Monster in the Closet

Chris was frozen in fear in the darkness. He was too terrified of making a noise that would attract the dead Chico. The argument continued outside the trailer; keeping Chico aroused for food and he kept clawing at the doors.

Outside, Jenkins and Mole were arguing. Mole shook his finger in Jenkins’ face while Jenkins stared at the ground like he was a pouting kid in time out.

“To hell with you and your comic book crew, Jenkins! The only reason I’m even here is because I feel sorry for you fools. This isn’t Resident Evil or Dawn of the Dead. This is real, man! I’m an IT Security Specialist and you want to dictate to me on how I should run the cameras and radios?! No, don’t think so. You’ll need me before I ever need you and without me, you wouldn’t have the surveillance and radio systems because instead of getting an education, you and your ilk stayed in your bedrooms eating junk food, playing your video games and ja…”

*scrrraaaaaatch…*

Jenkins and Mole looked at the trailer together. “Jenkins, what the hell was that?”

“Mole, you don’t think that’s a zeke in there, do you, because Chris is the only one in there. I told him we were sleeping in the command trailer tonight. Did you notify everyone in the field?”

“You didn’t tell me to. Chico’s the only one out. He was waiting for that horde to back to sleep.”

“I didn’t tell you? Its protocol to get status updates on everyone in the field, Mole!”

“Jenkins, I made it clear that were not my boss, or commander, when I came in with you dolts and you could’ve just as easily have called him yourself. Never mind, just kill that zeke so I can go to sleep. I’m tired of fighting with you.”

The commander retrieved the crossbow from his back and opened the door. Chico fell out of the trailer and onto Jenkins knocking them both to the ground. Chico immediately crunched into Jenkins’ upper right arm. Blood spewed a pulsating spray by Chico’s gray pockmarked face. Chris darted to his feet and ran to the opening. Mole stood there in confusion of not knowing what to do. Chris grabbed his gun off of the bed and aimed it at Chico.

Mole saw Chris aiming his sights, “NO, STOP! What are you doing, you’ll alert another horde, you fool!”

Mole ran to the other trailer, threw the door open and yelled, “Get up somebody, Chico’s a zeke and he bit Jenkins! The rest of the crew jumped up. Watchtower grabbed his machete and bolted outside. He sliced twice into Chico’s skull and once in the back of his neck. Brain matter and chunky brown coagulated blood oozed on to the coughing commander. Watchtower got on his knees and rolled Chico’s twitching body off of Jenkins.

Watchtower knew what was going to become of his commander, “Sir, this ain’t good.”

Jenkins was in shock and could barely speak, “Waa-atch, you kn-know I’m gonna tur-turn. Y-you gotta ki-kill me.”

Jenkins started crying and rolled over onto his stomach so Watchtower could kill him without looking into his eyes. Watchtower looked at the bloody sobbing commander, “Man, I can’t do it.” Watchtower looked over, “Mole, I know you hate him and would love to kill him.”

“Well, I didn’t hate him that much, but okay.”

Mole took the machete from Watchtower and hit Jenkins’ but the force wasn’t enough to pierce the commander’s head. Jenkins’ screamed in agony and grabbed his head.

“What are you doin’, man?! Kill him, but don’t torture him, Mole!” Chris yelled.

“I can’t help it if he’s thick-headed, Crip, I mean, Chris.”

Chris glared at Mole and snatched the machete from his hand, “I’ll do it, Hole, I mean, Mole.”  Chris swung the machete and cracked Jenkins’ head open and cut off three fingers from Jenkins’ left hand.

Everyone stood there shocked and sad of losing their team member and their leader. Their sadness quickly turned to disgust at Mole as he was smirking at Jenkins’ body. Mole clutched his hips and looked at the crew, “Okay then. I’ll be assuming command of this little outfit. You boys can start by tossing these meat sacks over the retainer wall.”

Watchtower gnashed his teeth and grabbed Mole by the throat, “Yeah, let’s do that. Let’s throw a meat sack over the retainer wall.”

Mole gripped his hands around Watchtower’s tried to pull the clutching hand from his neck but he was too weak, his raspy voice uttered, “Wh-at…the fuck…are you do-ing?!”

“Just following orders, Commander!” Watchtower pushed Mole over the wall. Mole’s cranium sounded like a lemon hitting the kitchen floor when it slammed into Almeda Road.

Watchtower turned around, “Now that the trash has been taken out, let’s give Chico and Commander proper burials.”

Rest is Best

Against his better judgment, Chris agreed to stay while the HAZMAT team procured a vehicle and supplies for him. He sat down on one of the bunk beds and surveyed the trailer. Each bunk had its own personality. One bunk had pictures of Voltron and Transformers stapled to the wall, another had World of Warcraft and Guild Wars game box covers on the wall. But they all had something in common. 40-Year Old Virgin and Revenge of the Nerds came to Chris’ mind. There was a small desk with a dirty microwave, paper plates and a box of disposable eating utensils.

*knock*knock* “Chris, it’s Jenkins, I’m coming in.”

Jenkins entered the trailer and asked with a coy grin, “How are you enjoying your hotel accommodations? Chris chuckled, “Thank you very much. I’d like to hit the jacuzzi after my back and stump massage.” Chris pointed to his left shoulder.  They both laughed. “Listen, I have a couple of guys getting you a car; ammo and food for your trip back home, but I have a serious question.” The commander nervously rubbed his hands together and Chris waited attentively. “Are you certain your girl is at home? Is there a possibility that she left or was rescued or…”

Chris snapped, “Or, what? Became of one those things?! No, Commander, Sarah is fine and she’s at home waiting for me!”

“Hang on, now. I’m not trying to piss you off; I just wanted to make sure your trip wasn’t in vain. You don’t want to waste all that effort on an empty house if she’s in a shelter or with the military.”

“What military? Your little nerd herd is the only military I’ve seen.”

Jenkins snapped back, “Yes, you’re right. We are. And we’ve survived longer than any military out here because, as you call us, NERDS, we nerds happen to be well-versed in zombie survival. So, sir, please do not insult our integrity and the team because you grew up watching 90210 and Bruce Willis movies. As I stated, we will help you, but don’t piss me off.” Jenkins took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders.

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose, “Yeah, I’m sorry, just stressed. Where is the military? Do they have a shelter?”

“FEMA and the National Guard were sheltering people at Ellington Field, Reliant Stadium and the Astrodome, but news came over the ham that with all the commotion and noise the zekes never went to sleep and eventually consumed the Reliant Stadium and Astrodome shelters. If Sarah escaped she might be at Ellington. Where do you live, Chris?”

Chris had a sullen look on his face, “Spring.”

Jenkins’ eyes widened, “Chris, if she’s at Ellington you’d have to cross Houston again and that’s too dangerous.”

“Can you contact them?” Chris asked.

“No. There's no contact number even though we can still use cell phones, and the military’s radio transmissions are encrypted. The only information we could gather was from ham radio operators and we haven’t heard from those guys in days. Mole was able to hack into the cell towers but all he can get is people screaming and desperate calls from family members and those have thinned out as well.”

