Zombie fic! Part Four

[triedunture]

Title: The Rampant Disease
Pairing: H/W
Warnings: horror, some violence and gore with a touch of black humor
Summary: Wilson is still fighting to survive the zombie attack.

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“You know what my dad would say if he could see me now?” Wilson muttered, peering warily at the pulsating horde of zombies below. “He’d say, ‘James, I told you to get an MBA.’”

House clicked his tongue against his teeth in thought. “Your dad would be wrong,” he assured. “The insurance adjustors on the fifth floor were the first to go.” He kicked a wandering zombie hand away from the edge of the lockers. “They barely noticed their brains were being eaten.”

Wilson tensed as the locker they were sitting on shuddered with the pressing weight of the zombies. Far below, the metal creaked and groaned as fasteners threatened to come undone.

“We’re dead meat sitting here,” he said, pushing his hands against the solid stucco ceiling. “An air shaft would be very handy right about now.”

“That’s a classic,” House hummed in agreement, glancing around the room. “We could try jumping to the next row of lockers,” he suggested.

Wilson eyed the distance to the nearby lockers across the surging ocean of zombies. They would have to somehow jump with only a few inches of clearance and land on a foot-wide strip of metal. And even if they could, it wouldn’t improve the situation very much.

“I don’t think I could make it,” he admitted.

“I’m not much of a long-jumper either,” House grumbled. “Pole vault, though, I’m not too shabby at. You don’t happen to have a seven foot–long pole on you, do you?”

Wilson shook his head. “You stole that idea from Tremors,” he accused, wagging his finger in House’s face. “The first one, with Kevin Bacon.”

House rolled his eyes. “If I’m not allowed to strategize using plans from Kevin Bacon movies, then it’s been nice knowing you,” he snorted.

Wilson cracked a smile then, and opened his mouth to deliver a scathing retort. But the zombies had begun to push and rock against the lockers like an angry mob attacking a car in a riot. Metal screeched and the lockers swayed from side to side. Wilson and House scrambled for purchase on the smooth metal surface, mostly grabbing onto each other’s scrub shirts for balance.

“They’re going to push it over,” Wilson gasped. His fingers dug into the soft cotton covering House’s chest.

“Hit the ground running,” House managed to tell him before the world tipped sideways.

The bolts that held the lockers on the floor creaked and gave way, and the whole metal contraption started to fall backwards, away from the exit door. House had his cane in a white-knuckled grip in his right fist, his other hand clutching at Wilson’s shoulder. They tumbled back, and the crowd of zombies parted like an ill-mannered rock concert audience, allowing the two men to fall to the hard tile floor.

Wilson rolled onto his back as fast as he could, wincing at the pain caused by a jarring fall. He opened his eyes to see a host of zombies leaning over him, their combined scent of decay overpowering his senses, their blank eyes staring at him.

“Go, go, go!” House shouted, though Wilson couldn’t see him through the thick crowd.

He staggered to his feet, shoving the zombies away as best he could. “Where are you?” he cried, searching the room with a wild gaze. But everywhere he looked was just the walking dead, slowly coming closer to him. Chipped teeth snapped at his arm, and Wilson yanked it away before they sank into his skin.

“Just get out!” House’s voice echoed through the locker room, making it impossible to tell which direction it was coming from. The sounds of blows rang out, but Wilson still couldn’t pinpoint it.

He cursed and dodged around an upright set of lockers, trying to lose the mindless creatures chasing him. He raced towards the door marked with the glowing green exit sign while ignoring the shooting pain in his ankle. A gnarled hand shot out of the shadows and grabbed at his scrubs, but he pulled away and kept running.

“House? House!?” Wilson called, hoping to run into his friend at any moment. But the only answer was the ubiquitous moaning from the horde and the shuffling of their collective feet. Wilson reached the doorway and turned to look for House one more time. “Come on!” he shouted, looking over his shoulder at the zombies.

He had to go. There were just too many.

Wilson burst into the hallway, skittering to a stop as he faced an even larger crowd of moaning, flesh-craving creatures. They shambled down the hall, arms raised and cries growing at the sight of him.

“Foreman?” he called, looking around the lonely hallway. “Anybody?!” He took a few steps backwards.

He looked over his shoulder. There was nothing but the blood-streaked walls and a cracked window at the end of the hall. Eleven stories up, Wilson thought, does not bode well for my chances.

He turned back to the dozens of zombies jerk-stepping their way towards him. His jaw ticked with anger.

“I didn’t make it this far for it to end like this,” he muttered. Wilson looked around once more, convinced there was some weapon, some salvation he had overlooked. His eyes landed on the shining silver grate of an air vent affixed to the wall. Wilson looked up at the ceiling and said to God, “Now you give me one.”

