Zombie fic! Part Six

[triedunture]

Title: The Rampant Disease (Part 6)
Pairings: H/W
Warnings: horror and gore, general goofy ickiness, several character deaths this chapter!
Summary: That's right. Wilson's still fightin' the good fight against the zombie horde.

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Wilson tried to ignore the pokes on his shoulder. He groaned, pulled the blankets higher, and burrowed deeper into the warm cocoon he’d made. The poking didn’t stop, and was joined by a harsh hissing noise.

It took a moment for Wilson’s brain to identify the noise as English.

“Seriously, you guys need to wake up,” Foreman’s voice rumbled.

“Ugh,” Wilson answered, curling into a tighter ball. His heavy eyes blinked open once, twice, and began to focus on the strange view of close-up chest hair under his cheek. “Crap,” he muttered, pushing himself off House and looking up at Foreman. “We were just…”

Foreman rolled his eyes upwards. “Yesterday I watched the walking dead slurp up gray matter like gelato,” he said. “The sight of you two snuggling? It’s kind of ranking low on the shock meter.”

House stretched like a cat and opened his bright blue eyes into tiny slits. “Black man wakes me up why?” he grunted, rubbing a palm across his face.

“It’s Chase,” Foreman said.

House stopped scrubbing the grit out of his sleepy eyes and sat upright next to Wilson. “Has he turned?”

“No. He’s…” Foreman groped for words. “It seems like he’s getting better,” he finally said. “I don’t understand. He should be dead by now.”

House sat there with a frown on his face, blinking at the bright cafeteria lights. Wilson sighed at the picture he made, with curly hair sticking up every which way. He reached out to pat a tuft of the salt and pepper hair back into place, but House’s hand shot out to grab his wrist.

“I’ll be right there,” House said to Foreman. The younger doctor nodded, glancing between the two men before turning to leave.

House released Wilson’s hand. “There are a lot of oils on the human scalp,” he said quietly.

It took Wilson a moment to remember what he was talking about. Then he remembered all the hellish events of the day before.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?” Wilson asked, jerking his hand away with a scowl. “I have a medical degree. I know to wash my hands.”

He stood and hobbled towards the restroom to do just that, slamming the door harder than he’d intended. Leave it to House to pick a fight while dying, he thought.

Wilson squeezed some soap out of the dispenser and hit the water tap. He washed his hands more thoroughly than necessary, cursing House under his breath the whole time. He splashed some cold water onto his face and told himself his eyes were red from lack of sleep.

He didn’t notice House’s approach until he caught sight of him in the mirror’s reflection. House stood behind him, leaning heavily on his cane, looking like he was about to say something. But he didn’t, just let his gaze drop from Wilson’s in the mirror.

He limped across the room and pulled his dried shirt off the bathroom stall.

“What’s up with Chase?” he asked, tugging the shirt over his head. “Any ideas?”

Wilson sighed. Back to diagnoses.

“It might be normal. It’s not like we have a lot of data on this thing,” he murmured.

House recovered his cane from where he’d leaned it against the wall. “I’ve seen a whole building get infected,” he reminded Wilson. “And Foreman is right. Chase should be dead and drooling by now.”

“Could be a secondary infection slowing the virus’s progress,” Wilson suggested. “He’s been holed up in a room full of sick people. Chase could have easily contracted another illness.”

House didn’t give any indication that he’d heard. He stared up at the ceiling, tapping his fingertips against his lips in thought.

“House,” Wilson said, “how long…?”

“Two days.” He dropped his hand back to his side. “Maybe three. Then I’m another brain eater.”

Wilson swallowed. “I…”

The door swung open and Foreman stuck his head in. “Whitner wants you to look at Chase,” he said. “She thinks he might have immunity.”

“Immunity?” House growled. “This isn’t Survivor.”

The younger doctor puffed out his cheeks in frustration. “She’s serious. Come on.”

Wilson and House exchanged glances and followed Foreman to where Chase was laid out. He did seem markedly improved. His complexion was still an unnatural color, but he seemed more alert and mobile.

