Apocalyptic Moon: After the Bane, #1

At the nurses’ station, Dr. Dora Adler took a break and poured herself a mug of fresh coffee. She added crème and swirled until it was the right light-mocha color before that first glorious sip. Yumm. Everything tasted good today. All things did, on one’s last day on earth. She glanced at the calendar for the umpteenth time. May 13, her birthday/death day. Along with Kurt Cobain, Jimmy Hendrix, and Amy Winehouse, she was a member of the 27 Club. She came from a long line of first-born women who died on the day or within days of their twenty-seventh birthday. Her father insisted it was just a horrible coincidence. Of course it was. Cancer and strokes were heredity, not day of death. You didn’t have to be a doctor to understand that. Still, her grandmother, mother and maternal ancestors four generations back were unwilling members of the 27 Club. Mere chance? Weird karma? Or just a self-destructive method to avoid paying student loans?

Hmm. No time to complete a bucket list, but at least she’d make time for a last meal. That new five star French restaurant a few blocks away would serve a hell of a final dinner. Why not max out my credit card with their finest wine, ooh, and chocolate mousse?

The intercom interrupted her dark thoughts. Dr. Fellman, report to the ER.

She slammed her cup down, splattering coffee on the counter. She grabbed a napkin and wiped the mess. Freakin’ nerves!

Carla Manders swiped her badge in the pin entry clock. Dr. Adler, I can’t believe you came in on your birthday, but I’m glad you did. We’re shorthanded.

Dora bit her lower lip and then smiled at the twenty-year veteran head nurse. Birthday or not, I can’t bear to miss out on the Friday night ER bedlam. Dora’s supervisor, Dr. Grover, gave her the day off. Most fatigued residents would have jumped out of an airplane for a day off. Not Dr. Dora Adler. Better than her bucket list and last meals, she loved medicine and helping people. Why not spend her last day on earth as a physician? Besides, her family lived far away and there wasn’t a hot boyfriend to wine and dine her. Actually, the way things were going with the Z-phage pandemic, this might be the end of days for everybody. Would being a zombie still qualify her to be in the 27 Club? Kind of dead, but not. Worse, eaten alive. Get a grip! Focus on patients. Dwelling on such nonsense, especially now with the zombie apocalypse, was at best narcissistic, at worst, turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Carla looked up from her patient chart. Tonight’s the full moon and on top of that people are keeping our phone lines tied up asking about the Ultra vaccine.

Still? The so-called zombie vaccine doesn’t work. The just released vaccine was a glorified flu shot and cost two hundred dollars a pop. The major pharmaceutical companies made a nice profit off people’s desperation and fear. The virus appeared four months ago, and it would take years to design the vaccine, despite the fact nations worked twenty-four seven on finding the cure.

Carla scoffed. My cousin in Miami had the vaccine, but she still turned.

Even the Surgeon General said it wouldn’t work, though she reassured it will prevent several strains of flu. Now how comforting is that? Dora quipped.

Carla shook her head and answered the phone. She rolled her eyes and mouthed, Vaccine request.

Dora glanced at her watch and stretched her back before pouring herself another cup of brew. She’d been up since 6:00 a.m. and it was almost noon. Yep, still alive. She scanned the patient whiteboard. Nothing out of the ordinary. Morning rounds were uneventful as well, and thankfully, no new Z-phage patients. In the last three days, she’d identified two infected still in the very early stages of the zombie disease. Odd as it was, her intuition about things such as diagnosing diseases had increased during the last two weeks. She hated singling out the newly infected. Once identified, they were sedated and quarantined. She never saw those patients again. Before they turned, guards escorted them off to the secured underground confinement area in the hospital’s basement. No one ever returned from the zombie isolation ward, run by the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID) and contract mercenaries.

Dr. Adler, you’re needed in the briefing room, said Carla with a teasing smile.

Dora gave her a guarded look and headed around the corner. Please don’t let this be a surprise party. Who even thought about celebrations? More likely, another meeting about zombies.

The mysterious virus was just one of many disasters making headlines. Since the last election there had been one major earthquake in Southern California, two category four hurricanes that plowed the Carolinas, tornadoes in the heartland, one nuclear meltdown in Arkansas, and yet another economic collapse. More unemployed, and the starving homeless, without medical insurance filled the streets. Given the ripe environment, Z-phage infestation flourished. And that was just the United States. Would it be so bad if she died? Death became a better choice than rising as a flesh-eating ghoul.

Behind the briefing room wall, shuffling steps stopped her from turning the doorknob. Zombie survival rule number one: listen for monotonous moans accompanying shuffling steps. She pressed her ear to the door. None.