But he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He dug his fingers into the wide grate and pulled with all his strength. The screws popped loose, and the slatted plate fell to the floor with a clang. He peered into the total darkness of the shaft; it looked like the thing went straight down. Where it ended, he wasn’t sure, but it had to be better than getting torn apart on the eleventh floor.

With one last glance at the advancing horde, Wilson held his breath and swung his sprained foot into the air duct. At first, he wasn’t sure he’d fit, but the putrid smell of the zombies forced him to reconsider.

“Think thin,” he whispered to himself.

He closed his eyes and tried to pretend it was a waterslide, minus the water, plus the man-eating monsters behind him. He jammed his other foot down the chute and let himself drop, falling straight down, down, down, his stomach leaping into his throat. Wilson fell like a rag doll, smashing against the unforgiving metal sides of the shaft and letting loose sharp cries of pain. The fall seemed to last for hours though it was really only a matter of seconds.

He landed at the bottom with a loud thump and allowed himself a groan. His ribs didn’t feel completely intact, and his sprained ankle was complaining much more loudly than before. He lifted a hand to his forehead, and he felt warm, sticky blood seeping from a gash on his temple.

“Could be worse,” he whispered to himself, listening to his voice ricochet around inside the air duct. “You could be zombie food.” He took a deep breath and opened his eyes to find total blackness surrounding him. He couldn’t stay here forever; he had to find House and Foreman.

Wilson fought the bursts of pain in his ribs as he began crawling through the air shaft. He groped blindly, feeling out twists, turns, and small drops in the ducts, until he saw a blurry patch of light up ahead. It took more time than he cared to admit to reach the light, turn himself over, and kick out the grate.

When he finally slid out into the cool, open air, he immediately recognized his surroundings. He was on the second floor, where patients were normally kept for observation. Like the other floors, this one was in disarray, as if a war had broken out in the middle of the workday. The usually bustling space was silent now; even the bubbling sound of the water feature was hushed. But there was no moaning, no shuffling of undead feet, and that was a good thing.

Wilson sat on the floor and rested for a moment, panting to catch his breath. The twinge in his side wasn’t leaving, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He looked around for some kind of weapon in case a zombie did show up, but the only thing within easy reach was the bent grate from the air shaft. Wilson picked it up and turned it around in his hands, trying to think.

House and Foreman were okay, he thought. They had to be. Or at least, he mused with a bit of guilt, House had to be. Foreman had said it himself, the man knew what he was doing. House had probably escaped before Wilson could catch up, that was all.

He was okay. He had to be.

Wilson caught sight of his distorted reflection in the shiny slats of the grate. His blood-soaked face stared back at him, and for the first time all day, he thought he might lose the fight against the tears pricking at the backs of his eyes.

He choked on a little whimper and covered his eyes with his hand. You’re on your own now, he mentally yelled at himself. Get a grip.

Then Wilson’s ears picked up the small sound of metal scraping against plaster. Before he could figure out what it was, he saw something coming at his head out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he blocked the sharp weapon with the grate in his hand, and the clang of metal rang out through the empty hall.

From behind the corner, a seated figure emerged, holding the offending weapon.

“Dr. Wilson?” she said. “I thought you were on vacation.”

Wilson’s jaw dropped, and he lowered his makeshift shield. “Dr. Whitner?” he sputtered.

Judith Whitner gave him a self-deprecating shrug and shouldered her weapon. “In the flesh,” she said.

Wilson gaped up at her, a tiny slip of a women sitting in a wheelchair. He barely knew Whitner; her field was research, and he rarely intruded on the lab. The only time he’d really paid her any mind was during that parking space debacle, when House had fought her for a better handicapped spot. Now she sat there, looking a bit worn in her torn lab coat and messy ponytail, but otherwise fine.

“You’re…alive?” He blinked.

“Good eye,” she said with a smirk. “Sorry I almost took your head off.” She gestured to her spear-like instrument. “I heard a loud noise, and I figured you were another one of those zombies.” A frown creased her forehead. “That’s a nasty cut you got. Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”

Whitner wheeled herself in a circle and set off down the hall, her spear still resting over his shoulder. Wilson blinked again and struggled to his feet, leaving the grate behind.

“You know about the zombies?” he asked.

She shot his an impatient look over her shoulder. “Did you just get here or something? They’re walking. They’re dead. Doesn’t take a genius.” She rolled her eyes and continued down the hall.

“I did just get here,” Wilson retorted. “I was with House, but we got separated. I had to jump down the air duct to get to safety.”

“House?” Whitner exclaimed. “That one-legged bastard is still kicking? Good for him.” She stopped behind the disheveled nurses’ station and reached for a first aid kit.

