The Hospital by Keith C. Blackmore Page B

the skylight. He turned a few corners carefully and saw a long row of seats laid out before open and closed doors of examination rooms. Across from them were men’s and women’s washrooms. The whole area was covered in debris, as if a tsunami of garbage had swept through the place.
    Gus listened. Behind him, a strong wind rattled the skylight. The hospital was otherwise dead. Or sleeping. Do the dead sleep? Really sleep? Gus wondered, tapping the shotgun against his helmet-protected cheek. He shoved the thought aside and proceeded into the waiting area. He noticed a third door just before the washrooms and went to it. It had a doorknob, where the others were simply push-opens.
    He paused at the door, breathing through his nose and taking in the stench of dried blood that permeated the air, as recognizable as coffee. It wasn’t so strong here, but it was still present. Keeping his weapon level, he reached down and opened the door with a jerk. He went into a firing stance as he pushed his way into the room beyond.
    And hit gold.
    It was a service room. Stacked as neatly as bullion in Fort Knox was the one commodity that Gus would have never guessed would be as valuable as water, gasoline, food, or even ammunition. It was a luxury that was, like all things, greatly underappreciated back when the world was only crazy.
    Toilet paper. At least forty rolls of ass-cleaning goodness. There was toilet paper to spare in fact, and Gus smiled at the sight. He grabbed a roll with one hand and inspected the label. Two-ply. Goddamn. He’d hit the shitter jackpot. If assholes could smile, his would be grinning across both cheeks.
    He kept the door open and searched for a power switch. When he found it, he wasn’t surprised that there was no electricity. He propped the door open and searched the rest of the room by the meager light of the hallway. There was an old Time magazine with an article on Vikings. That went into his backpack, as did a full bottle of Javex bleach and a number of toilet paper rolls. He found a box of latex gloves, opened but three-quarters full, and grabbed those as well. Two mops, a broom, and a push-bucket were located just beyond the doorway. A large wheeled hamper lay farther in toward the back of the room, partially hidden by the dark, and it took him a moment to realize how fortunate he was to have found it. Checking outside periodically, he slung his shotgun over his shoulder and piled the treasures inside the hamper, making it ready for transport.
    When all was packed away, he went to the door and peeked out. Empty. The wind had picked up outside, sighing impatiently against the glass and making it rattle. But there were no gimps. That’s what he called them now. Gimps. It fit.
    Gus pulled the hamper out of the supply room with his shotgun laid across a solid pile of Puffy two-ply rolls, his right hand never far from the grip. Once clear, he pushed the hamper, then cringed at the sound of a squeaky wheel. Well, Jesus , he thought, and froze. He looked about, any second expecting gimps to come tumbling out of the doorways across the way, arms outstretched and moaning their shit, but they didn’t.
    After a few more seconds, Gus realized he was wasting time. He pushed the hamper through the corridor and back to the van without incident, the wheel whistling its tune the whole way, like a high dwarf going home to see Snow White. He got to the outer door and shoved the hamper through. Loading it onto the van proved to be no trouble at all. He backed it up to the open doors and started throwing things in until the hamper was light enough to haul inside. Once packed, Gus stepped to the lip of the chrome bumper and regarded the dark doors of the hospital. He hadn’t expected to find the toilet paper. He hadn’t even been looking for toilet paper. But when you were the only game in town, you took what you found, when you found it. He stood, hunched over in the doorway of his beast, and considered going back in. He