Jenkins pulled out a map from behind the microwave; unrolled it on the bunk mattress and started pointing. The map was of the greater Houston area. There were arrows pointing to different areas in the city with scribbles of footnotes. “Not safe” pointed at downtown and “safer” made a big circle around the outside of Beltway 8 and the surrounding counties.  

Jenkins continued, “Okay. Mole hacked into Houston TranStar camera system so we know most of the freeways are congested with abandoned vehicles. The ham operators that live, or lived in the outer counties last reported that it was safer travel in those areas. If I were you, I’d be vigilant of drunk rednecks since most of the available law enforcement was dispatched into Harris County to assist Houston Police and the Guard so, you’ll need to stick to the outskirts of town and rural roads to avoid any possible contact with zekes that are awake. We have a clear route that we can escort you on from here to I-10.”

“Which way should I go?”

“Personally, I would recommend going through Jacinto City on Highway 90 to Crosby, then on Farm-to-Market road 2100 to Huffman and then on 1960 to Spring.”

“Do you have an extra map I can take with me?”

“Yes, I’ll give you this one with the route drawn on it once you leave us. Right now, get some sleep; you’ll need it. When you leave here you’ll be on your own and you’re gonna have to find safe houses to rest in. From what we’ve seen in the field and heard on the radio, it won’t be a happy jaunt on the scenic tour. Me and the boys will sleep in the command trailer. See you in the morning.”

Jenkins patted Chris on the shoulder and then exited the trailer. Chris lay down on the bunk and covered up with the blanket. His mind was swimming with thoughts of fear. “What if Sarah isn’t there? What If she’s at Ellington? What if they brought her to the stadium or the Dome?” Chris shook his head. “Okay ya boob, don’t start jumping to conclusions.”

He turned his lamp off and drifted off to sleep. A couple of hours later, one of the team members came in. Chris could hear him taking his boots off at the bunk on the other side of the trailer. His breathing was shallow and shivering. Chris thought that it was cold in there but not really cold enough to breath like that.

“Are you okay?”

“Wh-who’s that?” the team member asked.

“It’s Chris the Crip; the new visitor. What’s wrong? Catchin’ a cold or something?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s b-been cool out at n-night and I ain’t been takin’ my v-vitamins. I h-hope it ain’t the flu. Yeah, s-so I’m real-ly tired and spaced out.”

“What’s your name?” Chris asked.

“Ch-Che-eco.”

Chris turned the lamp on and turned over. Chico was sitting slouched on the bunk. He was shivering and clutching his abdomen.

“Chico? Well, it’s great to meet you, man. You and that Diverter thing was cool!”

Chico waved his hand back and forth. “I’ll tell y-you all about i-it in the morn-ing. I gotta g-get some sle-ep.”

“Okay man, good night.” Chico didn’t respond. Chris turned the lamp off and faded back into dreamland. Chris later awoke to arguing outside followed by a wheezed grunt sound inside the trailer. He heard the squeaking of the bed springs and then an off-rhythm clomping of footsteps toward the doors. The indiscernible arguing kept going and the grunting got more persistent; then he heard a clawing sound.

Chris started freaking out. He knew what he was hearing. Chico wasn’t sick with the flu. He’d been bitten and now he’s dead!      

 “Oh damn! How am I gonna get out of here!”

The Diverter

Chris and Commander Jenkins boarded the trailer that housed a surveillance camera system, laptop computers and a Ham/CB radio combo. The walls of the trailer were lined with big screen televisions. Each one displayed smaller screenshots of Houston’s freeways and city streets. Some pictures had motionless hordes on them. He could hear a hum from the reefers running that air conditioned the trailer.

 The commander introduced him to Mole. Mr. Mole was the techno-savvy member of the HAZMAT Team. Chris was impressed, ”Wow, Commander, you and Mole have one heck of a setup here.” The commander gave him a thankful nod and Mole didn’t even look up to acknowledge the compliment.

Commander Jenkins looked at Chris, “I can imagine you’re pretty tired. I’ll show you the barracks next door and you can get some rest there.”

Chris and the commander climbed up a short step ladder and crawled through the tunnel that linked the trailers together.  When they lowered into the next trailer, Chris’ weary eyes saw the inviting bunk beds. He felt it was much cooler in that trailer. Jenkins explained that they kept food nearly frozen behind the padded blue mats and the cooler air still makes its way into the sleeping quarters.

A crackle came over Jenkins’ two-way radio. “Boss, we got problems! The Zekes are still awake and they figured out how to get up here!”

Jenkins responded, “Affirmative, Watchtower. Mole, contact Chico and get the Diverter up here.” Mole responded by yelling through the crawlspace from the other trailer, “Okay! You know, I’m right here and you’re not the Army. You don’t have to act like George Patton. Just act normal, you comic boo-” Jenkins interrupted, “I got it, Mole! Just do it!”

Indiscernible grumbling could be heard through the tunnel.

Chris was confused and asked, “Question, what is the Diverter? Some kinda persuasive gun?”

“No, the Diverter comes in the form of a 1964 Chevy Impala armed to the teeth with eight 15” speakers and eight-thousand watts of sound. We use it to distract or, divert the zombies from our location. Chico procured it from a zombie gang-banger and thanked him by putting him down. Now, let’s go outside and watch the show.”

Chris and Commander Jenkins exited the barracks trailer and saw the horde heading toward their location. They saw the Diverter speeding up 288 on an interceptor course to the horde. The car came to a stop and the loud bass booming began. The zombies all turned their heads simultaneously and began stammering for the Impala. Chico exited the freeway with the dead heads in tow. He lured them into a parking garage on Almeda Road, turned the music off and hid the car until they went to sleep.

He couldn’t believe it, “Impressive, Mr. Jenkins. I’d never think to use noise to bait them away. Will Chico be okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Chico’s pretty smart with handling the zombies. He’s frickin’ crazy too. The Diverter was his idea; damn good one if you ask me. So, tell me Chris. Have you entertained the idea of joining HAZMAT? I know you’d be an asset to the crew.”

Chris tucked his right hand in his pocket and looked at the ground. He looked up and said, “Umm, I really appreciate your offer to rest here and the offer on joining the team, but, I have my fiancé to get back to. You said earlier that you guys would help me. Commander, I would really like that help now.”

The Trekkie Convention

Chris maneuvered his way onto 288 North. He made his way around a few vehicles on the on ramp and stopped. There were a virtual sea of cars, trucks and vans that were reminiscent of the clogged Houston freeways during the Hurricane Rita evacuation. There were sparse dead heads standing motionless by the occasional vehicle.

“It’s on foot from here. Damn, I’ll have to get another vehicle.” Chris enjoyed the air conditioning while he ate his last soggy BLT sandwich.  Chris found an opened case of bottled water in the backseat of the truck he pinched the bottle between his thighs to twist the cap off and started guzzling the water down. He was always a fan of diet Dr. Pepper, but he wasn’t about to complain. He looked on the back floor boards and found a green duffle bag. He opened the bag and found two cans of Vienna sausages, a box of rifle bullets and a roll of toilet paper. He put six bottles of water in the duffle bag and exited the truck.

