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

five through seven for long-term placement.”
    “Sounds ominous.”
    Renee smiled. “The residents think so. Most of your hardcore patients will be on those floors. You’ll have a few on the short-term floors, mostly adjustment disorders. Upstairs we have the real behavior problems, particularly floors six and seven. Eight is rehab—physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech/feeding therapy.”
    A young, well-dressed Hispanic woman rounded the corner and headed toward the nurses’ station.
    “Oh, there’s one of our social workers. Alina, come say hi to the new psychologist.”
    Alina came over and offered her hand.
    Tara shook it. “Hi, I’m Dr. Bigelow.”
    “Nice to meet you, Doctor. Welcome aboard.”
    “She’ll be taking over Dr. Hetz’s cases.”
    Alina looked like she winced at the mention of Dr. Hetz. Things must’ve gotten ugly between him and MacAteer. “Good. You have some good ones. If you have any questions regarding any of the residents, don’t hesitate to ask.”
    “Thanks.”
    Alina took off past the nurses’ station.
    “She’s relatively new herself,” said Renee. “Social workers don’t last long around here.”
    “How long have you been here, if you don’t mind me asking?”
    “Too long. It’s been about four months.”
    “So you’re relatively new yourself.”
    “Actually, seven months is the current record.”
    “Wow. Is it because of the population?”
    “There’s a lot of politics around here. You’re a consultant, so you’ll be above most of it. Just don’t piss off the administrator, and you should be okay.”
    “Is that what Dr. Hetz did? Did he piss off Ms. MacAteer?”
    “ That would be an understatement. We haven’t been able to hold onto many psychologists either, but they’ve all been males. Maybe you’ll get along better with the administrator.”
    “Let’s hope so,” said Tara.
     
     
     

 
    Chapter 7
     
     
    Renee held the door for Tara as she entered the sixth floor. It was immediately apparent that the environment was in stark contrast to the short-term floors. There was an odor that greeted Tara as soon as she stepped out of the stairwell that she surmised to be a combination of body odor, feces, and urine. The floor was worn and dirty, and the wallpaper was stained and peeling.
    “This is where all of our behavior problems go,” said Renee. “On the other side of the unit, we have a locked dementia ward, but you won’t be referred anyone in there. Too demented for therapy.”
    “Got it.”
    They walked around to the nurses’ station, which looked identical to the one on the prior floor. Same high counter, same computers, same racks of paper charts. Tara heard the sounds of people wailing, screaming out for attention, and curses.
    “Follow me to the dayroom.”
    Tara did as she was told, and they both stepped into the dayroom. There were residents scattered throughout, some in wheelchairs, staring into space, talking to themselves, or watching television. Some looked to be seventy years old, others only forty-something.
    “I think that the differences from the residents on the short-term floor are obvious,” said Renee.
    Tara took them all in. It was quite the departure from her preschool. “This population must be heavily psychiatric.”
    “That’s right. Here we have your schizophrenics, bipolars, and such.”
    Tara was able to tell from their poor hygiene, which is a hallmark of mental illness. There was long, greasy, unkempt hair; long, untrimmed fingernails; brown, half-missing teeth.
    “We don’t expect much here,” said Renee, “but when a resident is about to boil over, you can communicate with the psychiatrist, who can then adjust the medication. Our goal is to reduce psychiatric hospitalizations, if possible.”
    One older woman with scraggly hair and a closed eye turned and looked at Tara. “Fuck you! Lick my cunt, you bitch!”
    Renee smiled. “Now, Helen, is that any way to treat our new