Chapter 21 Infection

The pulsing sirens wailed like screams, piercing the night sky. Ambulances pulled up to the Northwestern Memorial Hospital emergency room, disgorging bloodied paramedics and patients.

Broken bones protruded from their skin. Limping and struggling to walk - their faces filled with pain before collapsing. Blood pooled like spilled wine onto the gravel.

Patients tore the straps off the gurneys and hurled them like projectiles. Dr. Barry Matouse watched them from the admit desk with security guard Jakub

"Jakub, we're being overrun here, they're killing our medics. Look at them.

Put security on high alert and barricade the doors. Nobody else gets in or out until we know what the hell this is."

"Dr. Matouse, it's the security we have to be scared of. They are roaming halls on the sixth floor, "

"What are they doing in the psychiatric ward, get them down here now?"

"I'm not going up there it is a bloodbath."

Jakub listened to the sound of torturous screams through the static.

"The patients have taken over the nuthouse. Sorry, Dr. Matouse I'm taking my chances out there. I quit."

Jakub threw his walkie-talkie at Matouse and scarpered out of the emergency reception towards the ambulance bay.

From another ambulance, wedding guests in tattered formalwear spilled out fighting and biting. The bride's father had his son-in-law in a chokehold while the groom's mother gnashed her teeth inches from his face.

Dr. Matouse frantically dialed the interhospital telephone communication system to other hospitals in the district.

"Northwestern calling in. It's a war zone out here, we need more medical staff. Help!"

Dr. Matouse was getting the same feedback. Rush University Medical Center was being stormed. University of Chicago Medical Center was being terrorized - he found the medical networks in meltdown.

Matouse urgently coordinated a triage with some nurses, snapping at Nurse Garcia for asking too many questions.

"Just do as I say, we don't have time for this!"

It was already too late for poor Jakub. The once sedated bride mercilessly bombed out of the ambulance doors nose tackling him. Sending him crashing into the lifeless bodies of the paramedics.

She tore at his uniform in shreds. Drenches of Jakub's blood stained the once pristine white garments, once a symbol of love and unity now in the fervor of cannibalistic hysteria.

Matouse absorbed the turmoil through the glass doors of the reception. The bride-to-be; her ethereal white gown, now dragging Jakub into the seclusion behind parked cars.

Leaping out from the press junket on the TV, Donald Trump's flaming maniacal eyes glared into the frenzied emergency waiting room.

"My fellow Americans. I come to you tonight with grave news. The country is now facing a serious threat, and I have decided to declare martial law.

This is not a decision that I have made lightly, but I believe it is necessary to protect the safety of our citizens.

If you try to leave your home. I have death squads patrolling the cities. And I mean all the cities. This is very, very bad for you. Together we can make America great again."

Trump stroked the microphone on the podium, baring his white polished dentures.

"Now I would like to personally address the media outlets of CNN, CBS amongst others. You know who you are. It is time for the end of your biased questions and fake news."

Members of the Republican Party swarmed the press gallery like a plague of locusts with a gang mentality, resulting in a fateful end for those present.

The ER descended into pandemonium, riled by Trump’s speech - nurses and orderlies struggled to restrain the flailing patients - they were struggling to control themselves.

One patient broke free from his stretcher and wildly attacked the nearest nurse, clawing at her face as she screamed. Porters rushed to pull him away, but it was too late

Within an hour, every gurney, chair, and space was occupied by another raving lunatic. Diagnosing their symptoms had become impossible. Matouse stared helplessly at the packed ER.

The medical staff working on his shift were beginning to succumb to the same patterns of behaviour as the patients.

This was beyond any natural disease - it was as if humanity's veins now ran with poison instead of blood.

He spotted the head nurse Lena Chun struggling to free an IV from a grabbed patient.

Matouse lunged forward and grabbed the man's wrist, jerking it back with a sharp snap. Then he injected him with enough tranquilliser that could knock out a horse.

"Whatever's happening, it's spreading fast," Matouse rasped.