As he closed in on the smoky Houston skyline. The lines of the lines of the buildings became clear. Several buildings had windows shattered or busted out. It was the same scene like he saw in the Medical Center.

With the gate of his walk and his constant readjusting of the weighty duffle bag on his shoulder, the pistol fell out of his pants’ waistband and discharged a bullet when hit the pavement.

“Oh damn! Am I hit?! Am I hit?!” Chris’ right hand patted his body all over frantically hunting for a gunshot wound, but he was okay. Now his actual threat was shuffling toward him. Chris looked around him and saw several zombies coming at him from all directions. He picked up the pistol and took off like a rocket.

He chastised himself, “Oh, you’ve done it now, ya dumbass!” He started running along the sides and between the ends of the cars and the trucks to avoid the zombies. He started hearing not-so distant gun fire. He got scared, “Man, c’mon! Don’t tell me I have the dead wanting to eat me and the living wanting to shoot me!” He turned down an alleyway of five 18-wheelers. There was a zombie in a dirty, tattered business suit walking toward the front of the rigs. Evidently, the other gun fire attracted him. The echo of Chris’ slapping tennis shoes distracted the zombie and he turned toward him. He came to a halt, pulled the pistol from his waistband and shot at the zombie missing him. His shaking hand fired a second round that landed a bullet above the left eyebrow and the meat head went down.

Chris got around the 18-wheelers and looked over the retainer wall of 288 and saw a horde of zombies approaching the freeway. He also saw a group of people running toward 288 from the Eastex freeway interchange.  Chris looked around to hide. He didn’t see any zombies very close to him and he got in an unoccupied Lexus.

He sat motionless in the car as the group of guys hunted for him. There were eight of them. All dressed like Rambo and the Dallas Cowboys had a baby. They were donning bandanas, football padding, and had war paint on their cheekbones. He heard the fat guy say, “We gotta help them. Did you see any movement?” another guy responded, “No, they might be dinner. We better get back to Command before the horde figures out how to get up here.”

Chris questioned, “Help them? They didn’t come up here to shoot me?” He jumped out of the Lexus, “Hey! Over here!” He yelled. So thankful he made contact with civilization again; he was quickly chastised, “Lock it up, stupid! You’re the reason we maybe compromised! I’m Commander Jenkins, HAZMAT, now follow me.” The fat guy announced.  Chris gladly fell in line and he ran with the group back over to 59 South.

Chris thought to himself, “HAZMAT? These guys hardly fit the profile to be cleaning up spills with the way they’re dressed.”

They got to 59 and Almeda Road. And Chris saw two modified 18-wheeler trailers. One was a Tyson Chicken truck and the other said, “FISH” on the bottom left door. They were about five feet apart and had a square tunnel built almost at the top that joined the trailers. Both trailers had cameras mounted all around them. There was a guard at the doors of the trailer on the right. “Got ya a crip, Commander? Is he the attention hog?” the guard asked. The fat guy looked at the ground embarrassed and said, “We do not refer to crippled survivors as crips, understand?” The guard swallowed the lump in his throat and agreed, “Yes Sir.”

“I ain’t crippled you bastard!” Chris grunted and swung back his right fist to punch the guard. The duffle bag fell from his shoulder. The fat commander grabbed Chris by the shoulders and said, “Listen, we’ll help you, but you can’t fly off the handle like this. It’s been awhile since we’ve found a survivor, so, keep it together and we’ll assist in any way we can.” Chris took a deep shaky breath and asked, “Okay, you said you were HAZMAT? No offense, but you guys don’t really look like HAZMAT officials.”

 The fat commander stuck out his chest and proudly announced, “We’re the REAL HAZMAT. We’re the Houston Area Zombie Military Annihilation Troopers. And if you’d like to join our unit, I just might consider it; seeing you’ve lasted this long with one arm. C’mon in and I’ll show you around.”

Chris looked at the ground scratching his head and thought, “Oh jeez, I just found the Geek Squad.”

Charging the Bull

The Chevy was still running as Chris lay frozen; wedged between the center console cup holders with something jabbing him in his right hip on the passenger side floor board of the truck; his chest was buried into the passenger’s leather seat. He glared in horror at the monsters clawing at the windows. He continued to point his shaking pistol at the dead heads as the truck rocked from all directions. It reminded him of when he and Sarah tried to evacuate Houston during Hurricane Rita when they were on interstate 59 between New Caney and Marshall, Texas in bumper-to-bumper traffic when the hurricane hit that area. The winds were terrible. They rocked the stuff-loaded Camry in all directions. Sarah was scared to death and Chris, scared to death himself, hugged and reassured her throughout the storm.

The jabbing pain in his hip became unbearable and brought him back to reality. He reached his right arm behind him and felt a shift stick.  

Chris figured to himself, “If they don’t have enough cognitive thought to open a truck door, then I’ve got to be safe. I’d been dinner by now, huh?”

He grabbed the steering wheel and pulled himself back into the driver’s seat; he ignored the raspy, growling from the other side of the window and looked down at the label. “2WD, 4L and 4H?” He asked himself. The plate at the bottom of the shifter had a little rectangular picture of the four wheels and drive train of the truck. The rear wheels were bright orange but the two front wheels were a dark grey. Chris clenched the shifter knob and pulled back.  

He felt the transmission make a clunking sound and the two little front wheel lights on the plate were illuminated. Chris looked around the truck and lost count at several dozen. Most of the goons were concentrated around the bed and tailgate. “The noise from the exhaust is definitely attracting them.”

He wrapped his five fingers around the steering wheel, slid the truck into reverse and slowly pushed the gas pedal. He felt a resistance of the pushing bodies against the truck. He gave it more gas and saw the decayed grey people at the tailgate losing their footing and succumbing to the Detroit steel of the rear bumper as they fell backward. Chris pushed the pedal farther and the truck started traversing over a bumpy terrain of skulls and bones. He twisted the volume knob up on the static noise of the radio to drown out the popping and squishing sounds of the people as the weight of the truck crushed their skulls and abdomens. He could see instantaneous splashes of chunky brown blood bursts on the asphalt in the side-view mirrors as he rolled backward.

The herd was thinned out enough that Chris could shift into drive and he steered around the few zombies that were still advancing on him and continued on to highway 288.     

The Scenic Route

Five miles an hour was the average speed Chris could drive to maneuver around the burned hulls of vehicles, the slain bodies of people laying about the narrowed Holcombe Boulevard and not to mention, the dead or undead. There was a dead woman that looks like she was shot by a machine gun as the brown coagulated bloody bullet holes made a straight perforated line horizontally across her torso.

His clammy right hand tightly clenched the steering wheel and his eyes were fixed on a new Houston, Texas that was something out of a horror movie. He turned the radio on and pushed the Seek button so the stations would constantly roll in hopes of catching someone broadcasting an emergency message.

