Hour 23 by Robert Barnard Page A

our best to understand it. It seems to have originated in New York. There have been a growing number of reports in Suffolk, Nassau, Queens. It’s came as far up north as Rockland, and now it’s here. In our own backyard. It’s causing ordinary folks to become violent and dangerous. Brutish. Cruel. Cannibalistic, even. And, it has an extremely high mortality rate.”
    Jim stared long and deep at the doctor and felt a ringing begin to resonate in his ears. “How high of a mortality rate?” he said.
    “Well.” The doctor raked his mind. Throughout the  morning he had answered that question countless times, but each time the answer never stopped sounding any less horrific or unbelievable.  “One hundred.”
    Jim cocked his head.
    “One hundred percent mortality rate.”
    Jim tried to kick through his leg straps. The restraints clanged against the railing on the gurney. “I want to see my partner. I want to see him right now.”
    Dr. Merrill paced towards the zippered door at the front of the room. Before he left, he turned to Jim one last time. “Please, officer. Like I said. Get some rest, we’re going to need you at your best once you’re out of here.”
    The doctor stepped out of the plastic, becoming just another strange shadow in the hall outside.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

FIVE
     
    Chloe was the first thing Nolan saw when he opened his eyes. She was curled up and tucked into his chest, trembling, her head pressed firmly into his shoulder.
    At first, all Nolan could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat. Thum thum, thum thum, thum thum. Gradually, the heavy beating faded into a dull drumbeat, and as it did it was replaced by a high pitched tone that rang sharp and loud inside his skull.  When the ringing finally subsided, all he could hear were screams.
    Nolan mumbled, “Chloe.” He shook the quivering mess before him by the shoulders. “Chloe, are you all right?”
    The cloud of stringy blonde hair in his face lifted until Chloe and he were practically nose-to-nose. Her hair was tangled and wild. Her bottom lip bled lightly from biting it too hard during the collision. Nolan examined Chloe’s face and trembling body carefully; other than the bleeding lip, she looked okay.
    Chloe took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” She studied Nolan’s face, noticing a small, bruised welt on his forehead.
    “I’m fine, too,” Nolan said.
    Students were filing out the back of the bus one after the other. One would jump from the rear exit ledge, hit the pavement and run, and then another would follow suit.
    The front end of the vehicle was hazy with smoke that had seeped in from the smoldering engine. When Nolan leaned forward he could see short bursts of orange flames. They nipped and crackled just beyond the shattered windshield.              
    Ned was pinned between the steering wheel and the driver’s seat; the steering wheel had impaled him during the collision. Despite the cavernous hole in his chest, Ned writhed and howled. His arms flailed around in all directions, a radio handset still firmly in his clutch. By all accounts and observations that Nolan could make, Ned should have been dead: there were shards of windshield protruding from bleeding wounds in his face, a steering wheel that had pushed clean through his upper body, and his organs were strewn about the dashboard in front of him. And yet there Ned sat, convulsing; his face twisted in anguish while he chomped aimlessly at the air around him.
    Nolan’s fingers turned icy and he began to feel nauseous. Tunnel vision set in. He took three deep breaths and turned back to Chloe; he was certain that if he looked in the direction of Ned any longer he would become sick.
    Nolan held Chloe’s face and said, “We’re going to get off the bus now, okay?” Chloe looked too frightened to move. “Don’t look at anything.”
    An agonizing yell burst from the front of the bus.
    “What was that?” Chloe said. Her eyes