Dead Frontier/Issue 124

This is a preview for Issue #124 of Dead Frontier, titled Conquer. This is the fourth issue in Volume 21. The entire issue is planned to be posted the week of November 04, 2013.

Issue 124 - Conquer
The door of the stairwell slams shut behind Tora, Lucy, and Daniel. This section of the bottom floor is a lobby; it’s empty of any movement, and the windows that line far wall are shattered or cracked, letting in bits of wind and light. About fifty chairs are scattered about, and Lucy hurries to one and sets it upright. Daniel collapses into it, his hand held close to his body. Blood soaks up a section of his shirt, and he seethes in pain to keep from yelling out. Tora is crouched down next to him. She pushes a few strands of hair out of her face and puts on the most comforting tone she can for Daniel. Her eyes, however, betray any semblance of calmness she wishes to convey.

“I need another chair--right here,” Tora orders,and she pats the ground next to Daniel. “And your knife.” Lucy sets up another chair and hesitates, slightly confused by Tora’s second command. “Knife--now.” Lucy doesn’t even question it--she pulls her knife and hands it Tora.

“What the fuck are you doing with that?” Daniel asks. His voice shakes, and his eyes dart wildly from his hand and back to the dirtied knife. Tora pulls her bag over her head and retrieves a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a white rag. Without answering Daniel’s question, she disinfects the blade.

“We need to cut it off,” she says when she's finished.

“Cut what off? What the fuck--”

“Your fingers. Just the two--if we do it fast enough, it won’t spread, and you won’t turn.”

“Fuck that. No.” Daniel shakes his head, and beads of sweat slide down his face. As much as he wants to protest, he knows Tora won’t take no for an answer.

“You’re wasting time,” Tora says. “Put your hand there, on the chair.”

“Oh, God,” Lucy groans, and she turns her head away. Daniel is frozen in his seat and, shakily, he holds his hand out. The tip of his left pinky and ring finger are gone completely, barely leaving two nubs. They’re bloody and jagged. He feels his vision go dark at the sight of it and the certainty of what’s coming next.

“Make it fast. Please,” he mutters. He sets his hand down on the base of the chair next to him, and averts his head to the left. He repeats a short prayer that no one else can hear but him. His breathing speeds up, anticipation rising--until he feels the blade connect with his hand. He can’t suppress his scream this time, and it echoes throughout the hospital.

Adam and Duke rush down the west stairwell, on the completely opposite side of the building from Daniel, Tora, and Lucy. They managed to clear it on the way upstairs, and now they jump over the familiar bodies from earlier. They reach the next floor below and emerge out the stairwell door. Duke whacks a nearby infected in the gut with his sledgehammer; the head of the hammer goes straight through, and after pulling it out, the steel dripping with blood and rotten insides, he brings it down on the infected’s head. Adam has already diverted left, taking the time to stab a few infected blocking his path, and Duke follows.

“How the hell are we supposed to find this fool?” Duke says as soon as he matches Adam’s pace.

“Just look. We can’t leave him down here,” Adam says. He peeks his head into rooms, working to keep his footsteps as silent as possible. The infected in the rooms, fortunately, don’t notice them for the most part; by the time they do, they’re already far down the corridor.

They reach the collapsed section of the ceiling--the floor they were on before. Dean is nowhere to be found, and the infected that were here before are gone as well. “Must’ve followed him,” Adam says. “Shit…” He lifts his head and looks down the long hall. A few infected stumble out of the rooms, but instead of bothering with Duke and Adam, they all head in the same direction, turning a corner and disappearing soon after. They share a glance, and come to a silent decision.

Dean scours through the drawers of a desk in the hospital room. The volume of the groans is reaching its height, but he blocks it out for now. The goal still stands, even with this setback: find any medicine you can. The desk contains nothing but papers, clipboards, and the computer monitor that sits on the surface. He smashes his fist against the desk, overcome with frustration, then grabs onto his hair.

He’s panicking, and he’s not sure if he can push it away this time. He takes a few deep breaths and, amazingly, he feels his heartbeat subsiding.

He moves on to a shelf next to a dusty hospital bed. A biohazard sign is plastered on it, but he rips the door open anyway, and bottles of pills tumble onto the floor before him, along with rags, needles, and other supplies he has no idea if he should take or leave. Frantically, he pulls off his bag and unzips it. He grabs whatever he can and throws it inside as the banging on the door, mixed in with growls, reaches the verge of unbearable.