The Infection

The doors burst open and people began running into Patrol, grabbing at the nearest officers, who shoved them back with shouted obscenities. More entered the big room, panting, wearing paper gowns and hospital scrubs. The cops flailed with their batons while others tried to cuff the assailants. More rushed in, howling and baring their teeth. The cops nearest Wendy dropped their drinks and reached for their batons. Wendy did the same.

“Son of a bitch bit me!”

Cops were going down. Wendy saw a man bite a cop’s arm and shake his head like a dog. She struck the man with her baton and he stumbled away. The cop sank to his knees, shaking, his eyes glazed, and toppled onto the floor. Everywhere it was hand to hand fighting. The batons rose and fell but for every attacker clubbed to the ground, more took his place.

John-John gripped her arm.

“Go tell the lieutenant we’re under attack,” he roared. “Go, rook, go!”

She ran down the hall and entered the Detectives section. A man instantly grabbed her in a headlock. She struggled but other hands held her. She heard guns crashing back in Patrol.

“Stop struggling, Wendy,” she heard a familiar voice.

She opened her eyes and saw Dave Carver surrounded by a group of burly detectives in cheap suits and bad ties, glaring and flushed and breathing heavily. They reeked of stale coffee.

“Let go of me,” she cried. “I have to see the lieutenant.”

“He’s busy,” one of the detectives sneered. “What’s going on in Patrol, rookie?”

“They’re killing them. I’m serious—they’re killing them!”

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s drunk. Smell it on her breath.”

“Who the hell is shooting in the station, rookie?”

“Just let her talk!”

The detectives released her. Wendy caught her breath and said, “We’re under attack. Civilians dressed in hospital clothes. They had no weapons.” The truth suddenly struck her. “They’re screamers. Probably from Mercy. They’ve woken up and they’re crazy.”

Dave nodded. “How many?”

“Forty. Fifty. Maybe a hundred. I don’t know. Maybe more. It’s wall to wall in there. Every patrol officer was committed.”

They suddenly realized the screaming and gunshots in Patrol had been replaced by growling in hundreds of throats. A fist banged on the door, startling them. Then another.

“This is bullshit,” one of the detectives said, paling.

The other detectives glared at the door, their fists clenched.

Dave said, “Is everybody armed?”

Multiple fists were pounding against the door now.

“Where’s Patrol?” one of the detectives cried, panicking. “Where the fuck is Patrol?”

Dave touched her shoulder and said, “Get behind me, Wendy.”

The door began to shake on its hinges, splintering.

The detectives unholstered their guns and aimed them carefully at the door.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s get this over with,” somebody said.

The door exploded inward and people ran screaming into the room. For a critical moment, nobody did anything; their attackers were just regular people—unarmed, sick people. Some of the detectives yelled, freeze, police, stop or we will shoot. A moment later, somebody fired his gun and they all started shooting, roaring like madmen, one running forward and emptying his shotgun at point blank range into the gray faces. But the screamers were already in the room and the fighting quickly turned hand to hand.

Wendy stared, horrified and unable to move. Some of their attackers were police officers. She saw John-John tackle one of the detectives, scattering files and a typewriter from one of the desks. She unholstered her Glock and aimed it at the doorway.

Dave grabbed her arm and began pulling her towards the window. “Get out of here! We’re not going to make it!”

“Fuck you, Dave,” she said, shrugging him off.

“Wendy, get out now!”

“They need my help!” she screamed back.

“We’re done!”

She fought him but he was stronger than her. He began to physically drag her to the window and push her out onto the fire escape.

“Survive,” he said.

“Come with me, then,” she pleaded.

“All right, babe. I’ll be right behind you. I promise.”

He turned away before she could respond, blazing away with his hand cannon. She climbed down the fire escape and stood in the vehicle yard, waiting for him. The guard booth was empty. From here, the sounds of gunfire ground together like the rumble of thunder. The muzzle flashes lit up the windows like paparazzi. Dave did not appear at the fire escape. The detectives were backing against the far wall and giving it everything they had.

Wendy stood helplessly, her fist clenched around her Glock, her eyes flooded with tears.

The shooting fizzled out until the windows became filled with dark shapes stumbling aimlessly, silhouetted by the glare of the station’s institutional fluorescent lighting.

The entire station was wiped out in minutes and she had not fired a single shot. Her ears were still ringing loudly and the loss of sleep over the past few days suddenly hit her hard, making her feel drained and disoriented.

Lay off her. She’s one of us.