Empire's End

Thirty-Four / Hospital

Dalton kicked open the ER doors and helped Briggs into the admitting room. “Rotters! They’re in the city!”

The nurses froze in place, transfixed with horror. Dalton set Briggs in a chair. “His ankle’s broken. Look, can somebody help him?”

“I’m fine,” Briggs said through gritted teeth. “This place is going to be packed in a few minutes.” He pulled out his radio. “Briggs to Fetters. Come in Lieutenant.”

“Fetters here sir,”e was lift

“Are the men in place?”

“Sir… you’ve been removed from command. We’re taking orders from Senator Cullen. He’s instructed us to secure the perimeter and—”

“I know.” Briggs dropped the radio into his lap. “Fuck me.”

And moments later, just as he’d predicted, people began stumbling into the hospital, most covered in blood, all hysterical.

Dalton knelt by Briggs. “We’ve got infected pouring in here.”

The nurses were refusing to help the wounded. They locked themselves in the triage station. People began beating on the doors and walls.

“Calm down! Calm the fuck down!” yelled a block cop. “Listen to me dammit!” He saw the two soldiers and ran over. “We gotta get the fuck outta here.”

“Got any ideas?” Dalton asked. The cop nodded and pointed through a pair of doors to the emergency room itself.

Dalton helped Briggs to his feet. They walked slowly past the others — far too panicked to notice, anyway — and through the doors.

“All right.” The cop slammed the doors and threw the bolt, then grabbed a gurney from against the wall and dragged it over. “Those poor bastards are already dead. We gotta start building a barricade.”

“What’s your name, son?” Briggs asked.

“Rhodes,” the cop replied, pulling a Glock from his jacket.

“I thought you didn’t carry,” said Briggs.

“I do.” Rhodes motioned to Dalton. “Help me out here!”

They started stacking chairs and medical equipment in front of the doors. They heard cries from the other side.

“Let us in!”

“We need help!”

“I’m not infected!”

“Poor bastards,” Rhodes said again.

They were throwing themselves against the doors now. Then someone screamed.

“ROTTERS!”

Briggs, Dalton and Rhodes listened silently to the sounds of death and mayhem. The assault on the doors ended as people tried to escape admitting. It didn’t sound like anyone got out.

“Hey,” someone said softly. Dalton and Rhodes both spun, guns at the ready.

It was a doctor. Hands raised, he said, “I’m clean. I’ve been in here the whole time.”

He extended a hand. “Name’s Zane. So it’s finally happening.”

“It’s happening,” Briggs sighed, sweating from the pain in his ankle.

“Listen Doctor,” Dalton asked, shaking his hand, “you got any morphine?”

“I don’t need it,” Briggs said. “I’ve gotta stay straight.”

“You’re in agony. You’re no good like this.”

Zane walked over to the orderlies’ station and rummaged around until he found a key. “I’ll be right back with something for you.”

“We need to barricade any other exits in here,” Rhodes said. He ran down the hall.

“We just let those people die,” Dalton mumbled.

“Rhodes was right — they were already dead. It’s my fault. I couldn’t keep them out of the city.”

“There were too many,” Dalton said.

“We knew this was coming.” Briggs clenched his lower leg and moaned. “We tried to tell them, but they wouldn’t listen. They really believed they’d be safe forever.”

There was renewed pounding on the doors. The undead. Briggs hunched over in pain.

“Sir,” Dalton whispered.

“What is it?”

Dalton pried back the collar of Briggs’ shirt. He lowered his head and sighed.

“You’re bit.”

Briggs touched his hand to the wound and looked at the blood on his fingers. He didn’t move or speak for several moments. Then he sat up. “I didn’t even feel it.”

Zane returned with a syringe. “It’s not morphine, but you’ll be floating. You want it?”

Briggs shook his head with a bitter laugh. “No, that’s not what I need.” He looked at Dalton, who nodded and drew his sidearm.

“I’m infected,” said the major. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it.”

Dalton helped him to his feet and into an observation room. He quietly shut the door.

Rhodes was on his way back when he heard the gunshot. “What the hell was that?”

Zane cocked his head to one side, as if listening, and replied, “That’s the Devil laughing.”

Finn Meyer stood back as Pat Morgan and another lieutenant nailed boards across the door to the warehouse where they’d been trapped. “Hurry up!” Meyer barked.

“Help us, Finn!” Morgan shot back.

“Fuck.” He didn’t want to go anywhere near the doors or windows. But the pounding was getting worse. He grabbed a two-by-four off the floor. “Got another fucking hammer?”

“On the table by the nails!” Morgan snapped.

Finn headed over to a window facing the alley. There weren’t any rotters out that way. He’d dick around over here while the others finished up, then collect their guns. If they weren’t willing to give them up, he’d take them.

A hand smashed through the window and seized his throat. “Help!” he croaked. “Fucking help me!”

Morgan rushed to him and buried a hammerclaw in the rotter’s hand. It held on. She dug into the hand until bone snapped. It finally withdrew.

Meyer stumbled back, coughing. “God! I thought that was it, Patti. God.”

“Finn…” she frowned. “You’re bleeding.”

“What?”

“It must have cut you with its fingernails.” She was stepping back from him.

“What?” he shouted. “You can’t get infected that way!”

“If it had blood on its hands…”

They stared at each other. For a second, time stood still.

Meyer was faster.

Morgan slumped to the floor, blood trickling from a hole between her eyes. Meyer’s other lieutenant looked over in shock. “What in the bloody hell?”

Meyer shot him in the heart. Then he wiped his neck clean with a handkerchief while the man gasped his last breaths.

Then he collected their guns.