors. They were opening inwards, locked together by a flimsy lock that would hold against a handful of people pushing against it but not a few hundred. Mark turned around and yelled, "We need to reinforce it with something!"

As a confirmation to his fears, something slammed against doors from inside. Mark turned back where his eyes met with a pair of milky orbs starring straight at him. The zombie bumped his head against the glass, but unable to break through took a step back. Then smashed his head again, this time harder. Croaking and groaning, the undead kept throwing himself against the glass surface, breaking his nose and tearing the forehead. Under the relentless battering, the glass finally cracked. With dread and growing fear, Mark watched at this human abomination unsure what to do next. He could already see more reanimated staggering towards the doors as the noise of the moans grew louder. The dead were rising.

To be continued