"This hospital can't contain it any longer. We need to alert the police, the authorities, anybody."

Lena Chun began to sob uncontrollably.

"The police are not coming, they are killing our families on the streets, don't you get it? We are on our own here, it is the end of times. I just want to lie here, and wake up from this bad dream."

From duress, Chun lay in a fetal position on the floor as her body began to shut down. Her spoken truth made Matouse quake, for she was not wrong.

Quivering under Matouse's caress. Dr. Matouse snatched a syringe from an unoccupied gurney of a wandering patient. Tastefully he hitched up the side of her skirt exposing the large anterolateral area of her thigh.

"I need you awake Lena. Sorry."

Dr. Matouse held the syringe in his gloved hand, his thumb poised over the plunger. Her skin was now pale like powdered milk.

The death rattle from her throat emitted a croaky noise from the buildup of mucus in her airways.

He sucked in a large breath and squeezed the plunger administering the adrenaline injection. The shot entered Chun's vein like a serpent slithering into its lair.

Matouse waited for a few moments, hoping for any reaction, he withdrew the syringe and capped it. He wished Chun's heart would race as much as his right now.

Matouse started to wash his hands in the wash basin. From behind him, Chun's body started to move off the floor - her pulse quickening in response to the shot of adrenaline.

Her reflection appeared in the basin mirror, right on his eye line.

“Lena, are you ok? ” Mathouse said turning around.

Her eyes widened, letting out a bloodcurdling squeal, she brandished a sharp surgical scalpel.

Foamy slime-like drool cradled her off-colored blue jaundiced lips. She had come back to life alright. But she was no longer the woman he had known.

Empty. Her eyes were devoid of humanity. She was now like one of them. Coming towards him with muscles contracted,

"Matouse, Dr. Matouse it is time for the killing season."

"Stay back Chun, I do not want to hurt you," Mathouse said running away through a yellow swing entrance door.

Matouse burst into the brightly lit central corridor, with Chun not too far behind. He had to do something to distract her - fast.

Equipment carts and cardiac monitors lined the clinical white walls.

With great gusto, he hoofed a cart down the blue vinyl flooring.

Its frame rattled, but it would take more than that to stop Lena Chun. Chun Teep kicked the cart, sending a stockpile of medical equipment flying.

Matouse could feel the danger ramping up now. He pushed a throng of wheelchairs towards her, but they just skidded out of control, careening down the hallway. Crashing into a standalone IV machine.

Matouse tripped on a wheelchair ramp, losing his balance. The sound of her flat shoes patted like war drums.

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Then Chun's evil face materialized before him in a twisted amalgamation of sadistic pleasure and deranged madness.

Matouse lay helplessly. The scalpel glinted under the bright surgical lights. Its gleaming edge possessed a dangerous allure for Chun.

"Lena it is me, you do not have to do this. This is not who you are."

Chun twitched like she could hear him, but she could not break out of some emotional cage gripping her.

"I must kill you Dr. Matouse and I don't know why. I cannot control it. I will first make an incision by cutting your right ear off. I will try to be careful and make it as painful as possible."

Chun was caught off guard by the sudden chaos erupting. She stopped in her tracks, her eyes widened with confusion.

A roving gang of infected surgeons with surgical tools emerged through the swing doors. Laying eyes on Chun.

To make matters worse, a roaming horde of infected patients and hospital staff surfaced from the entrance facing Matouse - also wielding surgical tools as makeshift weapons.

With a zombie battle royal about to commence. Matouse took the only option he had left. He scuttled away from the momentarily distracted Chun and ran to the service elevator

He desperately pressed the buttons, with trembling hands, hoping for salvation within those steel walls. With every tick of the clock, the infected closed in clutching their ghastly tools.

Amputation saws gleamed malevolently in their grips. These souls once savors of human life; were now artisans of suffering and pain.

"Come on, come on, hurry up," Matouse said, frantically hammering the buttons for escape.

The elevator seemed impossibly slow. Each passing second threatened to unleash the horde upon him.