“Hey.” Chase waved a greeting to House. “I hear you killed about a thousand of those things. Or is it a million? The number seems to get bigger every time I hear the story.” He smirked at Whitner, who was bent over his elbow, taking a blood sample.

She smacked his shoulder lightly in return.

“How’s the pain?” House asked, unlooping the stethoscope from around Whitner’s neck and arranging it in his own ears.

Chase watched as House pressed the metal disc over his chest. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a semi, but it’s not unbearable. Foreman gave me a Vicodin this morning. That’s all I needed.”

House looked up at Wilson. “Heartbeat’s a little slow,” he said.

“Well, I’ve been sitting here for days!” Chase pointed out. “It’s not like I’ve had a chance to do much cardio.”

“So what does this mean?” Wilson asked slowly, needing to hear someone say the words out loud.

“He’s immune,” Whitner said, her voice brimming with triumph. “About 10 percent of the population can survive an Ebola outbreak. Marburg outbreak, 15 percent. This virus is no different. Some patients are genetically impervious.” She gestured to Chase. “He can live through it.”

“Oh, thank god,” Wilson whispered.

Whitner nodded enthusiastically. “We can use Chase’s blood to make a serum. It won’t make any difference to the people who have already turned into zombies, of course. Their bodies are clinically dead. But for patients who have been exposed but haven’t yet turned…”

“A cure,” Foreman said. “We can fix it.”

“You know how I hate to rain on the parade,” House drawled, “but we need to test his blood before we can be certain.”

“Yes, I know.” Whitner held up the vial of blood. “We need to get to a lab.”

“Let’s suit up then,” Foreman said, grabbing one of the weapons from the floor.

“I’m coming too,” Chase said, sitting up and pulling his saline line out of his arm. “I’m sick of just laying here.”

“Are you sure?” Whitner asked with wide eyes. “It could be dangerous.”

Chase nodded. “You might need more blood to make the serum as quickly as possible. I should go.”

“We’re all going.” House gestured to their loose circle. “Chase is getting the bodyguard treatment. That means all hands on deck. Grab your weapons, boys and girl.”

As the team scrambled to prepare for their task, House loped off to the corner where the fire axe sat. Wilson glanced around to make sure everyone else was busy before following.

“Hey, what’s your problem?” he hissed at House once they were out of hearing. “We found a cure. You should be jumping for joy.” He looked down at the cane. “You know, figuratively.”

House shrugged. “I’ll jump when we’ve confirmed immunity.” He picked up the fire axe by its long handle and held it out to Wilson. “You can take Carla. Have you seen Betsy?”

Wilson grabbed the snow shovel from where it had fallen behind a table and traded it for the axe. “Just remember to be careful,” Wilson told House. “You can’t take stupid risks now. You’ll live through this as long as you don’t get hurt.”

House hefted the shovel in his hands as if considering its weight. “Right back atcha,” he said with a serious look.

Wilson shifted his feet and looked up into House’s bright blue eyes. “You know what I’m going to do the minute we get that serum?” he said with a devilish grin.

House raised an eyebrow. “Is it illegal in many states?” He took a step closer into Wilson’s space.

Wilson curled his right hand around House’s forearm and nodded.

“Are you gonna kiss?” a tiny voice asked from the floor.

Wilson jumped about a foot in the air at the sound of the child’s voice. House glared down at the little dark-haired girl, still swaddled in her bedding. She’s been nearly hidden in all the blankets.

“Stop. Eavesdropping,” House growled.

Lindsey chewed on her lower lip and looked up at them. “But, Dr. Wilson, I—”

“Not now,” House snapped. “The adults are trying to save your life.”

Wilson sighed. “I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t worry,” he assured her.

Lindsey nodded and retreated back into her nest. House turned to Wilson and twirled the shovel in his free hand. “Now let’s find us a lab.”