Rule number two: sniff the air. She inhaled. No rotting odor. Though, new zombies never smelled bad. That is, if prior to being bitten they remembered to apply deodorant.

Inside someone whispered, Shh.

New rule: zombies never hush one another. She twisted the doorknob and entered the darkened room.

Surprise! Happy Birthday, cheered the staff crowded in the room and all the lights switched on.

She jumped and her heart raced, not so much from the actual surprise, but from all the attention directed at her. A Happy Birthday sign hung on the wall. Balloons made of surgical gloves and a huge chocolate cake shaped like a heart, a real heart, sat in the middle of the conference table. The cardio cake adorned with twenty-seven candles and an extra one in the center of the ventricle looked gruesomely delicious. The anatomical themed party included a brain-shaped gelatin mold, kidney shaped cookies, and a bowl of red fruit punch served in lab specimen cups.

Ooh. Gross. She smiled. My kind of people. Oh my God! How did you guys know I was coming in?

Dr. Frank Grover laughed. As soon as you told me you decided to come in, I made calls.

Calls? I don’t think the local bakery designs organ cakes. She gave him a pointed glance. She’d not expected her no-nonsense boss to initiate a party. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have dressed in scrubs. She laughed. Maybe my new lilac ones. Actually, she couldn’t remember the last time she wore a nice outfit. She had a sexy little black dress for a cocktail party she didn’t attend, because she was called for duty. It hung in her closet with the price tag still attached.

Her friend and marathon-running partner, Dr. Janelle Smith lit the candles. Come on, girlfriend. Make a wish.

She raised her brow. Should she wish she could live to be twenty-eight or even eighty? How about something even more unattainable? I wish for the perfect man.

Anne laughed. And he looks like…

Dora furrowed her brow. A nerd who can live with a diagnostician without being grossed out when you discuss your day over sushi. Someone who can handle being a widower, she mused. Like Dad.

Janelle pulled out a paperback from her pocket that Dora had been secretly reading. She waved the cover of a bare-chested muscular hunk sweeping a half-naked woman on to his dragon ship. Dora’s face flamed. No, not My Viking Master. Reading cheesy romance novels was her secret peccadillo. Damn, my new e-reader is still in its box. After all, I bought it so no one would find out I love naughty novels. Everyone needed an escape. Janelle grinned. You mean a nerd like this. Fortunately, she handed Dora the small book before others could see it.

She stuck it in her large pocket. I found that book in my lupus patient’s room. I meant to return it but…

Janelle bumped Dora’s shoulder in play. Uh-huh. That’s okay. After you’re done, I’d like to borrow it.

Dr. Grover glanced at his watch. Let me slice everyone a piece. It’s Friday the thirteenth and tonight’s a full moon. Enjoy the quiet while we can.

Cut me the aortic arch, quipped Dora.

Elaine shook her head and laughed. I’m in surgery, but that’s gruesome, even for me.

Dora chewed a morsel. Ooh, yum. Really good. She raised her voice, Thank you for the zombie-themed birthday party. Quite timely.

A huge card signed by the staff and several gifts rested on a corner table. But before she opened the presents, the invited personnel left after birthday cardio cake to go about their duties. Only Dr. Grover and Janelle who had a later shift in Pediatrics remained.

Janelle turned on the news. Sorry I can’t help myself. I heard the president is going to talk. Again.

Dora stared at the screen and her heart sank. Los Angeles is in flames. Another ZFM or zombie flash mobbing YouTube video gone viral. Violent computer games long forgotten, as kids turned to the bloody reality of killing real zombies and ZFM became a global craze.

Nothing shocked her anymore. Since the first outbreaks, social networks announced how to attract zombies to bash their brains out. Young people from Europe to China and now Africa, South America and Australia took to the streets with clubs, axes, guns and machetes. The millions of unemployed, homeless and disenfranchised formed vigilante groups to fight the zombie invasion. After a good killing, many would loot and grab free food. The most popular TV reality shows were Zombie Survival and the over the top Zombies and Tiaras. The National Guard, curfews and all the pleading from politicians did no good. A new political party, The End of Days party, began a grassroots organization that blamed Z-phage on sinners.

The Nightly News newscaster, Virginia Hayes, broadcasting from Los Angeles reported the latest news. No longer the perfectly made up and coifed newscaster, she looked exhausted, with bags under her eyes. She wore a bloodied blazer and an AK-47 rested on her desk. I’m afraid the tide has turned. The zombies now outnumber the zombie flash mobs and Los Angeles is on the brink of destruction. I’ve been in Iraq and Somalia during the heat of war and I’ve never seen anything that even compares to what we’re seeing now. The disease has spread like wildfire and panic has brought the highways to a complete standstill.

