Zombie fic! Part Two

[triedunture]

Title: The Rampant Disease, Part 2
Pairings: H/W eventually
Warnings: Some violence and gore, scary stuff, but sometimes funny. Character death. This chapter is pretty gross. Nothing too overt, but maybe avoid if you feel squeamish.
Summary: Wilson comes back from vacation and...where is everybody? Surprise! Zombie attack!

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“Here you go, honey,” Wilson said softly, tipping a cup of water to the little girl’s mouth. “Take a big gulp, and then take these pills.” He placed two small yellow tablets in the palm of her hand. The amber bottle in his hand produced a dull rattle when he shook it; with all the other people to treat, the antibiotics would only last a few more days.

She did as she was told, swallowing hard twice. “Thanks,” she croaked, and lay back on her nest of blankets and sheets. Her stringy black hair hung in her face, and her cheeks were smudged with grime. “My name’s Lindsey.”

Wilson bit his lip and studied her flushed face. Without her chart, they couldn’t even be sure they were treating her with the right medicine. And she was only seven or eight years old, too young to tell them what her diagnosis was.

“I’m Dr. Wilson. You’re going to be fine,” he said with a false smile. “Now get some rest, okay?” She nodded and closed her eyes.

Rolling his sleeves to his elbows, Wilson glanced around the ramshackle cafeteria. There were lots of other people who needed to be helped. Some were still sick with whatever affliction had brought them to the hospital in the first place. Others had been injured by broken glass and other debris. But without any medicine…

There was a sudden bang against the double doors followed by a long moan. Wilson jumped at the noise before reminding himself that the chains would hold. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves; he couldn’t take much more of this.

“House.” Wilson walked across the room to his friend, keeping his voice at a low whisper for fear of alarming the patients. “Some of these people will die if they don’t get proper care soon. We can’t stay in here forever.” He tugged at his brown hair in frustration. “What are we going to do?”

“I’m thinking,” House murmured. He was seated on the edge of the empty soup station, running his thumb over his bottom lip and staring off into the space in front of him.

Wilson winced and shifted his weight, trying to give his twisted ankle some reprieve. The movement drew House’s disapproving glare.

“You need to get that wrapped,” House said, indicating Wilson’s foot with a light tap of his cane. “Let me get something for it.”

“It’s fine,” Wilson sighed. House ignored him and hobbled off towards the soda fountain where he rooted around in a box of supplies on the counter. “We need to find a way out of here,” Wilson insisted.

“Here’s a fun fact,” House quipped. He made his way back to Wilson with a roll of beige bandages in one hand. “I can think and wrap a sprained ankle at the same time! Years of medical training have finally paid off. Now sit down and take off your shoe.”

Wilson acquiesced, sitting sideways on the hollow soup station. Taking the shoe off of his swollen foot required a little force, but he finally dropped the black loafer to the floor. House took a seat next to him, and Wilson propped his injured foot on House’s good leg.

“Listen, I walked right through the front door,” Wilson began again. “Why don’t we make a run for it? Just get to the ground floor and run like hell.”

“I’m going to tell you just one of the many flaws in that plan,” House snorted. His tapered fingers worked quickly, winding the bandage up and around the arch of Wilson’s foot and his ankle. “Coming in is a lot easier than going out. A big group of us leaving together? The horde will hear us coming a mile away.” He cradled Wilson’s calf in one hand, tightening the bandage as best he could. “And by the way, we’re not the most mobile guys on the block. Running isn’t an option, especially for some of these sitting ducks.” He tipped his head towards the patients laid out on the floor.

Foreman, who had been checking the pulse of an old woman, caught sight of the two doctors talking and made his way over to them. “Got a plan yet?” he asked. “Because I think we need to find a phone and call the outside again.”

“The cops are ignoring us,” House pointed out. “No help there.”

“What about calling a reporter? We call CNN, tell them what’s going on, and they’ll force the government to take action,” Foreman argued.

