I was halfway through the Manchester City match report in the paper when the alarm went off.
I wandered out of the cupboard to see every nurse and doctor running toward the isolation room. I never understood why everyone needed to go there—there were other patients, you know.
Two nurses pulled the crash cart into the isolation room, and the door slammed shut behind them.
I sighed and looked at the time.
9 o'clock. Still an hour before break.
I grabbed the cleaning trolley and went to clean a patient's room.
I was watching the news while cleaning. Some new version of the flu was going around London. I wonder what animal they'll name it after this time. Bear flu has a nice ring to it.
The lady in this room seemed to be in a coma or something. Either way, it was my pick for what to watch on TV. I switched channels and put on The Jeremy Kyle Show. It's like watching monkeys at the zoo.
Then, I saw the nurses walking out of the ISO room.
The man had died.
After my 10 o'clock cigarette break, I headed back into the ward through the waiting area.
Why did they have to make the smoking area so far away?
The first thing I noticed was the shouting. I looked down the corridor.
There were five or six members of staff crowded around the isolation room, their faces shocked.
Out of curiosity, I wandered over, expecting it to be a relative causing a scene again.
As I got to the door, I was shocked to see two security guards pinning down the patient—
The patient who had passed away just over an hour ago.
For such an old man, he was putting up one hell of a fight.
A young doctor in his twenties—white shirt, red trousers (God knows why he was wearing red trousers)—moved closer and attempted to calm the man down, saying he was in shock and that they were there to help.
The patient responded by yanking free of one of the security guards—then biting a chunk out of his hand.
The young doctor howled in pain and backed off as the guards themselves struggled to hold the man.
It happened so fast.
The guard holding the man down on the left slipped—
The patient responded.
Launching himself at the throat of the guard on the right.
He didn't even have time to cry out as—whatever this thing was—tore his windpipe out.
Chaos ensued.
Several people rushed forward, trying to pull the patient away from the guard.
Several were bitten in the process.
Others ran—some to phones for help, others just to get away.
I didn't move.
I stood there, looking but not seeing the scene in front of me.
The few who had tried to help the guard backed away. Nurses and doctors clutched their injuries.
The thing had its back to me.
I heard the sounds.
Chewing.
Swallowing.
I gagged.
It stopped chewing.
It turned.
And I looked into the face of death.
Only seeing the man wheeled in on the trolley earlier, I hadn't realized how tall he was.
About 5'8". Tubby.
But his skin—grey, like a storm cloud.
No colour.
No life.
No humanity in the eyes. Just a blank, staring, hungry look.
But the worst thing—the sound it made.
A raspy growl as it took a step toward me.
I didn't move.
My mind raced.
My heart pounded.
It took another step.
I looked around for something—anything.
I saw it.
I grabbed it from the wall and swung with all my strength.
I felt its ribs crunch under the weight of the fire extinguisher.
It stumbled back into the ISO room, knocking over a chair, toppling over the bed.
I dropped the extinguisher and stood still for a moment—watching.
Watching as the monster got back to its feet.
I looked into its eyes—
And saw my own disbelief reflected back.
I'm skinny, but I know a 9-litre fire extinguisher smashed into your ribs should keep you down for more than a few seconds.
It moved toward me again.
A slow, staggering lurch.
I reached into the room, grabbed a chair, and slammed the door shut.
Then, I propped the chair against it.
I looked through the glass.
The thing was looking back at me.
Then, it started bashing on it.
I flipped the blind closed and turned around.
Several people rushed toward the fallen security guard.
Then, they ran back when the thing started banging on the door again.
The chair held firm.
One brave nurse stepped forward to examine the dead guard—his white shirt stained with claret, his eyes still frozen in surprise.
She checked his pulse.
Then, she shook her head.
I sighed.
Then ran to the sink and vomited.
Judging by the sounds around me, I wasn't the only one.
Shit.
Then it hit me.
The other door.
The other entrance into the ISO room.
I turned—
It was already there.
Pounding against the door.
I watched for a second.
That second became five.
Then ten.
It was banging.
On a pull door.
It rasped in fury.
Scratched at the glass.
Frustrated.
We were so close—
Yet so far.
I don't know how long we stared.
I grabbed the fire extinguisher again as another doctor moved toward the door, seemingly intent on opening it. An older, balding doctor stopped him.
The next couple of minutes were a blur—pleas from staff for the thing to calm down, quiet weeping as wounds were examined.
I just stood there and watched.
I had seen too many movies, read too many books. This isn't what it looks like. Zombies aren't real.
An hour later, things were almost back to normal.
The police had arrived and managed to restrain the man. One officer was bitten in the process. Eventually, the patient was strapped to his bed. I overheard snippets of conversation— sedatives, no effect… no life signs… I've never seen anything like it.
I was interviewed by the police. They said it was unlikely any charges would be brought against me and that arrangements were being made to transfer the man—and I use that term loosely—to a more secure hospital.
Good riddance.
My supervisor was there. He offered to send me home. I declined. I don't know why. Maybe because we were short-staffed that day. Many of those who had been bitten or injured had to continue working after being stitched up.
They were a good bunch. Dedicated. Caring. No matter what, they carried on.
Two hours later.
1 o'clock.
I liked spending my lunch in the cleaner's cupboard. It was quiet, peaceful. Normally, I'd read a zombie book, but I ignored it today. I had no appetite for more bloodshed.
I plugged in my headphones, put on Carry On Wayward Son, closed my eyes, and tried to forget.
I opened my eyes and checked my phone.
2:30.
Shit.
I put my phone away, unplugged my headphones—
And then I heard it.
Screams. Rasps. Cries for help.
My heart raced.
It's here.
I opened the door and looked out.
Devastation.
Blood—so much blood. Bodies everywhere.
People gathered around them—biting, feeding, eating.
One of them looked up. Noticed me.
A blonde nurse. Once attractive, but her beauty had long faded. The left side of her face was torn away, giving her a twisted sneer.
She was only three feet away.
I moved to close the door, but she shoved an arm through, stopping it.
I slammed the door repeatedly against her arm, but she wouldn't let go.
The others were too preoccupied with my colleagues to help her, but she was on her feet now, pressing her whole weight against the door.
I pushed back as hard as I could.
Her face was so close to mine, her teeth snapping at the air. I could smell her breath—rancid.
I turned away, searching for something—anything.
A mop handle.
I grabbed it, prodding at her through the door, pushing her back just enough to slam it shut.
I pulled the mop handle in with me.
Locked the door.
Sat down on a box of paper towels.
The banging on the door began.
The only entrance.
The only way out.