19.06.202X - Asylum

 Chapter 6 - Asylum

Sayori woke to banging and clattering. Before she knew it she'd already laced up her boots – rotters at the gate?

The Avon had stayed on throughout the night. She didn't even need to look out through the window to figure that the fog was heavy today – the sickly green had crept in through the cracks in the walls sometime after midnight – she'd checked on Mishka, just in case, checked the filter and the seal and the everything.

There were some hollow reassurances, as well – she couldn't remember. Her mind was abuzz with thoughts of nerve gas and death and three rounds of 5.56 in the back of Vera's head and the fucking Conleys and...

Out through the second door in the hallway, the one next to the solar panels, over to the gate overlook, rifle waving to and fro, but there weren't any rotters there. Nothing moved, apart from the slow dance of the fog. No sign of anyone.

Clattering. Banging. Mishka.

Run down the  staircase, leave the gun at the entrance, bust open the fucking door and take care of it.

Whatever "it" entailed, she didn't want to think about.

She tip-toed down the rusty metal staircase. The rifle was in the hallway upstairs.
With a grimace she pushed open the door. She should have oiled the hinges, the creak was far too loud.
Mishka's bedroom was a few steps away, if even that, past the humming fridges filled with fish fillets, blood, and erythrocote suspension, and all kinds of odds and ends she'd bled herself dry – sometimes literally – to get her hands on.

The noises, whatever they were, were much quieter now. There was an occasional, muffled thunk, punctuating what sounded almost like please don't please don't pained growls. She wanted to open the door, she really did, but it felt like she was moving through quicksand until there was a rubbery squeak, a sharp intake of breath followed by hacking coughs, and suddenly she was through the door and on top of Mishka and trying desperately to pull the mask back onto her face but Mishka was struggling too much and coughing too violently and trying to push her away when did the mittens come off-

 

“Mishka!” She wasn't listening. Her eyes were panicked, animalistic, terrified. “Please, just... just stop!”

They grappled for a while, Mishka – while perhaps weaker than Sayori – had an almost rigor mortis-like strength, her arms rigid, fingers desperately trying to claw at her face, and there was blood oozing out of Mishka's nose and her breathing was raspy and Sayori could hear the gurgles and-

Right.

That's it.

Time to take the gloves off.

She got off the bed for a moment, then grabbed Mishka by her shoulder and her knee and pushed the girl onto her side, legs protesting all the while. Then, another moment, on the bed again, left knee on Mishka's hip with as much weight as she could manage, right hand pushing down on her head, left hand grabbing her wrist.

She thought it'd be a cakewalk after that, but no, of course she has to make this even more fucking difficult than it already is and so her right hand moved to Mishka's shoulder, left hand pulling and twisting all the while until she finally had one hand behind her back and for FUCK's sake I forgot the duct tape so off she went, again, this time rummaging through their holdall cabinets, tossing flashlights and sewing kits aside until she finally found a roll of duct tape, then back into the room with the fucking coughing and the fucking groaning and the sheer, sweaty struggle of it all.

Professionally, this time. The catheter had broken off, the cannula was most likely out, there was blood on her hands now, Mishka was on her stomach and she could have sworn she heard a sickening pop when she wrestled Mishka's right arm into place and duct-taped them together but she didn't have time to think about that right now, she needed to get the mask on as soon as possible and...

Mishka was protesting weakly and she almost didn't want to do it but she had to so she secured Mishka's M17 in place, strapped it tight, listened to her panicked breathing, and then, feeling like the worst scumbag in the world, she started taping the mask onto her friend's face.

clonazepam for status epilepticus

unsure if applicable – benzodiazepine treatment still required

need injectable solution – patient unresponsive

need injectable solution

need injectable solution

patient unresponsive

patient unresponsive

 

 

The fog was thick. Sayori could barely see ten meters in front of her – not that much of a problem when doing gas runs in Muldraugh – but she was careening down the highway to Bedford Falls at 120MPH, her heart in her throat.