“Yeah, sure,” House hissed. “If you want to go down in some controlled carpet bombing, then by all means, let’s involve the government.” The older doctor rolled his eyes. “Don’t you get it? A couple dozen lives.” He gestured to the ragtag group of survivors. “Not worth the risk. We’ll be dead by sunrise if it’s up to Washington.”

Wilson watched as House neatly tied off the bandage. “Besides,” Wilson added, “we’d have to find a working phone first.” He gave a humorless laugh. “In this day and age, I can’t believe no one has a cell on them.”

“Well, you’re the loser who left yours down in the clinic,” House scoffed.

“I wanted a cell phone for my last birthday,” Lindsey called from her bundle of blankets, “but my mom told me I wasn’t responsible enough, and I got a plastic doll house instead.”

House whirled on her. “Playing the gendered society blame game isn’t helping anyone, now is it?” he growled. “Go back to sleep and stop eavesdropping.”

She frowned, her little forehead wrinkling in disapproval, but she burrowed back under her blanket until she was out of sight.

House pushed Wilson’s foot out of his lap and grabbed his cane once more. “How’s it feel? Test it out,” he ordered.

Wilson gingerly slid off the soup station, trying his weight out on his newly wrapped foot. “Feels a lot better.”

“Back to what you were saying, Imminent Victim Number Five Hundred Twenty-Two,” House said, poking Foreman’s leg with his cane. “If we could find a phone, that would be the icing on the cake. But our first order of business is a diagnosis.”

“They’re walking, they’re moaning, they’re biting,” Foreman said with a sigh. “They’re zombies. What else do you need to know?”

“I need to know why they’re zombies,” House said, limping away towards the back of the room. “It’s the only way to find a cure.” He stood over Chase’s trembling form, his eyes focused on something far away. “We need one…fast.”

Wilson slowly lumbered over to House’s side and looked down at the younger man. The morphine let him sleep, but Wilson could see Chase’s skin was becoming more sallow and ugly; his entire body looked like one big bruise.

Wilson snuck a look at House’s face, but it had turned blank and unreadable. The set of his jaw, the darkness in his eyes…it was something Wilson had never seen on his friend before.

“Well,” House said finally, his gaze snapping away from the prone body as if nothing had happened, “I’m going out.” He strode over to the door and picked up his backpack, arranging the shovel still sticking out of it. “Don’t wait up for me.” He grinned dangerously, wriggling his arms through the straps.

“What?” Wilson gasped. “No way in hell are you going out there alone!”

House balked. “But mom, all the cool kids are doing it.”

“Wilson’s right, House,” Foreman said, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His white lab coat, though streaked with dried blood, still made him look formidable. “I never liked the idea of you going out there by yourself. We should stick together. Small groups of two or three.”

“Though your heroics are appreciated, I actually need you to come with me anyway, Foreman,” House said. “But you might only last ten minutes. Zombies are all about affirmative-action brain eating.”

The neurologist raised an eyebrow, clearly not amused, but retrieved a sharpened metal pole (probably part of an IV stand in its previous life) from where it was leaning against a sneeze guard. “All right,” he said, hefting the improvised weapon. “Let’s do it.”

“I’m going too,” Wilson declared suddenly. He leaned against the nearby café table and crossed his arms over his chest with a scowl.

“When pigs fly!” House gestured wildly to Wilson’s bandaged foot. “Foreman might be useful to me until they eat his big, sloppy brains, but you’re only running on one cylinder.”

“Look in a mirror,” Wilson bit out. “You need someone to watch your back.”

House looked around the room wildly as if not sure which object most deserved his pent-up rage. Finally, he settled on sticking a finger in Wilson’s face. “Have you ever even tried cutting off a human head? It’s not easy.”

“I’d feel better if he came,” Foreman cut in, pursing his lips. “If only because Wilson would stop you if you tried to feed me to the horde.”

