by Thomas North
"They sent me an address," Sarah replied. "They're just off the main road into town. Route... whatever it was. The one we came in on. I'll try to let them know we're coming. I have no idea if they'll get the message or not, though. It was bad enough before, now with the power out, who knows if anything's working."
"So that's the plan," Brent said. "Questions?"
"When do you want to do all this?" Kyle asked.
"Tomorrow," Brent replied. "Maybe a little before noon. We don't have to rush it, as long as Mike is okay. We can go when the time is right. Whenever that is."
"So we're still doing shifts tonight," Sarah said.
"Yeah," Brent replied. "Same as last night unless anyone really wants a different time."
He waited, and no one responded.
"Well you're all an agreeable bunch," he said. "Since I've got the last shift, think I'm going to try to get some sleep. And guys, since it's pitch friggin' dark in here and we don't have a computer to screw around on anymore, it'll be pretty easy to fall asleep. So don't."
"I'll probably just stand the whole time," Kyle said, yawning. "It is hard to stay awake when it's like this. Even with... all that." He gestured towards the perpetually shaking front door, and to the broken windows, where bloodied hands still grasped at the bars.
13
EVERYTHING POPPED BACK on in a matter of seconds, the emergency generator taking over powering the cameras and lights, ensuring that they could still broadcast. Bob Bartolo had been in mid-sentence, reading an e-mail from a badly injured man in Jacksonville, Vermont who had barricaded himself into a storage shed, when the lights went off, sending the room into darkness. The loss of power didn't faze him. He'd been through power outages before, and he knew that everything would come back on, as it always did, before he had time to worry about it.
"Sorry about that folks," he said to the camera, not bothering to finish the rest of the e-mail. "We just had a power outage here at the station, and it took a few seconds for our backup generators to kick in. We don't know how widespread this outage is, whether it is only here at WPUR, or if it extends to other parts of the viewing area. But some of our staff are on that now, and for those of you who do still have power and are able to continue to tune in, we will let you know what the situation is as soon as we find out more."
Isaac Harman leaned in, just outside of the view of the camera and handed him another small stack of papers.
"Just a second folks, I'm getting some new information here."
He paused and scanned the page. It was updated information on the highway closures the government was enacting all across New England and nearby states. But what caught his eye was the hand-written note at the top of the page:
Elizabeth still hasn't come back. Sending someone to her office to find her. Might have fallen asleep.
He opened his mouth to curse, almost forgetting that he was still live on the air, but caught himself. Elizabeth was young, a bit self-entitled, and they didn't always get along, but she was undeniably ambitious and a hard worker. She hadn't ever been negligent when it came to her work, at least as long as she'd been at WPUR.
On the other hand, Bob thought, it was a strange time, and strange times make people do strange things. Plus, a little more exclusive air time couldn't hurt, even if it was the entire state that had lost power and not a single person in Vermont was watching. It wasn't them he was trying to impress anyway.
He scanned the rest of the document and looked back at the camera.
"We have more information on the road closings happening in various parts of New England and the surrounding region, as the President laid out in his speech earlier in the evening. We will be scrolling road closures at the bottom of the screen after the list of emergency shelters as well as posting them on our web site, so please consult either for a complete list. But I'll go over a few of them now. Firstly, all of the border crossings into Canada are closed in both directions. Along with that, the following major roads have been closed: Route 7 between Vermont and New York is closed in both directions at the border near Champlain. Route 22A is closed at the border with New York near Fairhaven. Outside of Vermont, I-91 is closed in both directions just outside of Springfield, Massachusetts. I-95 is closed in˗"
The sound of shouting threw him off of his rhythm, and he stuttered, then stopped entirely and looked towards the source of commotion. Eric Schneider had stepped away from the camera and was looking confusedly toward the door on the other side of the news room, where the shouting was continuing. Everyone else in the room was fixated on the same thing, and Bob did his best to tear his attention away from whatever was going on there and turn back to the camera.
"Ah, I'm sorry folks, the news room is a bit hectic here right now as you might imagine, lots of people running back and forth, trying to get as much information as possible to keep you, our viewers, informed and safe as possible. Let me go back to that list of closures, for a moment, and I also want to mention that we did get word earlier that Army troops from Fort Drum have entered the state of Vermont, and are expected to begin fanning out across the state to support our short-handed National Guard and local authorities and try to bring some safety to˗"
A shill, warbling shriek came from somewhere nearby in the building, and Bob again couldn't help but look in that direction. The shriek continued for a few seconds and then died down, but was replaced by even more, and louder, shouting. Bob looked to Eric Schneider, who looked back at him with an "I have no idea" look.
Bob turned back to the camera again and shuffled some papers on his desk. Whatever was going on out there, he had to remain composed. The last thing he wanted was to look like an amateur, floundering on live television right when the stakes were the highest.
He had to get control of the situation. The viewers, however many of them still had electricity, weren't going to benefit if it looked like the news station was in chaos. He was probably the only assurance they had that things somewhere in the state were stable and in some form of control. The government sure as hell wasn't providing it.
He cleared his throat, tuned out the noise, and looked back at the camera.
