by Bryan James
Then, the quickening steps of the scrawny man as he leapt over the tangled bodies and toward the stairs. She heard him stumble once before disappearing down the wide stairs.
Bridget thrashed underneath the pile as Beverly screamed again, panicked now more than ever as she imagined the form across the room bearing down on them. Beverly’s eyes were wild and her brain was racing as she pushed herself off the pile and sprinted down the hallway between the cubicles and the wall, right hand staying in contact with the wall, left held anxiously in front of her. She heard the movement of the others behind her, and an urgent whisper—just short of an actual yell—came from Bridget. Ignoring them, she pressed forward, eager to find the stairwell.
She should never have come upstairs. It was foolish, really. Just an attempt at impressing Ty, and convincing him to finally make their relationship public. Tossing her short hair in irritation, she wiped a tear from her face, knowing that as she did so, she was streaking her makeup. The bastard, she though, suppressing a sniffle and squinting into the dark—the stairwell should be here somewhere—he thought he could screw her and ignore her. Four times in the utility closet, and he thought he was a fucking god. She got more excited and angry as she thought about it, her breath starting to slow as she focused on Ty.
Suddenly, she stopped moving, freezing in place. One hand rested on a fire extinguisher fastened to the wall on her right side; the other hovered in mid-air next to her.
Something was moving in front of her.
Beverly looked around frantically, searching for the stairs in frustration. She should have reached them by now. They weren’t that far away! Her hand clenched on the red metal and she shivered, listening for sounds of approach.
Wait, she thought. Her right hand was on the wall.
Shit.
She had run the wrong way.
In her confusion, she had run toward the sound, not away. The stairs were behind her.
Merely feet away, a long scraping sound—as if a chair had been dragged on a linoleum floor.
Her eyes scanned the murky darkness. The red lights provided enough illumination to outline shapes but too much to allow night vision to adapt. Everything was blurry and tinged in red from the slowly dying security lights. Their dull gleam was slowly fading as their batteries were depleted, never having been intended for prolonged use.
She started to shake in fear as she slowly stepped back, still unable to focus on any shapes or sounds.
The unwelcome sound broke the silence again, this time closer.
She stumbled briefly as her foot caught against the wall, her shoe catching on the thick rubber of a cord protector that ran between the wall and a cubicle. The rubber jerked, pulling the cord inside slightly—but enough to jiggle a small lamp on the adjoining desk.
The sound sped up, and an amorphous shape, backlit by a weakened emergency light against the far wall, took form as a head emerged suddenly from the cubicle on her left side, like a body breaching the surface of the ocean.
Just feet from her left arm.
She screamed once, then jerked back as two arms snaked out of the cubicle, waving in the dark, hands grasping. A hollow, rasping breath exhaled from the faceless head, a waft of sick-smelling air pressing into her nostrils as she turned away.
The breath changed to a curious, aggressive groan and, somehow, two fingers caught her shirt as she turned, pulling on the fabric with a surreal strength. She was thrown off balance, and her ankle twisted awkwardly, sending her tumbling against the cubicle.
The fingers found flesh, squeezing her upper arm in a vise and pulling her further forward as her injured leg failed to support her weight and she collapsed. She flailed and screamed again as the head squirmed toward her arm, breath hot against her shoulder and neck.
In a last superhuman effort, she managed to pull her neck away from the attacker’s head, but her arm stayed trapped by the pincer-like grip. As she shook her shoulder in abject terror, the head adjusted its course and she screamed in sharp and mind-blackening pain as needles of searing hot agony burned into her bicep. Even as her brain registered the injury, her body was jolted into reflexive action, tearing at the point of contact with animalistic fervor.
