Jason Morrow - Anywhere but Here

What if it’s not the same girl? What if she went home to have the baby? What if she never even had the baby? What if her name was actually Jessi Roberts and not Jessi Paxton and you’re just confused? What if you’re wrong? Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Don’t go into the hospital, stupid! Do you know how many greyskins will be in there? Go on, take a listen.

I try to ignore my inner voice as I approach the hospital parking lot. I duck behind a car when I see a greyskin in an EMT uniform walking through the forever-stuck sliding glass doors of the ER. I try to remember the inside of the hospital, but I’ve only been here once. When I was a freshmen, I had been playing intramural flag football and some jock decided to play tackle. Well, his tackle broke my ankle and he ended up taking me to the emergency room to get it fixed. I remember he tried to turn it into a silly, romantic moment that would send us spiraling into a life-long love affair like some cheesy chick-flick, but I quickly told him off, using language that would make a sailor blush. Needless to say, we didn’t go on any dates afterword.

I close my eyes trying to remember the layout of the ER, but all I can remember is the waiting room and having to sit there for two hours before someone would see me. I will have to go in and follow the signs like everyone else, I suppose. I’m glad Gabe thought to give me a machete along with the guns. Guns are great, but there is no way I would survive this hospital with them. One shot would be enough to bring about thirty greyskins down on me. Then I would be forced to shoot more. Then more greyskins would come. Here, there would be no end in sight.

I pull the newly sharpened blade from the sheath and hold it by the short handle. It’s a good weight in my hands and I like that the blade is longer than my forearm. The farther away from the greyskins, the better off I am. I stand up from behind the car and begin walking toward the entrance of the ER. The noise from inside tells me that there are many greyskins, but none within the immediate vicinity besides Mr. EMT. When the greyskin notices me, it lets out a short groan and starts making its way toward me. This one is slow; a foot drags as some bone protrudes through the middle of his pant leg. This one must have fallen down some steps.

I feel a rush of confidence as I swing forward and imbed the machete into the greyskin’s skull. Black blood splatters over my hands and the creature stops moving and falls to the cement with ease. I think about wiping off the blade for only a second before I realize that it’s pointless. The shuffling of feet within the hospital seems to be everywhere. I take a deep breath, knowing I’m going to have to face whatever is inside.

I crouch when I get to the front door. Peering around the corner, I see a dead body hunched over the side of the front desk. The halls beyond are dark and there are very few windows to light the way. There probably hasn’t been electricity in this building for two and a half years or more. At the front desk, the dead body’s head pulls up to look at me. Its aged decrepit chest, sticky with dried blood, is glued to the desktop. I can’t take a chance of this thing finding the strength to rip free and come after me so I lift my blade and stab it through the temple and it falls back down to its previous sleeping position.

I walk past the front desk and into the hallway beyond. On one of the walls there is a directory with all of the departments. My stomach drops when I see that the maternity ward is on the fourth floor. Why would they make pregnant ladies have to go up so many floors? Why would they make me go up so many floors?

I walk past the elevators and to the stairwell but I pause when I get to the door. I hate stairs. Ever since the outbreak, stairs have been my biggest fear. It’s the worst part of any building. First of all, when there are greyskins above you, it’s nearly impossible to get a good head stab in without getting too close. Then, when multiple greyskins are after you, running up makes you exhausted while the dead feel no tiredness. Running down, the greyskins just fall over each other without regard to their own safety, whereas you must take every step with caution, for a sprained ankle in a stairwell means becoming a greyskin’s dinner.

I hold my breath and try to listen beyond the door. I hear two, maybe three greyskins walking down the stairs toward the basement level and at least four greyskins on the landing just above me. I need to go to a different stairwell. Going up four flights just might prove too much. I turn my ear toward the hallway beyond, but I can’t even count the number of feet I hear walking slowly. It won’t do. Going down the hall will only bring more than I can handle while I’m fairly certain I can handle the four above me.

I open the door and step into the stairwell. I’m lucky because the greyskins seem to be walking up which means I should be able to take out at least two of them from behind before the others turn on me. I pause before going up. I can feel the jitters creeping into my limbs, but I know I can’t let it get to me.

I take each step as quietly as I can. The greyskins don’t even see me until I’ve got my blade stuck inside the skull of the first one. I pull it out and swipe at the next, clipping it at the jaw. The other two are screaming toward me. I slide the machete up under the chin of the one in front, but I’m forced to let go of the handle as the next greyskin grabs at my coat. I try not to let out a scream, but it’s almost impossible. The greyskins are not known for their sure footing so I reach out and grab it by the shoulders, and at the same time kick my foot at its ankles. It starts to fall down the flight of stairs but hangs upright only because of its death grip on my coat. I try to hit its grubby hands away from me, but it feels no pain. Its jaws chomp at me as it pulls itself back toward me to take a chunk of my flesh. Finally, I pull my arms from the sleeves and slip out of the coat and the greyskin tumbles down the stairs. Bones crack all the way down, its fingers still clutching my coat and taking my backpack and rifle with it. As I reach down and pull out the machete, I notice the greyskin that had been moving toward the basement must have sensed the commotion. Now it is running up the stairs toward me. It stumbles over the crumpled form of the greyskin clutching my coat and falls to its knees, crawling like an injured animal desperate to catch its dinner. I take one or two steps down and swing my machete into what’s left of its brain and it stops moving.

Despite the cold, I have to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I try not to let my hands shake, but there is no way to calm my nerves. My fingers tremble as I grip the machete and my knees quiver as I take the steps back down to the first floor. I can leave my coat, I can leave my backpack full of supplies, but I can’t leave my rifle even though the pistol is attached to my hip. I lean down and pry open the fingers of the greyskin, releasing my coat from its grip. I pull it on and sling the backpack over my shoulders. I then sling my rifle over my head where the strap crosses over my chest. Machete in hand, I tiptoe up the stairs quietly.

My ears tell me there’s nothing else between me and the fourth floor so I hurry my steps until I reach the door. When I put my ear up to the door, I don’t hear anything. I open it and step into the hallway. My heart pounds in my ears and I’m afraid it might keep me from hearing what’s ahead. One after the other my feet carry me forward. A glance at a sign hanging from the ceiling tells me that the maternity ward is on the other side of the wing. It’s probably only a few hundred feet away, but it looks like miles. The walk there is quiet enough, however. I try to listen for any movement ahead, but there is still nothing. I feel a sense of relief once I stand in front of the door of the maternity ward because I can see the registration desk only a few feet in front of me, a wall of filing cabinets lined behind the desk chair.