Chris was so taken aback and in awe at the devastation he was witnessing that he failed to notice the rumbling exhaust pipes were attracting a crowd that was trailing behind the truck.

He heard a bumping sound coming from the back of the truck and turned to see a group of about 35-40 dead heads reaching over the tailgate. They were men, women and a couple of kids. Two boys. One was older, or taller and huskier than the other.  Chris recollected the conversations between him and Sarah about having kids. Chris wanted a son that he could Xbox with and teach him fake wrestling moves; like body-slamming the kid on the bed. Sarah, of course, wanted a girl. A baby girl she could play house with and teach her how to french braid hair.

They talked about having kids, how bad the economy was, the rising crime rates and the rise of grocery and fuel prices. Chris and Sarah decided it was best to wait on having children until their college courses were done. Chris was trying to finish his training on selling Real Estate and Sarah was planning on becoming a Psychiatrist.   

Chris found himself feeling melancholy with the memories of talking to Sarah and hearing her sweet, tender voice. Her embrace; her goofy blonde moments. He yearned for that feeling again. To be with her again.

*BOOM!*

Chris was so lost in day dreaming about Sarah that he hit an overturned Ford dually. He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt and the impact threw him into the dashboard; honking the horn which dispatched more meaties in the area. At five miles an hour, the impact wasn’t enough to deploy the airbags and he was able to quickly get his wits about him.  He saw the trailing people scraping down the bed of the truck in the side view mirrors. He could see the gaps between the heads and shoulders of his attackers being filled with more people. He landed on his right side on the transmission hump and yanked the pistol from his waistband and frantically aimed it at every face he made eye contact with. Unfortunately, the eyes looking back at him were dried and withered.

The zombies crowded both sides of the truck and Chris looked up toward to the sunroof of the Chevy.

Gettin' Out of Dodge

Chris remembered that silence was his best friend as he stared at the eight rotting mannequins. There weren’t going to be any problems getting around them since the circle driveway is about 100 feet wide and four of them are close together.

There were distant sounds of gunfire and of men and women screaming. “I guess the sounds aren’t loud enough to trigger my friends here. Okay, I’m comin’ home, Sarah.”

Chris quietly walked through the large space between the goons and saw the devastation around him. Battered cars, a pickup truck and a news van were destroyed, an overturned Metro bus that had hit a fire hydrant. The hydrant shot water in the air like a geyser and rained down on the bus. Some of the buildings in and around the Medical Center had fires and smoke emanating from their busted-out windows. The sunlight showed all the plumes of smoke coming from several areas and revealed the dead-heads covering the streets. He knew this was his new world and knew he’d have to accept it and learn to adapt to it. He sloughed a couple tears and looked up at the street signs. 

“Holcombe and Fannin. Alright, I can go right on Holcombe and that’ll run into 288.”

He started down Holcombe Boulevard looking for a vehicle that wasn’t flipped, burned or wrecked and it seemed few and far between that he was going to find one.

About an hour later, Chris approached North MacGregor. There was a Toyota pickup truck sitting alone in the parking lot of a clinic. The driver’s window was busted out and screwdriver was stuck in the ignition. He thought this might get him in trouble as there were about 14 juicy Houstonians standing in the parking lot. “What if it doesn’t crank the first time and I wake these fools up? The window’s busted, so they could easily reach me.”  Chris declined on the attempt and continued through the intersection.

About a block down, he spotted a complex of two-story townhouses. “I know I can find a car there.” He thought. He walked down the concrete alleyway of grey and white townhomes and saw a garage door open on the third building down. He approached the garage and found a black Chevy Z71 truck and a black Prius. “Hey, those Prius’ are really quiet. I can sneak around in that!” He got closer. The driver’s door was open and inviting Chris to steal her. As he walked into the garage, there was a stench. He knew what that meant. Chris pulled the pistol out of his waistband. He looked around the truck and saw the open door going into the townhome. He looked between the Prius and the Chevy and saw a lady buckled in the passenger seat of the Prius and she looked deader than Elvis. That was enough persuasion for Chris to take the truck. He walked around the truck and pulled the handle and the truck was locked. “Aww, jeez. I gotta go in the house!”

He figured the husband wasn’t too far away and was probably patiently listening for a noise to wake him up. Chris entered the townhouse. The smell was present but not as bad as the garage. He walked through the kitchen. There was a wooden carving of the word KEYS with little gold hooks at the bottom of each letter by the doorway, but no keys. He walked into the dining area and no keys were on the table. Chris saw the downstairs bathroom door slightly ajar. He eased the door open with his foot and pointed the pistol at the door. No bad guys and no keys.

“I must be getting closer to him because the smell is getting worse.” Chris walked into the living room and found a note on the coffee table.

“If anyone finds this, my wife was sick and we tried going to the hospital and the Army made us come back home. She bit me in the car and I think I’m turning into one of those people so I’m going to kill myself. I can’t live without Tammy and I can’t turn into one of those things!

If my children are okay, they can have everything.”

“That’s sad and that’s the smell.” He headed upstairs and found the headless husband in the bedroom still clutching a 12-gauge shotgun. He was bloated and covered in flies and maggots. Chris spotted the Chevy keys on the nightstand by the man’s body. He tucked the pistol back into his waistband and pulled his collar over his nose. Chris grabbed the keys and went back to the garage.

He accidently pressed the lock button and the truck’s horn honked *BOMP!* The wife came alive in the Prius. She was reaching and clawing with both arms pointed at him. “Thank God she’s too stupid to figure out how to unbuckle the seat belt. Chris looked out of the garage and saw about six people converging on the garage. He pressed the unlock button and hopped in the truck. He started the engine and the exhaust pipes yelled a loud *WOB*WOB*WOB*WOB*

“Oh hell, this truck’s gonna be a rollin’ alarm clock. Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.” He said. He rolled out of the garage hitting a zombie and turned onto Holcombe.

Free at Last

Chris could hear a group of schoolgirls in his head mentally taunting him chanting, butterfingers, butterfingers, butterfingers as he held the door closed with his tender stump and his left leg while he scraped at the ground for the keys. He peered through the spaces between the boards on the inside of the door and could see the hungry mobs shambling closer.

His middle finger hooked the key ring and he snatched the keys off the ground.

“GOT ‘EM!”  

Chris’ hand was shaking uncontrollably as he looked through the boards and slid the keys across his palm hunting for the lobby door key. He could see the first dead heads were about five feet from the door and he started stabbing keys into the keyhole. The door budged. Chris leaned into the door trying to keep it shut. The door throbbed inconsistently as the bodies piled against it. The smell of rotting meat permeated through the door jamb.

It seemed like he had tried all the keys five times by now and frustrated him. He stuck the next key in the lock, twisted and *click!* He heard the angels singing just to him, “Hallelujah, hallelujah!”

He backed away from the door and turned to leave when he saw eight more standing motionless outside of the large canopied circle driveway. The Houston horizon between the buildings and smoke plumes were turning from black to a violet-lavender hue.

