Chapter 4
“Quinn, to your room, please!” Nurse Patrick shouts from the dayroom doorway. He’s bobbing in and out of the dayroom, trying to keep one eye on the unit and one eye on Ms. Michelle. He jets back into the dayroom, not even bothering to see if I comply, so I stay with Keisha.
“Ms. Michelle has a bite on her arm,” I say. “Do you think she was bitten by one of the…” I hesitate. What are they? “…rioters, or whatever?” I ask quickly. I can’t bring myself to say zombie. It’s too crazy.
“Quinn, you saw her. What do you think? Have you ever seen someone get sick like that?”
“She’s going to turn into one of them. In here. With us,” I say, but I don’t need to. Keisha figured this out ten minutes ago.
“Quinn, I said get in your room, now!” Nurse Patrick yells.
It’s a strange thing to be yelled at here.
Not only can they not touch us unless it’s for safety reasons, but also the staff are not allowed to yell at us.
They’re firm; they threaten in a sickly-sweet tone, but they do not yell.
Especially Nurse Patrick. He’s never yelled at any of us.
It startles me enough that I turn and go back to my room.
Ten wide-eyed faces pop out of their doorways to watch me go.
My mind is racing. My heart is a steady thump in my chest. If Keisha is right, Ms. Michelle is going to start attacking people soon, and Nurse Patrick is the only thing standing in her way. I exhale and make a promise to myself. I’m not dying in this place.
Frantically, I start looking for a weapon, but I quickly realize I have nothing.
If only I had something heavy to swing like a bat.
But anything big enough to make an impact is securely bolted to the floor.
Which also means there’s nothing I can use to barricade the doorway.
This place was designed to prevent any sort of violence.
They’ve made any kind of uprising impossible. I sit down on my bed and rack my brain.
“Think, Quinn!” I scold myself aloud.
The bed. I study the frame, and hope fills my chest. I run to my dresser and snatch a small cup of coins I’ve been saving for a coveted trip to the lobby’s vending machine.
I spill the cup on the floor and frantically sift through the coins until I find what I’m looking for.
A shiny half-dollar coin that one of my foster dads gave me for Christmas one year.
I don’t know why I kept it. At the time it seemed like such a dumb gift, but now I’m glad I have it.
It feels heavy in my fist, and I hold it tight like a lifeline.
I dive onto the floor, wiggle under my bed, and get to work.
Just like I knew it would, the coin fits perfectly into the large bolt securing my bedframe to the floor. The coin is just large enough to give me the leverage to move the bolt to the left. I force the coin to turn again and again.
The ding of the elevator interrupts me. I scramble to my doorway to see who it could be.
It’s Mr. Josh, back from his emergency page.
I can hear his voice, a little too loud and high-pitched, coming from the workstation, but I can’t make out the words.
I want to move closer but push myself to stay disciplined.
I need protection more than I need information, so I get back to work, and I strain my ears to listen for danger.
Ten minutes and one bloody fingernail later, I have liberated two three-foot lengths of bedpost. They’re heavy, solid pieces of wood, thin enough to wrap my fingers around if I use two hands and light enough for me to swing but still do some damage. I feel safer already.
My bed leans awkwardly. There’s no hiding this. If Keisha is wrong about this, I’m getting sent to the acute psychiatric floor for sure, but it feels worth the risk.
I cough, cough, then sneeze loud enough for Keisha to hear me, and her head pops out of her door at the signal we made up for emergencies.
I check the hallway for onlookers but see no one.
I flash her my new weapons, then show her my coin.
She squints at the coin and the bedpost in my hands, and then I can practically see a lightbulb turn on above her head.
She nods, understanding. I kneel down and aim carefully, sliding the coin across the hall and slightly to the left.
Keisha grabs the coin and disappears into her room.
I can still hear frantic whispers coming from the dayroom. I lean my weapons just out of view near my doorframe and tiptoe down the hall. As I get closer, the voices become clearer.
“People don’t die from a bite! She was fine two seconds ago!” Nurse Patrick whispers harshly.
“Well, she’s dead, Pat. I don’t know what else to tell you,” Mr. Josh says coldly.
“I couldn’t call out! The phones! I tried, but there was nothing I could…”
“Everything is fucked, Pat. A sick doctor just went nuts on a bunch of the psych patients downstairs on the fourth floor for no goddamn reason. We got him under control, and they’re treating him now.
We’re just going to have to wait for help.
But these kids can’t see her like this. They can’t see us like this.
