A Place Outside The Wild

by Daniel Humphreys

  The first creep was just at arm’s length from the bank of the creek. As he stepped inside, Alex leaned over and considered it. A blanket of debris held it tight, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He leaned forward and stabbed the knife through the thing’s eye socket. The wet environment had saturated its flesh, and it made a liquid squelch as the blade punched through into the brain.

  He drew the blade back and took a ragged breath. Alex looked to the opposite end of the bridge and counted the creeps closest to the edge.

  Six more to go.

  “Here’s how it’s going to go,” Ross said, after studying the top of the elevator car. “Janacek and myself on either side of the hatch. Mr. Matthews, you’ll be on the opposite side of the main support. You will keep your rifle slung. I don’t feel comfortable disarming you, particularly given our lack of intelligence. But I also haven’t worked with you as often as I have the Chief and Guns. I trust them not to shoot me in the ass. You, not so much.” The lieutenant smiled, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “No offense.”

  Miles shook his head and laughed. “None taken.” This was neither the place nor the time for a chest-beating contest, but . . . “You guys have much experience in building clearance?”

  Janacek made a sour face and the Chief frowned. Ross’ face remained placid, but his tone was a bit chilly. “How do you mean, Mr. Matthews?”

  Miles held up both hands to placate them. “I’m just trying to figure out if you grasp the lay of the land. The 9th floor is a freaking rat maze. They kept shoving cubicles into it until any reasonable person would have lost their damn mind and quit. Our ‘paperless office’ concept never took off, but they still reduced filing capacity. Half of the cubicle walkways are overflowing with banker boxes full of files. People made forts out of them to get a little more privacy. IT headcount was nil on Wednesdays, but the rest of the floor was Human Resources and customer service. Lots of phone drones. Maybe they’re still there and maybe they aren’t. But tight quarters are not your friend when it comes to fighting these things.” He crossed his arms on his chest. “I know. I lost a couple of friends in a warehouse that wasn’t half as cramped as that.”

  Ross looked at him for a long moment as he worked out his understanding that Miles wasn’t bashing their skills. He nodded. “I get you. We cleared a couple of carriers and some hospital ships. And yeah, we lost some people doing it. All things considered, I’d rather be fighting from behind a wall.”

  “You and me both,” Miles agreed. “So how do we do this?”

  “Janacek, you’re on point. Mr. Matthews, you keep close to him to help navigate. I’ll take up the rear. We get into a firefight, do not engage unless asked to do so or if you have one right on top of you.”

  “I can handle that,” Miles agreed. What else was he going to do? If he made a fuss, the SEALs were likely to disarm him. The last thing he wanted to do was be unarmed in the Wild.

  The Chief didn’t like it, of course. “All due respect, sir, I’d prefer you stay up here.” Ross began shaking his head in the negative before the argument began.

  “Sorry, Chief, not going to happen. Close quarters, right? Remember the Ford?” He patted the Chief on one broad shoulder and remarked, “Hell, if the aisles are too narrow you might have to slide through sideways, Gus.”

  Foraker considered the order for a moment and nodded. “Aye, aye, sir.” The expression on his face said that he didn’t like it much, but he heard the order.

  “Chief, do you feel comfortable with the elevator controls?”

  “They’re simple enough.”

  “Well, then, let’s get to it, gentlemen.”

  The climb down into the shaft shouldn’t have been as nerve-wracking with the elevator right below them to offer a place to land if they lost their footing. Perhaps it was what the elevator represented that left Miles clammy with sweat. He hadn’t survived for so long making moves without knowing exactly what he was walking into. In this case, he had no chance for that. He knelt down and grasped the support beam spanning the center of the elevator cab’s roof. Miles closed his eyes.

  Lord, if it be Your will, please keep these men and myself safe.

  Ross and Janacek arranged themselves, and once the other two men were in position, the lieutenant murmured into the headset of his MBITR. “Go, Chief.”