“I’m not going to feed you to them.” House rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “I’m just saying that, statistically, you’re dead as a doornail.”

“I’m going with you whether you like it or not,” Wilson interrupted. He stuck his hand out. “Give me a weapon and let’s go.”

House grumbled a little before reaching into his bag and handing over a meat cleaver, obviously purloined from the kitchen.

“That’s only good for close-range combat,” House commented as Wilson grasped the cool metal handle. “You’ll take the rear, then. Foreman, you can be behind me.” He carefully unwound the chains that bound the double doors. “Follow my lead,” he said over his shoulder. “Once we’re in the hall, keep quiet so they don’t hear us coming.”

“So what’s our plan?” Foreman asked, holding his sharpened stick tightly in both hands. “We start grabbing the charts of everyone who presented with the disease? Start looking for a pattern?”

“Maybe we should just stock up on more supplies,” Wilson suggested with a worried glance towards the sleeping patients.

“Nah.” House opened the door with a click. “I want to see what’s on their minds. Besides moaning and decaying. Nancy,” he called to the nurse, “lock the door behind us, will you?”

Foreman and Wilson opened their mouths to question him, but House had already flung the door open and was hobbling down the dim hallway. Foreman gave Wilson a look that said ‘crazy mother fucker’ before following his boss. Wilson took a deep breath, readjusted his grip on the bulky knife in his hand, and set out as well.

“Here’s what I’ve got so far,” House hissed in a low whisper as they moved slowly through the empty halls. He held his cane firmly in his right hand, his left always resting on the handle of the shovel over his shoulder in case he needed it. “We’ve seen the patients go through a systematic shutdown after the infection sets it. The virus must somehow hijack the nervous system after the body dies.”

“Could also be a parasite,” Foreman said softly, his wide eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

Wilson wondered how the hell the neurologist could possibly participate in a differential at a time like this. He himself could barely breathe. His shirt was damp under his arms, and his injured foot was screaming in pain as he tried to keep up with the two men.

House paused briefly at a junction of two hallways, craning his neck to see in both directions. “Possibly, though I still like viral better. Makes more sense if the thing is being spread through bites. Whatever it is, we need to look at the brain and find it.”

“House,” Wilson whispered. The older doctor swung his gaze towards him. “Why are we heading towards the neonatal ward?”

“I thought I’d give Foreman a break,” House growled, “and find him a specimen that wasn’t impossible to hold down.”

Foreman’s eyes widened in horror. “You can’t mean…” he trailed off.

House rolled his eyes. “Look, we—”

He was interrupted by a loud screech as a zombie appeared from around the corner and fell towards House’s neck. In a flash, House stepped back, lifted his shovel and swiped the creature’s head off with one smooth motion.

He stuffed his weapon back in his pack. “Good ol’ Betsy,” he murmured, patting the handle with affection. “Where was I?” He turned back to the other two and leaned on his cane.

“You…want to dissect a zombie,” Wilson reminded him, still staring at the fallen body. It had once been a doctor; it was still wearing a dingy lab coat. The smell of decay hung in the air, a combination of rotten banana peels and old meat.

“A baby zombie,” House corrected, continuing down the hall. “Easier to catch. And I don’t want to dissect it. I want to biopsy its brain.”

“This is why you wanted me here?” Foreman asked incredulously. “You want me to take out a piece of a zombie’s brain while it’s still alive?”

House gave a sharp nod, not taking his eyes from the path ahead. “Technically, they’re already dead. But if we kill the zombie for real, then the culprit dies with it. I need to see the virus, parasite, whatever. ”

The three men slowed to a stop outside the swinging doors of the neonatal ward. House stopped there, one hand against the door. The collective moans of several zombies drifted through the walls.

Wilson swallowed. His throat felt dry. The cleaver felt too heavy in his hands.

“Don’t forget: go for the neck. At the very least, bash their heads in,” House reminded them. “I’ll use Betsy to snatch up one of the kiddie critters.”