Videos of burning buildings, soldiers in tanks and the dead walking the streets looked like a scene from the popular zombie movies and television shows of the last few years.

Virginia Hayes continued, This is happening everywhere. She showed videos of New York, London, Moscow, and other cities suffering from zombie attacks. The Surgeon General has stated that it’s not just their bite but their blood that carries the contagion. Blood sprayed from infected zombies into the eyes is enough to infect others with Z-phage. The National Guard has orders to stop civilians from mobbing zombies. Orders are to desist or be shot on the spot. Your local stations will keep you informed on the nearest evacuation centers.

Janelle swallowed hard. My family lives in San Pedro in LA County.

Dora draped an arm over her. By the ocean. I’m sure they’ve been evacuated.

She slowly nodded.

Dr. Grover switched off the TV. Why don’t you both go home and call your families? You can be on standby. Dr. Shaddock and Dr. Conway called in to say they’re available for the late shift.

Janelle shook her head. No, my leukemia patient is coming in. She stared at her watch. She’s four years old. I promised to read her a Babar story during chemo.

Dora turned to him. I’m staying, too. You’ll need me to screen. Things are bound to go crazy, especially if people cross over the state lines. Since the first cases of Z-phage, border crossing into all states had been subject to close inspection. Anyone with a bite was immediately turned away. So far here in Austin, there had only been thirty cases and panic had not set in. Texas had been the strictest to enforce the rules, resulting in fewer zombies. However, guarding the entire state border proved futile. Houston became the first Texas city to go the way of the dead. I just need to check my messages in case my parents or Josh called.

He’s in Northern California, right? asked Dr. Grover.

Across the Golden Gate Bridge in Marin County, but his partner, Victor, is a cop in San Francisco.

She’d never mentioned Josh’s sexual orientation to her supervisor, Dr. Grover. Her stepbrother was gay and married to Victor. She’d mentioned that they’d adopted a now six-year-old Korean girl two years ago. He probably assumed Josh was married to a woman.

Well, it’s good to be married to a policeman who owns guns. I think it might be a good idea for all my doctors to be armed before things get worse.

Spoken like a true Texan, Dora quipped.

He scoffed. It’ll be twelve years since I relocated from New York. But you, California girl, need to learn how to shoot. He patted her on the shoulder and left.

Dora had always been anti-gun but now owning one seemed like not just a good idea, but a damn smart one, too. Actually, I’m joining the NRA, she joked.

Janelle dropped her head and looked guilty. Sorry I ruined your birthday.

Nah, it’s not your fault Z-phage is spreading.

Janelle hugged her and then held her at arm’s length. I know, but you deserve one day with no worries.

Dora shrugged and smiled. "I’ll escape by reading My Viking Master. If the end of the world is coming, I need to know if Erik and Deidre live happily ever after. Her phone buzzed. It’s Josh."

Janelle smiled. Tell him to take care of little Melanie or he’ll answer to me. She closed the door, leaving her alone with the zombie inspired dessert spread.

Dora answered her phone. As Josh and her niece, Melanie, sang Happy Birthday, first in English, and then in Korean, she grinned. Leave it to him, to be the perfect parent and learn Korean so Melanie Min could feel at home.

Hi, Auntie Dora.

Mel! How are you, sweetheart?

I miss you.

I miss you too, honey. How’s first grade?

School is closed. Daddy doesn’t have to teach. We’re going on vacation. Daddy Victor will come soon.

That sounds great. Let me talk to Daddy Josh. Love you.

Love you too, Auntie Dora.

Josh spoke, Hey, Dora. Didn’t I tell you not to worry about today?

Though Josh was her stepbrother, they were still as close as biological siblings. He was nine and she was six when her widowed father married his mother. He promised she wasn’t going to die on her birthday. He even sent Dora a twenty-eighth birthday gift. A plane ticket to Hawaii, good for one year from today. All expenses paid. Purchased, of course, before the zombie pandemic. She clutched her cell phone, aching to be with him. It’s you I’m worried about. Is Victor home?

Go on honey and pack, Daddy needs to talk to Auntie Dora. He returned and lowered his voice, No. You know him. Hero to the end. I begged him not to, but he said it was his duty as an officer of the law to protect and serve. Same old, same old. I’m worried sick. Things in San Francisco are deteriorating. Go online. You’ll see our mayor caught on camera turning zombie in his office.

