Chapter 5 Iris
five
Iris
Fort Nelson General Hospital rises from the overgrown parking lot as a monument to everything we lost.
Twelve floors of shattered windows and darkness. Zombies cluster around the main entrance, dozens of them, drawn by some sound or smell I can't identify. The building seems to breathe with menace, alive in the worst possible way.
"Pharmacy should be easy enough to find if we can get in," I say.
Stephan circles the building slowly on the bike, scanning. "Back entrance. Emergency exit. Fewer of them."
He parks in an alley and covers the bike with a scavenged tarp. Then he hands me a knife and takes out his machete.
"We go quiet. No guns unless absolutely necessary. The sound attracts more of them than we can handle."
I nod, gripping the knife until my knuckles ache.
Inside, the hospital is worse than the exterior promised. Bodies everywhere, some still twitching weakly against the floor. We navigate by flashlight, every shadow a potential threat, every distant moan a reminder that we're never alone.
Stephan moves through the halls like a predator. Silent, aware, lethal. When three zombies stumble from a supply closet, he handles them with brutal efficiency—machete through skull, step back, repeat. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" I whisper as we climb the emergency stairs.
"Army, first. Then the Wolves." His jaw tightens. "They were good teachers. Before they became monsters."
The pharmacy door is locked. Heavy security, just like Dr. Nowak predicted. I kneel and pull out my lockpicks, a skill learned in year two, when locked doors meant the difference between medicine and slow death.
"Medic, lockpick. What else can you do?" Stephan asks, covering the hallway.
"I make a mean squirrel stew."
He almost smiles.
The lock clicks open. Inside is paradise. Shelves of medications, mostly intact. The heavy security kept the looters out and the zombies in, judging by the three corpses in lab coats slumped against the far wall.
I find ceftriaxone first, then meropenem—exactly what Allie needs. I grab multiples of each, plus anything else useful. This is a treasure trove and I’m going to grab everything I can carry. My bag is over half full when I hear it.
Footsteps. Human footsteps. Heavy boots, multiple sets, moving with purpose.
Stephan's face goes hard. "Wolves."
"How?"
"My bike's engine has a distinctive signature. Anyone who knows what to listen for..." He doesn't finish. Doesn't have to. "Hide. When they find me, you run. Get back to the bike, get Allie her medicine."
"I'm not leaving you."
"Allie needs you alive." His eyes meet mine, and I see something I didn't expect. Fear, not for himself, but for me. "Please."
The logic cuts through my protest. Allie. Always Allie.
I hide in a supply closet, antibiotics clutched to my chest, and watch through a crack in the door as four men emerge from the stairwell.
The leader, a massive brute with a shaved head and dead eyes, grins when he sees Stephan. "Brother. Been looking for you."
"Bull." Stephan's voice is flat. "Long way from home."
"Club wants you back. Or dead." Bull shrugs. "Your choice."
"I made my choice when you started killing families."
"That was business." Bull's smile turns cruel. "You always were too soft."
The fight explodes without warning.
Four against one, and they know his moves. They trained together, fought together. Bull is stronger. They're pushing Stephan back, overwhelming him with numbers.
He's losing. I can see it happening: wounds accumulating, movements slowing, the inevitable end creeping closer.
I don't think. Just act.
I burst from the closet and smash a heavy medicine bottle against Bull's skull. Glass shatters. Blood sprays. Bull staggers.
It's enough.
Stephan moves. Knife into another's leg, gun from a fallen hand, two shots that drop one man and send another fleeing.
Bull retreats, dragging his wounded brother. "This isn't over, traitor."
"You should have stayed hidden," Stephan snarls at me when they're gone.
"You're welcome."
We run. The gunshots attracted every zombie in the building. Outside, the halls are filling with moans and shuffling feet.
We flee Fort Nelson with the dead on our heels and the Wolves knowing exactly which direction we're headed.