They left the cafeteria armed to the teeth: House and Wilson still dressed in stained scrubs, axe and shovel in hand. Foreman, in his torn lab coat, wielded his spear. Whitner took the rear, wheeling down the hall with her makeshift weapon in her lap. And in the middle of their square was Chase, clutching his thin hospital gown around his gaunt form.

It was slow going at first; Chase was weak on his feet and could only shuffle a few paces before stopping to catch his breath.

“You going to make it, man?” Foreman asked, guiding Chase down the hallway by his arm.

“Yeah,” the blond man huffed. “The elevator’s just up ahead, right?”

Whitner grunted in confirmation. “Which floor are we going to?” she asked.

Everyone looked to House at the front of the group. “The third floor lab has all the stuff we need,” he said, leading the way with his cane and adjusting his grip on the shovel in his free hand.

Wilson nodded. “Maybe we can grab your cell phone from your office while we’re down there,” he suggested.

“If Cameron doesn’t stop us first,” Foreman muttered.

Chase seemed to shiver at that, and Wilson put a hand under his other elbow to steady him. They reached the elevator and began their descent.

“Be ready for anything,” House warned them as the red numbers ticked down. Five, four, and finally three. The elevator jolted to a stop and the doors dinged open.

Whitner was the first out. “It looks empty,” she whispered. The others followed her into the silent halls.

Wilson glanced at his wristwatch. It was late morning, but there was very little light coming in from the windows. They walked slowly down the hall and passed House’s glass office. Wilson could see it was pouring rain outside.

Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. The drum of rainwater on the windows covered the sound of their footsteps. Small favors, Wilson thought, holding the axe in both hands tightly.

They were almost to Wilson’s office when the glass Diagnostics Department door swung open behind them.

House was the first to turn around, Betsy at the ready. Wilson and Foreman did the same, twin gasps of surprise escaping their throats. Soon all five of them were facing the ghostly apparition.

“Piece of shit,” House muttered.

“I’d lower that if I were you,” Tritter said. “Guns trump shovels.”

The detective was wearing a dull blue Hazmat suit, his face scowling from behind the protective facemask. In the dim light, he looked more like a robot than a human being. He held a shotgun aimed directly at House’s chest.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Foreman hissed.

“Shut up,” Tritter answered amicably.

Wilson’s eyes shot to the left and spied a piece of metal shining in a flash of lightning. It was a grappling hook dangling there on the balcony.

House let the shovel scrape down onto the floor. “A rescue party usually brings, I don’t know, a party,” he said carefully.

Tritter ignored him. “Where’s J. Whitner?” he asked. “Where’s the vaccine?”

House let loose a bark of laughter. “Vaccine? I thought I was the one on drugs.”

Whitner wheeled herself forward. “Look,” she said, holding her hand out in a calming gesture, “I’m Whitner. Put the gun down and let me explain—”

Tritter’s eyes darted to her other hand in her lap, holding the vial of Chase’s blood. “Is that it?” he demanded. “Hand it over. House can’t do you anymore harm now; I’ve got him.”

House raised a questioning eyebrow at Wilson. He sighed and stepped forward. “We lied. House didn’t release this disease, Tritter,” Wilson said deliberately. “And we don’t have a vaccine. But we might have something else, something just as—”

Tritter clicked the safety off the shotgun. “I don’t have time for games,” he growled. “Give me the cure now.”

“So wait, the only reason you came in here all alone was so you could grab the cure, leave us to the wolves, and ride off into the sunset like a hero?” House jabbed his cane at Tritter’s facemask, tapping it against the Plexiglas. “You, sir, are one messed up son of a bitch.”

“Yet you still believe that the zombies are coming, and they’re going to eat your brain,” Tritter said mockingly.

“Not my brain,” House said. “Yours.” He gestured with his chin to the space behind Tritter, but the detective just laughed.

“Trying to make me turn around? Fat chance,” he said.

Wilson turned his head slowly to look into the darkened room on his left, his eyes growing wide. There, illuminated by every few seconds of lightning, was Allison Cameron, swaying side to side and lurching towards the detective.

