The Living Dead Series (Book 2): World Without End

by L. I. Albemont

  It was Bea who made sure there were vegetables and milk in the house, Bea who saw that he went to bed on time and who helped him with his homework while their parents made half-hearted attempts to get clean. The attempts failed. After their dad left, her mom seemed to disappear a little more every day until finally one night she just didn’t come home. Bea was seventeen and working after school but Brian was only six.

  That night when she got home from work, he had already fixed her a supper consisting of a peanut butter sandwich and chocolate milk and was sitting solemnly at the chipped formica kitchen table waiting for her to help him with his phonics workbook. When she asked him where their mom was he burst into tears and said he didn’t know.

  The next morning Bea called the police and reported her missing but after three weeks they told her brusquely they couldn’t devote any more time to the case, especially with their mother’s history of substance abuse. For years she and Brian looked for her everywhere they went. There were several times when, catching sight of a slender woman with blonde streaked hair, they drew closer only to find that it wasn’t her. Almost every night for six months Brian woke up crying. She would go in his room and hold him until he went back to sleep. Bea, fortunately, was only a few weeks away from her eighteenth birthday and their caseworker endorsed her request to be Brian’s legal guardian. They never saw their mom again.

  Double checking her work she opened the file she just sent to her boss. To her dismay, while the summary at the top looked good, the body of the report had not converted well into Word. There were gaps in the text and the margins were all over the place. If she had to retype the whole thing into Word she would be here half the night. She uploaded the original one more time and tried to convert it to a PDF to see if that worked better. A message popped up that said “Converting”.

  Crossing her fingers she sidled out of her office, walked past the pallet stack and up to Sylvie’s office. The offices along the way were all open with the lights left on. That was unusual. She flipped the switches off as she went, a lifetime of ingrained thriftiness impelling her. All along the wall back here were items that, for whatever reason, the curators had decided not to display. There was a squat little statue that looked fine until she turned it around and found that- oh dear- the Egyptians did not shy away from phallic symbols in their art. She turned it back to face the wall.

  Sylvie’s glass-walled office was locked which was also unusual. A battered, metal chest took up most of the space on her desk and the lights had been left on in here too. A series of tablets propped on a table looked like they might have once been part of a frieze. They showed the steps in the embalming process starting with the usual washing of the corpse in palm wine, followed by removal of the internal organs. The brain was removed first, pulled out through the nose by a hook. The body was washed again in Nile water and then wrapped in linen bandages, amulets placed in the appropriate places. The series continued on with another body, the embalmers performing the same steps but on the last tablet the corpse was shown stepping down from the embalming slab, breaking out of its wrappings. The artist had conveyed very realistic-looking fear on the faces of the fleeing attendants.

  She looked back at the preceding images. The embalming process was something she had known by heart for years. Something was missing from the last series but she couldn’t figure out what exactly. Still, it made no sense not to display it. Maybe there just wasn’t room. She wandered back to her office.

  The file was still converting and she checked her phone for the time. It was almost six-thirty. Everyone would soon be gone except for the night security staff. She took her shoes off and pulled on her boots, thinking about what she wanted for supper. Whatever it was she would need a lot of it to make Brian happy.

  There were no windows down here but she was sure it was close to dark. The stupid file finally finished but now, while the body looked perfect, the summary at the beginning was all askew. Forget this. She deleted the summary and sent the body of the report through. She would explain to Sylvie tomorrow.

  Finding her coat, she fished her hat and gloves out of the pockets then shouldered the over-sized, red, patent leather purse she had found on Ebay. It was the nicest purse she had ever owned and she had hesitated before taking it this morning. It was a lengthy walk from the Metro to her house and she didn’t want it ruined by the snow. Instead of walking home from Foggy Bottom she might take the Circulator bus tonight.

  She would be fine from here to the first station. The Metro was fairly impervious to any kind of weather and went almost everywhere she needed to go. Her footsteps echoed on the hard, cold floors and again she saw no one on her way out. Usually one or two of her co-workers stayed late but not tonight. The snow must have spooked everyone into scurrying home. Her phone buzzed.

  “Bea, where are you?” Brian asked.

  “Still at work but on my way in a minute. What’s up? Did they cancel school for tomorrow because of the snow?”

  “It wasn’t because of the snow. They told us that it’s flu or something; I forget what they called it. But just a few minutes ago, all the channels either went blank or stopped showing anything but the news. Everyone is supposed to stay home until it blows over.”

  “Until what blows over? The snow or the flu?”

  “The flu, Bea,” he said with exaggerated patience.

  “Oh, okay. Are you all locked up?”

  “The doors are locked but there’s someone rattling the gates. Oh, I think the dog was here. All the dog treats I left outside were gone when I got home.”

  Their little rental had the good fortune to be inside the gates of a once stately Georgetown property. The old, creaky, metal gates were mostly unused since she and Brian came and went through a break in the stone wall caused long ago by the ground settling. Hardly anyone knew it was there as it was covered by a thick curtain of English ivy but a few weeks ago a stray found his way in and Brian was determined to entice him into becoming their dog.

  “Who is rattling the gates? Can you see them?”