We need to stay calm. Cover her with that blanket and close the door.
We’ll move her after the girls have gone to sleep,” Mr. Josh says in a daze.
“But…” Nurse Patrick starts.
“I can’t deal with this right now. We’ll figure it out,” Mr. Josh says firmly.
Dead. Ms. Michelle is dead. My heart thuds in my ears. According to what Keisha saw, Ms. Michelle should be waking up soon. But how soon?
They leave the dayroom, closing the door softly, and see me standing in exactly the spot where I’m not supposed to be.
Crap. I need to think fast. Do I tell Mr. Josh and Nurse Patrick what I know?
That Ms. Michelle is about to turn feral?
That we’re all screwed? Or do I play along like everything’s fine?
“Quinn, what are you doing out of your room?” Mr. Josh asks, seething.
I channel Keisha. I breathe evenly, let my face relax, and prepare to lie.
“I was just wondering if you need help handing out breakfast,” I say sweetly.
“That’s very kind of you, Quinn. Yes, you can help me,” he says, relaxing a bit.
I should tell him what I know. I’m not sure why I don’t.
Maybe it’s sixteen years of getting my head knocked off every time I’m caught doing something I shouldn’t.
For some reason I’m still afraid for him to know Keisha and I snuck out.
Besides, maybe Keisha was wrong and we’re all overreacting. I keep my mouth shut.
I walk with Mr. Josh up the north hall toward the snack pantry to help with breakfast. Then January’s head pops out of her door.
“I want to help too,” January whines softly at Mr. Josh.
“Thank you for offering. Not today, January,” he replies.
“But I want to help!”
“Here we go,” Mr. Josh says, sighing discreetly. “January, I appreciate your offer, but I already have a helper. Please stay in your room,” he says with more patience than I could ever muster.
“I. WANT. TO. HELP!” January wails.
Her scream is the kind that stings your ears and blurs the edges of your vision. The hallway practically vibrates from the sound.
I know someone once loved January. Someone loved her enough to give her a unique and beautiful name.
I’m sure they looked forward to her birthdays.
Maybe they even thought she was cute at some point.
But right now, in this moment, I can’t fathom a world where anyone could stand to exist in the vicinity of this child.
Only a dose of diazepam from Nurse Patrick can fix this. My eyes dart down the hall to find him, but he’s distracted.
Nurse Patrick’s eyes are locked on the dayroom door. Over the piercing noise that is January, I can see the door shake and hear the low thud of it trying to escape its jamb.
Mr. Josh stares at it wide-eyed. That’s when I realize it didn’t matter if I told him what Keisha and I figured out. He already knows.
Nine faces peer out of their doorways to watch the drama.
“Who is in the dayroom?” Ginger asks from her doorway over Jan’s screams.
“Go back in your room, please, Ginger,” Nurse Patrick says.
“I am in my room. And you’re not allowed to lock people behind closed doors. It’s against our rights,” Ginger says firmly, her eyebrows pinching in the center of her face.
“Ginger, Ms. Michelle is sick. She needs to stay in the dayroom,” Mr. Josh says quickly, knowing exactly where this is going.
“You’re violating her rights! She has rights! Let her out! Let her out now!”
January continues kicking and screaming red-faced on the linoleum floor, but Ginger is giving her a run for her money, working hard to be heard over her.
The door is quaking behind Nurse Patrick.
Just when I think things can’t get any more chaotic, Tracy comes out of her room, unable to miss a chance to get in the drama, and she joins Ginger, demanding rights for Ms. Michelle.
It’s a complete mutiny. On any other day I would absolutely live for a moment like this. In fact, it probably would have been me who orchestrated the whole thing, just to sit back and watch the show, but now I’m desperate for it to stop.
“Pat, get the meds, now!” Mr. Josh shouts frantically as he runs toward the dayroom door to help block it.
As Nurse Patrick moves for the meds closet, Ginger and Tracy move on Mr. Josh. Tasha and Diamond rush out of their rooms to join them. The four girls easily push Mr. Josh aside.
“STOP!” I yell just as Tracy rips open the dayroom door. But it’s too late.
The sixth floor falls eerily silent. Even January has stopped screaming to stare wide-eyed at the thing that just leaped out of the dayroom and into the hallway.
Ms. Michelle is a snarling shell of herself. Her empty eyes scan the hallway, black saliva drips from her chin, and a low growl rattles in her chest.
“Ms. Michelle?” Tracy squeaks.