The Creeping Dead: A Zombie Novel Read online

  “Thank you,” said Loews, standing. Tara followed suit.

  “You two can wait in here. I’ll send her in.” MacAteer extended a hand to Tara. “It was nice meeting you.”

  Tara shook her hand. Then MacAteer shook Loews’ hand and briskly left the conference room, closing the door behind her.

  “You weren’t kidding about her,” said Tara.

  “I think you handled her quite skillfully,” said Loews. “Don’t worry. After this, you’ll have very few dealings with her. Just keep her happy and stay out of her way.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  They heard a name, Renee Washington, paged over the intercom.

  “That’s the social work director,” said Loews. “She’s harmless. Hides in her office most of the time.”

  Within ten minutes the door opened, and Renee Washington, a thin forty-something African-American woman, walked into the conference room. There were quick introductions. Renee addressed Tara as ‘Dr. Bigelow.’ Points for her. Dr. Loews excused himself, and Renee crossed the lobby with Tara.

  “I would never use the elevators to get around the building,” said Renee.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because they’re slow as molasses and you never want to get caught in a closed space with our residents. Last year one of the social workers was assaulted in the elevator. She got cornered by Helen, one of our aggressive residents with a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder, who went manic. She had bruises, swelling, and bite marks on her. She walked off the job the next day.”

  Renee entered a code into the keypad to the door to the stairwell. “One-two-three-four, for every door in the facility.”

  “Got it.”

  They stepped into the stairwell and began to climb the steps. Renee’s voice echoed in the small space. “I don’t mind it. I think of it as part of my physical fitness regimen. I walk up and down all day long. There’re eight floors, so it’s quite the workout.”

  “I bet.” Tara started to pant a little. The stairwell was not air conditioned, and she was quickly reminded of the relentless heat wave just outside the facility.

  They got off on the second floor.

  “This is one of our short-term rehab floors,” said Renee. “There are two residents per room. The short-term floors have just finished renovation, so they look nice and new.” They walked over to a high countertop with wheeled shelves of big paper charts behind it. There were two nurses sitting at computers.

  “This is the nurses’ station,” said Renee. “Those are the charts where you’ll be entering in your notes. We’re in the process of converting to a computerized database, but for now you’ll stick your notes in the ‘Consults’ section of the chart. You can either hand your notes to the unit clerk or place them in the chart yourself.”

  “I think I can manage.”

  “Ladies,” said Renee to the two nurses, “This is Dr. Bigelow. She’s a new psychologist who’ll be starting…”

  “Tomorrow,” said Tara, finishing Renee’s sentence.

  “Nice to meet you, Doctor,” said once West Indian nurse, smiling, failing to give her name.

  The other simply nodded, only looking up from her computer for a brief moment.

  Tara saw that the culture of a nursing home was much different than that of a school—less warm and fuzzy. She made a mental note to make an effort to get to know as many nurses as possible.

  There were residents in wheelchairs being pushed to and fro, and a middle-aged man walking with a cane waved to Tara. She waved back.

  “Most of these residents are here because they sustained an injury or suffered a stroke. About one third get discharged to home after rehab, and the rest go to floors five through seven for long-term placement.”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  Renee smiled. “The residents think so. Most of your hardcore patients will be on those floors. You’ll have a few on the short-term floors, mostly adjustment disorders. Upstairs we have the real behavior problems, particularly floors six and seven. Eight is rehab—physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech/feeding therapy.”

  A young, well-dressed Hispanic woman rounded the corner and headed toward the nurses’ station.

  “Oh, there’s one of our social workers. Alina, come say hi to the new psychologist.”

  Alina came over and offered her hand.

  Tara shook it. “Hi, I’m Dr. Bigelow.”

  “Nice to meet you, Doctor. Welcome aboard.”

  “She’ll be taking over Dr. Hetz’s cases.”

  Alina looked like she winced at the mention of Dr. Hetz. Things must’ve gotten ugly between him and MacAteer. “Good. You have some good ones. If you have any questions regarding any of the residents, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thanks.”

  Alina took off past the nurses’ station.

  “She’s relatively new herself,” said Renee. “Social workers don’t last long around here.”

  “How long have you been here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Too long. It’s been about four months.”

  “So you’re relatively new yourself.”

  “Actually, seven months is the current record.”

  “Wow. Is it because of the population?”

  “There’s a lot of politics around here. You’re a consultant, so you’ll be above most of it. Just don’t piss off the administrator, and you should be okay.”

  “Is that what Dr. Hetz did? Did he piss off Ms. MacAteer?”

  “That would be an understatement. We haven’t been able to hold onto many psychologists either, but they’ve all been males. Maybe you’ll get along better with the administrator.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Tara.

  Chapter 7

  Renee held the door for Tara as she entered the sixth floor. It was immediately apparent that the environment was in stark contrast to the short-term floors. There was an odor that greeted Tara as soon as she stepped out of the stairwell that she surmised to be a combination of body odor, feces, and urine. The floor was worn and dirty, and the wallpaper was stained and peeling.

  “This is where all of our behavior problems go,” said Renee. “On the other side of the unit, we have a locked dementia ward, but you won’t be referred anyone in there. Too demented for therapy.”