After nearly a week of rapid decomposition, the ID clipped to her front pocket was Cameron’s most distinguishing feature. Her nose and half of her right cheek had rotted away to the bone, and her long brown hair hung from her head in matted clumps. Three ribs jutted out of her torn lab coat, creaking with each step.

“Tritter…” Wilson whispered, though the rest of his warning got stuck in his throat. Everyone else stood silently, mouths open in shock. House just watched.

“Ooooaaaaugh,” Cameron said and made a grab at Tritter’s suit. The detective whirled around and fired, blowing away half of her left arm in a shower of decayed flesh.

“Jesus Christ!” Foreman screamed, slamming his hands over his ears. The sound of the shotgun was deafening in the echoing hallway.

Cameron fell to her knees for a moment, then dragged herself upright again. “Muawwwwagh,” she continued, reaching for Tritter’s face.

“She’s a zombie!” Whitner screamed. “You have to shoot her in the head!”

“No, this isn’t happening,” Tritter kept repeating. “This isn’t happening.”

He fired again and hit her in the chest. Cameron grunted, but didn’t slow down. She now had a good grip on his Hazmat helmet, and her bony fingers peeled it away like an orange rind.

“The head!” Wilson shouted. “Go for the head!” He thought about running to Tritter’s side and beating back the monster that had been Cameron, but Tritter seemed to be losing control of his shotgun, waving it all over the place.

Cameron wasn’t backing off. She bared her rotting teeth and lunged at him again. Tritter managed to block her with the stock of his gun.

“No such thing,” he continued repeating. “This isn’t happening. There’s no such thing!”

Chase looked around wildly. “We can’t just stand here,” he said. He grabbed the spear from Foreman’s numb fingers and leapt forward, his weapon poised to stab Cameron in the belly.

Tritter’s gun went off again and Chase fell to the floor.

“No!” Wilson cried. He dropped to his knees and rolled the man over. The wound in his chest was bleeding profusely. Wilson applied pressure and kept an eye on Cameron’s movements. “Don’t you die,” he whispered to Chase. “Don’t you dare die now.”

Two more hands joined Wilson’s in covering Chase’s injury. Wilson looked up to see House’s gaze fixed on his young charge.

“Breathe, Chase,” House coaxed. “Stay with us. Breathe, come on.”

Chase’s eyelids fluttered as he struggled to stay conscious. Lightning crashed again, and Tritter screamed. Cameron had him by the throat.

Wilson watched, frozen next to the injured Chase, as Cameron dragged the detective across the room and onto the balcony. Tritter’s limbs flailed in the bulky Hazmat suit, and his foot kicked at the grappling hook on the concrete rim.

Wilson cursed as he watched the hook teeter and fall to the ground below. He had to avert his eyes when Cameron chewed a large flap of flesh from Tritter’s skull. He heard bones snap, and when Wilson looked back, the man was dead in Cameron’s grasp.

She looked up blankly and smeared his brain tissue over her lips.

“Gaaauoogh,” she moaned, a noise of contentment.

“Chase?” House said. “Chase!?”

Wilson gazed down again at the bloody mess oozing between his and House’s fingers. Chase’s eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. He was gone.

“God damn it all,” Whitner said quietly, bringing a shaky hand to her forehead.

Foreman sighed. “Should I kill Cameron?” he asked, retrieving his spear from the ground.

House rose with some effort and grabbed his cane. “No,” he said. “I’ve got this one.”

He picked up his snow shovel and limped his way into the office. Only the slump of his shoulders and the gore on the carpet belied the fact that it wasn’t a normal day at work for him. House made his way to the threshold of the balcony, where Cameron was still devouring Tritter’s lifeless body.

“Oh, Cameron,” House sighed, watching her. “You always did try so hard to please people.”

The woman looked up from her feeding and groaned incoherently.

“Yeah,” House muttered. “Same here.”

One quick swipe and Cameron’s headless corpse hit the floor of the rain-soaked balcony.

Wilson turned away at the sight of House hunting through the office. He stood up and looked at Whitner. “Do we have enough of Chase’s blood to make a serum?” he asked.

