Niki Bippen

The Locket

Prologue

            3:20 A.M. November Ninth

            You are running. Running, running, running. Blindly. It's dark everywhere with a little illumination from the wet buttered street lights. The streets look like warm candle wax, swirling with drops of crisp rain. You steal another glance behind you. Yep, they're all still there, lumbering along slowly but with determination. You know you could outrun this mob of Sunday walkers but something tells you that even though you run faster than them and that you could run forever, they wouldn't stop. They'd keep trudging on after you and you'd probably tire first. You look ahead and break left. You are now face to face with one of them. (You can say this without sounding discrimination because they are zombies. Zombies don't have feelings.) His skin is rotting off in places, raised with blisters in other spots, and green all over. His eyes are rolled back into his skull and are hazed over with a film of milk. He gurgles and reaches towards you, mouth wide open. You scream yourself awake.

            Three-Fifteen A.M. November Tenth Chloe

            You run your fingers through your shaggy raven hair. It feathers in your face and mats up in your thick eyelashes. You blink furiously, trying to will your eyes to stay closed as you watch the blood circle down the shower drain. You chase it with spit and dry heaves, the same as someone would follow a shot of tequila with a bitter lime. As if that shit isn't bad enough on its own why are you are going to suck on a lime to get rid of the flavor? Disgusting! You heave again, your stomach threatening to discharge that expensive dinner you basically inhaled- damn, are your manners really that  bad? You can clearly remember the dinner despite the alcohol and cheap, unrewarding sex you chased it with. Yeah, your manners were that bad come to think of it.

            "Argh!" You groan, pounding your fist against the white tiled wall as steam rises up. The hot water continues to boil your skin threatening to melt it off at the bone and then froth up in the drain, lumpy and pungent like that disgusting chicken soup your father used to make.

            You should be convinced by now that you are as clean as you will possibly get; you have scrubbed your body raw as if the blistering water wasn't enough to scald the day off.  Your skin is now red instead of the color of fresh milk.  Unfortunately for you, there is no scrubbing the mind clean and if you thought it might actually work, you would snort bleach in hopes of frying your memory log.

            Tears well up in your ocean blue eyes (that's what your date called them before you got drunk and screwed him) and you feel that ironically enough this fits; the briny tears stick to your cheeks and burn your tongue as they pool into the open corners of your mouth.

            Your phone begins a set of six rings that, like the seven times before, will go unanswered and inevitably chime as you receive another voicemail.

            "Just more bad news," your bottom lip trembles and another twist of your stomach doubles you over and your mouth begins to ache from the repeated attempts at expulsion.

            Seconds after your predicted chime the phone begins ringing again, rattling every inflamed nerve.

            "Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!" You scream at the phone. "Shut up or I'll fucking drown you in the toilet I swear to God I'll do it!"

            The toilet? Really? Is this how low you've sunk? Bad table manners, getting drunk, sex on the first date, and now you're threatening the cell phone? It was a bad, no scratch that, awful day but shouldn't you have gotten over it by now? Shouldn't you be more composed? You should be accustomed to this. You're a doctor and people die all the time. You've never let it affect you like this. Why now? Why that patient? Why have you not let this go? Why, why, why, why? The million dollar question with an answer that you are sure would send you spiraling into pure nirvana.

            At last, the hot water runs out and you are left with no choice but to leave your steaming sanctuary. Reluctantly, you towel off and step out onto the fluffy white bath rug that is spotted with blood. You toe at a couple places, mumbling to yourself about needing to pick up a bottle of bleach to get rid of the blood and maybe to see if you can drown your brain with it.  You're only half joking about the last part.

            Your eyes come to rest upon what you dreaded they would immediately find after you stepped out- that damned silver locket. There it is in all its morbid glory, resting neatly against your black turtle neck and designer khakis. It glistens with sweat from the shower steam and you immediately turn to the side and drop to your knees, finally expelling your stomach's contents into the toilet.

 Five forty-five A.M., November Ninth

            Loud rings from the glowing alarm puncture the silence and the blinding blue numbers slice through the dark.  The thick blankets begin to quake and you stretch your hand out and claw at the alarm clock trying desperately to find the off button. Zombie-like and only half as coherent as one, you crawl out of bed and scratch at yourself.

            "Ah, the morning" you grumble as your bladder tries to deviate your attention off what's making your plaid pajama pants tighter than usual. "I know, I know. Trust me, I know the routine."

            You slide gracelessly out of bed, stepping on your cat, some books from the class that you are attending and God knows what else as you make your way into the bathroom to start your boring morning ritual.  Much like your life, this routine is mundane and stale, but you like it like this.

Six forty A.M., November Ninth Eric

            You steal one final glance in the mirror; your blonde hair is only slightly out of place, your clothes could use an iron but they'll work for the day, you actually shaved so that's all good, and everything else seems to be in order.  You're no longer zombie man at the very least. You grab your keys and university sweatshirt on your way out of the door.

            It doesn't take you long to get to work and once there, another ritual begins.  You hurry to the cafeteria and grab two coffees; a plain and simple coffee with cream and a little sugar for yourself, and a mocha something or other for Chloe. You position yourself against the nurses' desk, telling them to "piss off" when they bring you charts and other job responsibilities. They should be accustomed to this, portly Rina in particular, but it never fails.  She rolls her eyes and stomps off and you feel sorry for any bugs that may be in her way.