  “Got it.”

  They walked around to the nurses’ station, which looked identical to the one on the prior floor. Same high counter, same computers, same racks of paper charts. Tara heard the sounds of people wailing, screaming out for attention, and curses.

  “Follow me to the dayroom.”

  Tara did as she was told, and they both stepped into the dayroom. There were residents scattered throughout, some in wheelchairs, staring into space, talking to themselves, or watching television. Some looked to be seventy years old, others only forty-something.

  “I think that the differences from the residents on the short-term floor are obvious,” said Renee.

  Tara took them all in. It was quite the departure from her preschool. “This population must be heavily psychiatric.”

  “That’s right. Here we have your schizophrenics, bipolars, and such.”

  Tara was able to tell from their poor hygiene, which is a hallmark of mental illness. There was long, greasy, unkempt hair; long, untrimmed fingernails; brown, half-missing teeth.

  “We don’t expect much here,” said Renee, “but when a resident is about to boil over, you can communicate with the psychiatrist, who can then adjust the medication. Our goal is to reduce psychiatric hospitalizations, if possible.”

  One older woman with scraggly hair and a closed eye turned and looked at Tara. “Fuck you! Lick my cunt, you bitch!”

  Renee smiled. “Now, Helen, is that any way to treat our new psychologist?”

  “I don’t need her. Fuck her cunt. Nasty bitch,” replied Helen.

  “There you have it,” said Renee. “We’ve got it all up here—the hitters, the biters, the scratchers, and th
e paranoid. Helen, here, likes to pull up her dress in the middle of the dayroom and masturbate in front of everyone.”

  Tara was immediately reminded of Reagan in the Exorcist. She was beginning to think some of these residents needed a good bath in holy water rather than a psychologist.

  “She’ll be one of yours,” added Renee matter-of-factly.

  “I can’t wait.”

  Renee left the dayroom, and Tara followed as a vehement argument broke out at their backs.

  “You’re coming through my radiators at night and choking me, you bitch! Don’t think I don’t know what you’re playing at!”

  “I’m not bothering you! If I did, you’d be dead, you nasty hag!”

  “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

  “No, I kiss your mother’s pussy with this mouth, and she loves it!”

  The nurse sitting on a stool watching the dayroom sprang into action, inserting herself between Helen and the other resident. Helen proceeded to strike the nurse with a closed fist.

  “How soon are you starting?” asked Renee half facetiously.

  “Tomorrow, I think.”

  “Good.”

  Tara wasn’t so sure about that. She was wondering what she’d gotten herself into, but she immediately chased all doubts out of her mind. She needed this job. It paid very well. Her family needed this job. Marcus needed a break, especially after what she put the poor man through.

  Renee took Tara past the elevators, past rooms where residents cried out and shouted, mostly expletives. One elderly man kept shouting, “Help me. Help me. Help me.”

  “Does that man need help?” asked Tara, concerned.

  Renee turned around, smirking. “Who, Mr. Klaus? Watch this.” She walked into Mr. Klaus’ room. “Hello, Mr. Klaus. What can I help you with?”

  The man went silent and looked expectantly at Renee like a child looking at a parent. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Mr. Klaus. Do you need any water? Do you have to use the restroom?”

  “I love you.”

  “Yes, I know Mr. Klaus. Have a nice day.”

  As soon as Renee left the room, Mr. Klaus went back to shouting, “Help me. Help me. Help me…”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tara, embarrassed.

  “Don’t be. You’ll get used to it. You’ll learn who you can talk to and who you can’t. Some of them will surprise you. You have one on your caseload, Mr. Franklin. Bipolar, very manic, rants and raves, curses at the nurses, but he had a Ph.D. in economics. He used to be a professor. When he’s less manic, if you can get him to talk about the economy, he’ll go on and on.”

  They walked over to the locked dementia unit. There were two doors with small glass windows in each and an electronic keypad to the left of the doors.

  “This is where we have our significantly demented residents. They’re kept here for their own protection. These are the wanderers who shuffle into other residents’ rooms and steal personal property, assault them, or just lie in their beds.

  “It’s best they’re kept away from the other residents, especially the psychiatric ones. Before we had a separate unit for them, we were breaking up fights left and right, sending half the residents out to the hospital.

  “Ms. MacAteer was the one who came up with the idea for the locked unit. It was a good one, if you ask me.”

  Tara stepped up to the doors and got on her tip toes to peer through the glass. There were horrible sounds from behind the doors. Guttural, primitive sounds—grunting and growling.

  Tara nearly jumped out of her skin as a face popped up to the glass, directly in front of hers. It was an old man with blank eyes, heavily clouded with cataracts. Yet, he appeared to be looking right at Tara with his face pressed up against the glass, making a low growling sound, like a bobcat.

  “Renee, we don’t need to trouble our new psychologist with the locked dementia ward,” said Ms. MacAteer, startling both Renee and Tara. Tara backed away from the doors, feeling like a child who just got caught looking into her parents’ closet. She silently chastised herself for allowing this woman to make her feel that way.

  “I figured it was part of the tour,” said Renee defensively.