“Okay, good. Its morning-around five-thirty or six o’ clock. So, while I’m out and about, I drop by the store and pick up a watch. Ha-ha. Okay, Chris. We need to find a car or a truck; preferably one with keys in it. I’ve gotta get to Sarah. I’ve gotta get to the freeway!”   

Friends in Low Places Part 2

Chris found the cooler full of different meats and vegetables. The vegetables were ripe and soft, but not spoiled. He didn’t want to make a bunch of noise by clanging pots or the sizzling sound of meat on the grill and run the risk of alerting the mob waiting for his exit. He located a microwave oven and fashioned a B.L.T. He had never cooked bacon in a microwave.

“Bacon’s very stretchy, but still wonderful!” He thought about his buddy Nolen; who hated pork. Chris savored the unclean beauty.

He didn’t know when he’d eat again so he decided to make a picnic basket. He nuked three more B.L.T.’s, stretched-wrapped them and tried stuffing them in his pants’ pockets.

“Dammit! Sarah was so crazy about my bubble butt that the pockets of these pants are too small.” He got frustrated trying to tuck his shirt in his pants with one hand. He tucked the pink polo in his underwear and dropped the sandwiches down the collar of his shirt.

Chris sat on floor, leaning against the cooler door and, in his terms, meditated, and decided, “Belly full; time to boogie.” Chris got up, walked through the dining area and budged the cafeteria door. He discovered that the dead-heads had pushed the sofa against the closed door and needed to find an alternate exit. He looked at the other side of the wall and saw a doubled-door handicapped doorway with a big blue button on the wall. Chris approached the button and gently pressed it. The motor engaged and “zeeEeeEEEeeEee*clunk*

He widely-scanned the open doorway and rounded the other side of the lobby, he saw all of the dead-heads gathered around the sofa and cafeteria door standing motionless.

Chris scanned the environs amongst the zombies and saw the downed Security Officer’s body. He spotted a big key ring on his duty belt between their legs. He wasn’t armed with a weapon like the other officer. He just had a shiny-leather belt with a flashlight, keys, handcuffs and what looks like a first-aid kit. “I can’t make it out.”

Chris felt like he did with the desperation for the pistol. But there was more strategy involved: 20-30 concentrated legs, the utmost importance of being quiet, greater probability of being dinner and one key to escape: priceless.

He thought to himself, “the utmost importance of being quiet.”

Chris started having an epiphany. “They’re activated by sound?!” He started remembering:

-“Ma’am? Can you help me?” Her head jerked straight up at the sound of his voice. She turned around and fixed her milked-over bloodshot eyes at him.

-An eruption in the ambient noise from the 3^rd floor was noticed. “Errrrrrroooo…gaaaarrrrrrrrr” “Oh shit! They heard me!

-He started to slowly weave between them when his stomach grumbled again. The two people closest to him grunted loudly and locked eyes with Chris. The third person twitched like that guy from earlier. He had to get out of there now!

He felt empowered and reassured himself, “Holy Jeez! Silence is golden, huh?” He started analyzing what he just discovered. “Le-lemme get this straight. Noise wakes; or activates them? No, wonder they’re all standing around like statues.”

Chris regained focus on that key ring and headed for the Security Officer’s body. He scooted his sandwiches to his sides and went to the floor to go after the key; the key to his freedom.

He thought in his head, “That key has GOT to be on that ring!”

He started scooting across the floor. He was reminded of the wind-up army man that his dad talked about that buzzed across the floor with a rifle and frog legs. He closed in on the legs of a male zombie and got within four feet of the key ring. Chris got as close as he could to the calves of the zombie without touching him. He stretched his right arm out; leaning on his sore nub and his middle finger jingled the key ring. He could hear almost an electric jolt in the leg his ear was close to.

He shuddered in fright and started sweating because he was vulnerable now. He knew he was gonna be attacked and after all that effort and desperation for the gun; it would be in vain.

Chris quietly unsnapped the silver snaps with a gentle *tick* He saw a woman across from the Security Officer’s body rock her head from the right shoulder to the left shoulder. He got the keys and balanced the ring on his middle and ring fingers while simultaneously drawing his arm back. His eyes were trained on the swaying keys-maybe 25 keys. No matter which one, they all were the key to his freedom. He backed out of the zombie’s legs and sat on his butt. He scrolled through the keys looking for a label like, Front Door, Lobby Entrance, something that would get him out of there. He quietly rose to his feet and approached the boarded lobby doors.

He snuck each key into the lock one tumbler at a time.

*click*clickclick*click*tink*          He twisted the key. “Nope.”

*tinkclink*tink*                                                “Not this one.”

*tink*tick*POP*                             

The key turned. He felt the lock turning and he looked back at the crowd as he twisted the key.

*POP*

Their heads jerked and they all turned toward him in unison.

He pulled the key out, pushed the door open and flew around it to the outside pushing it shut. Scared to death he dropped the keys.

Friends in Low Places Part 1

Chris stayed hunched under the desk for three and a half hours until the grunting and shuffling finally subsided and stopped. He decided to survey the area and find out what the dead heads were doing. He slowly stretched out his right arm from under the desk, wrapped his fingers around the edge of the tabletop and pulled himself out. Chris peeped over the desk and saw the people standing still again.

His stomach grumbled. “God, I’m getting freakin’ hungry. They probably fed me on liquefied pea soup and beef broth. No cheeseburgers or prime rib for our patient.”

Chris looked at the dead Security Officer on the floor next to him. Chris’ impulses for the sidearm started rising again. He reached toward the holster and jerked his arm back. “What if this dude wakes up? Well, gee, he hasn’t moved for three and half hours with a Happy Meal sitting right next to him. So, duh, stupid.”

Chris reached for the holster again and he started shaking; scared of what might happen. He quickly tapped the holster. The body didn’t move. Chris stared at the body, slowly unsnapped the thumb break, gripped the pistol, slid it out of the holster and scooted back under the desk pointing the shaking gun at the lifeless body.

It didn’t move.

He thought to himself, “Okay Chris, this dude looks officially dead.”

A gigantic sigh of relief and an inkling of proud accomplishment fell over him. He crept back out from under the desk and started surveying the lobby again. Chris started growing restless to escape this prison. He saw the double doors of the main entrance. The right door was completely covered by plywood. The left door had two-by-four boards screwed into the door frame horizontally about an inch apart from each other down the whole length of the door.

He decided to make it for the door. Holding the pistol in his only hand, he reached out to start traversing the debris-ridden floor on his knees and the silence was broken by the gun making a light clicking sound against the marble floor. He looked up in time to see a guy that was about 10 feet from the desk and saw his left hand quickly twitch. He froze. After several minutes of staring at the guy, he saw no more movement but, he was able to study the guy. There was a very, very slight movement to his body. He thought it was kind of like when you try your damndest to remain perfectly still, but your heartbeat still moves your stomach or your nerves still move your hands when try to show off with how still you can be. Maybe the guy was trying to balance himself.

Chris stood up, tucked the gun in his pants’ waistband and carefully placed each step; each one closer to his great escape and never lost his eye contact with these lifeless, catatonic people standing about the room. Chris got to the door and gently pushed.

