Waiting to Die (Book 1) Read online

  “Sure thing,” he nods and grabs the next gurney.

  ·2

  “I’m telling you,” Scarlet protests, “they were dead. No heartbeat, no pulse, dead!”

  “All right, calm down, lady,” the officer says, holding his hands up to quiet the woman down. “I need you to start at the beginning again. This time, a little slower, please.”

  “She’s telling the truth, I saw them too,” Greg interrupts. “There’s no way in hell those things were alive.”

  “I’ll get her statement first and then I’ll get to you,” the officer shoots a look at the security guard.

  Greg holds up his hands in surrender and leans back in the chair. He smiles at the two-way glass on the wall and gives it a wink. How stupid do they think we are? He asks himself. Probably not stupid, he corrects, more along the lines of crazy. Through his thoughts, he can hear the woman recite the exact same story, but slower as the officer instructed.

  “Listen,” the officer begins, “we’ve been getting some strange calls in the last twenty-four hours. If there’s something you know that you’re not telling us, I suggest now would be the time to come clean.”

  “I give up,” Scarlet says, laying her head on the table.

  “I’m serious,” the officer replies. “This is not a joke. Whatever is going on out there, you two seem to be the first ones in the city to have known about it.”

  “We’re telling you everything we know,” Greg says. “Those things came out of nowhere. If they were alive, that’s something your people would have more information on than us.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean,” the officer asks, tilting his head as he waits for an explanation.

  “I think you know exactly what that means,” Greg replies. “The government does all sorts of weird shit. It’s none of my business if some of that shit happens to wash ashore at the dockyard.”

  “Great, you’re one of those guys,” the officer rolls his eyes. “I’ll be back in a bit. Why don’t you two see if you can get your stories straight and we’ll continue this later,” he says, rolling down the sleeves of his uniform. He fastens the door behind him with a click as the lock engages.

  “They don’t believe us,” Scarlet says.

  “I wouldn’t believe us either.” Greg shakes his head. “It’s not the most believable story.”

  “Still, you would think they would have sent someone down there to see for themselves.”

  “That’s not proper procedure,” he says sarcastically. “First they have to bore us to death and then they’ll get to the details.”

  “Jim, do you actually believe these people are involved?” the detective asks.

  “They have to know something,” the officer replies. “They came in here last night with this halfcocked story about dead people at the pier. They were the first to report anything out of the ordinary, and I intend to find out exactly what they know.”

  “I’m telling you, they don’t know anything,” the detective states calmly. “If they did, they sure as hell wouldn’t be reciting the same story over again. What’s this, the seventh or the eighth time?”

  “It doesn’t matter how many times they say it, I don’t believe them. They know something else, I can feel it.”

  “Jim,” the detective begins, “sometimes feelings are wrong.”

  “They know something,” he reaffirms.

  “Either way,” the detective sighs, “we don’t have any evidence to hold them. You have one more round of questioning and then we have to let them go.”

  Jim adjusts his firearm on his belt and wipes at his face in a single swipe that distorts his features. “Fine,” he says and walks back into the room. He looks at the man and woman and turns away. “You’re free to go,” he says over his shoulder and walks out, leaving the door open.

  Scarlet lets out a sigh of relief. “Is he serious?”

  “I think so,” Greg says, still staring at the door.

  The police station is bustling with activity as officers are dispatched through bright, glowing computer screens. The glare of blue uniforms blur, flashing badges of brilliant silver as they scurry through the hallways, service pistols tapping lightly at their legs.

  “Yes ma’am,” the operator says into the phone. “I understand that, but …” She is cut short by the person on the other end of the line, screaming frantically into the mouthpiece.

  Another operator tries to calm someone through an emergency. “No, I don’t expect you to kill your wife, sir. What I’m saying is that you need to …”

  “All units to 6159 …” another woman says into the radio, her voice calm, yet stern.

  “It looks like all hell has broken loose,” Greg says over his shoulder as several officers shuffle by.

  “What’s going on?” Scarlet asks confused.

  “I don’t know, but I have a feeling it has something to do with those things we saw the other night.”

  “Cuff him, goddamn it,” an officer says, pinning a man to the floor. The man is rabid, jerking under the weight of the officer, trying to get out of his grip. “Put some fucking cuffs on him!” he shouts again.

  The melee erupts into several officers pouncing on the man, trying to restrain his flailing limbs. Beneath the man saliva is beginning to pool, making the tile slick and unmanageable as the cops try to subdue him. He snaps and barks out as handcuffs are drawn.

  “I think this would be a good time to leave,” Greg says, sidestepping the ruckus.

  From behind, Scarlet presses herself against his back, letting him lead the way. She nearly trips on the criminal’s arm as he reaches out. She catches his gaze and jerks back. He snarls at her and snaps his teeth. His eyes are bloodshot and focused on her ankle, only inches away. She lets out a whimper and Greg pulls her away from the scuffle, lifting her off the floor and placing her next to himself as he guides her to the front of the police station.

  Outside, the streets are deserted. The only activity is the occasional squad car rocketing from the rear parking structure with sirens blaring and lights flashing atop pristine black and white. Tires squeal and grip as the car takes a tight turn, distancing the sound of the siren as it speeds away.