  “I can see him, a little. It’s just a man. I’ve never seen him before but he looks sick.”

  “Don’t go outside and stay away from the windows. The trains may be running slow so I’m not sure how long I’ll be, okay? Just sit tight.”

  “Ok but, Bea?”

  “What?”

  “Can you bring home pizza?”

  “I’ll try. See you in about an hour and, seriously Brian, don’t go outside.” She rang off, pocketed her phone and ran down the steps into the basement.

  Next to the ramp in the south dock a service door was open, banging back and forth in a strong wind. A small pile of snow had already built up on the threshold. That door was never supposed to be left open. She heard someone outside gasping and struggling to breathe and she hurried over.

  Blood stained the snow outside. In the failing light it appeared dark, almost black but she knew it was blood because she could see the body it poured from. It was Ben, one of the veteran guards. He had always been especially kind to her and was a friendly source of information when she was new and still finding her way in the often bewildering hallways, basements, and sub-basements of the huge buildings.

  “Oh no, Ben! What-?” She knelt in the snow and took his hand. He struggled and seemed to be trying to speak. The blood poured out into the snow even faster, pooling thickly near her knees. A trail of it led around the corner of the building. He must have dragged himself here.

  “Don’t move.” She dug for her phone with her free hand and punched in 9-1-1. The line was busy.

  What now? She knew she had to stop the bleeding but she couldn’t see where it was coming from. His coat was unzipped and she pulled it open to find his abdomen slashed and torn, shreds of skin hanging down to the side. Strings of flesh stuck to the flaps pulled apart with the coat and she began to shake. He was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it.

  She ran back into the building, searching
, screaming for someone to help. She heard nothing but her own voice echoing back. She ran up to the break room and found the first-aid kit. Back in the basement the door had blown closed but someone pounded on it from the outside. Someone must have come along and seen that Ben needed help. Thank goodness.

  The door vibrated from the blows. She turned the knob and pushed it open. It was dark enough now that the outside security lights were on, casting an unnatural glare across the heavily trampled snow. To her surprise Ben was on his feet, coming forward and she moved aside to let him through the door but instead he lunged at her and took her down to the floor. Caught completely off guard her head hit the concrete hard, dazing her.

  She had just a second to register that he smelled like something dead and rotting before he grabbed her by the hair and opened his mouth, pulling her head close. She hit him hard with the first aid kit and it burst open, scattering gauze and alcohol swabs everywhere but he didn’t even flinch. He was so heavy she couldn’t breathe. Frantic and suffocating she clawed at his eyes and face but it didn’t bother him. He just tried to bite her hands. Pulling the chopstick from her hair she plunged it deep into his eye. He slumped on top of her.

  A dark figure stumbled through the door and she called out, “Help me, please. I can’t get him off of me.”

  The stranger said nothing. She pushed hard and finally wriggled out from under Ben’s body then looked up.

  A woman she had never seen before stood over her, swaying as if drunk. She wore one black stiletto and the other foot was bare. Her mouth, chin, and the front of her un-tucked blouse were covered in blood and black chunks of something. Most of the skin on the left side of her face was missing.

  Bea got to her feet and ran to the stairs. She stood a moment and watched as more people stumbled inside. Her legs trembled and she almost fell but held on to the banister until she calmed down a little. Starting to call out she stopped. Something was wrong with every single one of them. None wore coats and all were injured in some way. A small boy turned her way and hissed, lurching forward and dragging a broken leg behind him. The sound of gunshots and sirens came in through the open door.

  She backed up the stairs. People still poured in. She ran for the top and slammed that door behind her. Leaning against the door, taking comfort in the solid, metal feel of it, she heard moaning echoing up the stairwell. Shivering, she pushed a bench against the door and went to the lobby. The bench wouldn’t keep them out but it was all she could do for now. She tried calling 9-1-1 again but got an automated message about unusually heavy call volume. Panic welled up and she stifled sobs when she thought of Ben. Did I really just kill Ben?

  The basement exit wasn’t the only one, of course. Just the most convenient. She headed toward a little used side door that opened onto the piazza, deciding to use it even though it would trip the alarm. Actually that was a good idea. Maybe the police would respond to that since they weren’t answering 9-1-1.

  As soon as she entered the lobby she saw blue lights flashing outside. Relieved, she had her hand on the door bar, ready to press down when she saw figures staggering slowly along the piazza, bumping into stone planters, benches, and each other. Some wore blood-splattered police uniforms. She backed away from the door not wanting to draw their attention.

  She checked the offices again to see if anyone else was in the building but she found no one, not even security.

  People were still out there but hadn’t increased in number. Snow swirled around the street lights. She peered out through the glass trying to see the street but couldn’t. The Judiciary Square Metro station was closest if she could just make it. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  The alarm pierced the night and caught the immediate attention of the people in the piazza. A few stopped in their tracks then began to walk toward the noise. Bea stepped into the shadows and edged along the building, heading toward the Metro.

