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Erin T. McMillon

The September First Selected writer is Erin T. McMillon

Please feel free to email Erin at: emcmills2004@yahoo.com

Erin McMillon

BERNADETTE
by Erin T. McMillon

I loved being a nurse, but Mr. Jenkins in room 202 sometimes made me wish I had reconsidered my major. It never failed.

I’d go in, check his vitals, give him his medicine, make sure he was okay, and bid him a good day. Ten minutes later, he’d ring the nurse call button and tell us he had an accident.

Babies have accidents. When a grown man defecates in his hospital bed, he shit on himself.

But wasn’t not his loose bowels that had me reconsidering if nursing was my calling (I wasn’t a CNA anymore so I didn’t have to clean it up), it was that Mr. Jenkins was dying.

I’d worked with all kinds of patients, from babies to chemo patients, but working in a nursing home changed my life. The brochure for The Crystal Waters Nursing Home made it look like a quaint, intimate building at the edge of the Delaware River. The artist’s rendering of the trees surrounding the property and the little wooden benches in between them had made thousands of adult children comfortable with sending their parents off to a glorified hospice because “it’s what’s best for mom.”

The reality was that the hallways smelled like death, blood and piss. Most of the nurses could give a fuck if your parent lived or died. They are much more concerned with what was going on with Facebook or what wasn’t in their love lives. When your father rang the call bell because he shit on himself for the third time that day, the CNAs would argue over whose turn it was to change him. Nine times out of ten, they’d agree to disagree and your beloved father…the man who taught you how to ride a bike and drive a car, would be left to sit in his own waste until the next shift of nurses punched in and took an hour to argue over who would clean him up.

When your mother was thirsty, the woman who helped you pick out your prom dress and worked 60-hour weeks October through December so you could have everything on your Christmas list… she’d wait for water so long that the corners of her mouth would fold over into themselves until her split lips wrap around her toothless gums.

“So long as everything looks good when The State comes in we’ll all be able to keep our jobs,” the Director would say at every staff meeting. 

I pushed my cart full of medication down the halls each day, depression hanging closer to my head with each step, as I listened to the moaning, screaming … and … even worse, silence, seeping from behind the closed doors.

It was a lot to handle.

But I was a nurse and this was my job. I felt I was different than the others who worked here. I loved caring for those who could no longer care for themselves.

“Mr. Jenkins is buzzing again,” Latrice said as I walked past the nurse’s station.

I studied hard to become an LPN so I wouldn’t have to change Mr. Jenkins in 202 or Mrs. Pinciotti in 315, but I would always get suckered into doing it anyway.

If I could have, I would have upper-cut Latrice’s nose into her eye sockets, but I settled for the look I shot at her. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” she said as she stuffed her nose back into the latest issue of Celebrity Weekly.

The wheels squeaked on the metal cart I pushed ahead of me like a car with bad brakes as I doubled back to Mr. Jenkins’ room. I let the annoying sound turn into a melody in my mind that serenaded me back down the hallway. These days, it seemed to be the only thing that could keep me from inflicting bodily harm on a co-worker.

“Mr. Jenkins, you rang the bell again?” I said as I made my way into room 202.

“I’m sorry, Bernadette. I had another accident.”

I wanted to yell at him, but “It’s cool, Mr. J,” was what I said instead. I grabbed his sheets and pulled them taut so they wouldn’t get in the way when I rolled him.

“You know, young lady,” he said, licking the dried saliva from the corners of his mouth. “When I married Lucielle she was just as beautiful as you are.”

I blushed. It had been a long time since I’d heard anyone say I was beautiful. “That’s sweet, Mr. J.”

“No, I’m serious. Her skin was smooth, not a bump or blemish in sight. Her eyes were deep and brown. I sit outside and watch the river sometimes when I can get one of these fuck ass orderlies to push me to the bench. The surface carries this peaceful beauty. It calls you. But you can see in some spots where the water rushes against itself violently, grinding the white froth of the current downstream. It’s no wonder so many people have lost their lives trying to swim across….kinda reminds me of you.”