Though she’d watched tapes of transformations, it still shocked her. Dora braced her heart for the worse. Have you heard from Mom and Pop?

No. Have you? They lived in the marina. The last time they spoke, her dad said they were leaving for their cabin in Lake Tahoe. All roads had been blocked and people trapped in their cars, sitting ducks for zombie swarms. After a brief silence, he comforted, I’m sure it’s because there’s no reception.

Right, that’s what I heard. They were dead. It was illogical, but she’d sensed it for the last couple of days. Just promise to call me at least every other day.

Not a problem. My solar charged cell phone is designed for the apocalypse.

Where are you heading?

Marti’s. She invited us to stay as long as we want. Her freezers have at least a six month supply of meat and a pantry of canned goods and bottled water taken from the disaster handbook.

Josh’s eccentric friend, Marti Carson owned an endangered big-cat breeding program in Mendocino. Her home stood above the cat compounds. Visitors walked on elevated bridges to view the cats. An ideal shelter, since zombies couldn’t climb. I have to stay, but once the borders are opened, I’ll come to California. Doctors are allowed, too.

As long as you don’t treat patients with Z-phage.

These days I’m mostly doing diagnosis. She wanted to treat patients, but because of her unusual gift of diagnosing them with just a few symptoms, Dr. Grover insisted she do nothing but screen patients before they were seen by other medical staff.

Good.

They chatted about her birthday party, and how he missed teaching his third grade class, since all the school closures. After the call, she pressed the phone over her heart. At the end of this week, she would arrange to go to California with the Red Cross.

The emergency room turned out to be a madhouse as Dr. Grover predicted. Higher than usual heart and asthma attacks, not surprising with the stress from the fear of zombie attack. Dora entered room A, and switched on the computer. She stared at the screen. Good, no new patients. So far. Three of the patients in the waiting room raised her guard. Flu-like symptoms. There was no blood test to determine infection during the first stage. She reviewed her checklist of early symptoms: bloodshot eyes, headache, fever and numbness in their limbs. Minor compared to hemorrhagic fevers like Marburg or the Ebola virus where patients’ insides literally melted. Within a day or less after a zombie’s bite, the patient would slip into a coma, die and within seconds reanimate into a flesh-eating mindless creature.

With no other accurate diagnostic tool, Dora checked the body for bite marks. Not an easy task. People lied to avoid quarantine. Parents of young children were especially protective. In fact, the most common emergency patient, the child with fever, was down to only one tonight. Worried parents would rather risk being bitten by their infected children than parting from them. Watching children, crying and screaming, wrenched away from the arms of distressed parents sent to isolation facilities, broke Dora’s heart. She couldn’t imagine her niece being carted away to die alone.

Dora glanced at the clock, 9:00 p.m., and left the office to see her first patient. I’m still alive. Maybe I’m not a member of the 27 Club.

She opened the drapes and smiled at the blonde curly-haired two year old squirming in her mother’s arms. She looked at the chart. Lindsey Benning. She knelt. Hi Lindsey, aren’t you a pretty girl? She glanced at her mom and offered her hand. I’m Dr. Adler, what seems to be the problem?

The mother whispered, A fever of 101. My mother takes care of her while I work, so she wasn’t exposed to any other kids. She won’t be quarantined will she?

The child tugged at her inflamed earlobe. Dora suspected an ear infection. Sounds like she hasn’t been exposed. Dora did her best to ease the mother’s concerns with a gentle voice. She knelt down and let the toddler play with her stethoscope as she scanned for bite marks or open cuts. None. Dora checked her eyes. Not bloodshot. Hold still, Lindsey, I’m going to take a peek in your ears. Hmm. Pus in the middle ear. A sigh of relief escaped her lips. Thank God. Oops, get a grip. Your daughter has an ear infection. I’ll have Dr. Smith come in and set you up with Amoxicillin.

The young mother raised a brow. You can’t?

I’m sorry, tonight I’m the screener and I must move on to the next patient. Dr. Smith is our pediatrician on duty. She can advise you on how to prevent exposure to…Z-phage. The mother nodded with a relieved smile. Ear infection always wins over zombie infection.

Dr. Grover waved her over. Dr. Adler.

She smiled at the mother and daughter, and left to meet with Dr. Grover. Who’s next?

Just came in. That man, over there. Drunk driver. He just hit and killed a woman. Dead on arrival. He pointed his chin to the entrance. Paramedics wheeled in a large covered body, then they rushed off. We need to hurry; the EMTs are off to a five car accident.

Dora read his chart. Blood alcohol .08 and a head wound. She glanced at a man in his fifties, dressed in a business suit. A nurse had bandaged his forehead, but blood still seeped through.