He could almost feel their breaths on his neck now. Chun was waving the scalpel like a flick knife fearlessly in the middle of the corridor.

An ophthalmologist called Dr. Reed - with whom Dr. Matouse had a history of professional disagreements - was now barrelling towards him, an amputation saw in his hands - raised high above his head, ready to swing - its serrated rotating teeth ready to give Matouse a new facelift.

Finally, just as hope began to abandon him the elevator doors shuddered open. Matouse dove inside.

“Matouse, time to cut you up,” Reed said from 10 meters away.

The open metallic doors beckoned Dr. Reed forward, and as luck would have it for Matouse the doors began to close. Reed darted forward, the saw becoming lodged, its pointed edge jammed tightly in the slim gap.

Reed clawed and pulled, but the saw wouldn't budge. The doors continued shutting in on themselves, abruptly tearing the saw's grip from Reed’s hand - its spinning blade ricocheted towards Matouse's throat. Matouse flinched out of the way.

Matouse could see Dr. Reed’s rage on the other side of the crack. His eyes swirled with intent.

"I will hunt you down and get you to the next floors. Dr. Matouse," Reed pledged.

Then, he turned and headed for the stairs, eager to begin his hunt.

Matouse locked eyes with Lena Chun through the closing slit for the final time. Her eyes briefly held a flash of recognition.

It was as though she was trying to tell him, beneath the veneer of evil that had taken over her, that she was still there. The kind and sweet nurse he once knew - then her eyes darkened when the Infected descended upon her.

The grinding of the mechanisms obscured all other sounds at first. Then a muffled scream pierced through the closed lift doors.

Wet tearing noises followed, along with the unmistakable cracks and snaps of fracturing bone.

Matouse stumbled back and jammed the button for the upper floors, hoping to distance himself from the carnage.

A brief moment later the lift screeched to a halt on the tenth floor. Matouse braced himself for whatever horrors awaited on the other side of the doors.

They slid open with a ping. Cautiously, he peered out, breathing a brief sigh of relief upon finding the corridor empty for the moment.

It would certainly take Dr. Reed and his motley crew a long time before they would find him in such a large complex.

Matouse began to wander the upper levels down empty hallways. The infected had cleared out rooms, systematically wiping out any remaining pockets of uninfected patients or personnel.

He spotted movement in a darkened room. Matouse flinched before realizing it was only a swaying curtain. A twinge developed under his eye that wouldn't stop vibrating.

There was also an uncontrollable trembling down his leg. Was he holding on to his humanity by a fading thread? The mental anguish was taking its toll.

Abandoned in obstetrics, newborns cried inconsolably in their cribs, their parents having now departed this world. ICU monitors flatlined in unison in the cancer wards.

Operating rooms were strewn with discarded surgical tools, smeared with remnants of devastation. Each new level peeled back another layer of hell.

When he leaned outside, through the smoke-filled windows, an orange-red glow emanated from the city below, whole blocks, consumed by flames.

Billowing clouds obscured familiar skyscrapers and landmarks, transforming the skyline into an unrecognizable vista.

Television screens on the wards of the dead patients showed congregating military forces from around the world.

Hollow gunshots could be heard as far as Lake Michigan and beyond.

The hospital was now a decommissioned tomb of his former dead colleagues and patients that he could no longer care for.

How and why did this all happen? Was it the social engineering of the new world order?

Dr. Matouse could feel it now, the anger building. A wiry increased strength accompanied by popping varicose veins feeding through his body. Convulsive sweats and shakes trembled.

He knew it was a virus of some kind, placed on humanity for someone's gain.

"A virus, you bastards," Matouse shouted violently.

First, he would exact his revenge as the last uninfected before he was lost to the other side. Some animalistic sixth sense was festering inside, telling him that his prey was on the roof.

With the last of his remaining faculties intact, Matouse dislodged a wet chemical fire extinguisher from its bracket.

It did not take long to reach the 18th floor. Matouse staggered out of the elevator into the Green River restaurant.