“You should have been a poet, Mr. J.,” I said as I rolled him on his side and wiped his filth from his wrinkled skin.

“Oh, I was, Dear. How do you think I managed to hold on to a lady with eyes like Lucielle?” Mr. Johnson went on and on about his lost love while I cleaned him.

“You’re all done, old man,” I said as I secured the last strap on his diaper.

“You’ve always been good to me, Bernie,” he smiled as I walked to the door. “I think I’m going to take Lucielle out for dinner tonight.”

I smiled back at the old man, wearing pity on my face. Lucielle had been dead for ten years. “Okay, Mr. J. Make sure you wear something nice.”

I pushed my cart back past Latrice with her fat nose still in her magazine. “Can you make a note to have the doctors look at 202 in the morning? I think Alzheimer’s may be setting in.”

Latrice didn’t move. But I already knew she wouldn’t.
“Latrice, I know you heard me,” I spat, my breaking point snapped in half. I walked behind the station and stood in front of her. I couldn’t let her ignore his symptoms. “Latrice.”

“Got it, Boss,” she spat with a strong roll of her eyes.

“I’ll be back when I finish my rounds,” I said as the cart continued its song down the empty hallway. I couldn’t get Mr. J. off my mind. It was technically time for me to clock out, but I found myself in the elevator pushing the “2” button instead of the “L” where my car was.

The elevator doors opened into the sterile hallway of the nurse’s station.

“Latrice?” She was gone.

I looked down the hallway. The door to 202 was open.

“Mr. Johnson?”

My voice echoing off the walls answered me.

The thoughts ran through my mind, He fell out the bed. He pressed the button and no one was here.

The crunch of my sneakers on the freshly waxed floor punctuating each step, I rounded the corner into 202. Mr. Johnson was on his knees, the large hospital bed blocking me from seeing him fully.

“Mr. Johnson?” I stepped forward into the room and the unmistakable aroma of fresh blood hit my nose.

I ran to the old man to help him up from the floor, but when I grabbed his shoulder he turned and snapped a set of clean, white teeth in my direction. The moonlight from the only window in the room lit his face, exposing the blood and chucks of gnarled skin hanging from his lips.

Lying on the ground beside him was Latrice, her chest cavity torn in hanging strips of exposed organs.
Mr. Johnson dug his hands into pulpy hole in her body and pulled out chunks of her. He shoved them hungrily into his mouth.

My mouth opened to scream but I could only hear myself make a choking sound. I couldn’t believe my eyes. My heart pounded against my chest, and I briefly wondered if I would faint.

Mr. Johnson was on his feet. He shuffled to me with out-stretched arms. It almost reminded me of a baby begging to be picked up.

He shuffled faster. My brain told me to run, but my body wasn’t as quick, frozen in shock. By the time it kicked, in Mr. Johnson was hovering over me. He grabbed the neck of my scrubs and pulled me closer to him. His large white teeth snapped with anticipation as he opened his mouth wide and tried to guide my head into consumption.

But my body was now wide awake.

I punched him in his chin harder than I ever hit anyone in my life. My children’s dad and I had come to blows plenty of times in our twelve years together, but I always held back out of fear of hurting him.

I couldn’t say the same for Mr. Johnson. I put my whole weight into that punch. He stumbled backward, losing his grip on my top, and falling into his bed.

I ran out of the room, down the hall, and locked myself in the broom closet. Grabbing the nearest weapon I could find (a plunger), I sunk down to the floor beside the yellow mopping bucket.

*****

I listened to the other nurses scream for what felt like hours. Hadn’t anyone called 911? I cursed myself for not having a cell phone on me. But who would have figured I’d need one for something like this?

The quiet came after forever when the horrid screams died out one by one. I cried silently as I held the wooden handle of the plunger so tight I could feel the wood beginning to crack the creases in my skin.

You can’t die in this closet, Bernadette. Your children are waiting for you.

I reached up and grabbed the door handle. The thick wooden door creaked heavily on its hinges as the slither of light from the hallway began to fill the closet.

