Blackberries, Pillows, and the Problem with Unions

A lot had changed in the half-decade since the inevitable zombie virus swept through and decimated the world’s population, any semblance of centralized government, law and order, and decent television. However, after the metaphorical dust had settled, some still found themselves adhering to a daily routine that hadn’t changed much from their pre-apocalyptic ones. 

For Dr Adam Able, his day still started at a time that even the Cain Township’s resident rooster found irritatingly early.

This early hour of awakening was due to one part habit from his days as a surgery resident, one part ingrained inability to sleep in, and one part godawful cacophonous snoring coming from one of the beds in his small hospital’s medical ward.

When he’d gone to sleep the evening before, all of those beds had been empty. 

He sighed and slowly left his warm sheets, pulling on his coat as he left his tiny private quarters to make his way to the general ward. His hospital had once been an impractically lavish house, but, like most things in their apocalypse days, it had practicality thrust upon it and now served as the place that the three hundred souls who lived in Cain Township went to for their medical ailments. 

Dr Able, a surgeon in his pre-apocalpyse life, had practicality thrust upon him as well: as the sole doctor for the township, he found himself doing a lot less cutting and a lot more thinking these days. He had reluctantly developed a new appreciation for those whom he’d once scoffed at for practicing Family and Internal Medicine. 

He’d never admit it, though. 

He shivered slightly in the chill morning air as he walked over to a lump huddled under the mismatched hospital blankets, still snoring loudly. 

“Get out,” he groused, prodding the lump forcefully. The lump in question groaned and tugged the covers tighter about itself. “I will waste a hypodermic needle on you,” Able threatened, not feeling the slightest bit charitable this early in the morning when the temperature was this chilly. He hoped he got the chance to admit someone for overnight observation; he’d love an excuse to run the heat overnight, even if a hospital admission meant more work for him.

“Jus’ don’ stick i’ in m’bum,” the lump slurred.

“Considering that’s your largest target, I suspect that’s exactly where it’ll go.” Able kept his voice apathetically business-like and started searching through the cabinet with the creakiest hinges so that the lump knew that he was actively searching for said needle.

“Fine,” the lump conceded as it threw off the blanket to reveal a tired looking, scrawny, disheveled man. “Thought docs were s’pose t’ be nice.”

“Those were pre-zombie apocalypse rules. Now, for the millionth time, this isn’t your home. Get out.”

“Hasn’t been a million times,” the man muttered to himself as he dropped the blanket on the floor and trudged out. 

Able honestly wasn’t sure why Chester tried to sneak into a hospital bed every night. As far as he knew, the man had a perfectly decent home (by post-apocalyptic standards) on the other end of the township. 

(He suspected it had something to do with the fact that the township’s speakeasy in Mrs Baker’s cellar, which they all pretended to know nothing about, was closer to the hospital than Chester’s own home.)

Able relished the silence for a moment before starting the sundry tasks that he had neglected recently; a recent spate of admissions had put him behind on some of his administrative work and he was glad for a chance to tackle that work without distraction.

That silence and solitude ended with a dull thud on his desk as a thick paste contained within a bowl nearly spilled onto the battered wood. 

Able looked at it with distaste. “What is this?”

“Same thing it is every morning!” chirped Tim, his nurse. Tim had been a zookeeper in his pre-apocalyptic life and it sometimes showed. “Oatmeal.”

“And yet it looks even slimier than usual,” Able said, realizing that he must have missed the bell announcing the start of the communal breakfast. He turned his attention back to his work.

“Eh, throw a couple of blackberries in and it’ll taste just fine.”

Able looked up. “Blackberries? I thought all the berries in the kitchen were moldy and had been thrown out.”

“Huh.” Tim considered this for a moment. “Well then, I guess we’re going to have a really interesting morning.”

Able sighed. 

——————————————————

The morning post-blackberry-and-oatmeal-diarrhea rush hit just as Able finished his inventory, though thankfully most of the township’s citizens had had the sense—and were privy to the same information that Able was—to avoid the blackberries and stick with toast. Just as Able thought he was done seeing the last of their breakfast’s victims, Tim popped his head into his office and said, “I have Gary here.”

Able sighed and stood up. “How’re we looking on toilet paper?”

“We’re running pretty low, but he’s actually here for a sore throat.”

“Oh. Did you tell him to go home and drink some tea?”

Tim just looked at him, not judgmentally, but as if he expected more from Able.

“Fine,” Able conceded. “I’ll take a look.”

———————————————————

It was just after lunch—which was, thankfully, berry-free—when Able stood up, stretched, and was donning his coat for his mid-afternoon stroll when the lights flickered several times and then went out, right on schedule.

By this point, it was easy to keep a straight face as he passed George and Sabrina, the township’s designated electricians, standing outside the hospital near the generator and staring at it quizzically, bouncing ideas off of each other as to why it failed again.

Able supposed Mrs Baker’s more…recreational…activities weren’t as well-known around the township as he thought. 

He shrugged: she was usually done stealing his power to make her moonshine after about an hour and it was nice to have an excuse to get some fresh air. 

