Free The Lazarus Impact by Vincent Todarello Page B

almost dead anyway, so he sits on some medical supply boxes. He eats the pre-packaged pudding that Dr. Vogel left for him. He feels a bit stronger than before, so after finishing a container of vanilla and chocolate swirl, he starts kicking at the door again. It’s no use . His lungs don’t feel like they’re burning anymore, but it still tires him out to exert that kind of energy. But if Dr. Vogel were here, I think I’d be able to gin up the rage to beat the tar out of him .
    Wolf looks all around the room, sizing things up. The vent in the ceiling is too small to crawl into. There are linens, some scrubs, a mop bucket, cleaning supplies, and a broom. He grabs the broom and pulls the brush off, jamming the stick between the door and metal handle. He pries at it, trying to pop the handle, but the broom snaps. Frustrated, he jabs the end of the wood at the door window, but the reinforced glass won’t crack. He throws the broom against the back wall in frustration. It makes a dent. His eyes widen at the sight of it. He puts his hand on it and feels around. The other walls are solid, but the back is sheetrock . At some point the room must’ve been partitioned . He musters his energy again and rams his shoulder into the back wall, caving in the drywall between two wooden studs. He uses his foot to hammer out the rest with a few more big bursts of energy, pushing through to the other room. It’s dark, but there’s a door ahead, and it’s wide open. He reaches back in and swipes some scrubs. He puts them on, and slips out the door after peeking out into the hallway.
    I blend in well enough, looking like an employee, but if anyone does a double take they’ll recognize me . He quickly grabs a clip board hanging outside a nearby room and holds it at face level, pretending to read it as he passes by others in the hallway. He follows the exit signs and soon he’s back out in the parking lot, undetected. It’s night, so even easier to go unnoticed. He looks around suspiciously before getting into the truck.
    He tosses ideas around his constantly calculating brain as he heads back to the motel and his crew. We could fill up on gas and take turns driving nonstop until we reach the Pacific . We would need some supplies and food though. Then again if we had to I could help us all live off the wilderness for as long as it takes to ride out the effect of the meteors . We could also hijack a crop duster from a local farm and fly low, under any radar that might be working .
    Wolf fiddles with the radio as he thinks through his options. There’s nothing except the emergency broadcast he heard on the way to the hospital. Poisoned air, and now he assumes there’s a more strict quarantine, based on how Dr. Vogel locked him up.
    Shelter in place , he thinks to himself as he hears the radio message loop. That’s a bloody death sentence . I was exposed to the dust, but I’m on the other side of the quarantine . I’m a danger to the entire system, to the world even . But that’s only if the officials managed to contain everyone else . I doubt they did .
    Americans have a unique way about them; they don’t like to be bossed. It was something that he, as a rugged Australian who grew up frequenting the wild outback with complete freedom, could identify with. It was part of why the American audience loved him so much. He was a rough rider. A cowboy. A self sufficient man of action.
    He tries the CB radio and hears a clatter of voices so thick he can barely make out any coherent sentences. The channels normally designated to emergency and highway information are a mess. He flips through a few more channels and comes upon a less populated one. He listens in on the conversation. A man with a high pitched crackling mid-western accent is mid-way through a story.
    “And then after a few minutes the sum’ bitch gets back up! I mean I just watched him drop to the ground and stop breathing. I was already started to diggin’ a hole, and was