  As the pair head toward Scarlet’s car, they notice a news team situated off to the side of the station. The reporter is feigning her most convincing smile, motioning to the rough brick exterior of the station behind her before returning to the camera with the brightest smile money can buy.

  “Chief Graham was not available for comment, but one of his top aides said that a report will be issued soon,” the woman says. “It seems that the civil unrest that is gripping the rest of the Nation is just as strong here in Southern California with little relief expected in the coming days. Now here’s Elizabeth with the latest from the Center for Disease Control.”

  Once the reporter has finished the taping, Scarlet approaches her. “Excuse me,” she begins. “What’s going on?”

  The reporter looks at her oddly. “Have you been living in a box?” She laughs.

  “Sort of,” Scarlet replies.

  “In that case, you can catch my report on the six o’clock news,” she says, handing off the microphone. “Where’s my coffee?” she asks no one in particular and scurries off to the news van.

  “Thanks so much,” Scarlet replies with a sarcastic wave, “bitch.”

  “Makes you want to pack up all your stuff and move out here, doesn’t it?” Greg asks with a laugh.

  “Since I missed my interview, I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Scarlet replies. “Do you need a lift home?”

  “That would be great.” He nods. “I can’t believe my supervisor never showed up. The security company is usually on top of things like this.”

  “Maybe I should take you to their offices.”

  “No, it wouldn’t do any good,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll just call them from the house and leave a message. I mean, we have procedures to follow … I can’t believe no one was there t
o answer when the cops called.”

  A deep smell of linen wafts through Scarlet’s car as Greg enters. The dashboard gleams an illustrious black, shining like glass in the evening sun, offsetting the instrument panel and a clean, tan steering wheel.

  Scarlet flips the sun visor down, revealing a mirror. “I look like hell,” she says.

  “You look better than anyone else would under the circumstances,” Greg says offhandedly.

  “Is that a compliment?” she asks, raising her brow.

  He nods and smiles. “You bet it is,” he replies. “I was wondering if you would like to maybe … get something to eat, you know. And maybe we could talk for a while before you have to leave.”

  She smirks and glances over at him. “Why, are you trying to flirt with me?”

  Greg awkwardly glances to the floor. “No, well … um …”

  “Because it would be okay if you were,” she says.

  “In that case, yes I am,” he admits and quickly turns back toward her with a smile.

  “Do you know a good place?” she asks. “I’m starving.”

  “Yeah,” he replies, pointing. “If you keep going straight, there’s a place up ahead that serves the best slice of pizza around.”

  As she drives, Scarlet notices how empty the streets look. “Is it usually this quiet around here?”

  “No, actually it isn’t,” Greg says.

  He hadn’t noticed before, being that he was distracted with Scarlet, but she was right, it looked like a ghost town. As they pass businesses, ‘closed’ signs read clearly in their windows. The inactivity took him back, making him strain his eyes to find signs of life beneath the dim glow of street lights.

  “Because, if it is, I wouldn’t mind living here,” she says.

  “No, really, there’s something going on. Normally, this part of town would be full at this time of the day,” he replies. “You, know, people hitting the restaurants and the movie theater down the block. This is really weird.”

  “Maybe we should …” Scarlet begins to reply, but out of the corner of her eye, she can see a man shuffling across the street. She swerves, banking the wheel hard and hits the brakes as he nears.

  She screams as the man glances off the front of the car and flies through the air. His body is limp as he arches and finally drops to the asphalt before skidding a few feet into an unmoving pile.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit!” she yells as she grips the steering wheel.

  “Wait here,” Greg says, flinging the door open, “and call an ambulance!”

  “But I don’t have a cell phone,” she says, but he is already out of earshot.

  Greg runs to the body as it twitches in the middle of the road. One of the man’s legs is bent at an unnatural angle underneath his body, angling out from behind his back as he stares upward toward the sky.

  He leans down to inspect the man. “It’s going to be all right, don’t move,” he says, placing his hand on the man’s chest.

  The man jerks his head at the sound of Greg’s voice and his eyes settle on his neck. With a quick snap, the man lurches forward, narrowly missing Greg’s throat.

  “What the fuck?” Greg says as he jerks back and stumbles. He falls backward as the man reaches out. Popping sounds crackle from the man’s hip as he drags himself forward.

  Greg pushes himself away and gets to his feet. He stares at the man gnashing and snapping at the air that separates them. With a deep, throaty moan the man inches along, dragging his leg behind as it unravels loosely and straightens out.

  “Go, go!” Greg shouts, slamming the car door.

  “What happened? What’s wrong?” Scarlet asks.

  “Drive!” he yells.

  She hits the gas pedal and steers around the body in the road as it reaches out. Shocked, she stares at the man as she negotiates around him. She recoils from the look of hatred on his face and presses her back firmly into the driver’s seat.

  “What … what’s wrong with him?” she asks as her voice stammers over the words.

  “He tried to fucking bite me!” he says through a crackle in his throat.

  “Like at the dock?” she asks.

  “Like at the dock,” he confirms, staring back in shock.