            At seven o'clock sharp Chloe arrives, her white lab coat swaying softly with her movements.

            "Chloe! Hey! Over here! A mocha just for you darling!" You wave ecstatically at her, watching her roll her beautiful eyes. Ah! You love this part of the routine. You watch her walk towards you and can't help but smile.

            "Eric, I appreciate this I really do but" she takes the coffee from your outstretched hand and takes a sip before flicking her jet black hair out of her face. "It's been over three months since you started this and I keep rejecting you.  Another three months of bringing me coffee like a dog does a newspaper to his master isn't going to convince me to date you. Sorry!"

            You grin widely and tilt your head back, chuckling. "Oh Chloe! My dear, dear Chloe" you look her in the eyes, grinning all the while "we both know you want me. Stop playing around and just take me up on my offer. It still stands! I promise I'm a good lay!"

            Chloe sighs in exasperation. You'd love to hear her other sighs.

            "No, and no a thousand more times Eric! Why can't you" she's interrupted by a loud page over the intercom.

            "Dr. De Luca to the ER immediately!" The page finishes with a sharp crackle.

            This isn't part of the routine. It's usually dead- forgive the pun. She looks to you and then begins hurrying down the hall, her boots clicking on the tiled floor as she runs. You start nervously after her. As her intern, you're required to go where she goes unless someone slams the door rudely in your face and says "go away Eric!" which actually happens more often than you'd like to admit.

            The room is a gruesome scene and you can see that it's taking everything within Chloe's power to keep her stomach from crawling up her throat.  The smell alone is enough to send your breakfast to your throat where you choke it back down with a cough and less than subtle gag. Everything in the room is a blur of  people and events; nurses are running around attending to monitors, tubes, charts, needles, and other shit. One in  particular, Lacey, shoves past you and you can hear her vomit in the hall. The smell is all you really have to go by, you haven't seen its source yet.

            Your mind is racing and trying to make sense of everything as the sensory part tries to figure out what the smell is or to at least relate it to something familiar. You're drawing blanks. A loud snap followed by another breaks you out of your thought process and you glance in the direction of the sound.  Chloe has jerked on gloves and has all but lost what little pigment she has in her face. Whiter than snow with a look of fear that you've never seen in her eyes before, your heart skips a beat and you find yourself subconsciously backing away.  Something about this room isn't right. This scenario isn't right, Chloe's face isn't right. This isn't right.

Seven twenty A.M. November Ninth Chloe

            "Eric! Eric!" You manage to get out through gritted teeth as you see him trying to steal a quick exit out of the corner of your eye. "Get over here now! I need you to grab me some gauze- no" you look down at the patient who is still being swarmed by nurses like a flower by bees "no, get me a damned towel or two!"

            You look back at your patient, thankful that you only indulged in a glass of orange juice for the morning. Your eyes are watering and your mind is going crazy.  The smell is overwhelming enough but the sight! You've never seen anything like it. It looks as if the girl's body has begun to decay.  Her skin is peeling in places, boils are spawning in others. The patches of, er, "normal" skin (places not teaming with boils and burns) are a sick greenish color.  Her eyes are milky and instead of speaking, she's gargling as if she just never spit out the Listerine.

            "I need" you begin to say but are rudely interrupted by a glob of black blood the consistency of pancake batter that splatters across your white lab coat.  The sound of the projectile making contact inflicts a whirlwind of events starting with a nurse fainting and ending with Eric vomiting in the trashcan.

Twelve fifteen A.M. November Ninth Chloe

                        You sit in the cafe, fresh lab coat and cup of coffee in between your shaking hands. As you stare at the uneaten bowl of chicken noodle soup, your mind swirls like the steam coming off the broth. It races over the events, pausing on the silver locket the little girl thrust into your hands and demanded you keep. Your stomach churns like a spoon mixing alphabet letters in soup when you remember the little girl sitting straight up and ripping a huge gash out of Leslie's arm; with her teeth.

            "For fuck's sake!" You remove your hands from your coffee and slam them down as fists on the table, shaking your soup and ratting Eric's plate. He doesn't even notice. His surfer boy tan is gone, replaced with a sickening white pallor.

            You are frustrated to say the least. You don't like losing patients, especially not children. Granted, this was an unusual case but still. Why had she bitten that nurse? Actually, come to think of it, another staff member had to forcefully remove the chunk of meat from the girl's gnashing teeth and she had gotten bitten in the process. What?

            "Eric" He continues to stare into oblivion, absentmindedly pushing chips around his plate.

            "Eric!" This time you lean over and pinch his cheek. He jerks, shakes his head as if to etch a sketch away whatever land he was just in and looks at you.

            "That girl bitch Leslie. She tried to eat" you stress the word eat "the piece of arm. What the hell does that mean?"

            The color is sucked further from Eric's face and you imagine it pooling in the soles of his feet. He gags but has nothing left in his stomach to heave. He pushes the plate away with a choke.   

            "That's the same thing zombies do" he tries to joke but fails miserably. "Well, cannibals too."

            The word zombie really sticks out to you. You suddenly remember that dizzying dream that up until now was just colors. Huh.