Read Online Designated (Book 2): Designated Quarantined by Ricky Cooper - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ricky Cooper
Tags: Zombie Apocalypse
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their way; the ululating wall of noise roared down the corridors towards them, washing over them like the Red Sea of the Old Testament. The cacophony rose as the pounding of feet swept over them. Kweku's head snapped left as he caught his rifle and brought it to his shoulder just as the first galloping shadowed form broached the end of the corridor.
'Rolling fire, advance and engage. Walters, Lucas, Patterson—rear guard. Fucking move.'
They moved down the corridor, their bodies hunched and low as they let loose a volley of rounds into the charging Infected. Rook bellowed as he felt a searing pain flare through his shoulder. His right arm fell to his side, numb and useless. 'Fuck it!' he growled as he let his rifle drop.
The sling snapped taut as the weight of the weapon crashed against his collarbone. He clenched his teeth to the point of shattering as he twisted his now useless shoulder and pulled the pistol from its holster on his chest.
His eyes caught the glinting of polished steel as he moved. Releasing his grasp on his pistol, he left the weapon half in its holster and gritted his teeth once more as he grasped the protruding steel rod, his hand folding round the semi-flat handle of the surgical scalpel; then with a sharp intake of air, he ripped it from the blood-infused rent in his shoulder.
The in-rush of air was like ice water in his veins. As he pulled the offending item from his person, it sent squirming lances of lightning-like pain through him, their shivering forms racing through his arm and chest. He gasped, tears stinging his eyes as he let it clatter to the floor and once more drew his pistol.
6
Hospital: Interior: Floor Two
The corridors lay heavy upon them, their floors choked with overturned gurneys and beds; their dismembered occupants strewn across the floor like the tantrum-thrown parts of a child's doll.
Hawk stared at the battered and torn body in front of him, its baldhead split open like a crushed orange. Scanning the floor, he followed its outstretched arm, tracing its slim, pale length to the diminutive hand clutching the cold steel pole. His eyes locked onto the bag atop the drip stand, the half-empty bag lying like a dead fish against the cold melamine floor; he involuntarily sighed as he saw the printed lettering staring back at him. His lips moved as he softly sounded out the word to himself, Cyclophosphamide .
His head fell forwards slightly and tears stung his eyes as images of his father danced in his head—his smile as he grinned at the camera, despite the pain lancing through him as the cancer throbbed in the back of his skull; his glittering eyes that sung with the sadness of someone who knew their time was quickly running out, but despite all this, the one thing he would always remember was the slim, clear plastic tube that wound its way up his dad's arm and under his hospital gown, feeding him the clear liquid that was killing and saving him all at once.
He felt the tears roll down his cheeks as he remembered his face the day the doctors told him he could never have children again. He felt himself slide slowly into the smothering embrace of his own mind as a hand landed on his arm. Hawk jerked out of his reverie as the last image of his father danced is in his head. His open, vacant eyes and partially opened mouth as he gazed out the window of his hospital room; muttering a wistful goodbye, he turned to Carruthers, the soldier's questioning gaze tracing the pale lines of streaked tears running down his ruddy features.
'You okay, Hawk?'
Stabbler nodded as he turned and set off down the corridor, his shoulders hunched low as he panned his weapon across the corridor.
The corridor branched ahead of them; with a wave of his hand, he sent Carruthers and Carlstook down the left hand fork, while he and Hampson took the right. Sooker glanced about him, a tinge of nervous apprehension worming through him as he knelt, exposed and
'Rolling fire, advance and engage. Walters, Lucas, Patterson—rear guard. Fucking move.'
They moved down the corridor, their bodies hunched and low as they let loose a volley of rounds into the charging Infected. Rook bellowed as he felt a searing pain flare through his shoulder. His right arm fell to his side, numb and useless. 'Fuck it!' he growled as he let his rifle drop.
The sling snapped taut as the weight of the weapon crashed against his collarbone. He clenched his teeth to the point of shattering as he twisted his now useless shoulder and pulled the pistol from its holster on his chest.
His eyes caught the glinting of polished steel as he moved. Releasing his grasp on his pistol, he left the weapon half in its holster and gritted his teeth once more as he grasped the protruding steel rod, his hand folding round the semi-flat handle of the surgical scalpel; then with a sharp intake of air, he ripped it from the blood-infused rent in his shoulder.
The in-rush of air was like ice water in his veins. As he pulled the offending item from his person, it sent squirming lances of lightning-like pain through him, their shivering forms racing through his arm and chest. He gasped, tears stinging his eyes as he let it clatter to the floor and once more drew his pistol.
6
Hospital: Interior: Floor Two
The corridors lay heavy upon them, their floors choked with overturned gurneys and beds; their dismembered occupants strewn across the floor like the tantrum-thrown parts of a child's doll.
Hawk stared at the battered and torn body in front of him, its baldhead split open like a crushed orange. Scanning the floor, he followed its outstretched arm, tracing its slim, pale length to the diminutive hand clutching the cold steel pole. His eyes locked onto the bag atop the drip stand, the half-empty bag lying like a dead fish against the cold melamine floor; he involuntarily sighed as he saw the printed lettering staring back at him. His lips moved as he softly sounded out the word to himself, Cyclophosphamide .
His head fell forwards slightly and tears stung his eyes as images of his father danced in his head—his smile as he grinned at the camera, despite the pain lancing through him as the cancer throbbed in the back of his skull; his glittering eyes that sung with the sadness of someone who knew their time was quickly running out, but despite all this, the one thing he would always remember was the slim, clear plastic tube that wound its way up his dad's arm and under his hospital gown, feeding him the clear liquid that was killing and saving him all at once.
He felt the tears roll down his cheeks as he remembered his face the day the doctors told him he could never have children again. He felt himself slide slowly into the smothering embrace of his own mind as a hand landed on his arm. Hawk jerked out of his reverie as the last image of his father danced is in his head. His open, vacant eyes and partially opened mouth as he gazed out the window of his hospital room; muttering a wistful goodbye, he turned to Carruthers, the soldier's questioning gaze tracing the pale lines of streaked tears running down his ruddy features.
'You okay, Hawk?'
Stabbler nodded as he turned and set off down the corridor, his shoulders hunched low as he panned his weapon across the corridor.
The corridor branched ahead of them; with a wave of his hand, he sent Carruthers and Carlstook down the left hand fork, while he and Hampson took the right. Sooker glanced about him, a tinge of nervous apprehension worming through him as he knelt, exposed and
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