Existence [Book 1]

by Jeff Olah

  More people, more confusion.

  Only further along, no one was walking. They were running. They were sprinting. No, they were being chased, and at the moment he didn’t like his odds of avoiding the fast-moving crowd.

  Natalie, I’m coming.

  Back to the Audi, Owen quickly opened the door, dug under the seat, and lifted out a Glock 17. He debated bringing it, and still didn’t completely like the thought of what he was doing, but was even less fond of what was coming. Better to be safe than … yeah whatever.

  A quick check over his right shoulder revealed the crowd now less than a block away. It was time to make a decision. He watched as a delivery driver stepped out of his van and just stood in the middle of the street. Momentarily frozen, the stocky man in the blue and orange polyester uniform faced the surging crowd and then slowly turned toward Owen.

  “RUN!”

  The man didn’t run, although at first it seemed as if he might. He had that panicked look, like he needed to find a bathroom, only Owen knew that wasn’t it. The man then quickly turned to his right, stood on his toes, and peered down the long city block. Was he still looking to make his delivery, maybe trying to find the address, maybe something else?

  As the man again looked from one side of the street to the other, he finally started back toward his van. From where Owen stood, he could see it was too late. The first half dozen runners had overtaken the van, trying to avoid colliding with one another, some screaming, some simply focused on running.

  That was the last he saw of the delivery driver. There was a three-second break and as the ground under his feet began to shake, Owen saw them for the first time. He remembered what the news reports described, but they were all wrong.

  The enraged man who first reached the delivery driver wore charcoal grey slacks and a cornflower blue dress shirt. The man’s left arm appeared broken at the elbow and hung loosely as he took the delivery driver to the asphalt. His face painted a deep shade of red from the nose down, the man used his good arm to claw at the driver’s face as he slowly brought his mouth to the driver’s neck.

  Owen wanted to look away, wanted to run. But he couldn’t. As much as the fear was pushing him to flee, he wanted to see this for what it was, and also for what this would become. He needed to get to his wife, although he also needed to know what he was running towards. The media had said that there was nothing to fear, that it would blow over in a few days, and asked that the public remain calm. He now wondered what the delivery driver would say to those same reports.

  Taking a step back and staying partially hidden behind the Audi, Owen flinched as the man attacking the driver had gained the attention of the crowd. There were two and then three and then more than he could count. He lost sight of the driver just as the man’s screams faded into a muted cry and then altogether died off.

  As the half dozen or so attackers began pulling the driver apart, shoving wet pieces of flesh into their mouths, the first assailant—Mr. Cornflower Blue Dress Shirt—lifted his head. He met Owen’s eyes and appeared to snarl, but from this distance it was hard to be sure.

  Clutching the pistol, Owen’s left arm twitched. He thought about taking the shot, but so far he’d mostly avoided being noticed. The crowds—both hunter and prey—continued up the block without bothering to look toward the sidewalks or anything beyond the narrow path between the abandoned vehicles.

  For the moment, he was hidden.

  As the man in the dress shirt began to push away from the driver, he continued to stare intently at Owen. His eyes were clouded over in a milky haze, no sign of anything resembling a human. He appeared to sniff the air, walking away from the others as if guided by the scents and sound of the world around.

  Owen had seen more than enough.

  He dropped the Glock into his waistband, slowly moved around the back of the Audi, and started away from the street corner. A straight shot up the boulevard would put him in the lobby of Natalie’s building in less than three minutes, although going around would take at least twice that long. He didn’t like it, but again he was out of options.

  Clamping down on the straps of his backpack, Owen pulled it in tight to his back and broke into a jog. He stayed close to the buildings, moving quickly from one doorway to the next, only slowing as he reached the coming intersection.

  South Hope Street. Nearly as empty as those he’d taken home from Johnny’s. The crowds now only a minor nuisance and having lost the man in the blue dress shirt, his confidence was on the rise.

  Turning the corner, Owen’s eyes moved quickly from one face to the next. He weaved his way through the thinning crowd, careful to keep his distance as those fleeing the center of the city stared through him. Most shouted as they ran, either at him or one another, unable to comprehend what their world had become in the span of just a few hours.

  From somewhere over his right shoulder, there was a highly-energized voice. “Hey man, it’s death down there—those things are everywhere.”

  Those things?

  Two nights before, the reporter with the good hair and the fake tan had also referred to them as things. As if they’d now become objects rather than people. It seemed too easy, too quick, too much like an excuse for giving up. He didn’t like the thought of where this would end, but for now he needed to stay focused.

  Less than a hundred yards from her building and the street ahead was now empty. He stood alone at the corner of 12th and Hope, day parking to his right, an overturned newsstand to his left, and the Staples Center glowing iridescent against the late afternoon sun. He pushed down the thoughts of what this meant and reached into the side pouch of his pack, withdrew his phone.

  Owen had asked Ava to continue to text Natalie. Begged her to update him once every ten minutes. He didn’t give her all the details, didn’t want her to worry, but needed to be aware of anything that may have changed. Although after nearly an hour, he had yet to receive even a single message.