The downside to leaving the safety of his hospital was that, outside the hospital was where everyone else tended to be.

One such soul he tried to avoid at all costs was Mr Vanderbilt, once-CEO of some pool construction company and now rendered even more useless post-apocalypse. He was also one of Dr Able’s biggest nightmares: a valetudinarian. 

Thankfully, the man loved his own voice enough that he tried to share it with as many people as possible, so it was usually easy to detect him and move in the opposite direction before becoming entangled in the obligatory social niceties that come with proximity.

Able heard Vanderbilt’s characteristic braying near their community garden—which was just a bare plot of dirt this time of the year—and instinctually stopped his meandering before rounding the corner of the toolshed, staying within earshot but out of sight. He waited silently, wishing the conversation would wrap up; now that he was standing still, the winter air was leeching his body heat through his threadbare coat. 

Just as Vanderbilt was saying, “No you see, unions are monopolies and they stifle the true potential of capitalism—“ the worst happened to Able.

Tim found him.

Tim, so enthusiastic and congenial in their post-apocalyptic times that Able shuddered to think how positively effervescent he must have been pre-apocalypse, was not one for subtlety. 

“Hey, doc, there you are! So, I’ve been meaning to talk to you—for some reason, Glenda hasn’t washed our pillows for the week, so we won’t be getting those until tomorrow and, after this morning, we’re all out of toilet paper, so I was hoping I could get your permission to go to the township council and request—“

“Yes, yes,” hissed Able, gesturing frantically for Tim to keep his voice down. “Whatever, just…be quiet!”

“What? Why?”

“Because—“

But it was too late.

“Why, if it isn’t Dr Able over there! Hello, doctor!” Vanderbilt’s grotesquely convivial voice greeted as he rounded the corner. Able saw the figure of their town baker, Sally, hurrying away, clearly taking advantage of the distraction Tim had inadvertently given her. 

Able glared after her, making a mental note to insist that she give him an extra slice of pound cake that evening in exchange for his sacrifice.

“I’ve been meaning to find you. Oh, is now a good time?” Vanderbilt asked, glancing over at Tim. 

Tim, in that way of his that Able still couldn’t tell was genuine candor or masterful guile, smiled and said, “Nope, that’s all I needed from him. You have a good day!”

The bastard had the gall to give a little wave as he walked off, leaving Able alone with Vanderbilt and without an exit strategy.

Vanderbilt cleared his throat. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask you about this twitching that I’m having in my eye. Or, I mean, I was having, but I think it’s mostly gone—it hasn’t happened in several days, you see and…now that I think about it, it was really only there for about a day—well, several hours really, but I thought you should know…”

In that utterly and cruelly apropos way the universe worked, Able felt his own eye start to twitch. 

—————————————————————

Thankfully, the alarm sounded before Vanderbilt could launch into a painfully in-depth description of his fourth symptom du jour. 

Grabbing desperately at the excuse, Able finished his afternoon exercise by very nearly jogging to his assigned platform. These were raised structures that enabled citizens to see over the twelve foot wall around their township to keep the shambling dead away from their living shambles of a town.

He was handed a rifle as soon as he ascended the stairs and spent the better part of an hour listening to those also assigned to his platform chat idly amongst themselves. The faint sounds of syncopated rifle fire punctuated the air as those on a distant platform worked on thinning a herd of zombies that had wandered too close to their wall.

None made it to his designated section of wall and, as soon as the “all-clear” bell tolled, he was the first one down the steps.

Tim was already at the hospital by the time he arrived. “I have Gary here to see you.”

Able growled. “It’s just a simple sore throat, probably viral—he doesn’t need antibiotics. He needs to drink tea, rest, and let time do its thing.”

“Yeah, he’s not here for that.”

Able rubbed his eyes tiredly. “What’s he here for, then?”

“He set his sleeve on fire while making the tea.”

———————————————————

Burns were nasty injuries to treat, even in the pre-apocalypse world. They were exquisitely painful, required frequent dressing changes, and were very prone to infection.

In their post-apocalypse world, narcotic pain medication, silver sulfadiazine, non-adherent dressings, systemic antibiotics, and trained medical professionals were hard to come by to say nothing of the impossibility of performing skin graft operations. 

Thankfully, Gary’s burns were mostly first-degree with some second degree. They’d have to monitor closely for infection and he’d be coming by daily for dressing changes and pain medications.

As he wrapped Gary’s arm in vaseline-covered gauze, Able tried very hard not to think of how low his supply of silver sulfadiazine was and that he had used the last of his stock of cephalexin the week before. 

————————————————————

Cain Township had a variety of bells, all of which signaled different events. 

They didn’t have one for returning long-range scouts. Able typically learned of that event when the scouts were led by several gun-carrying sentries to his clinic for a bite-check before being allowed to mingle with the rest of the township.

The two returning scouts, Jonathan and Theo, plodded tiredly into one of the exam rooms, muddied and smelling exactly like two men who had spent two weeks scavenging for supplies without a shower would be expected to smell. 

“You,” Able said, following them into the room and pointing at the sentry who had entered with him, “out. You two,” he said, pointing at Jonathan and Theo, “strip.”

