The Creeping Dead: A Zombie Novel by Edward P. Cardillo Page A

you. You remind me of me when I was your age.”
    Tara almost threw up in her mouth.
    “Great,” said Loews. “Would it be all right if Dr. Bigelow had a quick tour of the facility?”
    MacAteer rose. “I think that could be arranged. I’ll have the director of social work paged. She can show you around.”
    “Thank you,” said Loews, standing. Tara followed suit.
    “You two can wait in here. I’ll send her in.” MacAteer extended a hand to Tara. “It was nice meeting you.”
    Tara shook her hand. Then MacAteer shook Loews’ hand and briskly left the conference room, closing the door behind her.
    “You weren’t kidding about her,” said Tara.
    “I think you handled her quite skillfully,” said Loews. “Don’t worry. After this, you’ll have very few dealings with her. Just keep her happy and stay out of her way.”
    “I’ll do my best.”
    They heard a name, Renee Washington, paged over the intercom.
    “That’s the social work director,” said Loews. “She’s harmless. Hides in her office most of the time.”
    Within ten minutes the door opened, and Renee Washington, a thin forty-something African-American woman, walked into the conference room. There were quick introductions. Renee addressed Tara as ‘Dr. Bigelow.’ Points for her. Dr. Loews excused himself, and Renee crossed the lobby with Tara.
    “I would never use the elevators to get around the building,” said Renee.
    “Why’s that?”
    “Because they’re slow as molasses and you never want to get caught in a closed space with our residents. Last year one of the social workers was assaulted in the elevator. She got cornered by Helen, one of our aggressive residents with a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder, who went manic. She had bruises, swelling, and bite marks on her. She walked off the job the next day.”
    Renee entered a code into the keypad to the door to the stairwell. “One-two-three-four, for every door in the facility.”
    “Got it.”
    They stepped into the stairwell and began to climb the steps. Renee’s voice echoed in the small space. “I don’t mind it. I think of it as part of my physical fitness regimen. I walk up and down all day long. There’re eight floors, so it’s quite the workout.”
    “I bet.” Tara started to pant a little. The stairwell was not air conditioned, and she was quickly reminded of the relentless heat wave just outside the facility.
    They got off on the second floor.
    “This is one of our short-term rehab floors,” said Renee. “There are two residents per room. The short-term floors have just finished renovation, so they look nice and new.” They walked over to a high countertop with wheeled shelves of big paper charts behind it. There were two nurses sitting at computers.
    “This is the nurses’ station,” said Renee. “Those are the charts where you’ll be entering in your notes. We’re in the process of converting to a computerized database, but for now you’ll stick your notes in the ‘Consults’ section of the chart. You can either hand your notes to the unit clerk or place them in the chart yourself.”
    “I think I can manage.”
    “Ladies,” said Renee to the two nurses, “This is Dr. Bigelow. She’s a new psychologist who’ll be starting…”
    “Tomorrow,” said Tara, finishing Renee’s sentence.
    “Nice to meet you, Doctor,” said once West Indian nurse, smiling, failing to give her name.
    The other simply nodded, only looking up from her computer for a brief moment.
    Tara saw that the culture of a nursing home was much different than that of a school—less warm and fuzzy. She made a mental note to make an effort to get to know as many nurses as possible.
    There were residents in wheelchairs being pushed to and fro, and a middle-aged man walking with a cane waved to Tara. She waved back.
    “Most of these residents are here because they sustained an injury or suffered a stroke. About one third get discharged to home after rehab, and the rest go to floors