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28 days later…
It seemed like eternity since the man had last opened his eyes, but even now he refused. He remained motionless in the empty room, acutely aware of his body, prone on the cold, awkward table. Decidedly naked. Something at the back of his mind screamed that there should have been clothes, a sheet…anything. It was that nagging feeling that forced his eyes open to the blaring lights. Something wasn't right.
Focusing was difficult. His mind blurred almost as much as his sight, but the man tried. Name. What is your name? One after another flickered through his memory, yet not one held long enough for him consider it his own. Voices swirled painfully and he found himself clutching his head as if the action would make them quiet down.
Jack…
Two faces finally came into sight. An older couple…his parents. Donovan. Roger and Margaret…Maggie Donovan. Jim. That was their son. That was his name. Jim Donovan.
The whispers quieted enough so the man could open his eyes again, squinting painfully as he looked around the vacant room. Hospital machines. There was a fallen stand not far away, scattered with a variety of hospital instruments he couldn't place. He couldn't remember ever caring enough to learn what each piece did. Surgery was his best guess.
The silence was welcomed, but it suddenly seemed to strike Jim that it was strangely too quiet. His head throbbed in protest, but regardless he pushed himself up to a sitting position. Jim could practically feel the blood flow down and the world swam in colors entirely too unnatural. So he gripped the bed, lingering as he waited for the wave of dizziness to subside.
It was a ridiculous situation. He was in a hospital; that much was clear, but why? A near-by clipboard was titled at the top with a headline for the St. Thomas' Hospital.
Jim turned to dangle off the table's edge, quickly wincing in pain when the action pulled at the intravenous still in his arm. The makeshift attachment clattered to the floor and he cursed under his breath. It obviously had stopped doing its job sometime ago from the recently emptied bags attached. Without pause he ripped them from his skin, hissing in response. Just like a Band-Aid, he told himself.
Already the pinching sensation had begun to die away, leaving a trail of blood at the site. The tubes fell to the ground, soon to be forgotten.
It was a trauma room, although eerily silent considering. Not a single soul. Someone should have come the moment the heart monitor registered…but then even the machines were quiet. Something was very wrong.
Jim put his feet to the ground and stood, feeling disgustingly weak. Briefly, he wondered how long he had lain on that table, alone. Very briefly he considered investigating the details, before he decided he'd rather not know. It was more important to find a way out. The answers would find their way eventually.
It was a challenge to get to the door, one step after another, and with each he felt more secure. Jim licked his chapped lips which stung with mild discomfort. He flipped open the plastic blinds that confined the room from the rest of the building but outside didn't offer anything more welcoming. The hall was just as bare, with nothing but overturned beds and supplies to litter the walkway.
He tried the handle only to find it was locked.
"Hello?" Jim was surprised at the strength of his voice in his first attempt, yet was only answered with the familiar void. "Hello?"
His toe shuffled forward and stubbed something out of place. When he looked down the object raised even more questions. Lock an unconscious man in a deserted hospital then give him the key.
It was far too convenient, but nonetheless he wasn't about to waste time arguing with his own doubts. The plan was to leave the safeguarded room in search of something…anything, and he had in mind a pair of clothes on priority.
It didn't take long to track down a set of orderly scrubs but the journey was disquieting. There still wasn't another soul in sight. Attention turned back to decency. Jim pretended the clothes were clean, not knowing one way or another. The shoes were a tight fit, but it was better than nothing after walking on the cold tile. Was he thinner?
A quick inspection found an absence of bed sores, so he knew he hadn't been left on that table for long. And if he hadn't been left for long, someone had to be around. He hoped.
The scaring on his throat was new though. Jim could feel the rough flesh beneath his fingertips, but the rawness appeared to be gone.
He tended the IV wound before continuing, hoping to save potential blood stains that might mar his path. The white fabric of the bandage held him with fascination. If the material wasn't so gruff, softer, pulling away…
A scar. Did someone do that to you?
The voice, his own voice, disappeared with a flash, and Jim looked back up to the doorway in front of him.
The investigation continued as Jim moved through the eerily empty halls, calling out for some sort of response, but still there was nothing. No people; no power other than the emergency lighting. He swallowed dryly, his body longing for a drink and the shouting was only making it worse.
He found the pay-phones, dangling by their cords, and immediately wanted to curse when there was no dial tone. But really what did he expect? Frustrated, he threw the last in line as they clambered against the wall with no particular rhythm.