"Please bear with me folks, we've just got a lot going on. This should die down here very shortly. In the meantime, let me continue to reassure those of you who are with us that we are in frequent contact with the state government and local authorities, and that they are working out solutions to this crisis. Help is on the way. I can't guarantee that it will be today, or tomorrow, but we will fix this, together. Help is on the way."
The last word was punctuated with a booming crash that sounded disturbingly like a gunshot, followed by the sound of the door across the room being flung violently open. A man ˗ Bob didn't know his name, but thought he might be an analyst or maybe even an intern ˗ staggered into the news room. A large, bloody gash ran up his shoulder to the middle of his neck, and he pressed at it desperately with one hand. His eyes wide open, he let out another shriek and collapsed a few steps beyond the doorway.
Before anyone could react, another person stumbled into the room, this one dressed in corduroy pants and a tank top, both soaking wet, his skin a pale gray, his eyes sunk back in his face, a single bullet hole in his arm.
"Jesus, they're in the building! He's sick, stay away, stay the fuck away from him!" a voice yelled. The security guard ran into the room behind the man, who had stopped just in front of the injured intern, and was eying him hungrily.
Bob Bartolo only saw the glint of metal out of the corner of his eye, but it was enough. He dropped out of his chair just in time. A bullet whizzed across the anchor desk, shattering a monitor across the room in an explosion of glass and metal. He stayed on the floor behind the desk, and another gunshot rang out, this one accompanied by another scream, this time from the mouth of the guard.
Cautiously, Bob looked up. A man had his arms wrapped around the security guard from behind in a bear hug, and the guard was trying desperately to shake him off. The first man
was watching the situation curiously, and appeared to be considering whether to continue what he was about to do to the intern, or join in this new endeavor.
One of the other staffers grabbed the man on the guard's back and put him in a loose headlock, trying to rip him away. That lasted no more than a few seconds before a woman came into the room from the door behind them, grabbed the staffer in her meaty arms, and the now four-person-large battle royale tumbled to the ground, the security guard coming down on the bottom of the pile. The sound of blood and ripping flesh followed, mixed with the screams of the two WPUR employees.
Bob Bartolo got up on one knee and looked over the desk. Eric Schneider was crouched behind one of the cameras. Their eyes met. Chaos had broken out across the room now, a combination of frightened yells and the rest of the station's staff hurrying to the other side of the room, trying to get away from the scrum near the far door. Two more people came into the room from the hall, their blank stares moving from fleeing person to fleeing person before finding the three bloody victims on the floor, already being devoured by their brethren.
"We gotta get outta here!" Eric yelled. Bob turned just as Isaac Harman ran behind the desk and grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Bob, let's go!" Isaac said.
"Go where?" Bob asked. He glanced at the bank of monitors across the room, and realized that they were still broadcasting. He stood up.
"Ladies and gentleman," he said calmly, speaking into the camera. "The WPUR building is no longer secure, and we are being forced to evacuate."
One of their writers sprinted behind him, tripped, and fell forward, crashing into the blue back display, sending it crashing to the floor. Bob ignored it and continued.
"We will broadcast again as soon as the situation becomes safe. Good luck, and godspeed."
With that, he turned and walked confidently away from the desk, Isaac Harman and Eric Schneider following. When he was off camera, he looked over his shoulder, saw a half-dozen people coming towards them, and broke into a dash for the door.
Outside of the newsroom was a short hallway that broke into a four-way intersection. At the far end of the hallway, straight from the newsroom door, was a pair of double doors. Two wooden folding tables were nailed across the doors, which themselves were locked and secured together with wooden boards nailed down the middle, where the two doors met. The doors were rattling and shaking under blows from the outside, where the lobby, fronted by glass doors and windows, now broken, was already overrun. Some of the other staff members were in the hall as well, while some had already fled down one of the hallways.
"Does that door lock?" Isaac asked, looking at Bob and Eric. They looked at each other, then back at Isaac.
"No idea," Bob asked.
"Lock's on the inside," said an older woman with curly gray hair, one of their administrative assistants who usually worked in the lobby.
"Good point," Isaac said. "Let's get the hell out of here then."
"Where do we go?" Bob asked.
There was a thump on the door, followed by another, and after the third, there was a crack and the door burst open.
"Shit. Run!" Isaac yelled, and took off down the hall to the right. Bob and Eric followed, while the rest of the employees scattered, some following the three men, others running down the hall in the opposite direction. Isaac ignored the office doors that lined the hallway and went to the end, where it turned to the right. He disappeared around the corner.
Bob and Eric nearly crashed into him. Isaac was looking down the hallway, where four people were walking towards them. The one in front was dressed in what probably had been his Sunday best, though one of his arms had been reduced to a bloody stump, and a long gash ran along his hairline.
"God damn it, how'd they get over here too?" Isaac asked.
"They came in from the back of the newsroom." Bob replied. "The hallway runs around it."
Another scream came from behind them.
"Let's try a room," Eric said. "We can escape out a window."