Foreman nodded with resolve. Wilson thought he might finally throw up.

“You don’t look completely onboard with this plan of action, Wilson,” House hissed, studying his friend’s face. “If you faint, I can’t catch you.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, his voice strained. He glanced unconsciously at the shovel now in House’s hand, still dripping with thick black liquid. “I’m just wondering where you were the day they made us promise to do no harm.”

“Hey, without me, you and every other card-carrying human being in this building would be kibble for the undead!” House stabbed his finger in the middle of Wilson’s chest to prove his point.

Wilson steeled his jaw. “Admit it, House. You’re enjoying this.”

“Yeah, it’s a real hoot to fight for my life,” House snapped back.

“Guys!” Foreman stepped between them. “Are we going to sit here and argue until the zombies come and eat us? Because I’m planning on surviving today.”

House gave Wilson one final glare. “Keep an eye on him in there, Foreman,” he said, and then he pushed the door open.

Wilson and Foreman followed House’s lop-sided gait into the trashed ward. Torn papers were scattered all over the linoleum and equipment was knocked over, making an obstacle course of the whole floor. Wilson carefully avoided the areas littered with broken glass; his taped foot couldn’t take another injury.

House eyed the crowd of zombies in the room. They seemed to hear his entrance, and turned in unison.

“Come on, baddies.” House hooked his cane on a wayward gurney and unsheathed his snow shovel. “Let’s show Wilson how we do real harm.”

The zombies let out a loud, low moan and began their slow advance towards House. Behind him, Wilson and Foreman gripped their meager weapons in white-knuckled hands.

House took a swing at the closest zombie, effectively beheading it in one blow. “I need you guys to find an incubator,” he shouted over the moaning. “And a zombie that will fit in it. I can hold them off for a few more minutes.” He stabbed at another zombie, a woman in dirty scrubs, cutting through her decaying windpipe. The zombie’s moan turned to a wheezing breath, but the thing stayed upright. House had to hit it a second time before the zombie fell to the ground.

Foreman grabbed Wilson by the elbow. “Come on, before the crowd gets bigger.” They took off towards the pile of discarded machinery to House’s left, using his distraction and the debris as a blockade. While Foreman began digging through the mattresses and overturned IV stands, Wilson pulled at a tangle of wires. He saw the wink of a shiny plastic dome under all the garbage.

“I think I’ve found it,” he called. “We just have to—” But a shocked gasp cut off any further speech. There, draped over his fingers, was a strand of pearls, stained with blood dried brown. It had been wrapped up in all the wiring. Slowly, Wilson looked down and saw the severed head of Lisa Cuddy at his feet. Her eyes were closed as if she were sleeping peacefully with her body still attached to her slender neck.

“Oh god…” Wilson looked up to meet House’s questioning stare. Those quick blue eyes darted to the necklace in Wilson’s hands, but House had to turn his attention back to the three zombies lurching towards his position.

“What is it?” Foreman yelled. The moans were getting louder.

Wilson’s gaze snapped to a small knot of zombies in the corner of the wing, hunched over a shape on the floor, ignoring the chaos around them. Two feet stuck out from the tangle of rotting flesh. One was bare. The other was clad in a leather sling back.

“God,” Wilson cried. “Get away from her!”

“No, don’t—” Foreman tried, but Wilson was already vaulting over the refuse, making his way to Cuddy’s body.

His first strike went wild, and the cleaver sunk into the soft, rotten skin of one zombie’s shoulder. The beast turned and bared its teeth at Wilson, moaning from the pit of its dead stomach. Wilson pulled the blade out and tried again, finally landing a blow to the throat. But the spinal cord wasn’t severed, and the zombie’s head flopped back on its neck.

“Move!” Foreman shouted, pushing Wilson aside and spearing the creature in the chest. While it wriggled there, impaled, he ordered, “Now! Hit it now!”

