Sara Reinke - Backwoods

He ran for the door just as O’Malley charged, swinging his arms, plowing aside medical carts, shelves, anything and everything in his way. What he couldn’t knock away, he clambered over with terrifying speed and ease.

“Please follow the voice prompts provided for correct application and use of this electronic device,” the defibrillator said, milliseconds before O’Malley tackled the crash cart, sending it toppling to the floor.

As O’Malley grappled with the machine, tangled now in the cables connecting it to the red and yellow pads, Andrew reached the door. Oh, Jesus, he thought, pushing his hair out of his face, struggling to remember. What the fuck was the code? Was it one-zero, one-zero?

He punched this in before realizing this had been Moore’s old code, not the new one. “Fuck,” he hissed, then tried again. He was frightened and panicked, his hand shaking, and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the goddamn pass code. From behind him, he heard O’Malley thrashing, scrambling to his feet.

One-zero, zero-one.

He typed this in. The light stayed red. The door stayed locked.

“Fuck,” Andrew cried. Balling his fist, he beat against the window. “Somebody help me,” he screamed. “Get me out of here!”

He felt the floor beneath him shudder, O’Malley’s footsteps thunderous as he charged and Andrew whirled, clasping the ruined IV stand in his hands, shoving the threaded tip out ahead of him in feeble self-defense. When O’Malley barreled into him, the shaft caught him just beneath the sternum, punching into the vulnerable meat of his midriff. O’Malley’s own forward momentum drove it through him, impaling himself. A hot splash of blood flew back, soaking Andrew’s hands, his arms, slapping him in the face, and for a moment, he and O’Malley stood together, close enough to kiss, both of them leaning heavily, drunkenly against each other.

“O’Malley,” Andrew whispered, horrified, helpless. He turned loose of the shaft and O’Malley floundered backwards, wrapping his hands around the metal rod protruding from his chest. It was slick and he fumbled for purchase, pawing at it, uttering sodden, slobbering sounds like a cat trying to work a hair ball loose from its gullet. His efforts were hampered by the defibrillator. Somehow his arms had become entangled in the cords, the adhesive patches stuck to his skin and the console dragged behind him on the floor, bouncing and scraping along, its mechanized tutelage still rambling on, unabated:

“Please verify that the Head Start Heart Smart cartridges are correctly positioned on the victim’s bare torso and have not been applied over the nipples, any medication patches or implanted devices.”

Andrew watched, shocked and astonished, as O’Malley began easing the broken metal shaft from his torso, sliding it out centimeter by centimeter, panting heavily all the while.

Oh, shit, he thought, because at first he’d thought O’Malley had retreated because he’d been mortally wounded, that he’d fallen back because he’d been about to collapse, just like any normal human being with a rod through their torso would have done. But judging by the fact that O’Malley spared a vicious grin, a menacing, spittle-laced snarl in his direction, the shaft nearly yanked in full from his chest, Andrew understood he was about to be in for a serious world of hurt.

“Shit.” He spun back around to the door and punched again into the key pad. One-zero, zero-one.

The light stayed red.

“What’s the fucking code?” he screamed. He would have beat his head into the door had he the time. Four digits, binary code, seven options. It wasn’t ten. It wasn’t eleven.

“Twelve,” he whispered, eyes flying wide. “Twelve. The pass code’s twelve.”

He reached out to punch it in— one-one, zero-zero —and felt O’Malley’s hand, heavy and bloody, clamp against his shoulder. As he was whirled violently around to face O’Malley, then slammed back into the door with enough force to splinter the window behind his head in a network of thin, spiderweb-like fissures, he balled his hand into a fist.

“Get off me,” he yelled, punching O’Malley in the face. It felt as if he’d just socked a side of raw beef, one that had been left out to hang in the sun for awhile on a hot summer afternoon. Wet and spongy, the flesh yielded beneath his knuckles, squelching between his fingers. Even though it seemed to stun O’Malley momentarily, he kept hold of Andrew’s shirt, and with another furious cry, Andrew punched him again.

“Let go of me,” he shouted, hitting him again and again, driving O’Malley back. He could feel those nasty pustules and nodules bursting with every blow. Firm beneath the skin, upon impact, they would pop like overripe melons or overfilled water balloons, squirting pus and blood, thick and hot, against his hands, onto his arms.

“Let go,” Andrew yelled, his voice dissolving into an inarticulate, furious garble of sounds as he drove O’Malley away from him. O’Malley stumbled then fell, landing hard against the defibrillator console.

“Defibrillation initialized,” the machine said. “Clear the patient.”

It wasn’t like on TV. There were no sparks as the electrical current surged. No resounding thump! No violent heaving as the affected body became a living, breathing power conduit. The affected body in question was that of O’Malley, and he simply twitched when two hundred joules of electricity surged into his body, lancing up and down the metal IV stand protruding from his chest as it might have a lightning rod. He twitched once, then twice, then pitched sideways, landing with a wet plop! against the infirmary floor.

“Defibrillation complete,” the machine said. “Please continue administering CPR until emergency personnel have arrived.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Andrew hiccupped, watching in horrified fascination as a thin tendril of smoke snaked up from O’Malley’s chest, the place where the IV stand had run him through and the electrified metal had burned him. With it came a strange smell, almost like frying bacon, and with a nauseated gulp, Andrew whirled around to face the door again. “Twelve,” he muttered, his finger shaking as he reached for the key pad. “The pass code is twelve.”

Which, when translated into base-two, was one-one, zero-zero.

He wrenched the door open when the light shifted to green, then yanked it closed behind him. Leaning heavily against it, he closed his eyes and struggled to control the heavy shuddering that shook him from head to toe.

Despite Andrew’s screaming, his less-than-subtle escape from the infirmary, no soldiers came to investigate, which shocked the glorious living shit out of him. Even more ominous, there was no answer when he knocked frantically on Dani’s door.

“Dani?” He tried the knob, but it was locked. “Are you in there? It’s Andrew.”

He rammed his shoulder into the door once, twice, three times unsuccessfully, then decided battering wasn’t such a great option. Not only was it not working, but it was loud as hell to boot in the otherwise silent, empty hall. Then he remembered Moore’s pass code.

He let himself into my room earlier tonight, he thought. Maybe it’s a master code, sort of like a skeleton key that lets him bypass anybody else’s.

Figuring it was worth a shot, he punched it into Dani’s key pad. One-one, zero-zero. To his pleasant surprise—the first of few in as many hours—the red light turned green.

“Dani?” Pushing the door open wide, he hurried inside. The smell of O’Malley’s vomit lingered, thick in the air, and he drew his hand to his mouth and nose, grimacing. “Dani? Are you in here?”