I wanted to call out for someone to help me, but I was afraid of what might answer me. I poked my head out of the open door to see the empty hallway, but my fear was so thick, it sent ice down my spine.

I stepped out of the closet and began walking toward the elevator. Broken glass crunched beneath my feet. I crept past room 202. Slowly. My grip tightened around the plunger handle. I fully expected Mr. Johnson to jump out of the open door and try to eat my face off.

But the room was just as empty as the hallway—except for the bloody streaks and footprints on the floor. Even Latrice was gone.

My feet moved faster down the hallway. Just get to the lobby. You can make it out the side door.

The down button on the elevator lit a warm orange. I could hear the cables and wires humming behind the metal doors. I gripped the plunger handle tighter, scared shitless Mr. Johnson would be in the elevator when the doors opened.

The elevator pinged to give me fair warning that it was about to open. I took a huge breath in and swung the plunger hard and low, just like my little league coach taught me as a child. The handle cut through the air at nothing, the force and momentum sending my body swirling in circles chasing after it.

The irony of the situation doubled me over with stomach cramps. I’d spent most of my adult life around dying or dead people. It never bothered me until they started getting back up. Here I was trying to knock their heads off with a plunger handle and kill them again.

I rode the empty elevator until dinged again. “L.” The metal doors rolled open…and they were there. All of them.

The fear beneath my skin leaped from my body and banged against the walls of the small elevator. Mr. Johnson stood directly next to Latrice, blood pouring from the mangled cave in her chest. He was the first of them to start toward me. The building’s half-eaten, slowly-moving inhabitants were closing in on me. The lobby was a sea of bloody faces and shining white teeth.

I braced myself for them, and raised the plunger like a sword. There was no escape.

They walked toward me in a collective, lumbering gait. They were determined, but slow as molasses in the winter—all of them except Mr. Johnson. He was different…lighter on his feet than he was before he turned into a zombie. Yet he hesitated, and Latrice reached me first.

She reached her short, pudgy arm in my direction, but caught the handle of the plunger in the side of her head as I swung with all my might. She stumbled, and surprised it work, I hit her again.

She fell to one knee. I hit her again and again, pounding on her hear, until she stopped moving.

My lungs burned from exhaustion. I couldn’t take the air into my body fast enough. I tried to rest my hands on my bent knees, but Mr. Johnson was advancing. I pulled myself up with all of the strength I had left and sent the plunger handle into the bottom of Mr. Johnson’s chin. It penetrated his skull in a wet, stifled splat, the very tip of it jutting awkwardly out of the top of his head.

He fell to the floor in a thud, taking my only weapon with him, still embedded in his head. I grabbed the end sticking out of his chin and pulled.

The plunger didn’t move.

I gave up and ran past them all. Some reached out to me like Mr. Johnson and Latrice. The lights inside Crystal Waters flickered off, then on, then off again as I hit the street. I thanked my old little league coach for the second time that night as I ducked and sprinted.

Disappointment washed over me as the big, white van speeding around the corner turned out to not be a cop, but a news van. A pretty young woman stepped out of the passenger side, holding a microphone.

“Run!” I screamed as I sprinted past her.

I looked over my shoulder as I rounded the corner to leave Crystal Waters for the last time. At the rate what was left of the people at Crystal Waters moved, it would be a few minutes before the pretty lady saw them.

I’ve got to get home to my children.


Erin T. McMillon, MSM entered into the publishing industry as an advertising copywriter. She has written for numerous magazines and online media outlets in the U.S. and abroad, including an award-winning music magazine.

Her short story, Writer’s Block was featured in the Summer 2014 print magazine of The Horror Zine. Erin is also the author of The Becoming of Us, Vol. I: Love and The Becoming of Us, Vol. I: Lust and What’s Hiding in the Dark?: 10 Tales of Urban Lore. Bernadette is an excerpt from her collection of short stories They Eat: An Episodic Zombie Thriller.

Find her on Facebook at facebook.com/theladywrites82 and on her blog at www.theladywrites82.com.

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