Wilson did, with one last gut-wrenching crack. He watched the head fall to the floor with a disgusting plop, and looked up at Foreman.

The other man pulled his makeshift weapon free of the corpse. “Shit,” he cursed. “There’s too many.” Already, the two other zombies were rising from where they had been feeding on Cuddy’s remains. Wilson considered meeting them halfway and just hacking away at them, but House’s words stopped him.

“She’s dead! There’s nothing else you can do. Leave her,” House shouted from behind them. Wilson turned to see House nearly overwhelmed, his back against the charting desk and swinging at the handful of attackers. The loud noises seemed to divert the two zombies’ attention, and they turned towards House instead of Foreman and Wilson.

Wilson gave the body one last mournful glance, and paused. “Look,” he told Foreman, pointing at the body. There, chewing at the bloody mess, was a small infant with skin too mottled to be alive.

“House, we’ve got something!” Foreman called. “Help me grab the incubator, Wilson.”

“Sorry, guys,” House panted at the horde in front of him, “but my dance card’s full tonight.” He grabbed his cane and pushed a tall filing cabinet over, scattering the zombies for a moment. House dodged the roamers, whacking them in the face with his cane when necessary, until he made it over to the small zombie. While he scooped it up in his snow shovel, keeping a careful distance from its snapping jaws, Foreman and Wilson dug the incubator out of the heap of trash.

“I’m sorry,” Wilson whispered in an abbreviated prayer, watching Cuddy’s face once again disappear underneath the metal and wires.

“We need to get out of here,” House said, dumping the zombie into the machine and snapping the plastic lid shut. “The elevator, now!”

Foreman took off at a fast pace, wheeling their specimen in front of him. Wilson turned and gauged the number of zombies on their tail. His eyes widened. They were coming out of every exam room, every office, every single closet.

There seemed to be hundreds.

“Close your mouth. You’re catching flies,” House said, taking hold of Wilson’s arm and dragging him back to the hallway. A slow-motion race began, with the two men limping slightly ahead of the staggering crowd of groaning zombies.

At the end of the hall, Foreman was already waiting in the maintenance elevator with the specimen writhing in the incubator, moaning in a high-pitched squeak.

“Sometime today, guys?” Foreman screamed, his panic obvious in his eyes.

“Don’t you get smart with me,” House yelled back. “When this is all over, I still sign your paycheck!”

“Uh, when this is all over,” Wilson pointed out, “we won’t have a hospital to work in.”

“Think positive, Jimmy.” House fished the elevator key out of his pocket. “Catch!” he called as he tossed it to Foreman.

There was a moment where Wilson was convinced the silver key was going to slip through Foreman’s fingers and fall in the crack between the floor and the elevator, but the other man managed to snatch it in midair. He jammed it into the control panel and, just as House and Wilson fell into the elevator, he twisted it and punched the ‘close door’ button. Five inches away, a snarling zombie’s face disappeared as the metal doors slammed shut.

Wilson lay on the floor of the elevator for a moment, trying to catch his breath. His foot was throbbing, and in the scuffle, he’d lost his cleaver. House propped himself up on his elbows and glared at him.

“That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen you do,” he said, panting heavily.

Wilson managed a watery smile and flung an arm across his eyes to block out the harsh red of the emergency lights. “Even stupider than marriage number three?” he asked.

“Let me think.” House fell back to the floor next to him. “Did the mother of the bride have a craving for human flesh? I can’t remember.”

“Of course you don’t. That’s what I get for having an open bar.” Wilson shrugged, glad for the feeling for House’s rib cage rising and falling against his side. Alive, and okay.

“So,” Foreman broke into their conversation, leaning against the lift’s metal siding, “we’ve captured a baby zombie. Now what?”

House glanced up at their quarry. The creature’s cries were muffled by the plastic covering, but the moans were just as eerie as its larger counterparts.

“Press the button for the eleventh floor,” he said. “We’re taking this puppy into surgery.”


Continue to Part 3.