The door was locked.

He screamed a few nasty expletives in his head and looked around the lobby. He spotted another dead Security Officer around the other side of the half-circled lobby.

Chris’ eyes started interpreting what he was seeing as they adjusted to the low light conditions. He saw a couch behind the body of the Security Officer and a door behind the couch with a sign to the left of the door that read, Cafeteria.

”Okay, food first, big escape later. Well, if I escape there might be a 24 hour McDonalds open somewhere, hehehe.”

Chris quietly walked approaching three people. He started to slowly weave between them when his stomach grumbled again. The two people closest to him grunted loudly and locked eyes with Chris. The third person twitched like that guy from earlier. He had to get out of there now!

Chris looked back at the “Cafeteria” sign and started running. The slapping of his shoes awoke the rest of the lobby crowd and they began converging on him. He jumped over the couch and hung the toes of his left foot on the back of the couch. “Oh daa..”  His head slammed against the stainless steel kick plate at the bottom of the door.

He saw, what looked like looking through watery eyes-it was Sarah. She moved in slow-motion; walking toward him. Everything around her was white. She wore a light blue gown. Her blonde hair flowed with the slow-motion wind as she neared him. She looked into his eyes and gently cupped her palms around his jaws…

“Baby? Baby. You gotta wake up now. Chris, baby, you’re in deep shit. Wake up, okay? Baby, please wake up! They’re getting closer and I have to go!”

“Sarah, baby?”

“ OH SHIT!”

He came to and saw the dead-headed people getting closer to his feet that were still draped over the couch’s back. With the dim amber ambient light, he couldn’t make out any physical features, just the silhouettes getting closer.  He scrambled to his feet and pulled the door handle. He jumped into the Cafeteria and pushed the door shut.  The moaning got louder and all he could make out through the small door window was arms reaching for him and he heard a squeaking noise.

“Those dumbasses are pushing the couch toward the door!”

Chris started carefully exploring the cafeteria and he didn’t find anyone. But what he did find was FOOD.

One is the Loneliest Number:

“God, I could have helped that guy. Something, something could have been done! Why did I have to wake up to this? I should have awaken to Sarah looking over me running her fingers through my hair and smiling; God, her beautiful smile; saying, “Welcome back, baby.” But, I wake up to this shit! A damn horror movie. Some, Nightmare on Stink Street crap.”

Chris began sobbing heavily and rolled into the fetal position onto the cold cement landing of the 3^rd floor.  His sobbing got louder as he yearned for Sarah to be there by his side. He started crying to the point that his sarcastic side thought, “Did you get the wind knocked out of you? No? Well, you’re crying sounds like the Stooge, Curly, with your ‘N’yuk, n’yuk, n’yuk’ noises. Suck it up and kick ass!”

He argued with himself, “Suck it up and kick ass?’ Hey, lil’ devil-on-my-shoulder dude, umm, if you haven’t noticed, I’m like a one-legged man in an ass-kickin’ contest. So, there ain’t gonna be any ass-kickin’ in my near future.”

An eruption in the ambient noise from the 3^rd was noticed. “Errrrrrroooo…gaaaarrrrrrrrr” “Oh shit! They heard me! O-oh damn, what do I-where do I? Dammit!” Chris started wobbling down the stairwell so the 3^rd floor ghouls couldn’t find him. He stopped at the sign that read, “Ground Floor” with a small bit of graffiti written at the bottom of the sign saying, “Dr. Ed Toler douches.” As mature as Chris’ Xbox, RC cars and SyFy Channel would let him be he even said, “You can take the boy outta the high school, but ya can’t take the high school outta the boy.”

Chris heard the 3^rd floor stairwell door slam open and was immediately followed by several guttural moans above him. He inched the 1^st floor door open as he did upstairs and didn’t hear or see anything. He quietly shut the door behind him hoping that the dead dudes wouldn’t figure out where he was.

“As I recall zombies-well, if these are zombies; are stupid and can’t climb ladders, drive cars or use a calculator so, I’m praying they stay on the 3^rd floor landing until they rot and fall apart. Now, where the hell is Security?”

The lobby looked like it made a big half-circle and was lit by an amber hue from what few streetlamps that were working outside. There were large plate-glass windows enveloping the lobby and was covered with uniformly-installed sheets of plywood about eight feet high. Desks, chairs, file cabinets and couches were piled against the plywood. As Chris started rounding the large half-circled lobby, he saw one person standing motionless, then six people, then 13 people. All of them not moving, just standing there like department store mannequins. He stood frozen reminded of the fear of his first encounter:

 “Ma’am? Can you help me?”

Her head jerked straight up at the sound of his voice. She turned around and fixed her milked-over bloodshot eyes at him. Her skin was pale, her arms rose up with clawing fingers and she shrieked a guttural scream at him. Chris froze. “What the fu-” She flew over the counter and tackled him.

He screamed in his head, “Oh, HELL no, that ain’t happening again!” He spotted the receptionist’s desk and saw a body lying on the floor. It was a Security Officer. He was lying on his back but his head was twisted around where it looked like his face was against the floor. Chris slowly stepped toward the body and made out what looked like a pistol. Chris got on his knees and scooted foot-for-foot toward the firearm. Tunnel-vision set in and all he could desire was in the magazine of that gun on the rent-a-cop’s hip. “Bullets…Protection.” With all this crazy stuff going on, that was what he wanted; what he needed.  His right hand was grabbing at dead air wanting that gun.

He got closer to the desk and bumped an open drawer with his right shoulder making a clanking sound. Immediately, grunting and shuffling was heard. Chris was shaken out of his hypnotic desire for the pistol and he looked up to see the motionless people looking around. He shot for the desk and rolled under the tabletop. The echoes of moaning, grunting and shuffling were relentless. Chris sat just mere feet from the gun he so desired but he was too terrified to go for it in his challenged condition.

He sat under the desk listening.

*BUMP*

The receptionist desk shifted toward the back wall and slapped Chris on his spine. He started quivering and sweat poured down his face. He shakily said to himself, “O-oh God, oh G-god, oh God!” Even though he was begging not to make a sound in his head, he covered his mouth out of fear that his whimpering may get too loud.

Chris looked at the Security Officer’s body and the gun right in front of him.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

“Damn, my legs are shaking.” He kept hearing this noise coming from somewhere below him. The sound got louder as he descended the stairwell. The echo in the stairwell made the noise indiscernible and he couldn’t make any words out. “…and that smell!” A red and white sign read, “7^th Floor” as he crossed the

landing when he could hear something above the roaring noise. “I-is that s-someone?” Chris shuffled faster down each floor.

…”5^th Floor” The sound is getting louder *cough!*

Chris started dry-heaving from the intense smell concentrated so strong in the stairwell. “My God! It’s like walking into a road kill café!” The roaring noise was now intense. He could hear a voice above the other voices. The majority of the voices were monotone. There was an individual voice; higher pitched. “I’ve got to be close-it’s so loud. 3^rd Floor, okay… Whoa whoa, stupid! Are we gonna run into a mob Nurse Nutjobs?” Chris rolled his eyes at himself. “ Aww jeez. Alright, lemme look n’ see what the hell’s going on.” He grasped the handle of the stairwell door and started slowly pulling the door to his belly with his eye by the crack of the door jamb.