  “She has no business with the residents behind those doors,” said MacAteer. “Why don’t you make better use of your time and show her how our computerized database works?”

  “Yes. Good idea,” said Renee, a little bitter about the condescension in MacAteer’s voice.

  MacAteer stood there waiting for the two women to leave the area.

  “Follow me,” said Renee.

  “Show her in your office,” said MacAteer. “This way you’ll have some peace and quiet, and you won’t be preventing the nurses from entering their notes.”

  Renee nodded. “My office is on four.”

  “Let’s go,” said Tara, happy to leave MacAteer’s overbearing presence.

  MacAteer watched them go down the hall and turn the corner toward the stairwell. Then, she peered into the window and saw Mr. Yost, the Assistant Director, directing the CNA to take the male resident back to his room. The old man tried to scratch and bite her, but he was slow.

  MacAteer watched as the old man was taken into his room, and she and Yost traded knowing looks. There was an understanding between them, which is why she chose him for the unit.

  As MacAteer walked back toward the elevators, the doors opened and Mario Russo stepped out holding a large, filled grocery bag.

  “Good morning, Mr. Russo.”

  “Good morning Ms. MacAteer.”

  “Your mother’s been sleeping a lot better. Her appetite’s improved as well.”

  “That’s great. I brought her some zeppoli from the boardwalk, but only after she has some soup.”

  “She’s very lucky to have you. You’re a good son to her.”

  “Thank you for saying so.”

  “Well, I have a meeting to attend. Don’t hesitate if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, Ms. MacAteer. I won’t.”

  MacAteer got onto the elevator, and Mario walked down the hall to his mother’s room. He knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” he heard a nurse say.

  He opened the door and stepped into his mother’s room. A nurses’ aide was brushing his mom’s hair. It looked like she had just been dressed, and she was now sitting in her wheelchair.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” said the aide, placing the brush on a small, adjustable table on wheels.

  “Did she eat yet?”

  “Yes, but I’m sure she’ll like the treats you brought her,” said the nurse, smiling. She left the room, closing the door behind her so they could have their privacy.

  “Hi, Ma.”

  “Mario, is that you?”

  Mario beamed. This was going to be a better day; she recognized him.

  “Why aren’t you in school?”

  “I graduated years ago, Ma. I have a wife and kids. I have my own store now, remember?”

  Her expression soured at the mention of his wife. She remembered Marie, all right.

  “Look, Ma, I brought you some soup and some zeppoli for after.”

  “What kind of soup?

  “Minestrone, your favorite.”

  “I hate minestrone.”

  “Since when? It’s always been your favorite.”

  “I like a good pasta fajole.”

  “I’ll bring that next time.”

  “That doesn’t help me now.”

  “Ma, if you don’t want the soup, I’ll give it to the nurses.”

  “There’re people starving in Africa, and you’re going to give soup away to those black bastards.”

  Mario’s face flushed in embarrassment. “Ma, c’mon. Don’t talk like that. They’re very good to you here.”

  “You say that, but you don’t have to live here. You get to go home to that witch you married.”

  “Ma, what did I say about talking about Marie that way? She’s the mother of my children a
nd the mother of your grandchildren.”

  “How are the children? Are they teething yet?”

  Mario pulled up a chair and sat. He lifted the container of soup out of the bag and began to set his mother up with a spoon on the small rolling table. “Alessandra’s eight and Salvatore’s ten, Ma.”

  “Oh, my, how time flies. You going to church every Sunday?”

  “Yes, Ma,” he lied, “and I wash behind my ears every day.” He lowered the table and rolled it so the surface was over her lap.

  Mama Sophia Russo glared at her son. “Well, there’s no need to be disrespectful about it.­­­”

  “I wasn’t being disrespectful, Ma.”

  “Don’t sass your poor mother.” She took the spoon in her right hand and dipped it into the soup. She took a mouthful. “Mario, it’s cold.”

  He was beginning to wish this was a day she didn’t recognize him.

  “Are you teaching the children Italian?”

  “No, Ma. They’re American. They speak English.”

  She took another hearty mouthful, chewed, and swallowed. “I don’t know why you hate your own people so much.”

  “I don’t hate my own people, Ma.”

  “Then why don’t you teach your own children Italian?”

  “Because there’s no point. Nobody speaks it anymore.”

  “Madonna mia, so I’m nobody now?”

  “Why do you put words in my mouth, Ma?”

  “I’ve got a new roommate.”

  Mario looked over to the other side of the room. The curtain was drawn around the bed for privacy. Maybe she was sleeping. “Oh, how nice,” he said softly. “You two getting along?”

  “She’s all right. Another tutsoon, though.”

  Mario winced. “Ma, please. Why do you talk like that?” He prayed the roommate was sound asleep.

  “What? I didn’t say anything bad about her. She’s okay.”

  “You really shouldn’t use that word.”

  “But she is a tutsoon. What else do you call it?”

  “Jesus, Ma.”

  “Don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain, Mario Russo.”

  There was a sudden fit of coughing from behind the curtain.

  “See, now you’ve woken her up,” said Mario.

  “She sleeps all damned day because she’s up all night. It’s indecent.”