  He stared at the screen for a moment, then shook his head before slipping the phone back into his pack and quickly scanning the street ahead. More abandoned vehicles pushed into one another, midday traffic without the blaring horns and the middle fingers and the frequent cursing. And also something else.

  Movement.

  Owen shifted out into the street, stayed low. He used the empty sedans and SUVs as cover. Approaching Flower Street and Natalie’s building to the left of the intersection, he focused on the glass-walled lobby. Six … no eight … no at least ten. Now he’d lost count.

  They walked with no direction, looked like they were somehow aware of one another, but then never really acknowledging their own existence. A few clawed at the elevator doors, some appeared to walk in circles while others stared blankly out into the street. Owen was beginning to understand why the masses referred to them as Those Things, but it still seemed odd.

  Okay, so I guess I’m finding another way in.

  Owen vaguely remembered a set of stairs Natalie pointed out to him at the north corner of the parking garage. She had said that she’d been evacuated once during a false alarm and that it smelled like feet and was at least thirty degrees warmer than the rest of the building.

  He was about to find out.

  In less than five minutes, Owen was approaching the landing outside the eleventh floor. He paused for a moment to collect himself, his heart rate now pegged, lines of sweat running down his face. He rested his hands on his knees and took two deep breaths in through his nose.

  Nat, I’m here.

  Out of the stairwell and into the hall, there was a silence he didn’t necessarily trust. Owen moved aside, slowly guiding the door back toward the frame. He pulled a wadded piece of tissue from his front pocket, placed it in the gap, and peered down the hall.

  It hadn’t hit him when he’d first opened the door, although now there was no mistaking the redolent stench. Owen placed his nose and his mouth in the bend of his arm, praying he wouldn’t vomit. Death hung heavily in the air, lik
e it bled through walls and had permeated the cheap commercial grade carpeting. He didn’t like what this said about his chances of finding his wife, but wasn’t about to turn back.

  Rounding the corner and now standing thirty feet from his wife’s office, he saw the shattered glass, the bent support members hanging from their base, and three motionless bodies. He couldn’t make out their identities from where he stood; however, it was obvious from their attire that none were female.

  Owen let out a short breath of restrained relief, took two more steps, and now saw her desk, overturned and pushed into the door. He moved quietly to the opposite wall, pulled the Glock from his lower back, and forced himself to continue forward.

  There were more than a few times in the last thirty minutes that he imagined this moment. Owen knew in the back of his mind that with what he’d seen over the last several days, things may not end well for him here today. That he might not ever see her again. That this was all there was. He also knew he wouldn’t be ready to face it, but up until this very second, he didn’t want to believe it was a real possibility.

  But she was here, and either way he was going to have to find her.

  Another three strides and he came to a full stop. When he saw it, his knees gave out. Owen slid down the wall and tried to remember how to breathe. He clutched his chest and wanted to close his eyes. A black Christian Louboutin Dirditta Platform Pump lay on its side near the rear wall of the destroyed office, its red sole begging for attention. As he was pulled closer, he saw the tattered pantyhose scrunched near the end of the foot, and then the pool of drying blood that encircled the lifeless body.

  “NOOOOOO!”

  9

  Owen Mercer sat with his back to the wall and his head in his hands. He wept openly, trying to force himself to stand, to do what needed to be done, to confirm what he already knew. He wasn’t ready to let her go, and if he didn’t cross the hall, didn’t stand over her body, didn’t look into her eyes to say goodbye, maybe there was a chance that all of this was just a dream. And now more than anything in this world, he just wanted to wake up.

  Wiping his face, Owen breathed in deep and pushed away from the floor. He slipped his pack off and in the process dropped his phone. He looked down at it and in that moment realized that the pain wouldn’t simply be contained to this place, to this moment. There was also Ava and Noah.

  How am I supposed to explain the loss of their mother when I can’t even—

  His phone buzzed as it lay face down on the carpeting. Ava would have texted. She would have told him that she couldn’t reach her mother. She’d have said that she was scared and would have started to ask questions, questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

  Owen reached for his phone, turned it over, and keyed the home button.

  Mom finally got back to me. She had to leave her office. She is hiding in the conference room. Please let me know when you find her. I love you guys.

  He was moving before he’d realized where he was going. Sprinting away from the office while trying to separate his thoughts from his new reality. He followed the hall to where it turned right, slowed as the scene came into view, and raised his weapon.

  “What the …”

  Another mess of bodies, too many and too disjoined to count. They were pushed into the walls on either side and riddled with bullet holes. He avoided staring directly at the faces and instead focused on the doors at the far end of the corridor.

  Owen strode quickly to the bodies, took an offensive position along the left wall, and waited for something to move. After a count of five, he hurried past, his eyes still burning a hole into the twin doors twenty feet away.

  With the Glock in his left hand, Owen tapped the door frame three times and stepped back. Waited a few seconds and then tapped twice. He hoped she’d remember, it was her plan after all. But for the previous eighteen years, they’d never had the opportunity to put it into play.

  Stepping back to the doors, Owen extended his right arm, reaching for the handle. As he gripped the blood saturated brass—tightening his grip—it slowly turned in his hand.

