Chapter 11: The Rescue - Part 1
Monday Morning - Day Four of the Outbreak
Dawn came gray and smoke-filled. Somewhere in the city, entire blocks were burning. The smell of it seeped through every crack in the house—acrid, chemical, wrong.
Griselda's fever had spiked overnight. Liza changed her IV bag and checked the wound, face grave. The infection was spreading despite the antibiotics.
"How long?" Daniel asked.
"Forty-eight hours. Maybe less." Liza didn't sugarcoat it. "She needs surgery. Real surgery, in a real hospital."
"Then we find one."
"Daniel—"
"We find one." His tone left no room for argument.
Travis pulled me aside. "There's a field hospital. Military setup. I saw signs for it yesterday when we were running from the school. Maybe fifteen miles east."
"East is deeper into the city. Probably more infected."
"But if they have medical facilities—"
"Then they're overwhelmed, understaffed, or already abandoned. Field hospitals in disaster zones become death traps." I'd watched enough zombie media to know the pattern. "But if Daniel insists on going, we'll go."
"You don't have to—"
"Yeah, I do. Griselda dies, Daniel blames us. Daniel blames us, the group fractures. We need unity right now."
Travis studied me. "You're very pragmatic about all this."
"Someone has to be."
We gathered the group for a meeting. Ten people crowded into the living room, everyone exhausted, several injured. This was our army—teachers, students, a barber, a nurse, and whatever the hell I was.
"Field hospital," I said without preamble. "Fifteen miles east. Military-run, probably has surgical facilities. That's our target."
"That's suicide," Nick said. "The streets are full of those things."
"The streets everywhere are full of them. At least this direction has a purpose."
"What about supplies?" Madison asked. "Do we have enough fuel? Ammunition?"
"Fuel is tight. Two vehicles, maybe forty miles total between them. Ammunition..." I did a quick mental count. "Hundred fifty rounds across four firearms. Not enough for sustained engagement."
"Then we avoid engagement," Daniel said. "Stay quiet, stay fast, get Griselda to the hospital."
"Who goes?" Travis asked.
I thought about it. "Small team. Three people. Me, Travis, and Daniel. Everyone else stays here, defends the house."
"I'm going," Ofelia said immediately. "My mother needs me."
"Your mother needs you alive." Daniel's voice was firm but not unkind. "You stay with Madison. If we don't come back—"
"Don't say that."
"If we don't come back, you follow Madison to the cabin. Entiendes?"
Ofelia's eyes filled with tears, but she nodded.
Madison grabbed supplies—water, food, the remaining medical kit. We loaded Travis's truck with Griselda on a makeshift stretcher in the bed. Daniel rode with her. Travis drove. I took shotgun with the Glock and the Remington.
We pulled out at 8 AM.
The streets were hell.
Cars everywhere—abandoned, crashed, some still running with doors open and no drivers. Bodies in the road, some moving, some not. The smell of death was overwhelming even with the windows up.
Travis navigated slowly, weaving between obstacles. Every block revealed new horrors—a family torn apart in their front yard, a woman hanging from a second-story window screaming for help we couldn't provide, children's backpacks scattered like confetti.
"Don't stop," I said every time Travis's foot moved toward the brake. "We can't save everyone."
"We could try—"
"And die trying. Keep driving."
Daniel knocked on the rear window, pointed right. A herd of walkers, maybe twenty, clustering around something. Fresh kill, probably. We detoured left.
Three blocks later, we hit a roadblock. Not abandoned cars—an actual barricade. Furniture, shopping carts, lumber, all stacked chest-high across the intersection. People behind it, armed.
Travis stopped the truck fifty feet back. "Now what?"
"Hands visible. No sudden movements." I opened my door slowly, keeping the shotgun pointed down.
A man stepped out from behind the barricade—forties, lean, carrying a hunting rifle like he knew how to use it. Five others flanked him, various weapons. They'd organized fast, this neighborhood.
"Turn around," the man called. "This block is closed."
"We need to get through," I said. "Medical emergency."
"Everyone's got an emergency. Still closed."
I could see the calculation in his eyes—three people, one truck, decent weapons. They outnumbered us but weren't sure about our capabilities. Standard territorial posturing.
"We're not looking for trouble. Just passage. Two minutes through your block and we're gone."
"You bit?" He gestured at Griselda in the truck bed. "She looks sick."
"Infected wound, not bitten. She needs a hospital."
"Hospital's gone. Military pulled out this morning."
My stomach sank. "Field hospital too?"
"All of it. Helicopters came at dawn, took the brass, left everyone else." His voice carried bitter understanding. "You're on your own, friend. Same as the rest of us."
Travis started to argue. I put a hand on his arm.
"Then we'll find another way," I said to the man. "Sorry to bother you."
"Hey." He lowered the rifle slightly. "You look familiar. You're that school counselor's boyfriend, aren't you? From Kennedy?"
"Husband," Travis corrected. "Madison Clark. You know her?"
"My kid had her for guidance counselor. Alicia Clark's mom." Something shifted in his expression. "She with you?"
"Back at the house. Safe."
"Then you want my advice? Get back there. Protect what's yours. The government's not coming. The military's not coming. It's just us now."
"That's what I've been telling them."
The man smiled grimly. "Smart kid. Listen to him." He turned to his people. "Let them through. But just through—no stopping, no looting."
They pulled back part of the barricade. We drove through slowly, Travis nodding thanks. The man watched us go with the tired eyes of someone who'd given up on rescue and accepted survival.
"Military's really gone?" Travis asked once we'd cleared the block.
"Sounds like it."
"Then what do we do? Where do we take Griselda?"
