by Raye Larson
“Stop,” Chaucer said, his voice breaking into a pained, gargled sound. He raised his baton.
Another of the pedestrians grabbed his hand and bit into it
Chaucer screamed.
And dropped the baton.
The baton rolled away from him.
Charlotte hurried forward and grabbed it.
The baton was heavier than it looked. When Charlotte swung it, it made a thick wet sound against one of the pedestrian’s heads, and sent up an unpleasant echo of the blow up her arm.
The paperwork for this was going to be ugly.
Someone grabbed Charlotte’s shoulder and moaned.
Charlotte turned and swung again and again, sending a faint cloud of red and bits of flesh around him. Red and black and red again.
Things began with blood. They ended in it. There was also bone, though. Bone and torn sinew and people who were standing when they really shouldn’t be.
Charlotte struck down a ravaged looking woman and then was at Chaucer’s side. The man had broken free and was now teetered unevenly on his legs.
Charlotte grabbed Chaucer’s arm and hauled him back towards the building.
“No,” Chaucer said, batting at Charlotte. “Don’t bite, don’t–”
“It’s me. You’re–”
Not going to be okay if those things were zombies.
Which they weren’t. They couldn’t be. Zombies weren’t real. These people were...
Charlotte had been entertainment editor for a reason; she loved horror movies, she’d seen a ton and while every rational part of her was positive she was misreading the situation, another part of her wanted her to stop and think.
The pedestrians were so badly injured, they shouldn’t have been moving.
They were.
The pedestrians shouldn’t be tearing people apart and eating them.
They were.
The pedestrians should have gotten a hint from her hitting them with a baton and be backing off.
They weren’t.
The ones that could still walk were getting up and following after her and Chaucer.
Who they’d bitten.
Chaucer shouldn’t become like them. He was injured, not a zombie victim.
What if, though? Did he really think Chaucer was going to be okay? Did any of the pedestrians look okay?
Was Faith okay?
God. Faith...
Charlotte didn’t know. She was also afraid she did. If Chaucer died, if the people behind them were what she was afraid they were–
Charlotte should leave Chaucer there.
The moans behind them drew closer.
Charlotte quickened her pace. If she released Chaucer, the pedestrians would get him. They would tear him apart while he was still alive.
Like one of them had tried to do to Faith.
Charlotte was certain of that. Terrified of that. Faith could be like them now.
Charlotte could never have left her behind.
She wouldn’t do that to Chaucer either.
The automatic doors opened as Charlotte and Chaucer approached the entryway, welcoming them into the shadowed interior.
Charlotte looked around. The lights. Had something happened to–
Chaucer fell, dragging Charlotte down with him.
Fuck.
Charlotte fell onto her side beside Chaucer. She glanced back, saw the pedestrians making their way towards the door, and looked back at the other man.
“Come on,” Charlotte said, trying to pull Chaucer away from the door. “We need to keep moving before–”
The door made a sharp click behind her.
“You’re fine where you are,” Blake said a few feet away.
Charlotte looked up. Blake stood by the receptionist’s desk, frowning.
“Did the power go out?” Charlotte asked.
“No. I had had the lights shut off in the hopes of making the things out there think no one was here.”
“Those things... I think they are–were–human.”
“And what do you think they are now?”
“... pedestrians.”
Footfalls whispered nearby over. A moment later, two figures emerged from a shadowed hall. Another few steps and Charlotte recognized them. It was the receptionist and Mr. Weatherby.
“The other guards have finished securing the building, sir,” the receptionist said. “I still can’t reach emergency, though.”
“Forget that for now, Margot,” Blake said. “Are all of the guards still with us?”
“No. Two left to try to reach their families.”
“I don’t blame them, but damn.” Blake looked at Weatherby. “Did any of the others report any odd encounters this morning?”
“No, sir. A couple encountered terrible traffic in a couple different locations and another heard something about a riot at her daughter’s college but no one’s physically met one of the... people outside.”
“Good. It means we only have one challenge.” Blake turned towards Charlotte. “Possibly two.”
Possibly? Probably.
Charlotte studied Chaucer.
The man was a collage of wounds. Blood pumped from the wound in his throat, another on his leg, and from the growing red spots over his uniform, half a dozen other places. His breathing was shallow, his skin ashen.
Boy, was he not becoming a zombie.
“We need to do something for him,” Charlotte said, glancing back at Blake.
Blake was staring out the window, frowning thoughtfully.
“I’m sorry,” Blake said, looking briefly at Charlotte before returning his attention to the window. “I don’t think we’ll be able to get him to the hospital anytime soon.”
If the people outside were... what Charlotte couldn’t say she thought they were, she was afraid a hospital wouldn’t be able to do much for the man. They...
They’d probably also been unable to help Faith.
“Maybe we could bind his wounds,” Charlotte said. An ache blossomed inside her, so sharp it hurt to breath. There had to be something they could do. There had to. “If we could stop the bleeding–”
Heavy thumps hit the doors behind Charlotte, making her jerk. She turned.
And almost wished he hadn’t.
The pedestrians–pedestrians? From what, hell?–stood on the other side of the door. They pawed at the glass, leaving red smears in their wake.
The person the crowd had brought down was standing now. Charlotte couldn’t tell if it’d been a man or woman before. There was no skin left on their face. Their clothes were torn and shapeless. They stood beside the others and pawed at the glass.
Chaucer moaned softly.
Charlotte jerked, crawling quickly away from the man. She was seeing what she was seeing. Those things were–they were–what she was afraid they were.
