They Eat

  They Eat:

  An Episodic Zombie Thriller

  Erin T. McMillon, MSM

  87

  Copyright © 2012 Author Name

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  DEDICATION

  To my loves … as always. You are always the reason for it all.

  1 Bernadette

  I loved being a nurse, but Mr. Jenkins in room 202 sometimes made me wish I reconsidered my major in college.

  It never failed.

  I would go in, check his vitals, give him his meds, ask him if there was anything he needed, and bid him a good day. Ten minutes later, he’d be ringing the nurse call button and say he had an accident.

  Babies have accidents.

  When a grown man defecates in his hospital bed, he shit on himself.

  But wasn’t his loose bowels that had me reconsidering if nursing was my calling (I wasn’t a CNA anymore, so I didn’t have to clean it up), it was that Mr. Jenkins was dying.

  I’d worked with all kinds of people, from infants to chemo patients, but working in a nursing home was like watching death through bullet proof glass. No amount of screaming or protests was going to change the fact that these people were dying.

  The brochure for The Crystal Waters Nursing Home made it look like a quaint, intimate building at the edge of the Delaware River. The artist’s rendering of the trees surrounding the property and the little wooden benches in between them lured thousands of adult children into sending their parents off to a glorified hospice because “it’s what’s best for mom”.

  The reality was the red and white tiled hallways smelled like decaying skin, blood and piss and most of the nurses could give a fuck less if your parent lived or died. They were much more concerned with what was going on on Facebook or what wasn’t in their love lives. When your father called because he shit himself for the third time that day, the CNAs would argue over whose turn it was to change him. Nine times out of ten, they’d agree to disagree and your beloved father, the man who taught you how to ride a bike and drive a car, would be left to sit in his own waste until the next shift of nurses punched in and took an hour to argue over who would clean him up. When your mother, the woman who helped you pick out your prom dress and worked 60-hour weeks October through December so you could have everything on your Christmas list, was thirsty, she’d wait for water so long that the corners of her mouth would fold over into themselves until her split lips wrapped around her toothless gums.

  “So long as everything looks good when The State comes in we’ll all be able to keep our jobs,” the director of nursing would say at every staff meeting.

  I pushed my cart full of medication down the halls each day, depression hanging closer to my head with each step, as I listened to the moaning, screaming and even worse … silence … seeping from behind the closed doors.

  It was a lot to handle.

  But I was a nurse and this was my job. I loved caring for those who could no longer care for themselves. Even if their children, the ones they brought into this world, couldn’t or didn’t want to anymore.

  I’d just make daily mental notes to remind my girls to never put me in “a home”. Even though their father was still technically “around”, didn’t mean he would be there when I really needed him.

  “Mr. Jenkins is buzzing again,” Latrice said as I walked past the nurse’s station. She was a portly, dark-skinned woman from the south; or at least that’s what the gold caps on her two front teeth and the seemingly infinite drawl at the end of every word she spoke told me.

  I studied hard to become an LPN so I wouldn’t have to change Mr. Jenkins in 202 or Mrs. Pinciotti in 315, but I knew Latrice wasn’t going to get her fat ass up and do it.

  It didn’t take long for her and her other CNA cronies to figure out that when I was on duty, there wouldn’t be a resident in the building that sat in his own waste waiting for the next shift.

  If I could have, I would have upper-cutted Latrice’s nose into her eye sockets because of her indifference to other people’s suffering, but I settled for the nasty look I shot at her.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger,” she snapped before stuffing her nose back into the latest issue of Celebrity Weekly.

  My hands tightened around of the handle of the metal medication cart I pushed ahead of me as I tried to forcefully evict the thoughts of inflicting deserved bodily harm on my lazy co-worker. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, trust me. Her bad attitude bubbled around her like a force field and I was dying to breech her walls. But Mr. Jenkins needed me. And he, when I was finally calm enough to rationalize it, was much more important than she was.

  I’ve been a firm 5 feet tall and 100 pounds most of my life (except when I was pregnant). I wore my hair short and cropped with my natural curls making tiny ringlets that fell just slightly onto my deep brown skin. For the first time in my life, I was finally happy with what I saw staring back at me in the mirror. For years I’d longed for a curvier body; full hips and lips that swayed to the cadence of my words. I used to want to be like girls like Latrice (minus the gold teeth, of course). But I was never a fan of heels and their hair weaves reminded me of dead cats on their back of their necks, so that wasn’t going to be happening any time soon. Besides, my size betrayed the fierceness inside me and most people could never tell until my fist met their face … except my patients. They were the only people who could take one look at me and know what I was capable of. That didn’t count for much in the grand scheme of things, I mean, being that they were about to die and all, but it meant something to me.

  I doubled back to Mr. Jenkins’ room, the squeaking wheels on my cart announcing my comings and goings like a car with bad brakes. It was enough to annoy most people, but I let the obnoxious noise turn into a melody in my mind that serenaded me back down the hallway.

  “Mr. Jenkins, you rang the bell again?” I asked, making my way into his room.

