Delilah had been on the eighth floor—the Vegetable Patch—only one other time. It had been during the first week of her orientation when Mallory had given her a tour of the special unit, even though as a student, she would never work up there.
The unit was fascinating. She remembered how eerily quiet it had been, only the soothing hum of the life-support beds and the beeping of the computers that monitored them. There had been one nurse on the unit that day, Betty, and Delilah found herself wondering about Betty’s fate this day.
She reached out and pulled open the doors to the unit, Deacon following close behind her. The lighting was soft, muted, and Delilah realized she was holding her breath as she searched the shadows for signs of attack.
“I’ve always hated the quiet up here,” Deacon said. “It’s like a funeral home.”
“But the folks here are still alive.”
He made a noise of disapproval as they walked down the soft-blue corridor. “You call what’s up here alive?” he asked her.
“They’re alive,” Delilah retorted. “Just not able to move around is all.”
“The only reason they are alive is these damn machines.”
“Yeah,” Delilah agreed. “That’s right—but they’re still alive.”
“That isn’t living,” Deacon scoffed. “It’s a form of cruelty is what I say.”
“Some people believe that life is sacred, no matter what.”
“Yeah, and I ain’t one of them.”
The emotion in Deacon’s words made Delilah wonder if there was something more behind them, but they had reached the nursing office. The door was closed, and the vertical glass windows on either side showed that the lights were off.
“Doesn’t look like anybody’s home,” Deacon said, leaning in close, trying to see into the darkened office. “Shouldn’t there be a nurse up here?”
“Yeah,” Delilah said. “I met one, named Betty.” She reached for the knob and turned it. The door wasn’t locked, and she cautiously pushed it open.
It swung halfway in before something stopped it.
“Something’s in the way,” she said, wedging herself into the opening to see that a chair had been placed beneath the door. She grabbed the wooden arms of the chair and was attempting to push it aside when—
Something jumped up from behind the desk, something large and screaming like a wild animal. Delilah tried to pull back but wasn’t quick enough. Something smashed over her head, making her grunt as stars danced before her eyes.
Deacon grabbed her by the waist, pulling her out. Through bleary eyes Delilah saw her attacker—Betty—once a kind, caring woman, now wild-eyed and full of rage. She was coming at them, using an umbrella as a club, preparing to strike again.
“Betty,” Delilah cried out. “It’s okay! Remember me? You told me I reminded you of your granddaughter.”
The large woman stumbled back, bringing the umbrella down.
“Delilah, right?” the woman said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Delilah said.
“Who’s that with you?” she asked, raising the umbrella again.
“It’s Mr. Deacon,” Delilah said.
“Deacon,” she said. “Yeah, I know him, but I usually deal with Mason.” She moved the chair out of the way and opened the door wide. “Get in here before they notice,” she ordered, her eyes darting up and down the hallway.
She slammed the door behind them and wedged the chair underneath the knob.
“They?” Delilah asked.
The woman stared at her for a moment, as if deciding if she should answer or not. “The patients,” she finally said, her voice a whisper.
Delilah felt the cold finger of dread run down her sweating back, and it made her shudder. “What’s been going on up here?” she asked.
Betty stared off into space, absently reaching up to rub at her neck, where multiple scratches and bruises were evident. Delilah could see that she was holding back the tears.
“Everything was fine,” Betty finally began to explain. “Just as it always was . . . my babies were in their beds, and I was at the nurses’ station finishing up my paperwork. Then the power went out, and the alarms started to go off. I got up to check on the babies.”
She paused, staring at the door for a moment before continuing. “I can’t begin to tell you how insane it was,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Here were these people, most of them I’ve been taking care of for years, and they’ve never moved, never changed . . . and yet they were all up and out of their beds.” Betty shook her head. “At first I didn’t believe it . . . my brain was telling me there was no way I could be seeing what was right before my eyes.”
She stopped and looked at them.
“And then I saw the pieces on the floor, and I realized that they were taking apart their beds.”
“Just like the computer room,” Deacon said, nodding toward Delilah.