Half-eaten meals and spilled drinks were scattered across tables and floors. Orderlies lay amongst the disarray.

In the kitchen, catering assistants were slumped over the serving counters. Some with their faces slopped into the dehydrated food, with their throats torn out. Making a blood sauce that smelt of death.

Matouse's stomach churned, feeling the virus now getting stronger inside him.

Secretly he was developing a macabre thirst to inflict pain on others. He walked through the restaurant, his fire extinguisher held at the ready.

He pushed open the doors to the outpatient pavilion. The green roof was covered in a variety of native plants, including sedum, clover, and grasses.

The plants swayed gently in the breeze, creating a soft rustling sound in the cool crisp air.

Matouse could see the lights of Lake Michigan and the Chicago skyline. Skyscrapers mirrored the turmoil of the hospital, each with its own infected battles for survival.

The views of the city brought a crystal clear reality into focus - as if Satan himself had declared Chicago his new playground.

An undercurrent of deranged laughter resonated like a haunting dirge. Matouse maneuvered stealthily behind the solar panels. Tiptoeing through the shadows.

Hospital security guards, whom Jakub had spoken of, were wheeling ill elderly patients up a constructed wheelchair ramp to the edge of the roof of the viewing pavilion.

Leading the gruesome acts was guard Mitchel Thomas, known throughout the hospital for tormenting his coworkers. A vulgar leprechaun-style Boston Celtics tattoo wrapped around his thick neck.

Mitch had always been prone to bullying—just last week he'd smashed a subordinate's phone as a "prank.

Now, a grin split Mitch's face as one of the last wheelchairs tipped. He roared with laughter at the elderly patient's shrieks, high-fiving his partner Frank.

Frank, with his hooped ear stud, chuckled heartily as well.

Mitch whistled a mocking tune into another victim's quivering ear.

"Enjoy the view, Grandpa!" he jeered, giving the chair an extra shove.

Both guards doubled over at the man's wails, slapping their knees. The patients were too weak to fight back.

"Mitch, get the last wheelchair, then we will go to the baby ward."

"Frank, you are a mean son of a bitch." Mitch laughed.

Mitch took a long run-up, reminiscent of an Olympic long jumper, and tipped the final wheelchair over the edge, tumbling the patient onto the angled solar panels far below.

Matouse burned with hatred at their callous cruelty,

The medical gown morphed into a silhouette, plummeting from a dizzying 1,500 feet to the streets of Chicago. As he descended, the patient made his last desperate pleas for salvation.

With a bull-like charge, Dr. Matouse raised the fire extinguisher, catching the guards off guard by the hissing gas and sudden blast of cold air.

They tried to shield their faces, but it was too late.

"Payback you evil motherfuckers." Mathouse said under the plunging onslaught of the wet chemicals.

They fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Burning and stinging watering eyes, they coughed and wheezed. With shortness of breath, they could not subdue Mathouse.

"Stop! Stop!" Frank pleaded.

"Ah!, Ahhhhhhhhhh! My skin is burning."

The satisfying squeeze of the nozzle from Dr. Matouse's trigger finger carried on, for five gallons and seventy-five seconds to be exact.

"This is for Lena Chun, this is for the lives of the dead, this is for me because I am just as evil as you are now."

Redness swelled on burned skin into the open wounds of the once cocky executioners.

Dr. Matouse lifted the empty cylindrical canister and began pistol-whipping the guards in thunderous blows.

The osmosis was nearly complete. Dr. Matouse could feel his last chinks of humanity slipping away, before joining the infected.

Just as the elderly and vulnerable had met their demise, over the roof of Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Matouse meted out the same justice, rolling the two guards down one by one like marbles.

Planting his feet on the ledge, Matouse took in the panoramic view of the smoke-filled, looted city. He let the strong wind ruffle his hair.

"What's the point of being alive if your mind and soul are already dead, he thought?" Dr Matouse jumped up with his head held high. He got his revenge in the end.