The mouth pulled up on her arm as she pulled away, and she watched in horror as tendrils of her own flesh were pulled up with a massive chunk of muscle and skin. Blood spurted from the wound, and she felt the warmth of the thick liquid run down her arm. While thin lines of tendon still connected the flesh with her arm, she pulled one last time, and the fingers attached to her arm loosened their grip enough to free her damaged limb. She stumbled back, and her screams of pain drowned the slurping and contented moans filtering up from within the near cubicle. Inside the small confines of this former office space, droplets of blood were flung against small calendars with kittens frolicking playfully in spring mornings. Pieces of flesh dropped unnoticed on a carefully cleaned keyboard and a brand new flat screen monitor. Hands, now drenched in human blood, rubbed against a carpeted wall, knocking small thumbtacks to the floor and releasing the years-old memorandum that had been installed there, warning users against using their work time for personal matters.
Beverly’s eyes went dark, the pain shooting through her arm and into her shoulder. Her vision blurred before returning, and in the recesses of her brain, a voice shouted at her to flee. Tottering on her now wounded leg, and trying to quell the blood pouring from the jagged, deep wound in her arm, she stumbled away, leaving behind her the sickening sound of raw flesh being consumed by a human being and vaguely, even through her pain and confusion and terror, wondering what the hell had just happened.
She careened down the hallway, blood making a trail behind her, soaking into the old, musty industrial grade carpet, creating stains that would never be cleaned in a building that would never again be used.
Bridget blinked twice as she saw Beverly staggering back, having been drawn, despite her better judgment, to the screams. She wasn’t someone who often thought of others, but the woman’s screams—the bloodcurdling pain—had torn her back from the stairwell, and she was cautiously moving along the wall toward the direction in which Beverly had run.
She moved faster until she intercepted the taller woman, whose blood-soaked, limping form collapsed when she heard Bridget’s voice.
“What the hell…Oh dear Christ, what the fuck happened to you?” Bridget’s hand hovered above the wound but kept clear. She had always been afraid of blood, and the site of the weeping, bloody ruin was enough to make her throw up a small amount of her horrible dinner right into her mouth. Grimacing, she swallowed and grabbed Beverly’s limp form by the belt.
Behind the two women, a chair toppled over and the sound of a thick tumble against a cubicle wall moved them forward toward the stairs.
“I don’t …” Beverly started, then took a ragged breath. “I don’t know.”
***
Amidst the carnage and the chaos, there were stunning feats of courage and survival. While no one could have ever anticipated such an event, the resiliency and selflessness of some brave souls would provide the foundation for the continuation, in some small way, of the human race.
There were those who reacted quickly, and took charge. The exhausted nurses at a hospital maternity ward who gathered the helpless infants and spirited them away to a nearby safe house, leaving them in the care of survivors, and then walked away into the falling night, knowing that they had been exposed to the infection. The lonely police chief in a small town outside of Anaheim, whose entire department was annihilated by a shambling, enormous horde at a roadblock, who deputized an entire town, opening the weapons lockers to the citizenry and forming a stronger resistance in the face of overwhelming odds.
The businessman in a rental car, who stopped on a ruined interstate long enough to fight off two creatures with a briefcase, saving a young woman and her child.
The group of teenagers, armed only with baseball bats, that left the safety of their locked-d
own school to rescue an elderly couple trapped in a disabled car.
The national guard troops that drove into city centers, knowing that they might not leave.
Thousands of people that stood up to terror and death at a time when many were hunkering down. Thousands of heroes who had been normal people merely hours before.
***
The flashlight was a cheap, Chinese-made thing that simply flipped two prongs out and plugged into an outlet. Its indicator light shone bright green when Antonio picked it up, and a weak but consistent beam of light illuminated the floor in front of them.
“Looks decent. Ready?” His voice was tight, but confident. Louis felt much less sure of himself—naked in front of his class on a cold day, less sure. But he nodded, nonetheless.
“Okay then,” Antonio was quick to smile, but he recognized the fear in Louis’ eyes. “Let’s get this over with so we can go home.”