“Get back! Get the hell away from me! God get away! HELP! HEEELP!”

As Chris inched the door open, and the dialogue became clear. He screamed in his head, “Oh crap, oh crap, oh, hell no!” He opened the door and he didn’t see anyone. He slowly pushed the door farther and farther until it was halfway opened and he peeped his head around the door and saw what was happening:  There were about 30 people clawing at some sort of reinforced nurses’ station. The people looked sickly their clothes were soiled with dark brown spots and their skin was colored a peach-gray with cuts and lesions on their arms. There were about 15 people lying on the floor; twitching. “Why are they twitching?” There were several doors standing vertical and leaning against the counters. He could see a white guy standing above the doors thrusting half of an IV drip pole down at the people.  

Chris closed the door and sat down on the landing. “Oh my God! I gotta help that guy, I m-mean he’s in trouble. Hang on, Chris. You’re a tripod now. You can’t exactly Chuck Norris your way into helping this guy. Damn. “

Chris started panicking whether to, at least, try or not try. He flashed back to Master Yoda, “Do or do not. There is no try.”

“If I don’t help, I’m a turd. I if do help and get killed, then what? I’m dead turd. I don’t know what’s going on, but it looks like I’m a turd either way.” Chris stood up and started breathing heavy and started having a proud Karate Kid moment. He stood up; his breathing got faster and faster as he pumped himself up and reached for the door handle.

*CRASH!* Chris’ eyes shot up to the door and he heard the guy screaming, “Heeelp oh God You..ugh..” the monotone crowd of people made a unison excited grumble and then Chris heard what sounded like the gnashing sound of biting into celery. He started sobbing. “I could have saved him!” The little demon on his shoulder assured he couldn’t. And then it dawned on him.

”Abandoned hospital, psycho nurses, gray skin, funky dead skunk smell…”

“Oh no. No, no, no, no. It’s not…No. I’m not in some stupid zombie movie.”

Figuring out the Unbelievable:

Chris ran back to his room, shut the door and collapsed in the room’s chair. He was breathing heavily to the brink of almost hyperventilating and shaking with confused fear. His almost still-asleep legs felt even more like spaghetti. “Wh-what was wrong with that nurse? I-I mean, she was crazy and stunk.  She stunk like a dead animal. A dead animal?  She couldn’t have been dead, could she? Dead people don’t stand and grab and…Oh jeez, Chris. Pull yourself together!”

Chris calmed down slightly. “I gotta call Sarah!” He picked up the hospital room phone only to find nothing. No dial tone or busy sound. Chris checked the TV and every channel was snow. He checked the radio and nothing but static. The anger rose with no communication in sight. Then he started tearing the room apart. He threw all the linen that was in the closet on the floor. He slung his unzipped suitcase to the wall and his belongings went everywhere. Out of frustration, he fell to the floor sobbing. “Why? Why? WHY?! What is going on?!”

Chris pulled the bottom of his pink polo shirt to his eyes to dry the tears from his eyes and he saw a bag under his hospital bed. He stretched his arm under the bed and retrieved the bag.  His cell phone! The bag was sealed with a big red stripe across the center that read, “Evidence.” “It musta slid under there when I went postal and threw the suitcase.”

Chris turned the phone on with a quick prayer, “Please God, lemme have some battery power.”

*ba-la-la-ding-ding* “YES!” His phone powered on and he was in heaven. The missed calls and text messages started flooding in one after another. “Okay, the phones aren’t working, but the cell towers are? I’m not complaining!” Chris started reading his text messages from the last one he sent, “In office in about 15 minu…”

From Jeff’s Cell: “I see how you are. I wanted to make sure y’all are coming over tomorrow night and you won’t pick up ya damn phone when I call, ya know? Alright man, gimme a call when you get this message.” “Sorry, Jeff. I was a little busy being comatose, YA KNOW?! Jeez! Crap, I hope Jen and him are okay.”

*bee-doop*LOW-BATTERY*

From George Summerton: “Chris, look, your repetitive tardiness will not be tolerated much longer. You can’t sell houses if you’re not here. Anyway, see me when you get here. We need to talk.” “Oh screw you, George! I was late three times in two years, you jack hole!”

From Pastor Mike: “Hey Brother Chris, when you get this message I just want you to know that we’ve been praying for the Lord to wake you up and bring you to a full recovery so you and Sarah could get back to normalcy, and, if you’re reading this message, praise God! Also, the motorcycle ministry is doing a benefit ride to help out on your medical bills. Well, brother, God bless ya and we’ll see you Sunday. We love you.” “Now that’s a straight-up dude.”

“Yes, finally, a message from Sarah!”

*bee-doop*LOW BATTERY*

“Baby, if you get this message there’s some really weird stuff going on since the accident. The military has been all over Houston. There are people attacking other people. There’s a curfew. Houston and every surrounding county are under martial law. It smells awful outside; like rotten meat, and no, it’s not Lobo bringing dead cats home again. The news is just reporting that there’s some new virus from Asia and if you feel ill with anything to get to the hospital. Problem is, I’m feeling terrible and the hospitals are clogged and the National Guard is forcing people to go back home. So, I can’t even come visit you. If you wake up and read this, I’ll be home wai…

*bee-doop*You’re phone is powering down*

“Dammit! I gotta get to her. NOW!” Chris looked at the atomic clock “11:31pm.” Chris started playing 20 questions again and thought about the martial law, the curfew, if people are attacking people, could he defend himself with one arm in an attack? He didn’t want to get shot by the cops or the Army and really didn’t want to run into another Nurse Ratchet. Chris opened the curtains and looked down into Houston. There were a couple of buildings that had small fires burning in them. From what he could see under the street lights, there were some cars bashed into one another and looked like they had burned up. He couldn’t really see anything else. “Okay, Chris. Looks like we need a weapon. Hey, every hospital has Security, right? And if things are as bad as Sarah say they are, then this place must be locked down and Security has to be armed to the teeth. Okay, I’ll go down to the lobby and see if I can find an Officer.”

Chris went to the door and slowly turned the door handle and pulled the door open. Again, no sounds. “Good.”  Instead heading right this time, Chris headed left down the hall and saw a red exit sign at the end. “Ah! A stairwell!” Chris went into the stairwell and quietly closed the door. “Ugh, what’s that smell? It smells like that nurse did. What’s that noise?” Chris could hear some kind of stadium crowd sound coming from one of the floors below him. The sound wasn’t that of elated party-goers; it resembled more of a sound that reminded him of a recording he had heard on one of those late night am radio shows where the host played what he claimed was “The Sounds of Hell.”

He covered his nose and mouth with his shirt and started descending the stairs.

Diagnosis, Doctor?