“Yeah, I…I think so,” Wilson sighed. He scrubbed at his face, flaking off dried bits of blood from his wound. “So why aren’t you in the cafeteria with the others?”

“There are others?” Whitner asked, wide-eyed. “How many?”

Wilson shrugged. “A couple dozen. Mostly patients. House is trying to find a cure. He’s running some tests.”

The woman snorted and rummaged through the kit in her lap. “Good luck with that. As for me,” she said, “when all hell broke loose and the elevators stopped working, I was left here, trapped. I had to abandon my motorized chair for the manual one. Less noise.” She brushed some strands of long brown hair out of her face and adjusted her eyeglasses. “Not a bad place to get stuck. I busted open the vending machines, so I have plenty of food. And I got this baby.” She held out her weapon with pride.

Wilson raised an eyebrow at the dangerous tool. It appeared she had taken a shovel and filed down one side into a sharp blade.

“Looks effective,” he commented.

“It is.” Whitner tore open a packet and removed an alcohol swab. “You’ll notice there isn’t a lot of zombie activity in these parts. I’ve been very meticulous about dispatching them the minute they wander in here. Now come down here so I can reach.” She waved her hand.”

Wilson stooped a little and allowed her to dab at the cut on his temple. “You seem so prepared,” he said. “How did you know they have to be beheaded?”

She set about applying the dressing to Wilson’s forehead in a crisp, efficient, almost maternal, manner. Her mouth was set in a firm line of concentration before she spoke. “Before I lost the use of my legs,” she began, “I did a lot of work for Doctors without Borders.” She taped the square of cotton down near Wilson’s hairline. “I was in Haiti for a few months, working in a clinic. Do you know much about Haiti, Dr. Wilson?”

Wilson shook his head.

Whitner smiled. “Let’s just say,” she whispered, “this isn’t the first time I’ve seen the dead walking.”

“You saw an outbreak?” Wilson’s eyes went wide.

“Big time.” She snapped the kit shut with a flourish. “They choppered the American doctors out of the hot zone once they realized what was happening. Then they reported that the carnage was another surge in the Haitian civil war, which covered it up nicely.”

“But they must have stopped disease from spreading,” Wilson said vehemently. “They must have figured out a way to control it or—”

Whitner held up her hands. “As far as I know, the only solution was total eradication of the infected subjects.” She replaced the first aid kit and looked up at Wilson. “It hasn’t gotten out of the building yet, has it?”

“No,” Wilson sighed, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “The police have us surrounded. I stumbled in here on accident.”

“Lucky you,” Whitner said dryly. She eyed his empty hands. “Have you been walking around unarmed?” she asked.

“Had a knife. Lost it.” Wilson gave her a sheepish grin.

“A knife?” she scoffed. “Lame.”

“I also had a bone saw, but that got messy.”

“Well, here,” she said, reaching underneath the nurses’ station. “You can have my backup.” She handed Wilson an identical sharpened shovel. “It’s amazing what you can do with a supply closet full of tools and a little elbow grease,” she said with a wink.

“Thanks,” was all he could manage, hefting the thing in his hands and thinking about House’s beloved shovel somewhere on the eleventh floor. “I guess great minds think alike.”

“Listen.” She glanced at her delicate platinum wristwatch. “It’s past midnight, and you look like shit. Why don’t you crash in one of the ICU beds, and we’ll take turns at keeping watch? I’ll wake you in three hours.”

Wilson nodded and looked over his shoulder; almost every room seemed to either hold a dead body, a decapitated zombie, or blood-soaked sheets on the bed.

“There’s a room down the hall,” Whitner said. “It’s still usable. Go ahead.”

Wilson did as he was told, picking his way towards the room Whitner motioned to, dragging his new shovel behind him.

He found himself in a clean room, though it was obviously no longer as “clean” as it had once been. The motorized doors, designed to seal an infected person inside completely, were stuck in the open position. The unmade hospital bed was still covered with white sheets and a pitcher of filtered water still sat on the bedside table.

Wilson leaned his sharpened shovel against the glass wall and lifted his scrub shirt a few inches to see the damage in the reflection. A dark purple bruise was spreading across his ribs, and it hurt like hell. With a sigh, he grabbed the jug and gulped down mouthfuls of cool water before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The pitcher went back on the nightstand.

He kicked off his plastic sandals and considered stripping out of his peach-colored scrubs, but decided he was too tired to bother. Wilson slid between the bed sheets, wondering how Whitner had managed to sleep at all, being so totally alone against the unknown number of zombies roaming the hospital. Even knowing that she was watching over him while he slept, Wilson didn’t think he could let himself relax.