"Hello?!"
Doing the most sensible option, Jim followed the trail of exit signs. Perhaps it was only the hospital, he dared to hope. Sometimes they closed for weekends, or holidays, or repairs. The idea seemed ridiculous the second it escaped but there was nothing else, no other explanation that came to mind.
The fact was: there were no people. No bodies. No blood. Just…nothing. For just a fraction of a second, he wondered if someone had set it all up to fuck with him.
A pair of vending machines came into sight and Jim found himself embarrassingly lunging for the number of cans that were scattered on the floor. The warm Pepsi was amazingly sweet as the flat liquid wet his throat. In that moment he didn't give a damn as the sugar filled his system, escaping at the corners of his mouth.
It was a primal reaction. Most likely his system was dangerously low, from a few days without food, drink perhaps. His senses were coming back and in response he crumpled the now empty can, tossing it on the floor with the rest.
Narrowed eyes examined one of the machines that appeared to have been pried open at the corner with more force than the standard vandalism. A fact to be aware of that made him distinctly uncomfortable.
Jim turned his thoughts back to the remaining drinks within range. One more glance around the building and he decidedly assured himself there would be no telling when he would find some again. A nearby plastic bag was the most convenient means, so Jim quickly began filling it with what unused cans he could find.
Sticky, drying liquid clutched to the once white shoes as he stood back up. It was time to go.
With a final once-over of the deadly calm of the hospital corridors, Jim stepped out onto the looming balcony outside.
The sky was beautiful, displaying an early morning glow. Ambulances were still parked outside as if waiting for a shift to start, but nothing moved. Some birds could be heard; singing merrily to the absent audience and that was how Jim found himself walking, albeit a little less cheerful.
The minutes seemed to drag as he wandered the empty streets, feeling oddly like a tourist in the once-familiar city; passing abandoned cars and once profitable merchandise that now merely littered the expanse. There were places he never dreamed would ever cease the bustling day-to-day routine were now frozen, as if posing for a photo.
Everything passed in a daze as Jim practically stumbled along at times, taking in the sights. His body felt weak. As he walked felt the aches that would have probably disabled him, he mused, had his heart not been pounding with the anxiety of his situation.
His fingers pulled at the beard that had grown in and quickly decided he didn't like the foreign coarseness.
Jim glanced to the side, seeing a brushed bicycle on the street corner, tires deflated, and the memory flashed with an insistence that wouldn't allow it to be ignored. He had been a currier. Taking a package to…and that's when the access was denied once again.
There was something important about that package, he was certain. A defining moment that slipped through his thoughts just at the edge.
"Hello?!" Jim tried again, having reached an empty stretch of the Westminster Bridge. There were no boats, no running cars. If there were at least bodies, he could assume a war, or some natural disaster. But it was nothing more than a ghost city.
The rest of the morning dragged along in a similar state. Vacant streets and buildings that he could only assume were empty. No one ever emerged. There were no movements, no voices. The air was calm and when it wasn't making him nervous as hell it was pissing him off.
As long as he stayed in the sun the chill wasn't too bad, however the continuous walking was a task which was quickly growing old.
A silver Nissan was the perfect target, sitting wide in the open street, and Jim headed towards it with purpose. It wouldn't have taken much to get it to work, key provided or not, but a stream of curses followed as the car alarm sounded loudly in the otherwise quiet block.
It was the sign, Jim told himself, that he needed to walk anyway. He only offered a final mean-mug glance behind at the vehicle before walking away.
The further in he traveled, the more clues started to surface: papers strewn on the ground. A looted newspaper stand became his highest lead. "Evacuation" was the title on the front, revealing pages of information about a massive outbreak and the country falling to into chaos.
State of Emergency. The military ordered to 'shoot to kill.'Checkpoints overrun.
Looking up from the abandoned stand stood the proud statue of Eros, holding a collage of names and faces of the missing. It seemed that for a little while at least, people were out on these very streets, desperately searching for loved ones and giving any information that they thought would help.
Photographs. Pictures colored by children. Phone numbers. Addresses. Contacts.
However, they all now seemed long gone.
"Great…" Jim murmured to no one in particular. "I've just landed myself in hell."
He looked away, down the extending roads that offered no other advice. He needed to find someone…anyone…living. His mind spun with one answer at the end of it: Where do those left behind lost go in times of trouble?
Jim's feet turned him in the direction of the nearest church.
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