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pistol.
    “Don’t!” Nixon held up his hand.
    The undead railed against the restraints shaking the table so hard that had it not been bolted to the floor, its thrashing would have toppled it.
    Nixon drew up a syringe of sedative. “Zach, don’t let him get loose.”
    How on Earth did he expect him to stop it?
    Zach holstered his pistol, held his breath, and bore down on the infected’s chest with all of his weight. Don’t get bit. His heart raced. His fingertips sank into its gelatinous arm all the way to the bone and he shuddered.
    Nixon administered the drug and the man immediately went limp.
    Zach let up slowly, adrenaline rushing through him. The slick of decomposed tissue on his hands made him want to rush to the sink, but he knew it wasn’t over.
    Martin threw the O.R. room door open and rushed in.
    “I got it,” Nixon said. “He’s down for now, but they’re too much of a risk on this sedative. One minute they’re out, the next they’re ready to go. Ben, tighten the restraints.”
    Ben tightened the right wrist by one notch of the leather belt. “Zach, get the other one.”
    “It’s their metabolism, sir.” Martin adjusted his slipping cap. “The longer we keep them, their rate speeds up. I’m trying to keep up with the changes.”
    Zach wondered how long, exactly, the infected patients had been there.
    “Get that wrist,” Ben said.
    Zach pulled the metal tongue from the leather strap, worried that in the split second between tight and tighter the man would regain consciousness and attack.
    Nixon paced, his hands clasped behind his back and a familiar change came over him. “If we can’t rely on the drugs,” he mumbled quietly, “we’ll have to make him less dangerous.”
    Zach had seen this particular expression once before when Nixon ripped the mutilated rat in two. It was frame of reference enough to know that something very bad was about to happen.
    Nixon pulled open the drawer of sterile processing packages and sorted through them.
    “Sir, is there something I can help you find?” Ben asked.
    Nixon didn’t acknowledge him.
    “Sir, can I help you find something?”
    Nixon held up a clear blue envelope. “No, I found it.”
     “All due respect, Dr. Nixon, this isn’t the way to handle things.” Ben stepped between him and the infected, posturing protectively. The tension increased tenfold. Nixon opened a second drawer and pulled out a pair of chainmail gloves. “Sir, I don’t believe you want to do this.”
    Zach watched wide-eyed and noted Ben’s escalating panic. He’d have asked what Nixon was planning, if he didn’t already know. The instrument in Nixon’s hand was the exact one the oral surgeon used to pull out his wisdom teeth.
    “Ben, get out of my way.”
    Ben held his position.
    “I’m not going to ask again.” Nixon shoved Ben to the side and into Zach.
    Zach caught Ben before he hit the floor and wondered what the right thing was to say or do. The hint of madness in Nixon’s eyes made it clear he was not in a frame of mind for conflict. “What the hell am I supposed to do?” he whispered.
    “I honestly don’t know or care. Figure it out. He’s all yours,” Ben stormed out of the room and bad became worse.
    “Should I go after him?” Zach asked.
    Nixon put a wedge under the infected’s neck and secured its head, tilted back, with a leather strap to the table. “Should you go after him? Do you think I want to be alone in here? No. You’re going to help me. See those syringes over there on the tray? They’re loaded. If he so much as twitches, you hit him with one, more than one if you have to, and it doesn’t matter where, just that you do it fast.”
    Forced into compliance, Zach picked up one of the syringes to avoid even a second’s delay.
    Nixon gripped the first of the infected’s teeth with the pliers and pulled. He twisted and wiggled the tooth until it released from the jaw with a crack . A thick string of yellow-green syrup dangled from