She really didn't want to leave Mishka.

She really, really didn't.

But what else was she supposed to do? Wrestle her husk of a friend until she stopped struggling – if she stopped – and put the mask on and went back to her old, docile self? Just wait there, by her bedside, while listening to Mishka hyperventilate and rock back and forth?

No, Bedford Falls it was. Mishka's dinky Defender with the headlights broken and the hood crumpled, Mishka's dinky Defender she would have fucking given to Izzy if she was still alive, Mishka's dinky Defender that she laughed at so much from the safety of her Hummer...

Still, it was pretty much the only option.

Bedford falls had an asylum – that much she could remember – that her and Arnold had rushed into, guns blazing, sometime during the first, chaotic months of the outbreak. Back then she'd sworn she'd never go in there without backup, but now...

Her “backup” was duct-taped to a bed somewhere in Muldraugh and was too busy trying to claw her own fucking face off th-

stop

thinking

do

something

The southern road was a congealed mass of wrecks. Not any rotters around, thank God, but she had a feeling that would change all too soon. She'd packed hastily, all too hastily. Half her STANAGs were empty, there wasn't any food or spare water, not a single 5.56 round to be found.

Even the scope on her rifle was the wrong kind, and she didn't have the tools to remove the StrikeEagle.

The doors to the “asylum” had been barricaded long ago. She hadn't paid any attention to the planks then – not that there would have been any point to it. Break the window, “sweep” the broken glass out of the way with the barrel, hop in.

And so she did.

She hadn't thought about it earlier, but the long, gore-strewn hallways with small, cell-like rooms branching off reminded her more of a prison than a place of healing – it was a far cry from the hospitals back home, rather an almost-Victorian remnant of some bygone era, the Platonic ideal of a horror mainstay.

They'd largely cleared out the place, it seemed – her and Arnold had made a hurried escape once they'd emptied out the armory on the upper floor, another curious detail. She'd named the second-floor armory “Point DAHMER”. 

 

It seemed fitting.

Who else would use an M4 to calm down a restless patient?

Half-jog, rolling steps. Weapon at high ready. Red laser dot shaking with every footfall. Occasional suppressed shots, abandoned offices, looted armories, filing cabinets full of patient files she tucked into her pack just in case, but nothing else. 

 

No medicine.

No clonazepam.

 

There was medical literature, more than she knew what to do with, but this wasn't her field – she knew how to pull out bullets and tie tourniquets and administer saline and give blood transfusions but...

She wasn't a neurosurgeon.

She wasn't a psychiatrist.

She wasn't fucking qualified for anything.

How was she supposed to sort through all the shit in the library and scattered over the desks if she didn't even know what to start with, what to do? She couldn't just stay there and pore over medical journals – Mishka might have already broken free, she might already have pulled her mask off, she might already have...

stop thinking

start doing

The section labeled “STORAGE” had already been looted – what little remained was just the usual – morphine, naloxone, some oral benzos she pocketed, but nothing she could reliably get into Mishka.

She could crush up the pills, and filter it through cotton, and... then what? She wouldn't be able to hit a vein, not the way Mish was struggling, the cannulas were pretty much torn off, and an intramuscular injection with crushed up pills?

How the fuck was she supposed to treat an abscess on top of everything else?

She almost wanted to give up.

Almost.

Her legs felt like jelly. Not even the Avon was enough to block the smell of bloated corpses baking in the summer heat. She'd largely blown through her ammo stockpile, at least for her rifle – she still had roughly 60 shots for the Smith & Wesson, but she knew that wouldn't be enough to take down a horde.

So, then what? A machete in her right hand and a prayer in her heart?
Fuck that. God died in the fog already.

Shaky fingers, a grimy map. The closest pharmacy was smack-dab in the middle of downtown, just north of point BLOCK. Same place they'd almost gotten themselves killed a... week ago? Christ, it was hard to remember.

Still, maybe the route was clear. The Defender was a lot smaller than her Hummer, and threading needles would be much easier.
They'd managed to clear out a bit of the rotters around the area, as well, before everything went to shit – maybe it was safe.