“Their fingers,” Betty continued as if not hearing him. “They were all bloody. I tried to help them.” The look on her face went from sadness to fear, and she rubbed at her neck again. “But then they tried to kill me. They rushed me all together. I barely got in here with my skin intact. I don’t think I would have if it wasn’t for their years of immobility—even our technology can’t prevent the muscle wasting from lack of weight bearing.
Betty’s face grew very still as she looked toward the door. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she said quietly. “I’ve got to get home.”
Delilah nodded in agreement, reaching out to touch the woman’s arm. “We all need to get home.”
Deacon had moved to the door and was listening for sounds in the corridor. “We just have to figure out how to do that without getting killed.”
They all heard it at the same time.
“Did you hear . . . ?” Betty began, pushing off from the desk.
“I thought . . . ,” Delilah said, moving toward Deacon.
Deacon pressed his ear to the door and raised his hand for quiet. “I think it came from out there.”
And then they heard it again. “Help.”
Deacon nodded excitedly. “I heard that.”
Delilah and Betty looked at each other uncertainly.
“I don’t want to open the door,” Betty said fearfully, clutching her umbrella all the tighter.
“Help.”
“But we can’t . . . ,” Delilah began, understanding the fear. But how could they possibly ignore cries for help?
Deacon carefully opened the door, just enough to cautiously peer up, then down the corridor.
“Help,” came the voice again.
“Holy shit,” Deacon cried, and ran out into the hallway.
“Deacon, wait!” Delilah called out, racing after the maintenance director.
“Shut the door!” Betty screamed, and Delilah heard it slam behind her as she caught sight of Deacon farther down the hall, dragging a lifeless body back toward her.
“Phil,” Delilah gasped, immediately recognizing her friend.
“He’s bit up pretty badly,” Deacon said, and as he neared her, Delilah could see the bloodstains and rips in Phil’s scrubs.
She turned to the office door, grabbed the knob, and pushed, but it didn’t budge. “Betty?” she called through the door. “It’s okay! It’s another nurse from my floor, and he’s hurt!”
Deacon had reached her and they waited, nervously watching the hallway for signs of danger.
“Betty!” Delilah called again, more forcefully this time. “Please!”
Another few moments passed, and Delilah wondered if Betty would allow them back into the office, but then she heard the scraping of a chair on the floor and the door opened.
Deacon dragged Phil into the office and laid him gently on the floor as Betty rushed around behind the desk, her umbrella poised for action. Delilah slammed the door closed and replaced the chair under the knob before turning to kneel beside Phil.
He was lying on his side, curled into the fetal position.
“Hey, Phil. It’s me, Delilah. You’re going to be okay now,” she said as she gently touched his arm. He was trembling but didn’t respond. “He’s pretty bad,” Delilah said, looking to Betty. “Is there anything in here we can use to clean up these bites?”
Betty just stared, gripping her umbrella.
“Betty,” Delilah nearly shouted. “Is there anything to clean his wounds?”
Finally, Betty seemed to focus. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, right here.” She walked to a file cabinet in the corner and pulled open a drawer.
As Betty rummaged through the drawer, Delilah rolled Phil over onto his back. At first he fought the movement, but then he seemed to relax, his eyes still tightly shut. Delilah looked him up and down, her gaze pausing on his bloodstained scrubs pulled tightly over a bloated belly. That was odd. Phil was very thin, and she was sure she would have noticed a potbelly before.
“Here’s some alcohol and cotton balls,” Betty said, approaching them, her hands full. “I’ve got some bandages . . .”
Alarm bells went off inside Delilah’s head, and a wave of panic washed over her. “Get away from him,” she cried out, scuttling backward across the floor.
“Delilah, what’s wrong?” Deacon and Betty asked, almost in unison, sudden fear evident in their tones.
Delilah’s gaze was locked on Phil’s face. His eyes snapped open—his right eye covered with a silvery sheen.
And then he opened his mouth—they all thought it was to scream in pain.
But it was to let the wasps out.
The swarm of yellow and black insects flowed out onto his body, fluttering their wings, drying them as they readied to take to the air. Deacon and Betty looked as though they might pass out, so Delilah knew it was up to her to do something.
She reached out, grabbed the alcohol from Betty’s hand, and ripped off the cap. She stood over Phil’s trembling body—and poured the full bottle over the largest concentration of wasps.
