Clara sat at the edge of her bed, her head in her hands.Things hadn't changed much. Joan almost felt a pang of remorse at her treatmentof the woman. She had liked her well-enough, but when it came to the safety ofpatients in her hospital, nothing could be left to chance. Joan didn't have alot of women friends; hell, she didn't have a lot of friends period. It's hardto keep friends when you have a fucked up schedule and a sense of duty thatwon't quit, but she had liked Clara right from the start.
If there was a chance that she could get Clara out ofquarantine, then she would make it happen... although, she wasn't likely tolike what she saw. Joan switched the camera's feed over to show Courtney'scell. He was still bound to the bed, his arms and legs struggling to freehimself. She switched the channel again. Sick guards. Again. The crazy old ladybound to the bed. Again. More sick guards.
She cycled through all of the cameras and came back toMolly's room. This time a tear did come to her eye, but it had barely formedbefore it was forgotten.
"What the fuck?" The words tumbled from hermouth unbidden as Molly sat up and began banging on the door to her cell. Joanput her hand to her head to make sure she didn't have a fever. Either she wasinfected and hallucinating, or Molly had just risen from the dead.
Chapter 32: Boot Camp
Zeke didn't fight the cops as he was led into thestation. There was no point in it, and honestly, he doubted the cops wouldbelieve a word he said after having heard the EMT's side of the story. The copshadn't said more than a few words to him anyway. From the ever-present chatteron the radio of the police car, Zeke understood that it was kind of a busynight. He didn't realize how busy until he was shoved through the talldouble-doors of the police station.
The place appeared to be a madhouse. Officers wererushing around the room. Benches were lined with people in various states ofinjury and dishevelment. A large bald man erupted from the back area, and beganyelling at the cops who were escorting him, "Where the hell have you been?All hell is breaking loose out there, and you two are out for a joyride!"The cop made to answer the man, who Zeke assumed was the police chief, but hejust rumbled right on over them, "Stow that man, and get your ass to thebriefing room. We've got a lot of shit going down, and we don't have time toobserve the formalities. Someone will take care of him."
One of the cops led Zeke to an open spot on a bench. Zekeplopped down, as the cops handcuffed one of his arms to a brass bar that wasset into the concrete wall with heavy steel bolts. Without even saying goodbye,the two cops hustled out of sight and into a group of offices. All that wasleft were two officers doing booking and desk duty and a whole lot of peoplechained to a wall.
Zeke didn't like being treated the way he was beingtreated. Looking down the bench, he didn't think anyone else did either. All hewanted was to get booked, get a cot, and get some winks, because the way shitwas going down, he didn't know how much longer it would be safe to sleepanywhere.
He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, and wished thatthis was the old days when a person could smoke anywhere they wanted to. He'dprobably be issued a citation and be forced to put it out if he lit one up now.Oh well, they could bill his ass.
Zeke watched as the two officers at the desk tried to bookan obviously drunk man at the main desk. One man was standing behind theprisoner, a man in a reddish-brown leather jacket, whose swaying was making itrather difficult for the two cops to get his fingerprints.
"Hold him still, Phillips," yelled the red-faceddesk clerk.
Phillips, the booking clerk wrapped his arms around theprisoner in an effort to keep him from swaying all over the place, "Godthis guy smells like shit. Hurry up, will ya, Dan?"
Zeke pulled his pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He heldthem out to the man sitting next to him, a black man with a worried face and anair of shock about him. The only response from the man was a slow nod of hishead as he declined. Zeke shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "Suityourself," and then he pulled a smoke from the pack. In one smooth motion,he pulled his lighter from his pocket lit the cigarette, and leaned backagainst the wall. He would have let out a nice long, "Aaahhh," butthe sensation was too good to waste on words.
The smoke billowed into the air hanging there like thesoul of a dead man. He got two full, relaxed puffs out before the desk clerknoticed.
"Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?"Dan yelled, his face looking like an undercooked sausage ready to burst.
Zeke waved at the man, and took another puff. The deskclerk re-focused on the task at hand, but Zeke heard him mutter something abouta "goddamn zoo" and "not making enough to deal with thisshit." He ashed on the tile floor with his free hand, when the black mannext to him spoke up.
"It's all going down, man."
Zeke blew smoke out of his nostrils and ignored the man,but he kept speaking anyway. "This is it. This is the end."
Dan swore loudly as the drunk man knocked the ink pad offof the desk and onto the ground.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Zekeresponded.
"Shit ain't right, man. The dead be up and walkin'around out there. These cops think it's some sort of game, but the shit isgoing down."
Zeke's first inclination was to tell the man that he wasnuts. His second inclination was to start thinking of a way out of the policestation. His third inclination