Louis nodded briefly and fumbled with the small pen light one of the other reps had donated to their cause when they went back to the group. It was the only other flashlight they could find, and he was none too satisfied with it as a primary torch. But it was what it was, and he wasn’t complaining. He had bigger things to worry about.
They walked briskly through the narrow aisles, passing hundreds of cubicles adorned with the small amount of personal flair permitted by the corporate overlords. Here a graduation tassel, there a picture. One desk even held a small lava lamp, whose cord was conspicuously dangled from a thumb tack to prove it wasn’t plugged in to company power—a violation of rules.
If there was a huge disease out there, and if people really were dying or stumbling around like idiots, or even attacking other people, maybe it was for the better. Maybe humanity was hitting that big old “reset” button in the sky. Maybe the world was ready to shake the dust of this ridiculous species off its back and move forward. It was worth considering.
Then he realized what that meant. No more movie nights. No more hamburgers or french fries. No more airplane rides or telephones or electricity or jacuzzi tubs or micro-brewed beer.
Oh god, the beer.
He shivered involuntarily as they passed the last cubicle and stood underneath the blood-like glare of an emergency light, the power considerably weaker than merely an hour ago.
The door to the basement was inconspicuous, and unmarked but for a small sign that read “Restricted Access: Basement Stairs” in small font next to the handle. Louis pointed his penlight at the sign, then scanned the corridor between the cubes on his right and left.
“I don’t know where the panel would be, but it should be obvious—a large junction box with a series of thick tubes running from it. You know what I’m talking about?”
Louis nodded as Antonio spoke, his large hand on the door handle.
“Yeah, my girlfriend’s always tripping the breakers at home with the hair dryer,” he said quietly, surprised at his lack of overwhelming concern for her. They had been together for a long time, but something had always kept him from asking her to marry him.
Antonio’s voice broke through his thoughts, snapping his head forward.
“Let’s go,” said the larger man, opening the door and walking into the cavernous stairwell.
Louis followed closely, having no wish to remain alone in the dark with a mere penlight as his valiant defender. The stairwell was an emergency exit from the second floor, and was made entirely of concrete and cement. On the right hand side, a small plaque was installed for the mentally challenged. An arrow pointed down, to the basement, and up for the second floor. Louis chuckled softly, even as his heart started to pound against the inside of his chest.
Antonio stepped briskly down, leaning over the red-painted railing and peering over the side of the stairs to make sure no one was below.
Louis jumped suddenly as the door behind them slammed shut with a loud metallic clang. He cocked his head slightly, listening. He could have sworn he heard a scream echo through the doorway right before it shut.
“Hey, Antonio, I …”
“Don’t worry man, we got this. Come on.” He was already at the landing, and Louis jogged down the first flight to see him standing at the door to the basement.
In the stairwell above them, one of the large red emergency lights that had been casting a wan, but serviceable, light on the stairs finally flickered and died. The remaining light cast long shadows in the lonely stairwell, and Louis flew down the last flight until he stood next to Antonio, who leaned against the door with his head cocked, listening for signs of movement. Antonio had always been cautious, and two years spent clearing houses in Baghdad during the early days of the Iraq War had taught him the value of patience—and of luck.
“Listen, I thought I heard something up there, right before the door closed,” Louis whispered, his voice brought to lower, dulcet tones by the fear he felt in this enclosed space.
Antonio gave him an understanding look as he placed his hand on the door handle, preparing to enter the basement. He had seen this look on the faces of his men. He knew fear, and he knew that the only antidote to a healthy dose of understandable fear was unreasonable rationality. He moderated his tone and spoke slowly and softly, willing the smaller man to calm himself.
“I know, I’m hearing shit too. This is freaky crap, and we’re wading hip deep in it. But when we get the power reset, we can find out what’s going on and maybe even get out of here. It’s almost over.” He even flashed a reassuring smile.
