Inside an empty cubicle, Dylan undressed and placed her stuff on the small wooden bench provided. She opened the taps and waited for the basin to fill, adjusting the temperature until it was just right. Feet first, she stepped into the tub and eased back into the steaming water. Her eyes drifted shut, and a smile played on her lips. “This is the life.”
After a few minutes, she sat upright to wash. It was difficult using only one hand, but she managed. Her fingers traced across the numerous injuries she’d accumulated on her journey to Fort Knox: The cut on her scalp thanks to crazy Maddie. That one still had stitches in it. Another one on her forehead and a jagged slash across her palm, both due to Frankie’s zombie boyfriend. At least, they’d closed up, forming thin scars she’d carry for life. She was healing, but slowly, and had yet to regain her former vitality.
Her bitten arm, wrapped tightly in bandages, dangled over the side. She didn’t have to see it to know what it looked like. Dr. Knowles had done the best he could, but the man was no plastic surgeon. It was a hack job, the damaged tissue brutally cut away, and the remnants stitched together until the arm looked like a Frankenstein special.
Dylan shuddered. It was a constant reminder of how close she’d come to death and insanity. A memory she’d much rather forget. Even now, Ray and his buddies haunted her dreams, their horrific deaths at her hands forever branded on her soul.
She shook her head. “Forget it. It’s done.”
Dylan quickly rinsed her hair, mindful of George at the door. If she took too long, he’d come looking for her. They were all scared of her. Scared and wary. At first, she couldn’t understand why. She’d been cured, hadn’t she? She wasn’t going to become a zombie anymore.
Then Tara explained. Even though she’d been cured, there remained a chance that she could relapse. That the virus could overcome the cure. Hence her enforced quarantine. This, Dylan already knew.
But there was more.
Two others, besides Dylan, had successfully received the cure. Saul, Tara’s companion and bodyguard, and a little girl. Both exhibited occasional side-effects that Tara was sure would present in Dylan as well. Fits of extreme aggression.
“And that’s why they’re all shit scared of me,” Dylan said with a sharp frown. It felt strange to be the object of such intense fear and hatred. Nor did she look forward to going nuts again and ripping someone else’s throat out. “Wouldn’t that be awesome?”
Dylan dried off and slipped the hospital gown over her head. The nurses had taken all her clothing when she arrived, so she had no option but to wear the flimsy cotton dress and panties. Even worse, it was open at the back, the two flaps tied together with string. She was forever holding it shut with one hand, not willing to grant anyone a free look at her ass.
Not that there’s much of it left anymore, she grumbled in her head. And the hospital food isn’t helping either. I wouldn’t feed that slop to a dog.
After brushing her teeth, she gathered up her stuff and prepared to leave when the lights went off. Plunged into darkness, Dylan froze on the spot. Her former fears came rushing back, and her heart rate sped up until it raced in her chest. Licking her dry lips, she called out, “George? What’s happening?”
No answer.
“George?”
Dylan edged forward, one hand stretched out into the unknown until she encountered the wall. She pressed her back against it and shut her eyes in an attempt to calm down. In the distance, a siren began to wail. It grew louder and louder until the sound vibrated through the walls and floor beneath her naked feet. It could only mean one thing.
A breach.
“No. It can’t be. Not here. It’s supposed to be safe here,” Dylan whispered, her voice harsh in her ears. Terror flooded her veins. She’d been warned about the siren. It meant that the infected had breached the compound. They were inside.
She crept sideways on trembling legs, arms stretched out until she felt the door beneath her fingertips. Her hand gripped the handle, and she cracked it open an inch. Inky darkness met her eyes. “George?”
Still no answer.
Her anxiety ratcheted up several knots.
Where could he be?
“George!”
Still nothing but the echo of her voice up and down the passage. The hair on the back of her head rose, and goosebumps pebbled her skin.
Then the back-up generators kicked in, and the lights in the hallway flickered on, much to her relief. She looked to either side. The place was deserted with no signs of George or the nurse. Where were they? What was happening?
The siren continued its wailing cry, and Dylan knew she was in trouble. They all were. “Shit, what now? I’ve got no clothes, no weapons. And what about Alex and Amy?”
Thinking about her friends calmed her galloping heart, and she was able to focus on the situation at hand. Her brain switched into survival mode, and she remembered something she’d seen a few days ago.
On silent feet, she jogged to the spot until she reached it. Bolted to the wall was a red box with an ax inside. One of those “Break Glass in Case of Emergency” boxes. Ditching the soap and toothpaste, she wrapped the towel around her fist and smashed the glass with one solid blow. After clearing away any sharp bits, she plucked out the ax, hefting it with both hands. It wasn’t a gun, but it was better than nothing.
Faint cries emitted from the occupied ward across the hall as other patients woke up from the noise. The door opened, and an older woman stuck her head through the opening. “What’s going on?”
Dylan shrugged. “I’m not sure, Ma’am, but you’d better go inside and barricade the door from the inside.”
“Is it an attack?”