  The old, pale white man was tucked neatly in his bed, a thin sheet draped over his skeletal body. The heat rose in my face when I realized his bedding was so tidy because I was the last person to attend to him during my last shift two days before. I was thankful for not noticing the first time I came in to give him his meds because I would have probably ran straight to the nurses’ station and punched Latrice in her nose.

  “I’m sorry, Bernadette. I had another accident.”

  I wanted to yell at him for being such a mess.

  “It’s cool, Mr. J,” was what I said instead.

  I grabbed his sheets and pulled them taut so they wouldn’t get in the way when I rolled him.

  “You know, young lady,” he said, licking the dried saliva from the corners of his mouth. “When I married Lucielle she was just as beautiful as you are.”

  His compliment suppressed my annoyance and slightly brushed against my ego. I blushed. It had been a long time since I’d heard anyone say I was beautiful. Like I said before, my girls’ dad was still around, but that was about all he was since the alcohol and weed took my spot as his first love.

  “That’s sweet, Mr. J.”

  “No, I’m serious. Her skin was smooth, not a bump or blemish in sight. Her eyes were deep and brown. I sit outside and watch the river sometimes when I can get one of these fuck ass orderlies to push me to the bench. The surface carries this peaceful beauty; almost like it’s calling you. But you can see in some spots where the water rushes against itself violently, grinding the white froth of the current downstream. It’s no wonder so many people have lost their lives trying to swim across … kinda reminds me of you.”

  “You should have been a poet, Mr. J.” I rolled him on his side and wiped his filth from his wrinkled skin.

  “Oh, I was, Dear. How do you think I man
aged to hold on to a lady with eyes like Lucielle?”

  Mr. Jenkins went on and on about his lost love while I cleaned him. I guess we were in the same boat. I’d gotten used to wiping shit off his ass and he got used to me doing it.

  “You’re all done, old man,” I said as I secured the last strap on his diaper.

  “You’ve always been good to me, Bernie,” he smiled as I walked to the door. “I think I’m going to take Lucielle out for dinner tonight.”

  I smiled back at the old man, wearing pity on my face. Lucielle had been dead for 10 years.

  “Ok, Mr. J. Make sure you wear something nice.”

  I pushed my cart back past Latrice with her fat face still in her magazine.

  “Can you make a note to have the doctors look at 202 in the morning. I think Alzheimer’s may be setting in.”

  Latrice didn’t move, but I can’t say I was really expecting her to do much of anything.

  “Latrice, I know you heard me,” I spat, my breaking point snapped in half.

  I stormed behind the station and stood in front of her. I’d wipe Mr. Jenkins’ ass forever if I had to because she was a lazy as hell, but I couldn’t let her ignore his symptoms.

  “Latrice.”

  “Pisht … wat you wan?” she said with her comical southern drawl.

  “I said you need to make a note about Mr. Jenkins.”

  “I heard you, damn.”

  I choked her in my mind, but stopped when she put the magazine down and grabbed her notepad.

  “Got it, boss,” she spat back at me sarcastically with a strong roll of her eyes.

  As I made my way back to my meds cart I heard her call me a “stoopid bitch” under her breath. I could have asked her to speak up; say it to my face, but I knew it wouldn’t end well … for her.

  “I’ll be back when I finish my rounds,” I said over my cart’s shrill singing down the empty hallway.

  *****

  The rest of the med distribution went well, in comparison to the second floor and Latrice, of course. I counted my remaining pills, had the D.O.N sign off and made my way back up to the second floor. I couldn’t get Mr. J. off my mind. It was technically time for me to clock out, but I found myself in the elevator pushing the “2” button instead of the “L” where my car was.

  The elevator doors opened into the sterile hallway.

  “Latrice, did you –“

  She was gone.

  Must have went to smoke for the 100th time or talk to that shitty boyfriend of hers.

  I looked down the hallway. The door to 202 was open.

  “Mr. Jenkins?”

  Only the sound of my voice echoing off the walls answered me.

  “Mr. Jenkins?” I called out to him as I walked briskly toward his room.

  He fell out the bed.

  He pressed the button and she wasn’t there.

  The thoughts ran through my mind like Marion Jones, the muffled, rubber crunch of my sneakers on the freshly waxed floor punctuating each step I took.

  I could picture him in my mind, laying on the floor, too weak to call out for help. My heart sank into my feet when I rounded the corner into his room and he was just where I thought he’d be: on his knees wedged between the bed and the wall.

  “Mr. Johnson?”

  I stepped further into the room and the unmistakable aroma of fresh blood hit my nose.

  “Mr. Johnson. I’m coming.”

  I rushed to his side, grabbed his quivering shoulder. But he didn’t fall into my arms, tired and weak, like I expected. He snapped at me, his teeth coming together with a loud snap, like a dog protecting the only bone it had seen in weeks. His eyes were shining like black marbles under the moonlight that slipped through the small window; his teeth obscenely white, strong, and slightly pointed at the tips. My eyes bulged in their sockets as they took inventory of the rest of his face. It was covered in blood and chucks of gnarled skin hung from his lips. His hands trembled as they caught a piece of flesh, hungrily shoving it back into his mouth.

  Mr. Johnson turned away from me. I followed his hands to the space in front of him where I finally saw Latrice laying on the floor, her chest cavity torn in hanging strips of exposed organs.