  The elevator lurched into motion and Miles gulped. Don't throw up, don't throw up.

  He tried to tell himself that this was much safer than riding in a helicopter, but was it? The helicopter was presumably maintained by trained personnel invested in it staying up in the air. The elevator had just been sitting here for almost a decade. One bit of rust in a cable and boom, they’d be shooting toward the ground floor. His stomach lurched again as the cab slowed and finally came to a stop. He forced himself to relax his death grip on the support beam. Halfway there.

  “Doors, Chief,” Ross ordered. Below them, the cab shifted as the elevator doors eased open. They’d opened and closed them several times up above to ensure they were moving well. The doors had wanted to stick at first, but after a few iterations, they operated normally.

  Crouched on the roof of the elevator cab, the three men held their breath and strained to listen. The floor below them was as still and silent as a tomb.

  Finally, Ross made a slight hand signal to Janacek. The younger SEAL reached down and lifted the hatch open. They’d debated whether to use lights but accepted the risk. Windows surrounded the entire floor, anyway. The only areas they might need them would be the lanes between the cubicles. A flashlight beam wouldn’t be the beacon in that environment as it would be in pitch darkness. Janacek crouched next to the opening and craned his neck as he shone the light down inside the cab and as far out in front of the open doors as he could. “Going in,” he whispered, and slid through the opening. He’d slowed his descent with one arm on the edge of the hatch, but the cab still jostled from the shift in his weight.

  Ross stared down for a moment, waiting until Janacek cleared the area on either side of the elevator. When the younger SEAL held up just inside the elevator doors, the lieutenant whispered to Miles, “You’re up.”

  Miles was no slouch in terms of upper body strength, but he knew he couldn’t duplicate the feat that Janacek had just displayed. He slung his rifle over one shoulder, put both legs through the hatch, and lowered himself using both arms.

  On the bright side, the maneuver created less noise than the one the SEAL had performed, but he’d have been reluctant to do it if Janacek weren’t covering him at the open elevator doors. Miles stepped up to the corner opposite Janacek. He itched to drop his rifle off of his shoulder, but he’d made a promise. He settled for resting a hand on his holstered pistol and stared out into the ninth floor.

  It didn’t look much different than the last time he’d been there, though he couldn’t recall if he’d ever been there when the lights were out. Despite the light coming in from the exterior windows, shadows cloaked large swathes of the floor. Particles of dust danced in the air, stirred by their encroachment into this still domain.

  Ross dropped to the floor and whispered. “We’re down, Chief.” He stepped up behind Miles and clasped him by one shoulder. “Move out, Brian.”

  Janacek nodded and slid out of the elevator, hugging the wall as he moved. Ross gave him a gentle push, and Miles mimicked the careful motions of the man in front of him.

  The entrances to the restrooms sat across from the elevator. At either end lay a cubicle farm in the open area surrounding the load-bearing walls in the center of the floor. The office remained open in line with the central corridor, allowing for a freer flow of natural light. Depending on the time of day the sun would slant in one side or the other. This time of the day, it came in at their backs, from the west side of the building.

  Each corner of the floor boasted a walled-in office, but save for those, the only true doors were the ones in the janitorial closet on the opposite side of the restrooms, and the server room, on the
back side of the elevator shaft. Janacek slid forward and paused at the four-way intersection formed by the two sets of cubicles on either side of the opening.

  Miles glanced back at Ross. The other man still had one hand on his shoulder, but he’d turned sideways so that he could watch their backs.

  “Moving,” Janacek murmured. He slid around the corner. Ross turned his head, met Miles’ eyes, and nodded.

  They followed Janacek around the corner. This corridor, walled on one side by the elevator shaft and the other by cubicle walls, was much more shadowed than the initial corridor had been. The cubicles were just over six feet high. Every few feet he found himself glancing over the tops as though he expected one of his former coworkers to lunge at them. Jumping at shadows.