  Blue lights flashed all along 3rd Street. Occasional gunshots punctuated the moaning and screaming all around her. Every time a gun fired she flinched, expecting to be hit. This must be some kind of riot. A policeman yelled at her to run, RUN and she did, just as the glass wall behind her exploded. She threw herself to the ground as the officer sprayed a man with bullets. His body jerked with each impact but he kept coming and took the cop down. From her viewpoint it looked like he ripped the officer’s throat out with his teeth.

  The snow around her was dark with blood and she got to her feet and edged toward the down escalator for the Metro. The street near the station was clear but she stayed down, ducking behind cars when she could until she had to cross the open area of sidewalk near the station entrance.

  A woman lay prone on the sidewalk and someone (her husband?) knelt over her, rocking back and forth. Bea got to her feet. Her footsteps crunched in the crusty snow and she slipped then regained her balance. The slush on the streets had re-frozen as ice making the streets even more treacherous than they were this morning.

  “Excuse me, sir? Are you okay?” she said.

  He turned around. His eyes were unfocused and his face wet with either tears or melting snow. His mouth opened and he gestured at something just as Bea was pulled backward and fell down in the snow and ice.

  An elderly man fastened one hand upon her scarf and dragged her with it toward his open mouth. He wasn’t large but he was very strong and the scarf was choking her as he pulled it tight. She clawed at her throat and got the scarf loose then kicked at the old man, getting him in the knees. He went down with an audible crack of bones that must be his knees or hip. Whatever was broken, it didn’t keep him from crawling toward her again, slowly dragging himself through the snow with his arms.

  Bea stepped away after she picked up her purse and grabbed her scarf. It stank like a dead animal but she wrapped it around her neck anyway, tucking the ends inside her coat so no one could grab them again. She turned back to the man kneeling beside the woman on the sidewalk. He remained hunched over the woman and she definitely heard sobs as he took the woman’s hand, patting it, imploring her in a language Bea couldn’t understand. A pool of dark liquid formed in the snow surrounding them.

  Suddenly the woman sat up and reached for her husband with both arms. He exclaimed in relief and embraced her just as she opened her mouth and bit a chunk of flesh from his neck. Blood arced in a fountain and he collapsed, eyes confused and uncomprehending as his life poured out onto the frozen ground. The woman continued biting, pulling and gnawing on tendons and veins. Bea backed away, hand to her mouth and then tried to run, slipping on the ice and falling.

  This wasn’t a riot; it was something else altogether. She practically crawled toward the Metro, trying to stay low and out of sight. The old man who had attacked her still followed, crawling slowly but determinedly. The escalator down was still working and she stepped onto it, feeling surreal as the steps took her smoothly down to the train boarding platform.

  No one was here. She had lost track of time but it must be after seven o’clock, no longer rush hour but there were usually a few stragglers or tourists who stayed later in the city than the thousands of federal employees. Her attacker fell down the escalator followed by a woman who hissed and stumped forward slowly on bare feet. Bea flinched and backed to the end of the platform close to the tunnel. She was trapped if the train didn’t come soon. More injured people stumbled down. The floor lights on the platform dimmed then brightened indicating an approaching train but she heard nothing.

  The crowd drew closer. She didn’t hear gunshots anymore and considered trying to get around them and go back up but who knew how long it would take her to walk home. The lights dimmed and brightened again. A train should be here in seconds.

  A rumbling roar came down the tracks and trash blew in the wind the train created. The throng seemed excited by the sound. The train slowly came to a halt and the doors hissed open.

  Chapter Two

  The car looked empty. She ran for it and once inside held on to the pole whis
pering “Please, please” while waiting for the doors to close. The speakers inside the train chimed and the automated voice said, “Doors closing” and they slid shut, barely missing the outstretched hand of her bloody, barefoot pursuer. She sank gratefully into a seat as the train picked up speed. Looking over her shoulder she was startled to see that the car was not actually empty. A man wearing green hospital scrubs and tennis shoes slouched in a seat near the back. He was asleep. She watched him for a moment to see if he woke up but he didn’t stir.

  She hadn’t even looked to see where the train was going. Mentally she ticked off possible stops from this station if it were going in the Georgetown direction. Normally she would switch to the blue or orange line at Metro Center then get off at Rosslyn or Foggy Bottom and take the Circulator or walk the rest of the way. There were several stops between here and there though. She looked out at the dark tunnel flashing by and wished she had checked her voicemail and left work early. She would call the police as soon as she got home and report Ben’s death. She didn’t want anyone overhearing that conversation. Closing her eyes she pressed her palms against her eyelids, trying to block the memory. It had been self-defense but would anyone believe her? Would they come and take her into custody or would she be allowed to turn herself in? Who would take care of her brother?

  The train began to slow and the automated voice announced their arrival at Metro Center. She made sure her scarf was still tucked into the collar of her coat and cinched her belt tightly around her waist. Pressed against the side of the car so she wouldn’t be visible through the windows she peeked out.

  A surging crowd filled the platform, obviously jockeying for position, doing that little shuffle trying to guess where the doors would be once the train stopped. They were conservatively dressed, some in their two-thousand dollar Burberry coats with laptop bags hanging off one shoulder. All of them government workers probably pulling down close to six-figures a year.