Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

“I said, get out.”

“Dr. Sims!”

“You. Are. Contaminating. My. Work.”

“Frederick, listen to me,” she said.

Sims’ eyebrows arched with surprise. “Frederick, is it? Well. All right then, go on, tell me what’s wrong, my child.” He glanced over Petrova’s shoulder. “And what in God’s name happened to you, good sir?”

Petrova turned and watched Baird limp into the lab, his head twitching violently, smacking his lips, blood and foamy drool soaking his chin and T-shirt.

Cohen lurched to her feet and took several quick steps backwards. To Petrova, she seemed so helpless in her gown and mask and gloves, so cumbersome and slow.

“I don’t understand,” Sims said, his eyes widening with alarm. “This is very strange. What’s this all about?”

Baird’s bloodshot eyes focused on the golf club in Petrova’s hands. He suddenly stopped, glowering, and growled deep in his throat, drool pouring out of his contorted mouth.

Cohen bumped into a chair behind her, knocking it over.

As if waiting for this cue, Baird lunged with a bestial snarl.

Cohen ran out of the Lab’s other door, followed by Petrova.

Behind them, Sims emitted a single strangled cry.

The hallway was empty by the time Petrova reached it. Cohen had disappeared. She bolted down the hall as fast as she could on her heels, turned the corner, and ran directly into Stringer Jackson, making her nose sting and her eyes flood with tears. She had completely forgotten about him sitting in the Security Command Center, watching over them on the security screens.

She turned and pointed, stammering and blubbering, unable to express herself.

“I know,” said Jackson. “I’m on it. Do you know how to get to the Security Center?”

Petrova nodded.

“Then go,” he told her. “The door’s unlocked. Go in and lock it. I’ll be there soon.”

She briefly wondered how Stringer Jackson, the retired, grizzled, middle-aged and overweight cop, was going to take on Baird in a hand to hand fight and win. But she did not care. She had done her part. It was up to the professionals to take care of things from here.

She did not see what happened next.

Within moments, she entered the Security Command Center and burrowed under the operator’s desk, shaking with fear. The whirr and heat of the electronics almost instantly lulled her into a deep sleep.

Thank God he is not a Mad Dog

More like a mouse squeaking than a human voice.

Petrova grips the phone in her sweating hand. “Who is this, please?”

“I’m all alone and I need somebody to come and get me.”

For some reason, she pictures her boy Alexander in her mind, speaking into a phone in a dark, bare room in London, all alone.

“Please, please tell me who is speaking,” she says, panicking.

“Sandy. Sandy Cohen?”

“I know who you are, Sandy.”

Petrova does not know her well. The woman is a lab tech like Marsha Fuentes, and has been working at the Institute for about six months. She always wear glasses with thick black frames, making her stand out in Petrova’s memory.

“We just saw each other in the Lab.”

“Obviously. Where are you?”

“I have to speak quietly or he’ll come find me. What is happening here?”

“There are Mad Dogs in the building and they are turning other staff members into Mad Dogs by biting them,” Petrova tells her.

“I’m not following you,” says the feeble voice.

“Where are you, Sandy?”

“I’m in Dr. Saunders’ office. I’m using his phone.”

“Good. Please hold for a moment.”

“Is this the security room? I was trying to call Stringer.”

“Please be quiet for a moment, Sandy.”

Petrova scans the images displayed by the digital projectors onto the large wall screens. One shows an empty hallway scarred by a long, dark smear on the floor, while the other shows an empty Laboratory East. She looks at the computer screen on the desk, which presents a series of icons used to control the security functions of the Center. The interface is fairly intuitive and within moments she is able to access images from all of the Institute’s cameras. She’d never known the place was so heavily monitored, with cameras in all of its public spaces.

Things have changed a lot since she burrowed under the operator desk and slept.

Baird is lying face down in one of the hallways at the end of a long dark smear, twitching. Probably dying by inches because of his wounds. Who knew how much damage his body had taken when she pummeled him with the golf club, or when he burst through the door, or during whatever Jackson did to him after that.

On the other screen, showing the hallway outside Laboratory West, Lucas and Fuentes are hunting together, sniffing at doors.

Petrova watches with interest.

They do not attack each other, only us, she tells herself. Is this the reason for the odor they produce? An olfactory cue that another person is already infected, and therefore “safe”? How else would they recognize each other?

They pass Saunders lying on the ground. Saunders twitches and slowly gets to his feet. One of his ears has been gnawed off, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Petrova pushes a button on her keyboard to bring up another image on the screen.

The image shows the majestic main lobby downstairs, populated by a mob of people, many of them waving at the security camera. A beautiful blonde in their midst—whom Petrova recognizes from a TV series she used to watch—is holding up a sign that says, now! or we kill the other one .

Despite her fascination with what is happening down there, it is not her immediate concern. She forces herself to continue exploring the facility on her screens.

Empty hallways.

An empty elevator lobby.

An empty auditorium.

An empty records room.

A corridor with a man’s broken body propping open the door to the east-side Men’s Room. Petrova instantly recognizes him as Dr. Sims.

Her first thought: He is dead.

She cannot prevent her second thought, which fills her with shame: Thank God. Thank God he is not a Mad Dog.

In the image produced on the other screen, Joe Hardy lies on his back in a large puddle of his own blood in Laboratory West. His eyes are open and his face is a mask of horror. Miraculously, he survived long enough to pick up his phone, which is now in his hand. She wonders if he ever answered it.

She suddenly cannot bare to look at him. She quickly brings up an image of another hallway. A pair of legs in men’s trousers are protruding from one of the offices. Another person is hurt.

“Hello? This is Sandy. Are you still there, Dr. Petrova?”

“Just one more minute, Sandy.”

“I was just thinking about Dr. Sims. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Please wait.”

“We left him there and he died, right?”

“Sandy. Please. I am working on a way to get you out of there safely.”

Petrova rapid-fires through the remaining images, all of them empty spaces, and performs a quick calculation in her mind: There are now five uninfected people at most, including Sandy Cohen and herself, cowering in their various hiding places, most likely in the offices.

Go back , a voice in her head tells her.

She cycles through the camera images in reverse order, searching randomly until she becomes frustrated. Whatever she was trying to tell herself, she’s lost it now.

“What am I looking for?” she asks out loud, feeling irritated.

“Dr. Petrova? Is there somebody there with you?”

“No, Sandy. I am alone.”

“Stringer isn’t there?”

“I am speaking to my—”

The voice in her head suddenly shouts: Stringer!