  Her voice slipped through the opening before the door was moved even an inch. Like an angel slowly waking him from a dream, it had never sounded more perfect. Slow and quiet. “Owen?”

  As the doors swung inward, Natalie shot forward, leaping into his arms. She held him tight and cried into his shoulder as he kissed the side of her face and head.

  “Sweetheart, we’ve got to go.”

  She dug in, pulled him closer, cried harder. “They … they … they’re all gone … no one … we can’t.”

  Owen pulled her face into his neck and turned her. She’d certainly seen what had played out here in the hall, although he didn’t need her to relive every single moment. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “We can’t Owen … we … we have to … let’s go back in the room … we can hide until they come to help us.”

  He cradled her head and again kissed her cheek, pushed the hair away from her face, and now noticed the details he hadn’t before. Speckled blood along her hair line and bruising near her right ear, Natalie flinched as he ran his hand gently through her hair.

  “No,” he said, “we can’t wait, we have to go. And it has to be right now, I don’t know how long—”

  Natalie pulled away, backed into the corner near the door. “No Owen, we can’t go out there. They’ll find us, those things will find us. There are too many, we can’t …” And as her voice dropped off she stepped to the side, looked at the bodies, and began to shake. “No Owen, we can’t.”

  Owen looked back over his shoulder, again scanning the bodies and further on, the hall leading back to the stairs. He then reached past her, grabbed for the door, and pushed it open. “Okay let’s go inside.”

  He left the door open as they moved into the room, took a seat at the table, and removed his backpack. Setting his phone on the table, he opened the pack and pulled out a pair of running shoes. He set them next to the phone and then reached for her chin, pulled her face close to his. “Nat, I know you’re scared, but we have to go.”

  She didn’t respond, didn’t react.

  Owen slid the shoes toward her, pulled the Glock from his waist, and set it on the table next to his phone. He momentarily looked back toward the door and into the hall. No movement. “Baby we have to go, the street is clear for now, but I don’t know for how long.”

  Natalie looked up, she was beginning to cry. “You were right Owen, but you didn’t see it. You didn’t see what I saw … my friends, people I worked with. Every. Single. Day. Now they’re gone, they’re dead. And it was those things.”

  “Nat, I know. It’s out there too, that’s why—”

  Natalie wiped her face, looked into his eyes. Her expression was different now, harder. “No. You don’t. You don’t know. You don’t look like you’ve seen anything, any of it. At all.”

  Owen took in a breath. Stood and pushed away from the table, looked out into the hall once again. “Nat.” His voice now stilted, colder. “Put on the damn shoes, we don’t have time for this. We can debate this at home, once we get back to our children. But for now, we’re gonna have to run. I have no idea what’s out there or when it’s going to return.” He slipped the weapon back into his pants and the pack over his shoulder. “Right now, we at least have a chance, but I don’t know for how long.”

  Natalie closed her eyes, again wiped at her tears. She slowly reached for the shoes, slipped them over her bare feet and extended her hand. “Noah, Ava?”

  “They’re fine,” he said, “Let’s go home.”

  She smiled, met his eyes, and looked toward the window.

  Owen took the cue, but wasn’t sure why he hadn’t thought of it earlier. He moved quickly to the window, noticed the same crowds converging on the western edge of the city. “Uh, you still have your keys?”

  Natalie narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, but there’s no way we’re getting over to that lot, that’s where—”<
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  “No, that’s the way I came in, it’s clear now, come on.” He was heading back toward the table, looking into the hall, when his phone buzzed.

  Natalie got there first, fumbled with shaky hands, powered on the screen, and handed it to him. “A text, it’s Ava.”

  Mr. Tompkins keeps banging on the garage door. He sounds crazy. What should we do?

  Owen took Natalie’s hand. He pulled her close and gave her the phone, kissed her on the mouth. “Tell her to stay in the office and lock the door, we’re coming home.”

  10

  The white Mercedes GL stood out among the other luxury SUVs and high-end vehicles even from a distance. Owen moved quickly across Flower Street, watching Natalie over one shoulder and 12th Street over the other. They’d made quick work of the eleven flights of stairs and the street below, but now as they entered the opposite end of the lot, he was beginning to fatigue.

  “OWEN!”

  He followed her eyes toward the gate at the far end of the lot. Her Mercedes sat twenty feet from the gate, a straight shot back to Hope Street; however, they now had company. And more than Owen was comfortable with.

  Four of them, three women and a lone male. Doused in blood, their brown and yellow fast food uniforms seemed out of place. Owen knew the city like the back of his hand, although he couldn’t recall any location within a five-mile radius.

  The first of the three devastated females rounded the rear of the Mercedes. She moved with a bit more agility than the others and had now noticed Owen and Natalie. The former fast food worker quickly peeled away from her coworkers, her face curled into a voiceless snarl.

  “Stay close, we’re still doing this.”

  Natalie didn’t respond, but as she pushed in behind him—her chest to his back—he could hear her beginning to hyperventilate. She grabbed a handful of his shirt and peered over his shoulder.