Daniel knocked on the window again. When I rolled it down, he leaned forward. "There's a veterinary clinic. Three miles south. I know the owner—he's a doctor, just not for humans. Maybe he can help."
"Can we trust him?"
"I can." Daniel's eyes were hard. "And right now, that's all that matters."
We changed direction. South through neighborhoods that looked increasingly abandoned. Fewer walkers here—maybe the population density was lower. Or maybe people had fled instead of turning.
The clinic was a low building with barred windows and a faded sign: MARTINEZ VETERINARY SERVICES. The parking lot was empty except for one car.
Travis parked. I scanned the area—no immediate threats. "Stay with Griselda. I'll check inside."
The front door was unlocked. I pushed through, shotgun raised, moving through a waiting room decorated with pictures of happy dogs and cats. The hallway beyond led to exam rooms, a surgery suite, storage.
Movement in the back office. I aimed—
"Don't shoot!" A man emerged, hands up. Fifties, gray hair, wearing a white coat. "I'm not... I'm Dr. Martinez. This is my clinic."
"Jax Mercer. We need help. Woman with infected leg wound, needs surgery."
"I'm a veterinarian."
"I know. Do you have the equipment?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then that's all that matters. She'll die without it."
Martinez hesitated, then nodded. "Bring her in. I'll do what I can."
We carried Griselda inside, laid her on a steel table in the surgery suite. Martinez examined the wound, face grave.
"This is bad. Very bad. The infection's spread to the bone. I'd need to debride significantly, maybe even amputate—"
"Can you save her?" Daniel asked.
"I can try. But I'm not a human surgeon. I can't guarantee—"
"Try."
Martinez looked at the three of us—exhausted, desperate, armed. He made his decision.
"Alright. But you'll need to assist. And this is going to hurt her. A lot."
"She's strong," Daniel said. "She'll survive."
We spent the next three hours in that surgery suite—Martinez cutting away necrotic tissue, me monitoring Griselda's vitals as best I could, Travis and Daniel holding her down when she thrashed despite the sedatives.
It was brutal, ugly work. The kind of field medicine that would get you sued in normal times but was the best anyone could offer now.
When Martinez finally stitched her up, he looked like he'd aged ten years. "That's all I can do. The infection's out, but she's lost a lot of blood. She needs rest, fluids, and a miracle."
"Will she live?" Daniel asked.
"If she makes it through the night, maybe. If she doesn't..." Martinez washed his hands in the sink, scrubbing away blood. "I did my best."
"Thank you." Daniel's voice cracked slightly. "Truly."
We loaded Griselda back into the truck, now bandaged and sedated. Martinez gave us supplies—antibiotics, painkillers, IV bags.
"Where will you go?" he asked.
"North. There's a cabin in the mountains."
"Good luck. I'm staying here. Someone needs to look after the animals people left behind."
I shook his hand. "You're a good man."
"Or a stupid one. Time will tell."
We drove back as the sun sank toward the horizon. The return trip was quieter—fewer detours, less chaos. Maybe the city was emptying out. Maybe the walkers had better hunting grounds elsewhere.
We reached the Clark house just after dark. Madison met us at the door, relief flooding her face when she saw Travis alive.
Daniel carried Griselda inside, laid her on the couch. Liza immediately checked her over, whistled low at the surgical work.
"Whoever did this knew what they were doing."
"Veterinarian," I said. "Best we could find."
"He saved her life. Maybe."
The group gathered around as Liza explained the situation—Griselda stable but critical, needed monitoring, could still go either way. Daniel sat with his wife, holding her hand, whispering in Spanish.
I stepped outside for air. The neighborhood was dark except for candlelight in a few windows. The Dawsons' house sat empty, corpses removed but presence lingering.
Alicia found me on the porch. "You made it back."
"Yeah."
"Did you find the field hospital?"
"Military abandoned it. We improvised."
She was quiet for a moment. "That man you shot yesterday. The looter. What happened to him?"
Died. Turned. Probably shambling around looking for flesh.
"Bled out, most likely. He was gut-shot. Those are usually fatal."
"You didn't try to save him."
"He tried to rob us at gunpoint. I'm not wasting medical supplies on someone who wanted to kill us."
"That's cold."
"That's survival." I looked at her. "You keep saying I'm cold. Maybe I am. But I'm keeping your family alive."
"At what cost?"
"Whatever it takes."
She held my gaze, searching for something. "I think there's more to you than you're telling us. Some secret you're hiding."
Yeah. I'm Patient Zero. I'm the source of the apocalypse you're trying to survive. And I have to infect someone every three days or lose my mind and become the thing you fear most.
"Everyone has secrets."
"Not like yours."
"How would you know?"
"Because I watch you. You move wrong, think wrong, know too much. You're either the luckiest guesser alive or you've been preparing for this specific scenario for years."
Both. Neither. It's complicated.
"Does it matter? The world's ended. Whatever I was before doesn't change what I am now."
"And what are you now?"
"Someone trying to keep you alive."
"Why?"
Because I watched your show. Because I know you're strong enough to survive. Because I need you to stay human for, to remind me why I'm fighting this infection.
"Because being alone sounds worse than death."
She studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "That's the first honest thing you've said to me."
"Take it as a gift."
She went back inside. I stayed on the porch, watching shadows move in the street.
[ TIMER: 68:23:17 ]
Three days until I'd need to do it again. Three days to find another target.
The apocalypse made it easier to justify. Made it easier to find people who "deserved" it. But eventually, I'd run out of convenient villains. Eventually, I'd have to make harder choices.
Cross that bridge when I come to it. For now, just survive.
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