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Quarantine Day Two
November 8, 2005
Silcock Auto Repair
Galbraith Hills
Malton
“Who the hell are you?”
You’d be surprised at just how much of a badass you can feel like when you’re leveling a handgun at someone. Normally, pointing my issue at another human being isn’t a common part of my ordinary workday. Then again, (I don’t think it bears repeating, But I’ll do it anyway) the walking dead also aren’t a common part of my ordinary workday.
I’d started awake (which was a little weird, considering I’m usually a pretty heavy sleeper) at the sound of someone fiddling around with a nearby door. Bearing in mind that the last time this sort of thing happened, there were a whole bunch of dead people on the other side, I was, understandably, more than a little cautious. I caught the little intruder just as he’d managed to slip the end of a bent-wire coat hangar into the lock for the main entrance.
He was an older man, probably around twenty or so years older than me, with hair just starting to go gray. He dropped his improvised tool and raised his hands the instant he saw my weapon.
Well, ok, then. Intact survival instinct. Good sign. Must be a human. I flicked open the lock, and slowly backed away from the door, but I didn’t lower my pistol. I wasn’t actually planning to shoot the guy, (The weapon was still safed) but he didn’t know that. He kept his hands up as he entered the repair shop. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t taking any chances, and neither was I.
“Easy, Officer. My name’s Gibsom,” he said, keeping his movements slow and careful. I’d been a cop for several years, and in that line of work, you learn to read body language pretty well. My gut was telling me this guy was legit, and I’d come to trust those instincts. “I live here in Galbraith Hills,” he continued on. “I and some of the other locals have been canvassing the area, trying to pinpoint any zombies in the immediate vicinity, and locate other survivors. We’re the good guys. Really.”
“I guess the fact that you haven’t tried to eat me yet shoulda been my first clue,” I said, shoving my issue back into its holster.
He smiled, half-heartedly, probably the best he could manage given how grim the situation was out there. “I’m a doctor. If you like, I can take a look at that shoulder of yours.” He motioned towards my left shoulder, which, I had forgotten, had gotten pretty badly mangled. I’d finally managed to get the bleeding stopped just before I’d fallen asleep earlier, and lucky for me, the blood loss had stayed stopped during the night. It still hurt, though. I was willing to put up with a little bit of pain, but it was still probably a good idea to have the wound looked at by a pro.
“We just met, and already you’re asking me to take my shirt off?”
He laughed, lightly. “No offense intended, but it’s nothing I haven’t seen before, Officer.” He had a comprehensive first-aid kit with him, a bunch of supplies packed up into a small bag he carried over his shoulder. I could only recognize a small portion of the gear he’d stashed away – things like gauze, a pressure dressing, and a couple of IV bags full of saline solution. “Well, the bite took a small chunk of meat out of you,” he said, gingerly probing my injured shoulder with a pair of forceps. “But from what I can see, the bite did nothing that should impede function. I’m going to flush out the wound and bandage it up. It’s not much, but it should help some.”
I winced a little as he went to work with the antiseptic. “Nice to know doctors in this day and age still make house calls.”
“Where were you headed, Officer… -”
“Nixon. I was on my way to Kempsterbank, actually. My sister lives down there. She’s a nurse at St. Ferreol’s, and I haven’t heard from her since the Quarantine.”
He wound a long swath of bandage around my upper arm, secured it with some white medical tape, and handed me back my uniform shirt. “So you’ll be moving on, then?”
“Looks like.”
I noticed a slight frown on his face as I carefully slipped my left arm into the inside of my sleeve. ”I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, putting each item of equipment back into place. “We could use a couple more hands up here.”
“No offense, Doc, but I think you could say the same about the rest of the city.”
“Point taken.”
“I appreciate your help. Really. But I need to try and get to my family. You understand.”
He nodded. “Of course. But if you change your mind, we’d love to have you. The rest of us have been trying to gather together all the other survivors we can find up at Kingslake Walk Fire Station. It’s a few blocks southwest of here, and about as safe as we can make it with our current resources. It’s been serving us as a headquarters since the initial Quarantine declaration. You can find us there.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.”
“Good luck to you.”
“You, too.”
And with that, he was gone. I was still feeling a little lethargic. I knew I had to get on the move again, but part of me argued that if I wasn’t well-rested enough, I’d be an easy mark out on the streets. Best bet would be to find a safe spot, and only move from it if I absolutely had to, or when I was absolutely ready.
Looking back, that was one really bad call.
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Quarantine Day Three
November 9, 2005
They’d broken down the door.
As soon as I’d heard the main gates give, I’d bolted for the side exit. I opened the door, and a gray-skinned arm snaked in and started flailing. I slammed the door shut, whipped it back, and slammed it closed again. Eventually, the zombie on the other side got the hint and pulled its arm back. I managed to get the fire exit properly shut and locked it up, which would keep the zombies off me for a short while, but I still needed a way out.
There was a cart full of auto diagnostic equipment standing near one of the windows. I ran for it, swept all the expensive gear onto the ground, (Thereby adding wanton destruction and property damage to my growing list of offenses) and vaulted on top. The window was frosted glass, and I couldn’t see very well through it, but the coast looked clear. I nudged the frame open. It was one of those that opened out and upwards. Even at full extension, though, there was barely enough room to squeeze through, and no way I could break the hinges holding the glass pane in place. For once, I was glad I’d started skipping all those breakfast donuts.
I poured myself out through the tiny gap, and landed feet-first (thankfully) on top of a closed dumpster just underneath the window. My shoes hit the metal with a bang loud enough to wake everyone on the block (Both the alive and the “not-so-much”). Didn’t have much time. Heads were already turning to track me.
Started running.
Didn’t learn from my previous mistakes, apparently. I got clotheslined. Yes, folks… just like you see on pro wrestling. Someone sticks their arm straight out, and your neck thumps right into it. Not quite as flashy as “The People’s Elbow,” but more than enough to get the job done. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and my feet out from under me. Rest of what happened next got a little blurry.
I remember trying to get back up as a group of about six or seven of the ghoulies formed a ragged circle around where I’d fallen. I remember thinking to myself that I wasn’t going to let myself go out like this.
“Damn it, Coll… don’t let them do this to you… you get your Irish up, and you show those zombie sons of bitches who’s boss!”
… and it was about then that the “Alpha” zombie hit me in the head with a pipe.
And that was that for getting up and getting away. I hit the ground again, face first, instinctively rolling into a fetal position for whatever good it would do me. (Not much.) I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think. My head hurt worse than any hangover I’d ever experienced, and I’ve had some pretty bad ones… like that one time I drank half a tub of Purple Jesus.
Oh, fuck me.
I think my last coherent thought before slipping into unconsciousness was, “Um… I really hope he doesn’t actually do that…”