  ·3

  Bill deposits the newest arrival in refrigeration, checks off the body on the list that hangs on the wall, and heads into the examination room. The handle to the door doesn't quite catch, and only stays in position with the friction of the mechanism keeping it in place.

  An eerie silence fills the examination room. Bill looks about, realizing that the body from the slab is missing. On the floor, red marks scrape along the otherwise pristine tile as if something had been pulled along like a sack of garbage. Dr. Pratt's glasses lay broken, bent at the center and with one lens dislodged, thrown several feet from the frames.

  “Dr. Pratt?” Bill cautiously calls out.

  Wet suction noises emit from the janitor’s closet like meat being dragged across a butcher’s block. The sound startles Bill, causing him to turn abruptly toward the noise. His eyes squint as if he were trying to look through the wall rather than face the fear that slowly builds in his chest. Taking a step, his shoe squeaks against the smooth tile, echoing throughout the room, breaking the silence. Suddenly, the sound stops and all that is left is Bill's frantically pumping heart, knocking out an erratic rhythm against his ribs. He grits his teeth as he tries to muster up his courage to move forward.

  “Dr. Pratt?” Bill calls out reluctantly.

  “…haaaa,” a gentle hiss comes in response; brittle and wet like fall leaves blown across a mud puddle.

  The hairs on the back of Bill's neck stand at attention, making him freeze as his heart skips a beat. A hand emerges from inside the doorway, pulling itself along the floor, sliding on the blood that drips from the tips of its skinless fingers. An elbow grazes a mop that is leaned against the wall, pushing it over with a clack. The wood handle cracks against the floor and bounces a few times before finally laying prone.

  Bill jumps backward as a deformed face leers in. The cadaver snarls, emitting ghastly trails of thick, red goo that drips from the edges of its torn mouth and splashes gently against the floor. The creature’s eyes flash wide once it notices Bill, and it rasps and reaches out as if it were trying to devour the man with its gruesome stare. It pulls itself forward, gaining only inches as it claws at the grout along the tile. Waste smears in its wake like the residue from a trash bag, dragged along by careless hands.

  Again, Bill jerks backward. His foot crashes down on the remnants of Dr. Pratt's glasses and he slips. Trying to regain his balance, he throws his arms out awkwardly, but he over corrects and falls flat on his back. With a putrid snarl, the body leers at him, wrenching itself forward on its remaining arm.

  Bill tries to scream, but all that escapes is a whimper. A tingling sensation arises from his face and moves slowly through his body, swelling his tongue. He flails backward again and scampers across the floor to get as far away from the corpse as he can.

  Above him, he can hear scampering from upstairs, coming through the ceiling as if a riot had broken out in the hospital. A muted scream from the first floor shakes him back into reality and he pushes himself up to his feet.

  “Rwahhhhaaa…” the sound comes from behind him, wet and deflated.

  Bill cocks his head, slowly turning until he can see the corpse from the refrigeration room standing only a few yards behind him. It almost looks human with only a single wound distinguishing its otherwise gray skin, contrasting with brown and red of clotted blood that has formed around exposed tissue. The creature’s mouth hangs slack as it steps forward like a child on unsure legs. Slop drips from its chin, dangling precariously, waiting to drop with the slightest movement. Lurching forward, the dead thing raises its arms as if beckoning Bill closer.

  Frantically, Bill gazes around the room for something to defend himself with. His gaze settles on a bone saw next to the examination table, glimmering from the
florescent light that shines down from above. With precision and speed, he launches himself toward the table and snatches up the tool. The stainless steel tray crashes to the floor, sending the other instruments it contained in all directions.

  The instrument feels heavy in his hand, weighted at the handle for balance. He holds the device up, wielding it like a cleaver above his head, trying to threaten the creature that slowly shambles toward him.

  “Alright, motherfucker,” he warns, “I'll do it. Don't think I won't,”

  “Ahhhh,” the creature replies gaseous and continues to move forward.

  Bill angles the weapon back as far as his arm will reach and launches himself at the body. With a popping slurp, the blade sinks deeply into the corpse’s forehead, wedging itself into bone and brain. A spray of fluid erupts from the ghoul’s head, sending pulp and gore out at an angle to the awaiting wall. In an arch, the slaughter hits, instantly coursing its way to the floor in long, thin streams, gathering at the crevices of the tile and pooling along the grout. As if a light switch has been turned off, the creature’s eyes go blank and it falls to its knees before collapsing to the floor with a wet slap.

  Heart racing from fear and determination, Bill turns his attention to the other cadaver. Barely out of the janitor’s closet, it continues to struggle forward, only gaining a few feet since the last time Bill looked at it. He almost feels sorry for the crawling thing at his feet as it tries to pull itself forward. Its movements are like misery, like torment, like the torture of an unknowing soul.

  “What the fuck are you?” he asks as the creature wiggles forward like a worm, bending its neck back to see the man above it.

  Bloodshot eyes stare at Bill, wide and intent as it reaches out, seemingly pained by its lack of motion. A rasp of air escapes its lungs like a leaky valve, hissing as it claws itself forward and pivoting its jaw to take a bite out of thin air.