Theo whistled. “I dunno, doctor, I think you—“

“—if you’re going to tell me that you think I should buy you dinner first, I swear to god I’ll place you under quarantine regardless of whether or not you’ve been bitten.”

Theo smiled and raised his hands in surrender. “That sounds like fun, too,” he whispered to Jonathan, winking suggestively. Jonathan sighed and started disrobing.

“You’re still here,” Able said to the young, nervous-looking sentry, feeling his patience wane. This was usually the time he’d start to wind down for the evening and he felt fatigue pulling at his shoulders. 

“Sir, it’s protocol—“

“So is doctor-patient confidentiality. Now get out. I’m sure I’ll scream loud enough for you to hear if they start to turn on me.”

The sentry, after a moment’s hesitation, left. 

He turned his attention back to the two men. “Underwear, too,” he told Theo. 

For some reason, Jonathan, who had already completely stripped, blushed and looked pointedly at the wall, not making eye contact with either Theo or Able. Theo’s grin only grew. “So…before I do, I can explain…”

“Underware. Off.”

“Fine.” Theo shucked his briefs off. Able, who had braced himself for a nasty, infected-looking zombie bite and the horrible feeling that comes from knowing a man is days away from an awful death followed by an even more awful reanimation felt slightly off-balanced when the absence of underwear revealed unblemished, intact skin. 

Then, he felt irritated for worrying: Theo never did take anything seriously. 

Then, he felt incensed when he had Theo turn around to examine the skin on his backside.

“What’s this?”

“That’s my butt, doc.” Theo said, helpfully. “I’m pretty sure it’s one of those things they should have covered in med school.”

“Stop being obtuse. What’s that?”

Theo followed where Able’s finger was pointing. “Oh. Huh. That looks like a bite mark.”

Able narrowed his gaze. “It looks like a hickey.”

“Yeah? It probably is. Hey, whaddya think, Jonathan? Does this look like a hickey?”

Jonathan, whose blush now covered his entire face and chest, resolutely looked away. 

Able growled. “I don’t care what the two of you get up to in your spare time, but we’ve talked about this before: no biting or hickeys when you’re out in the field; I can’t reasonably guarantee that they’re not zombie bites.” He sighed, feeling the energy drain from him. “I thought you two would have learned that lesson the last three times I had to put you in quarantine.”

Theo shrugged. “Eh, what can I say: quarantine is a nice break. So, doc, what’s the verdict? Another quarantine stint?”

“Yes. And I’m tempted to double it to six days in the brig.”

That made Theo’s face fall slightly.

“And me?” Jonathan asked, already re-donning his dirty clothes.

“You’re bite free, so you’re good to go. However, I suggest that you control yourself better next time the two of you are out in the field.”

He blamed the petty snipe on the fact that he was going to be spending the rest of the evening doing quarantine paperwork. (How pointless paperwork was a thing that had persisted into this post-apocalyptic world still baffled him.)

“Easier said than done,” Theo said breezily, obviously as an effort to redirect Able’s attention away from a very mortified Jonathan. “Oh, by the way, Jonathan and I came across what we think used to be one of those strip-mall clinics about twenty miles away from here and we found some intact bottles of medicine, so we grabbed what we could carry. It looked pretty untouched and it seemed like it had a good stock of supplies, so if you want to make a list of stuff you need, we can go back and see what we can find.”

Able blinked in surprise as he digested this information. “Fine,” he said, trying to keep his voice gruff despite the optimism that rose at the thought of being able to replenish his dwindling inventory. “Now get out of here before I go through with prolonging your quarantine.”

“Aye aye!” crowed Theo as he followed Jonathan out of the room.

——————————————————————————

Just as he was finishing up the quarantine paperwork, Able received a late night hospital visit from Marissa, one of the victims of that morning’s berry disaster who was still having profound diarrhea. She looked significantly dehydrated and clearly wasn’t fit to be sent home so Able made the decision to place an IV, give her one of his precious bags of lactated ringers, more loperamide, and, most painfully, the last pillow in the hospital. 

At least he finally had an excuse to run the generator to warm the place up. 

She was sleeping soundly when Able finally retired to bed himself. He slumped tiredly into the worn mattress and tried to make a pillow out of one of his spare blankets. 

It was a poor substitute, but he’d long held the rule that if he had difficulty sleeping in any circumstance, he clearly hadn’t worked hard enough that day.

It had been a long time since he’d last had trouble dropping off to sleep.

———————————————————————————

Staying asleep, however, was another issue.

He heard the back door of the hospital creak open and pretended not to notice the very familiar sound of Chester’s drunken, unsteady footsteps as he tried to unobtrusively make his way to one of the beds. 

He was too tired to even bother fighting the inevitable and figured he kick Chester out in the morning.

The thought that Theo and Jonathan may have found a source of more hypodermic needles made him smile slightly as he dropped quickly back to sleep.

———————————————————————————

“Ppppst,” slurred a drunken voice, startling Able out of nascent sleep about a minute later. “Hey. Doc. Where’re all th’ pillows?”