He opened one of the doors, revealing a modest office with two large windows, both of which were shattered, hands reaching in, grabbing at the assorted pieces of furniture that had been nailed over them.
"Find a door without any of those people outside the window!" Bob shouted, trying another door. "We've got to find one that we can get out of."
Isaac, Eric and Bob, along with four others who had followed them, began running down the hall, shoving open office doors, looking once to see if anyone was outside the windows, and then moving on to the next one.
After his fourth door Bob Bartolo paused in the hallway, looked in both directions, and felt his heart sink in his chest. The people were coming at them from both sides. Even if they bull rushed the crowd and tried to make a run for it, he could tell that it probably wouldn't be good enough. One or two of them might break free, but that would be about it. It looked like there were half a dozen on either side of them.
"In here," Isaac said, gesturing towards an open door after recognizing the same thing that Bob had.
Bob's face brightened. "You found a clear window?"
Isaac shook his head grimly. "No. We just need to get in somewhere. It's our only shot."
Bob heard whispering from his left, and saw that it was Eric, who was repeating something over and over. When he came close, he could hear that it was a single phrase.
"Deliver me from evil, Lord. Deliver me from evil, Lord. deliver me from evil, Lord."
More screams came, and Bob saw that the other four employees had all also realized what was going on.
"Get in one of the rooms!" he yelled at them. "Get in and barricade the doors with whatever is available. It's our only shot!"
With that, he grabbed Eric by the arm and pulled him into the room with Isaac, where they shut the door. Bob turned the little lock on the knob, but it seemed a ridiculously feeble gesture. They were in a small office now, and like all of the others, it had been stripped almost completely bare. Its desk was in pieces that were mostly nailed over the windows, with a few drawers and other small parts strewn on the floor, mixed with manila folders, thick white binders, several books, a laptop computer, and the similarly discarded parts of what had been a file cabinet.
The growls and groans from outside caught their attention first, along with the number of hands sticking into the room through the various holes in the mishmash of chopped up furniture that secured the windows. The activity outside was so disturbing that they all jumped at the first bang on the door. It stopped, and they traded glances, waiting, hoping it would be the last, and only, strike against their last means of protection.
Just as they started to allow themselves a sliver of hope, there was another bang, this one harder and more powerful than the first. They came in succession now, and the flimsy wooden office door shook and bowed under the blows.
"Deliver me from evil, Lord. Deliver me from evil, Lord. Deliver me from evil, Lord." Eric was nearly shouting it now as the pounding on the door continued, the volume and speed of his recitations rising in cadence with the blows.
The sound of splintering wood shut him up. The eyes of each of the three men immediately went to the door jam, where small splinters of wood were now visible around the metal.
"Deliver me from..." Eric whispered, but stopped halfway through the phrase.
With one final, climactic crack, the door broke open, and Bob Bartolo's climb up the career ladder ended in a splash of blood.
HE REMEMBERED LEANING back against the wall. It was hard, cold, and uncomfortable. The moaning and pounding of the people was unabated, and the rain continued to percuss on the roof. Yet, eventually he slipped into a deep sleep as the weariness took over, something a few minutes earlier he hadn’t thought was possible. He didn’t dream. At least, he couldn’t remember any. He awoke to someone roughly shaking his shoulder and whispering his name. His eyes opened groggily and he saw the blurry image of Mary in front of him.
"Hi hon," he
whispered, and smiled.
It was his turn. Kyle looked at his watch. Just after three in the morning. Slowly stretching and pulling himself to his feet, he looked around the police station. Not much had changed. It was still raining hard outside, and the people hadn’t quit. Mike Williamson was still lying on the cot in the cell – it didn’t look like he had moved at all since he fell asleep – and Brent was leaning against the wall. Sarah was sprawled out on the floor a few feet from Kyle.
Mary smiled and handed him the shotgun. He’d never fired one before. Brent had given them all a ten-minute tutorial and safety class, but it didn’t make the weapon feel any less intimidating. He held it in his hands for a moment. It was heavier than it looked.
“Goodnight,” he whispered.
“Night,” Mary whispered back softly. They kissed, and he watched her sit down in the corner of the room. She drew her knees to her chest and leaned her head down, closing her eyes. Kyle smiled to himself and walked to the center of the room, sitting in the chair, facing the door. If he had to ride out Armageddon or whatever it was that was happening, at least he knew Mary was there with him, safe and healthy.
He couldn’t imagine what Sarah had to be going through. Sure, Andy was just down the road, but he wasn’t there, with them, and he hadn't contacted them in hours. It had to be agonizing, though she was doing a great job of dealing with it. If it was Mary who was stuck alone away from them, he’d have probably gone out of his mind with worry. But if all went well, they would be reunited with all of their friends soon enough.
As his mind drifted, his eyes went to the two desks stacked at the front of the room, and the front door. The wood splinters were still evident around the lock, but the door was intact. The desks seemed to be doing a good job of reinforcing it.
His shift dragged on, and his stomach rumbled, so he grabbed a snack of crackers and peanut butter from the garbage bag, which was already getting light. He wished he could just stroll down to an all-night mini-mart and grab a real snack.