Chris reviewed the file and quickly thumbed through pages of Doctorese jargon. He found the paramedic’s report from the accident:

“Patient was found with red triage or severely damaged left arm and shoulder. Patient had cell phone in hand. HPD CPL. Scopiela states uncompleted text message was displayed on phone, “In office in about 15 minu..” Patient’s vehicle impacted SUV in rear and was rear-ended by DOD semi. Patient transported before CDC response and en route to First Baptist Hospital. Patient unresponsive, good pupil response, Blood loss slowed, arrived at ER at 0817hrs.

“Damn, I remember now. Sarah was texting me about going to Jeff and Jennifer’s tomorrow night and I texted that I’d call her when I got to the office. She texted me asking when I’d get there and I texted back, ‘In office in about 15 minu…I was hunting for “T” and the Suburban in front of me was stopped. Damn, I was doing about 75 miles an hour. What the hell is DOD and CDC? Isn’t CDC the Center for Disease Control? Why would they be coming to my accident? That’s probably an acronym for the wrecker service to tow our cars.” The 20-questions game started in Chris’ head. He grabbed the clothes out of the suitcase and got dressed. “You gotta be kidding me! Of all the shirts she packed it HAD to be that pink fuckin’ Polo!” Chris grumbled and put on the shirt. He walked to the mirror and started tearing up at the armless sleeve. “Look at it this way, bud; you’ll come out cheaper when someone tries charging you an arm and a leg!”

Chris chuckled the tears away and headed for the door. Chris walked into the corridor and it was sparsely lit and ominously quiet. “What’s that smell? Eh, hospitals are full of smells.” Chris thought hospitals are full of smells but he’d never smelled something dead at a hospital. Usually, hospitals smelled like bleach or chlorine. You know, clean. Chris started scanning the hall. Some of the fluorescent light fixtures were working and some were flickering. “Weird.” He looked to the left and nothing. Just a hall of closed doors. To the right there were monitors, workstations, and the edge of a Nurses Station. He headed that way. Chris rounded the corner and saw a nurse standing behind the station with her back turned to him. Something wasn’t right. She was standing perfectly still; her frosted blonde hair was disheveled and her head was laying horizontally over to the left. “Ma’am? Can you help me?”

Her head jerked straight up at the sound of his voice. She turned around and fixed her milked-over bloodshot eyes at him. Her skin was pale, her arms rose up with clawing fingers and she shrieked a guttural scream at him. Chris froze. “What the fu-” She flew over the counter and tackled him. Chris struggled with the sick nurse while rolling around on the floor. He held her by the neck while she snapped at him like a rabid Rottweiler. During the fight, Chris and the nurse bumped the counter so hard that the hospital computer fell and struck her on the forehead; missing Chris’ head by inches.

The nurse quit clawing at him and started jerking and convulsing on the floor after the blow from the computer. Scared shitless, Chris backed up against the file cabinets on the other side of the nurses station and sat speechless.

She stopped moving. “Oh, thank God! Wh-what the hell was wron..”

Her head jerked to the left; then to the right. “Shit! She’s coming to!” Chris started looking around for something to grab. She rolled over on her stomach and her chin raked across the carpet as she drug her head forward and locked milky eyes with Chris.

There was a computer monitor just over his left shoulder. He jumped for the monitor and pulled it to slam her on the head only to be tethered by the monitor’s cables. Chris was circling around the station away from her and realized the she wasn’t jumping at him like a caged animal anymore.

There was a dent in her pale-skinned forehead where the computer obviously hit her. But, she was acting like a flickering television. She was crawling to Chris but it was like her wiring was criss-crossed. One eyelid was flapping open and shut. One arm was paralyzed while the other arm was completely active.

Chris shuddered at the thought of bashing this thing’s head in. Since she was moving extremely slow, Chris scanned the station and decided to prop a chair on her skull. There was a chair that didn’t have wheels and Chris stood over her with confidence and stuck one of the rear legs on her head, closed his eyes and flopped 225lbs. down on her head. He heard the sound of teeth biting through a stalk of celery.

What…the hell just happened?!

The Rude Awakening

Chris woke up, groggy not realizing where he was, or how he'd gotten there. He was in a bed, but not his, but a bed, nonetheless. "Wh-What? Where am I? Lemme think. Okay, the last thing I remember was driving to the office. I received a text message from Sarah." He thought to himself, "Damn, that 18-Wheeler must have rear-ended me! Man, my shoulder is killing me!" Chris lifted his head off of his pillow and looked around the room he was in. After slowly taking in his surroundings, he realized he was in a hospital. Something wasn't right. There weren't any normal hospital noises; machines running, people talking, nurses and doctors moving quickly through the hallways. He could hear muffled bumping noises above him and below him. Maybe it was that "quiet-time" rule he had seen on the news one time? "I'm calling the nurse." Chris went to grab the call-box switch to his left. "Holy Shit! Where's my fucking arm?!"


Chris quickly sat up, ran the fingers of his right hand across the stitched-up stump and turned to get out of bed. He slid off the bed to stand up and his legs collapsed. His face slapped the cold tile floor. “Oh, God! Please don’t tell me I can’t walk!” Chris lay on the floor and his feet started tingling. “Aw man. I’m not paralyzed; my legs were just asleep. Man, I thought I was in trouble!” The tingling grew as movement began in Chris' legs. His toes, feets, ankles and legs started moving again. Simultaneously, as feeling was regaining in his legs; depression was flooding his heart.

Minutes seemed like hours for the realization to settle in that Chris was now an amputee. Even worse, Chris started whimpering when he had to pull the near-dry catheter out. Chris always had a sarcastic sense of humor so after the tears of “why me?” and the anger of “this never should have happened!” subsided, he looked in the hospital room’s mirror and told himself, “Great buddy, now you’re a tripod.”

Chris pinched the tears away with the front of his hospital robe; snorted and swallowed the mucus down his throat and vowed to make the best of his situation. “How long have I been out?” He started rummaging around the room searching for anything that could give him a timeframe after his brain-outage. “Please enjoy your stay at First Baptist Hospital.” One sign read. A dry-erase board read, “Your Nurse Today Is: Ali.” He opened a closet and found a navy blue suitcase.

Chris unzipped the suitcase and found one set of clothes and a note: “Baby, these clothes are for your trip home in case I’m stuck at work. I love you and I can’t wait for you to come back to me. In case you wake up and I’m not there, I’m there everyday after work at about 5:30. I love you, baby, Sarah.”

He began to get angrier since his frame of time wasn’t staring him in the face when he looked above the muted ant wars on television…an atomic clock. “Oh, thank God!”

“July 25th, 6:16pm.” He was elated to get an idea of what time it was. Chris was reminded of a Dalton Trumbo book he read in high school called “Johnny Got His Gun” that was about a WWI soldier that jumped on a grenade to save his platoon only to wake up not being able to see, hear, or eat because he had no face or limbs; he was literally a piece of meat that was thinking. The soldier was driven crazy for the knowledge of what time it was when a nurse tapped on the chest of his torso in Morse code, “Merry Christmas” the soldier was extremely happy. Chris felt that kind of joy. He continued to search the room and found a nurse’s cart at the foot of his bed.