Maybe it wasn't.

At this point she was past caring.

Her speed wasn't exactly breathtaking – southern Bedford was still a congealed mess of cars and lone rotters. No hordes, though, thank God. Just needles to thread, pavements to drive on, swerving to avoid light posts and stop signs... the usual.

Pharmahug laid empty. The neon blue glow of the sign had died long ago. Her and Mish and Harris had looted this place already – they didn't take everything, but then again they were so stocked on meds they didn't have a reason to.

Sayori almost wanted to shake her magic 8-ball, to ask it for advice – she was kind of taken aback by the sheer absurdity of the item and had started carrying it her in her kit – but decided not to.
Don't want to jinx it.

The pharmacy looked as shit as when she'd last seen it. Water bottles, OTC drugs and chip bags in the front, prescription drugs in the back. They'd taken a sledge to the doors leading to the back ages ago, and Sayori set about emptying the cabinets, practically tipping them over in her furious search.

Then, finally, “RIVOTRIL – CLONAZEPAM 1 MG/ML – FOR I.V/I.M USE ONLY”

Into the pack, carefully, wrapped up in her hoodie.
She couldn't break any of the ampoules – they were worth more than gold.

These little glass vials with crystal-clear liquid inside – they were priceless.

Back in the car. Foot on the gas. Move.
She thread her needles and swerved around her stoplights until she was on the northern road – the one Mishka had been disassembling wrecks on just a couple weeks ago – and then she was out of Bedford, out of the city, on the interstate again, headed northwest, headed home.

Gravel crunching under tires. A tortured engine shutting down. The camo-painted Defender – mud and rotten blood covering the tires – sat silent, sans the hiss of static from the radio that was quickly growing fainter and fainter as Sayori ran towards the trailer and pulled open the door and practically barged into Mishka's bedroom, the poor girl still showing no signs of recovery, tendons and veins showing with every pained jerk and pull.

pull out 5 ml syringe

remove wrapper

attach 22-gauge needle

break open ampoules

fill syringe

discard drawing needle

attach new 22-gauge

discard wrappers

Sayori gulped. The syringe in her hand felt like a dagger. Mishka had already managed to break free of the (admittedly slap-dash) duct-tape “restraints” she'd taped over her legs and torso, and was jerking back and forth, her breathing all too quick, desperately trying to break free of her wrist restraints as well.

“I'm sorry, Mishka.” Sayori said and straddled her friend's leg. “Cross my heart and hope to die...”

Barely more than a raspy whisper. “...stick a needle in your...”

It hit home. Quadriceps. It would probably leave a nasty bruise, but it could have been worse. At least the needle came out in one piece.

“...thigh.”

Seconds – or was it minutes? - later, Sayori felt the stiffness in Mishka's body subside, her breathing, although still rapid, was a far cry from the earlier hyperventilation, and...

Sayori got off her friend, taking slow, mechanical steps. Too tired for a hug. Too tired for anything. The old dog-tags glinted in the sparse sunlight.

“James Conley”

Bathroom sink. Sayori pulled off her mask, ignored the stinging sensation in her lungs, and spewed out what little she'd managed to eat last night.

Probably won't flush.

Not looking forward to scraping this shit out.

At least it was mostly bile and water.

Mishka laid still, comatose as ever. Wrist restraints off, new cannulas, new catheters, new saline bag.

Sponge bath, new bandages, the smell of disinfectant.

Sweeping the floors, ignoring the burning in her lungs, kidneys and stomach.

Bathroom break, peeing hurt. Red and yellow. Like the Oshkosh logo.

Occasional checkups, hopeful at first, then neutral, then routine.

At least she wasn't trying to claw her face off again.

An attempt at a late lunch, chanko nabe with homemade kimchi on the side, both bowls stayed untouched. Sayori didn't feel very hungry, hadn't felt hungry for a while, and Mish...

Mish was still gone.