  The room felt smaller, tighter, like the floor and ceiling were closing in on me.

  Mr. Johnson dug his hands into pulpy hole in her body and shoved chunks of her into his mouth.

  I closed my eyes tightly. But when I opened them, Mr. Johnson was still feeding on Latrice, her gold teeth reflecting the moonlight every time he reached inside her.

  You’re dreaming, Bernadette.

  I closed my eyes again, then opened them wide to take in the scene.

  You’re dreaming, Bernadette.

  My vison was cloudy at first, but everything came into focus, bit by horrifying bit. Mr. Johnson was on his feet. He shuffled toward me with out-stretched arms, his bare feet slapping softly on the floor. The way he walked eerily reminded me of a baby begging to be picked up.

  “Mr. Johnson?”

  The sound of my voice reignited his obvious hunger. He shuffled faster.

  “Mr. Johnson, stay right here. I’m going to go get the D.O.N.”

  He shuffled faster.

  “Mr. Johnson, please. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  My brain told me to run, but my body wasn’t as quick. By the time it decided telling my feet to move was a good idea, Mr. Johnson was hovering over me. He grabbed the collar of my scrubs with his long, skeletal fingers and pulled me closer to him.

  His teeth snapped with anticipation.

  He opened his mouth wide …

  … Tried to guide my head into consumption.

  By then my body was wide awake.

  I punched him in his chin harder than I ever hit anyone in my life. The girls’ dad and I had come to blows plenty of times in our 12 years together, but I always held back out of fear of hurting him.

  I couldn’t say the same for Mr. Johnson.

  He stumbled backward, losing his grip on my top, and fell into his bed.

  I tell people this story now and they call me a coward when I get to this part.

  Fuck them!

  I ran out of the room, down the hall, and locked myself in the broom closet. Grabbing the nearest weapon I could find -- a plunger -- I sunk down to the floor between the utility sink and a yellow mop bucket.

  *****

  The painful shrieks of the other nurses, howling in agony ran through my body. I gritted my teeth and tried to drown them out by humming the same song the medicine cart sang each night.

  Hummmmm …

  The sound of their non-slip shoes hitting the freshly waxed floor beyond my custodial barricade.

  Hummmmm …

  Their heavy breathing and cries for help.

  Hummmmm …

  Someone grabbed at the door knob. I wrung my hands around the plunger handle tighter, prepared to deliver a hard blow to the head of whomever or whatever was trying to get in.

  But doorknob stopped suddenly, punctuated by a woman’s voice screaming

  “No! No! No!” The tone of her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and pure fear before the hard crunching sound of Mr. Johnson chewing his way through her body took over.

  The blood seeped under the door in a dark red ocean of the loss of life as the noise outside my door stopped abruptly and silence fell on the small hallway on the second floor of Crystal Waters Nursing Home. I toyed with the idea of bursting through the door and making a run for it. One hand trembling on the door knob, the other wrapped around my weapon, I was ready to make a run for it.

  I changed my mind when the silence was replaced by the residents’ woeful moaning. Instead of the quick meetings with death the nurses had been dealt. Mr. Johnson seemed to be devouring them slowly … piece by excruciating piece. They called out for their loved ones as he feasted on them, but just like in their abandoned lives no one came to help them in their deaths. I could hear teeth tearing through fragi
le skin, the sound of their weakened hands slapping against their attacker’s body.

  I cursed myself for being a coward, but I also didn’t reach for the door knob again.

  *****

  The quiet came after forever when the horrid screams died out. I cried silently as I held the wooden handle of the plunger so tight I could feel the wood beginning to crack into the creases in my skin.

  You can’t die in this closet, Bernadette. The babies are waiting for you.

  The thought was unexpected, but definite. I wouldn’t die trying to save anyone in Crystal Waters, but I had no problem dying trying to get to my kids.

  The thick wooden door creaked heavily on its hinges as I pulled it open, the slither of light from the hallway filling the closet with its warmth.

  I fought the urge to call out for someone to help me, afraid of whom – er, um, what might answer me.

  The broken glass over randomly scattered pools of blood crunched beneath my feet. I crept past room 202 … slowly. My grip tightened around the plunger handle.

  In hindsight, I don’t think it was any sort of instinctual fight or flight stance, but something I did just because it made sense at the time. That plunger and I spent quite a long time in that closet together. It was literally the only thing I had to hold on to.

  I fully expected Mr. Johnson to jump out of his room’s open door and try to eat my face off – again.

  But he didn’t.

  The room was just as empty as the hallway – except for the bloody streaks and footprints on the floor.

  Even Latrice was gone; the only thing left of her was a messy pile of torn skin and cheap hair weave laying in globs on the floor. She was always mean as hell and irresponsible, but no one deserves to die from an angry old man eating their chest.

  My feet moved faster down the hallway.

  Just get to the lobby. You can make it out the side door.

  The down button on the elevator panel lit a warm orange. I could hear the cables and wires humming behind the metal doors. I gripped the plunger handle tighter, scared shitless Mr. Johnson would be in the elevator when the doors opened. I just knew it.