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and spiky hair.
     
    “Someone had a problem here?” Tim asked, and they all stopped.
     
    The old man said, “One of my employees. He's up on eight with his daughter. Says she got assaulted by our maintenance guy.”
     
    “Where were you all headed?”
     
    “Home,” the woman said.
     
    “Not yet. I'll need you to stick around.”
     
    “Why? It doesn't involve us.”
     
    “Just stay put, huh? You said he's on eight?” Tim asked.
     
    “Yeah. Suite eight-ten,” the old man said.
     
    “I'm going up. I want to see you all here when I come back.”
     

 
    Chapter Seven
     
    Maria Gilardo had never seen anything like it in her years as an ICU nurse. Two patients who had been brought in with the bug had coded. A third was on his way out. She'd had the bodies sent down to the morgue, not wanting to cause a panic. It seemed a little late for that.
     
    Now, she rushed with a crash car down to ICU number fourteen. Her twelve-year-old had asked her if she'd ever seen someone die, and she'd said no. Lied to the kid. She'd seen plenty, tried to help them as they left this world. He didn't need to know that yet.
     
    The patient in question was Alexander Hammas, who was a healthy thirty-five-year-old male up until two days ago when he started becoming sick with a sniffle. He'd come up here nearly comatose and just flatlined.
     
    She went into the room where two of the nurses were working on him.
     
    Maria said, “Page Doctor Stanton.”
     
    She wheeled the crash car up to the bed. As she did this, Hammas – to her surprise – sat up. When he opened his eyes, they were white.
     
    “Call security,” Maria said. “Everyone out.”
     
    The other two nurses backed out of the room and Maria made a break for the nurses' station, where she intended to call security. In the corridor behind her there came a crash and she glanced over her shoulder. Alexander Hammas stood in the hallway.
     
    The other two nurses had lagged behind, and Hammas pounced on the one closest to him, driving her face-first into the floor. He twisted her neck and it snapped with a sickening crunch. Hammas then sprung onto the second nurse, catching her from behind and biting her face.
     
    At the nurses' station, which had monitors showing each patient's vital signs, buzzers went off, the heart monitors flatlining.  She could only guess that whatever flu this was would cause them to turn into monsters. She was the last nurse left on the floor. They'd been short-staffed tonight, and her co-workers were dead.
     
    She had to get help.
     
    Looking down the corridor, she saw Hammas loping towards her. She had to arm herself and spotted a pair of scissors on the desk. They sure as hell didn't teach anything like this in nursing school. Hammas reached the waist-high desk, and she backed up. As it started to climb the desk, she thrust the scissors into its eye, which dripped an ugly black goo. The thing howled and grabbed at the scissors.
     
    She ran for the elevator, reached it, and punched the button. As she looked over her shoulder, she saw the thing fall to the ground and convulse. Spittle flew from its lips. Hopefully she had hit the brain and it was going into death spasms.
     
    The elevator door opened and she stepped on. Her first instinct was to go downstairs, get to the lobby, and get out. But there were other patients on the floors above. She had to warn them. She pressed the   Up button.  As the elevator ascended, she thought she heard a chorus of shrieks and screams. It sounded like tormented souls suffering in Hell.
     
     
     
    Doctor Lori Weiss strolled through the basement corridors of St. Mary's hospital sipping watery coffee from the vending machine. From overhead came the hiss of steam pipes and the knocks and groans of the heating system. Despite the bright yellow walls, the place made her want to start taking Prozac. A basement was a basement. She hoped to transfer out of here soon.
     
    She reached her office and sat at the