Louis shook his head, submitting briefly to the thought that he might indeed have imagined the noise. He stared at the floor as he heard the door handle creak slowly against the frame as Antonio began to push slowly against the heavy metal door.
As the door opened, Louis’ eyes were drawn to a small, raggedly torn scrap of paper laying discarded near the door frame, several inches from Antonio’s foot. As the larger man pressed forward through the door silently, flashlight raised and pointed ahead into the murky, inky darkness of the basement, Louis snatched the paper up curiously and followed.
Antonio had thrown the deadbolt from the inside, preventing the door from shutting all the way, in case it had some manner of auto-locking mechanism. As the bolt caught against the frame of the door, Louis stopped walking, stunned by the absolute darkness. He fumbled momentarily for the button that would activate his meager light source, even as he watched the stronger beam of Antonio’s light move slowly into the cavernous space.
In the darkness that enveloped him, the sounds of the underground room were eerie and unnerving. A slow drip somewhere behind him. A quiet rattle somewhere in the distance. The shuffle of Antonio’s feet ahead of him.
A small breeze pushed past his neck, as if of something moving nearby, and he flailed suddenly, the hair on his arms standing at attention as he pressed the button on the penlight.
His light sputtered to life, and he panned it quickly around, watching the beam reflect off pipes suspended from the low ceiling, and large supporting walls packed with cables and telephone lines extending into the distance. Antonio’s light was disappearing around the corner of one of those walls and it stopped momentarily to let him catch up.
Louis jogged to where the man stood, eyes scanning the room to the extent allowed by the small light.
“Sorry, I was …” Then Louis remembered the small piece of paper, still clenched tightly in his now sweaty palm. He quickly opened his hand and looked down at the paper, even as he heard Antonio walk forward. Walking carefully, one eye on the larger man and one on the paper, he trained his light on the scrap.
Went to basement. Back in 5.
That was odd, he thought. Why would someone in the basement leave a note at the door telling people they were going there?
Unless someone else had found that note, and went looking for that person in the basement and had dropped the note when they found them …
Someone like Voj.
Shit.
As he looked up, ready to speak, everyth
ing happened at once.
“Found it!” exclaimed Antonio, then cursed loudly as his light flickered and died. A sudden flurry of activity exploded in the enclosed space as Antonio started slamming his open palm against the flashlight in his hand, while Louis struggled to find words for what he had discovered.
As the first word left his mouth, Antonio’s light flickered on, this time pointed not to the ground or in front of him, but toward his own face. Louis watched as he blinked and averted his eyes, temporarily blinded by the light, and the beam drifted over his shoulder, illuminating the distorted, red-eyed face of a massive man in a security guard’s uniform. Blood streaked his cheeks, and his reddened eyes glowed malevolently in the momentary bright light.
Even as Antonio moved his face back from the glare of the light, the larger man struck, his head lashing forward, teeth gleaming in the dull glow of the cheap Chinese light as they slashed into the exposed neck. His eyes, closed against the light, now opened wide in pain and Louis watched, seemingly in slow motion, as Antonio’s mouth opened in a soundless scream, and blood flowed freely from underneath the mouth now attached to his neck. Then, the flashlight fell from Antonio’s hand, flickering off again as it slammed into the concrete ground.
Louis’ hand trembled on the small pen light, and his voice died on his lips. He tried to move. He tried to speak. His arms and legs were frozen, and his throat was closing slowly, immobilizing his vocal cords. He tried to raise the light, to give Antonio—to give his friend—some small amount of assistance.
But he couldn’t. Instead, he stood helplessly, thumb slowly pressing the button on the light that deactivated the bulb, plunging the room into total darkness.
In the pitch black, he heard the thrashing and the coughing scream of pain. He heard bodies moving against one another, and he felt the impact of two large men crashing against the ground. A muted scream came from one of them—Antonio, he imagined—and then a tearing gurgle. Detached, he noted it was the type of sound he made when he gargled at night. Wet, and bubbling.