From inside his office, House called, “The cell phone’s dead, but the iPod still has juice!”

She rubbed her temples and shook her head. “Not nearly enough,” she answered.

“Not even…” Wilson glanced at House standing in the rain, hair plastered against his forehead and whooping with joy at the extra cartridges he’d found on Tritter’s body. “Not even one dose?”

Whitner followed his gaze, furrowed her brow and opened her mouth to speak. But she was interrupted by a new moan, this time from Chase.

“Holy shit!” Foreman jumped back from the reanimated body as it reached out for his pant leg. Acting only by instinct, he drove his spear directly into Chase’s head, shattering his skull. The body twitched, then stilled.

“He turned?” Wilson gasped. “How…?”

“Guess he wasn’t immune after all,” House murmured, dripping rainwater in the Diagnostics doorway. “Wilson was right. It was just another infection that slowed down the virus.”

“Now what the fuck are we supposed to do?” Whitner sighed. “We have to move soon. The other zombies will have heard those shots.”

House hoisted the shotgun against his shoulder. “Looks like the rules have changed,” he said. “We’re going to kill the horde before they kill us.”

He began limping his way back to the elevator.

“Wait!” Wilson flung his hands out, palms up, to show how lost he was. “What’s our plan? It’s hundreds versus a few dozen.”

“We’re getting the others,” House said without slowing down. “Then we’re going to blow this popsicle stand.”

Foreman shrugged. “Making a run for it…does seem like the only option left,” he said. He picked up House’s discarded shovel and followed him to the elevator.

Whitner wheeled herself past Wilson slowly. “Nothing else to do,” she echoed. On her way, she dropped the useless vial of Chase’s blood to the floor and left it behind.

Wilson glanced at the three bodies on the ground and listened to the rain pounding on the windows. With a sigh, he followed as well.

Once they were safely back in the cafeteria, there was a quick stop at the sink to wash their hands of tainted blood. Then House roused all the sleeping patients and began barking orders.

“Everyone get up. It’s time to go. Come on, come on,” he chanted, jabbing at sleeping bodies with the tip of his cane. “And does anyone know how to use this thing?” he asked, raising the shotgun over his head.

One nurse stepped forward, timidly lifting her hand in the air. “I was in the Army,” she offered.

House tossed her the gun, which she caught. “Let’s hope you’re not full of shit,” he leaned forward to read her nametag, “Barbara.”

“House, you don’t know how to shoot a gun?” Foreman asked incredulously while helping an old woman to her feet.

House shrugged and picked up his blue backpack. “Give me a blunt object any day,” he grunted, shoving items into the bag. “What about you, G? No experience poppin’ caps?”

Foreman sighed. “…No,” he answered, his voice dejected.

Wilson gazed at the flurry of activity with a heavy heart. Even if they succeeded and made it out of the building, House was still a dead man. Wilson’s grip on the bright red fire axe tightened.

He wondered if he could go through with killing his best friend. His…whatever he was. His House, he finally decided. Could he kill his House?

The bundle at his feet shifted and the little dark-haired girl crawled out, rubbing her sleepy eyes. “What’s going on, Dr. Wilson?” she asked him.

“Come on, honey,” he soothed. “We’ve got to get ready to leave.” He bent down and eased the saline line out of her arm. “How do you feel?”

“I feel fine,” Lindsey said, wriggling out of her layers of sheets. “I have to ask you…”

“What is it?” he asked absentmindedly, pressing a tympanic thermometer into her ear and glancing at the reading. Her temperature was back to normal; the broad-spectrum antibiotics must have worked, he mused.

“Will you…”

Wilson reached out to check the pulse on her thin wrist. His fingertips brushed against something, and he examined the skin there.

A bite. Small and scabbed-over, but the teeth marks were unmistakable. Human. Or something like it.

“You…” he stuttered. “You were bitten?”

Her bright green eyes gazed up at Wilson. “Will you protect me from the monsters?” she whispered quietly.


Continue to Part 7.