She used her ophthalmoscope to check his eyes. Slightly red, but expected of someone this drunk. Mr. Harrison, do you have any other injuries?

He stared at the wall behind her. No doubt, in shock. She just walked in front of my car.

She wanted to scold him for driving drunk and hitting a pedestrian but held her tongue as she observed his cut. You’ll need stitches and then I’m afraid you’ll be placed under arrest for DUI. Not that he really would be. The police were overwhelmed with calls of possible zombies. First though, I’ll need to check you for bite marks. A routine examination, Mr. Harrison.

He slowly shook his head. He bent and pulled up his pants from his ankle. A fierce bite mark beneath his sock. Dora’s voice hitched. Oh shit.

The woman looked normal. I ran out to help…but she bit me. She must have been a recent zombie. I got in my car and ran over her again. She was a big woman. I made sure she was down. Panic flushed on his face. I might be immune, right?

Umm. She stopped before telling him no one was immune. You’ll be quarantined downstairs and treated with antiviral drugs to slow the disease. It was a big lie. No such drug existed. Every known antiviral drug failed to stop or slow the Z-phage. By tomorrow, this man would become a zombie and the shooters would deliver a bullet to his brain. Stay here. Dora drew the curtains around him and left. Where’s the hit and run victim?

She’s still in the hall to be taken down to the morgue, said a nurse.

Dora yanked on the biohazard alarm, alerting everyone to the Level 4 danger and grabbed a surgical blade. The National Guard ran in but Dora was already by the empty gurney.

She’s gone! She turned just as a heavy body slammed her to the floor. The thirty-something zombie in a black sweat outfit exceeded two hundred pounds and Dora at one hundred and fifteen pounds lay crushed beneath her. Help!

The zombie drooled on her, like a dog ready to eat a steak. Dora screamed as she tried to push the hefty woman off. The zombie chomped down on her arm, tearing through her sleeves. Finding flesh, the zombie bit deep into her muscle tissue, making eager chewing sounds. The pain savaged her mind, like a zebra eaten alive by lions in too much of a hurry to bother killing her first. An unnatural holler escaped Dora’s throat and she flailed, stabbing the woman’s face with her blade.

Time slowed. Two guards lifted the hefty woman who then charged them. They fired and she collapsed. Pandemonium set in as patients, even ones with broken limbs, and many medical staff dashed out of the building.

Dizzied, she held her bleeding arm as five people in biohazard suits rushed in. One lifted her from the floor. She held her arm, afraid to look at the damage.

Dora! Dr. Grover tried to rush to her side, but an armed quarantine guard grabbed him. Let me go. She needs medical attention.

The man in the biohazard suit raised a palm. We’re taking her and the other patient to the decontamination room. They’ll be given morphine and kept comfortable.

Another biohazard-suited man reasoned with Dr. Grover, but he was having none of it. She’s bleeding!

Pressing her lips together so as not to hiss, Dora forced a small smile. Don’t worry, it’s not so bad.

The man in the biohazard suit set her on a wheelchair and pushed her to the red painted biohazard elevator. Mr. Harrison attempted to run but a guard injected him with a knockout drug and dumped him on a gurney. Two men in biohazard suits black-bagged the hefty dead woman and dragged the bag into the elevator. Two others gathered the zombie’s splattered brain tissue and cleaned up the blood.

The biohazard-suited man behind her pushed the button to level Q and the elevator dropped taking her stomach with it. I need to call my brother. And say goodbye.

Your next of kin will be notified in a few days.

I am just as good as dead. So much for beating the 27 Club.

The elevator finally stopped at the underground quarantine. Two women in biohazard suits escorted her to the decontamination shower. One apologized, her voice muffled behind the mask, I’m sorry, Dr. Adler.

She swallowed. So what’s next?

You’ll need to undress and stay in the shower until the light flashes red. Then we’ll escort you to the infirmary and dress your wound.

What’s the point? There’s no chance the infection can be washed away.

Protocol. I promise as soon as you’re done, I’ll bandage your bite. We’ll give you as much pain medication as you want.

She stepped in, stripped, and then entered the shower. The doors sealed shut and powerful ceiling sprinklers turned on. She bit her knuckle as the disinfectants burned her gash and blood dribbled down her arm and down the drain. The stinging pain on her wound overwhelmed her and she pounded on the wall. Get me out! She looked up as the hot water splashed her face and dizzied from the pain, her vision swam, then blackness.

Dora lay on a small bed in a glass-sealed room. One tiny sink and