  Other than the soft scuffing sound of their feet on the carpet, the ninth floor was completely silent. Halfway down, the cubicle wall opened up into an aisle-way that led into the heart of the cube farm. Janacek panned his rifle light into the aisle. Here and there, chairs sat rolled away from desks. One even lay on its side, just inside the interior of its owner’s cube. The cardboard boxes of files that Miles had mentioned rose head-high in some spots, but in others boxes had been roughly pushed over, spilling their contents out into the floor. The dark stains splashed across the piles of paper and manila folders weren’t immediately identifiable by color, but Miles felt confident that he knew what they were.

  Nothing responded to the light — silence still reigned. They slid past the opening, and a few moments later Janacek made the second corner. It was a bit brighter here; the corner offices had large windows out into the office floor. The blinds in the office to the northeast were open. This reduced the shadows somewhat in comparison to the area they’d just passed through.

  “Moving,” Janacek said once more, and they slid along the light. The heavy wooden door to the server room, marked with an identical warning sign to the one upstairs, was the first one on their left. Miles couldn’t help his slow sigh of relief. Janacek glanced over his shoulder at him and nodded when Miles gave him a thumbs up.

  Ross slid past Miles and took a position on the hinge side of the door. Janacek stood on the opposite side. Ross made a silent countdown on his fingers — three, two, one — and then reached out and twisted the handle. The card reader above the door lock was long-dead, and the door opened without resistance. The magnetic door locks, as designed, opened in the absence of power. Score one for the fire marshal.

  Janacek scanned the room with his rifle, made an “OK” sign with thumb and forefinger, and then slid inside. Miles followed, and Ross was right on his heels. The lieutenant eased the door shut behind them.

  The darkness, cut only by Janacek’s weapon light, was palpable at first. Once Ross clicked his own light on it was dim but workable.

  Miles moved over to the server racks on the back wall and ran his finger down the labeled blades. Ross stepped over to shine his light on the subject, but Miles had already found what he needed. He disconnected the cables and slid the component out of the rack. No pressure, but if you drop this, our little venture was a massive waste of time.

  He supported it with both hands and pivoted. He was halfway across the room to his desk before he realized what he was doing, and he shook his head at the oddness of it all. If someone had told him that one day he’d be in his office with a pair of Navy SEALs on a mission to save the tattered remnants of mankind, he’d have backed away and looked for the exit. But here it was.

  Miles set the blade down on the desk and removed his backpack. The blade was almost too wide to fit inside, but he’d loosened the straps enough so that it just slid in. Closing the top flap of the main pouch was out of the question, but he’d brought a length of paracord. He wrapped it around the blade and backpack, then tugged on it. The arrangement seemed solid enough. It would be anything but comfortable on his back, but he’d have his hands free. As he finished he glanced down at his desk and smiled. Post-It notes, trouble tickets, and writing utensils littered his workspace in defiance of GenPharm’s clean desk policy. A squat plastic Funko action figure hung awkwardly from a corner of his monitor. The last vestiges of the double-sided tape he’d used to secure it in place were slowly drying and giving way. Impulsively, he pulled it free and shoved it in the side pocket of his backpack. He shouldered the pack, then realized Ross was looking at him with a curious expression on his face.

  Miles shrugged it off. “Told my daughter I’d bring her something. Didn’t figure you guys would let me stop off at the local Toys R Us.”

  Janacek huffed a chuckle, while Ross looked at the floor and shook his head. “Do you have everything?” The lieutenant said, finally.

  “I’m good to go.”

  “Then let’s do this. By the numbers, just as we came in.” Ross waited until the other two were in position, and opened the door once again.

  Janacek reversed his prior course and hugged the wall with his right shoulder this time. Despite the initial success of their foray, he did not vary his tempo one whit. The floor seemed to be clear, but the operator was taking no chances. He measured each step, pausing to listen for any sound after he moved. Miles understood that sentiment. Things always went to hell when you thought they were looking up and weren’t prepared for everything to fall apart.