He clutched the thin pillow to his abdomen and tried to blot out the pain of his cracked ribs by thinking about House, and how safe he must be by now.

Boop ba doop. Boop ba dobadop. Boop—

Wilson sat up in bed. The night’s events were finally getting to him. He was going insane and hearing things.

—ba doop ba deedee doop. Boop ba doop…

“Oh my god,” he whispered. It was a cell phone ring. An annoying cell phone ring, but that was beside the point.

He leapt out bed, heedless of his swollen ankle, and hobbled into the hall. The tinny noises were faint, but unmistakable.

“Don’t hang up, don’t hang up,” Wilson chanted, digging through a pile of upturned waiting room furniture and old magazines. His search halted for a brief moment as his hand brushed against something wet and red. For a horrified moment, he thought he’d found a body part, but it turned out to be a damp red blanket.

The ringing stopped abruptly with a loud BEEP. Wilson froze, listening intently for a few moments, but the sound did not return.

“God dammit,” he cursed, slamming his fist against the black leather settee that was now on its side. The thing shifted, and a tiny handbag fell from between its cushions. Wilson blinked at it and unzipped it cautiously.

A miniscule pink cell phone dropped into his waiting palm. Its bite-sized screen said, “One missed call: Brian.”

“Oh, I fucking love you, Brian,” Wilson gasped in relief. He glanced around the dim hallway, but Whitner was nowhere to be seen. She was probably patrolling the floor, he imagined.

“Can’t sit and wait for the battery to die on me,” he whispered to himself, flipping the phone open and hitting 9-1-1.

The phone rang twice. Then it clicked. “Nine one one, what is your emergency?” a woman’s voice asked.

“This is Dr. James Wilson,” he answered in a rush. “I’m at the Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. There’s been a—”

“Sir, I’m re-directing your call,” she broke in, drawling in a bored tone.

“Wait! No, please don’t re-direct me. I need to speak to—”

“Sir.” The woman sounded like she was eating something crunchy. “I’ve been told to direct all calls concerning the situation at PPTH to the proper authorities.”

“The situation?!” Wilson cried. “Do you have any idea what’s happening here? There’re—”

“Please hold.” Scratchy parade music flowed through the earpiece and a calm voice spoke to him, letting him know that his call was important to the city of Princeton’s municipal employees, and if he would just be patient, his call would be answered in the order it was received.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Wilson groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

A quiet roll of wheels resonated down the hall and Wilson looked behind him to see Whitner coming towards him. He sat back on his heels and gave her a little wave, pointing to the small phone still pressed against his ear.

“What?” she gasped. “Do you have a signal? Who did you call?”

“The police.” Wilson rolled his eyes. “I’m on hold.”

She slapped her palms against the armrests of her wheelchair. “This is total bullshit!” she hissed.

Wilson opened his mouth to answer, but the phone suddenly went dead. He checked the screen; the cell still had some power.

“I think I just got disconnected,” he seethed, punching in the numbers again. Whitner watched closely as he waited for an answer. When the call was picked up, he just launched into: “This is Dr. James Wilson at PPTH. We are under attack. People are dying and we need help.”

The 911 operator sighed. “Sir,” he said, “I’m going to re-direct your call.”

“It’s zombies!” he shouted down the line. “I don’t know what they’ve been telling you, but you have to—”

“Sir, you’re going to have to hold.” A click, and the same message began playing against the background of patriotic marches.

Wilson fought the urge to throw the phone against the wall just to shut it up.

“House was right,” he muttered, still clutching the phone to his ear. “They’re ignoring us. They’re waiting for us to die.”

Whitner reached down and laid her hand on Wilson’s shaking shoulder. “It’s the only way,” she said softly. “Total eradication.”

“What will they tell my parents?” Wilson whispered. “How will they think I died?”

The woman stayed silent for a moment, rubbing at Wilson’s cotton-covered shoulder as if at a loss. “You have any kids?” she asked.

Wilson shook his head. “Three angry ex-wives and two sets of alimony,” he said, directing a wry grin up at Whitner’s face. “You?”

She shrugged. “An angry ex-girlfriend and a lot of credit card bills. Getting eaten doesn’t look all that bad, I guess.” They laughed together, a dark chuckle.

Suddenly, the Sousa march ended and the phone clicked. Wilson glanced at the screen, thinking he’d been disconnected again, but the phone was still counting the seconds. He raised the cell back to his ear.

“Hello?” he breathed.

“So you’re still in the land of the living,” a voice answered, dry and rough like gravel.

“You.” Wilson clenched his teeth.

“It’s nice to hear from you, Dr. Wilson,” Tritter said.



Continue to Part 5.