As if sensing danger, Phil’s body arched violently; his head threw back and his mouth opened wider, and wider still. Delilah blanched at the terrible sound of his jaw dislocating as more insects emerged in a mound of writhing panic.
“A match,” she said, looking at Deacon and Betty.
“A match!” she repeated, nearly screaming when they didn’t move.
Deacon tapped his pockets. “I don’t . . .”
“A match!” Delilah shouted at Betty, swatting at wasps that had finally taken to the air.
“I’m trying to quit,” Betty said, her voice soft, almost dreamy. Her eyes, wide with shock, were riveted to the insects pouring out of Phil’s open mouth.
“I don’t care! Give me a match!”
Finally Betty jumped to action, moving left, then right, as if not sure where she was. She went to the small desk, yanked open the bottom drawer, and pulled out a tattered matchbook.
“There’s only one left,” she said pathetically.
Delilah ripped the book from the woman’s hand and lit the lone match, silently relieved when its head flared. Then she dropped the burning match on top of Phil and watched as the alcohol ignited, setting wasps and Phil afire.
Delilah gasped in horror as Phil rolled onto his side and began to climb to his feet. “We have to get out of here,” she cried, taking a step back as Deacon rushed forward with a chair.
The maintenance director rammed into Phil, sending the nurse stumbling backward into the window, igniting curtains that hid a view of the back of the building.
Papers on the desk had begun to burn as flaming wasps fell on them. Smoke and the stench of burning flesh filled the small room, and then the sprinklers kicked in, creating an artificial rain to douse the spreading fires. It slowed the wasps somewhat, but Delilah knew it wouldn’t last. “Betty, c’mon,” she urged from the door.
The woman still stood near the desk. “They’re out there,” she said, terror in her voice.
“And the wasps are in here,” Delilah retorted. “I’d rather take my chances out there. Let’s go!”
“But where are we going?” Betty asked, near panic.
“We’re going to get the hell out of here,” Deacon said, taking a step forward and holding out his hand to her. “We’ll go together.”
Delilah stood with her hand on the doorknob, watching, waiting.
“I need to see my grandkids,” Betty said finally, moving toward Deacon and reaching to take his hand.
But she never got there.
From out of the smoke, Phil emerged. Before anyone could move or make a sound, he’d wrapped his hands around the woman’s throat and savagely twisted.
Snap!
The sound was horrible in its finality, and all Deacon and Delilah could do was watch helplessly while Betty’s limp body fell to the ground in a twitching heap as the life left her.
Something inside Delilah let go then, a wave of overwhelming anger washing over her like the flames that had burned Phil’s body, and she rushed the nurse, pushing him back with all her might.
Phil tripped over Betty’s outstretched arm and fell awkwardly against a high wooden bookcase. The force of the collision made the bookcase fall forward atop Delilah’s former friend, driving him to the floor and pinning him there.
Delilah knelt beside Betty’s still form, hoping that maybe . . .
She felt for a pulse and found nothing, Betty’s skin already beginning to cool.
“C’mon, Delilah,” Deacon said, putting a hand firmly on her shoulder. “We can’t stay here anymore.”
She knew that he was right, the smoke getting thicker by the minute.
“You ready for this?” he asked her as she started toward him.
“Yeah,” she said, thinking of Betty’s grandchildren and then her own son.
“You should take her shoes,” Deacon said softly. “You’ve only got one now—I think two would be better.”
She was horrified by the idea but knew that he was right. Betty’s feet didn’t appear much bigger than hers, and she found herself apologizing as she slipped the woman’s white loafers onto her own feet.
“We just have to get across this unit to the stairs on the other side,” Deacon explained. “Those’ll take us to the roof. I parked my truck up there this morning. I was gonna lay some tarp down around the roof vents for leaks on Six South.”
“Okay,” Delilah said, swatting at the remaining wasps that were flying drunkenly out from the smoke and artificial rain. She could feel her heart rate begin to quicken as she watched Deacon’s hand grip the doorknob.
“Go,” he ordered, opening the door, sending a gust of thick black smoke wafting into the hall with them.