  Just before the SEAL reached the corner of the first turn, a short, muted squeak sounded from somewhere ahead of them. All three men froze stock still and waited for the sound to repeat or shift into something more ominous. Miles licked his lips and lowered his hand to the pistol in the holster at his hip. As he pushed the retention strap forward to release the gun, the sound came again — still muted, but longer this time. Squeeeeeak.

  “Mouse?” Ross whispered.

  Janacek shook his head but didn’t shift his position to look at either of the two standing behind him. “Too loud. Rats, maybe.” He sounded unsure of his own assessment.

  Miles shuddered. Unbidden, the memory of one of the zombie books he’d read before reality had made them unappealing surfaced. In that book, the zombie plague had jumped species and swarms of undead rats had pursued the hero to his mountaintop retreat for one final, grisly confrontation. The imagery of the tidal wave of undead rats had been scarier than the book’s zombies and had made for particularly grueling nightmare fodder.

  They’d never had to deal with that particular fiction come to life, and as the noise repeated for the third time Miles cocked his head to one side and realized that they still didn’t. Thank God.

  “It’s a chair,” he whispered. “An office chair.” As though affirming his statement, the noise came again, and in context, it was identifiable as the complaint of metal rubbing on metal.

  “Office,” Janacek noted. He shifted the angle of his rifle to point at the corner office. The incoming sunshine washed out the beam of his weapon light, but it was still noticeable. Nothing moved in response, and the sound did not recur.

  “Check it,” Ross said, finally.

  Janacek kept straight at the corner, and their route was now defined by partition walls on either side. He paused every few steps to scan the cubicle openings, but they were all empty and neat compared to the chaos they’d seen further down. The cubes closest to the actual offices, Miles mused, were the territory of admin assistants or mid-level management. They were also more likely on salary, and less liable to live in fear of losing their job over taking too many sick days. The hourly staff didn’t have that advantage, and they’d paid a far greater price than just their jobs on Z-Day. He hadn’t known many of the cube people — they’d mixed with IT a bit like oil and water despite the proximity — but his gut told him that he was right.

  His hunch stood up as they neared the corner office and the cubes continued to prove unoccupied. That situation changed as Janacek stacked up near the door to the corner office and took a quick glance inside. This time, he looked back at Ross and Miles, and his face had broken from its normal expression of nonchalance to one of absolute confu
sion.

  “Clear?” Ross said.

  “I . . . guess?” Janacek said. His mouth worked as he searched for something to say, then finally admitted, “I have no words, sir.”

  Miles glanced at Ross, and the other man shrugged. They stepped forward together, and Miles’ jaw dropped as they rounded the corner and looked into the office.

  Real — though I wish it wasn’t.

  The squeaking office chair sat in the outer corner of the office at the junction of the two large exterior windows. The zombie strapped into it was intact, albeit emaciated. It had once been a man of indeterminate height and had made the transition from life to undeath while garbed in a zip-up hoodie and running shorts. The sweatshirt had once been a bright crimson but was now fading to yellow from what must have been months if not years of exposure to the sun.

  Its height was indeterminate for the simple fact that it had no legs; the method of removal was unclear, but it sat erect on its hips, held upright to the chair back by a series of what looked like knotted-together neckties.

  As Miles and Ross stared in stunned silence, the zombie studied them as well. After a moment of study, it extended an arm — secured to the chair rest at the elbow — and pushed against the window. The chair squealed once more, and the legless observer rotated a few degrees. It repeated the motion, the chair squealed, and as the two men watched, it turned its back on them and lowered its leprous head.

  It’s watching the street below. Miles realized, and his mouth went dry with terror.

  “What. The actual. Fuck?” Ross whispered.

  Miles had raised his Springfield and centered the sights on the zombie sentry’s head before he was conscious that he’d grasped the pistol’s grips. “They don’t do this,” he said. His voice was calm, though his train of thought was gibbering and close to going off the rails. “They don’t act like this,” he concluded.