And she’d brought Chaucer inside. She’d endangered herself and everyone and–
She should’ve have left him outside.
No, she was right to bring him in.
She’d endangered everyone.
If it’d been Faith or Derek, Charlotte would’ve done it. She’d always do it. And hope that one day, it’d make a difference. One day she’d save someone.
One day Faith would be okay.
Chaucer moaned again, and then looked around. He focused on Charlotte. “Thank...”
He was alive.
Charlotte returned to his side. “Shh. Just rest. Please.”
Chaucer’s lips twitched, hinting at a smile. “Thank... you. I’m... sorry...”
“It’s okay,” Charlotte said. And, for Chaucer, it was, because he was safe, and if Charlotte couldn’t save him, she wanted the man to have that. To have a place to lie, in shadowed quiet, and know that no one was going to hurt him anymore.
Blake stepped into the edge of Charlotte’s sight. He’d removed his coat and now, as he knelt beside Chaucer, he folded it into a bundle.
“Just rest,” Blake said, slipping the coat under Chauc
er’s head. “When you wake, we’ll discuss the huge bonus you’ll be getting for going out there.”
Chaucer laughed. It sounded ragged. “Promise?”
Promise?
Faith.
Forever, my friend. Forever.
“Yes,” Blake said. Light from the half-blocked windows bled over him, shifting and changing his features. He was the villain next door. He was a software CEO. He was helpless to help someone.
Blake... was kind of hot.
Charlotte frowned and shoved the thought aside. As ever, her timing for these things was excellent. The last thing she needed to do now was check Blake out. Blake...
Spencer. His name was Spencer. Blake was suspected of Cooper’s disappearance. Spencer cared about Chaucer.
Whose breath was becoming shallow.
“Those things,” Chaucer said. “They... they’re going to try to get in.”
“The windows and doors are earthquake proof. They can take a lot of pressure. Also, the lights are off. I’m hoping they have a short attention span.”
They wouldn’t if they were alive and could think.
And if they weren’t, if they were what Charlotte feared...
Chaucer’s eyes drifted closed. His skin grew blotchy.
He wouldn’t live for much longer.
The question after that would be who would be putting him down.
And if having the lights off would help them if a zom–if a pedestrian was in the same room as them. Judging by the pounding on the glass behind them, not too much.
“I don’t know if simply having the lights off will make them forget about us,” Charlotte said. She wished it would. She wished she could get to her car, go to the Spectator, and see if Derek was okay. Faith likely wasn’t. Lord Bearington was safe. Derek, though, was flesh and blood and those things could easily be torn away.
Blake–Spencer–rose. “They stopped eating the man they’d brought down when they caught Chaucer,” he said, his voice soft. “If they see anyone else, they’ll likely forget us and go after them.”
Possibly. Until then–
Wait. What?
Charlotte frowned up at Spencer–Blake. At Blake. Who was looking a lot less hot now. “What do you mean?”
“They stopped attacking the first man when they brought Chaucer down,” Blake said, his English accent making his whispered words sound more ruthless and practical instead of simply terrible. "And I see that the man they originally attacked has now joined them. Interesting."
Interesting. That was one way to put it. Early Morning of the Living Dead was another.
Charlotte rose. "Whatever they have... I think it's contagious."
"I suspect so as well." Blake looked thoughtful. “I think they’re at the windows now because they saw you and Chaucer come in. Once something else catches their attention, I think they’ll forget about us. At least I hope so.”
Wow. What a great guy. Charlotte didn’t understand why people had thought Blake was responsible for Cooper’s disappearance. He–
Wait.
“You watched them go after us?” she asked.
The pounding at the windows continued, making the light bleeding in shift. Blake was in darkness. Blake was in light. He was frowning throughout it all.
“Yes,” Blake said. “I have an entire building’s worth of people to worry about. You, meanwhile, ran out without studying the situation. You then followed that up by bringing an obviously infected man back.” He turned toward Margot. “Are those things blocking the back door?”
“No, sir.”
“Call a couple people down from marketing and tell them to get Chaucer out there, now.”
Charlotte couldn’t believe this.
She also could.
“You can’t kick him out,” Charlotte said.
Blake looked back at her. “I don't want to. If he's... like them, when he dies, he’s going to get back up.”
“But he’s still alive.”
“I’d like to put it off as long as possible but I can't risk the others here. Did they bite you?”
“What?”
“Did they bite you?”
“No.” She hoped.
Charlotte glanced down at her hands. Her coat was a bloody ruin but her hands were fine. Her elbow throbbed a little, so she unwrapped the coat.
Beneath the black velvet, her white shirt was spotted with red. Her elbow felt bruised but otherwise unmarked.
She was relieved.
Then she remembered seeing one of the things going after Chaucer’s foot. One could just as easily gone after her legs as well.
Charlotte drew her jean hem up and looked at her legs. No bites, no scratches. Just one blue sock and its black unmatched partner.
She looked back at Blake. He was looking down at her legs, either in appreciation or amusement at her sock choices.
“I’m fine,” Charlotte said.
“I’d like to be a bit more thorough than that. Mr. Weatherby, if you could please examine Charlotte.”
“I already checked,” she said. “I wasn’t–”
“He examines you or you and Chaucer go out now.”
“Examine away.” Asshole.
Weatherby closed the distance between them in three steps. He skimmed his hands over Charlotte and then proceeded to pull her sleeves up, her collar down, and her shirt up.
“Most men buy me dinner first,” Charlotte grumbled.
“Perhaps later,” Blake said.
Charlotte shot him a scowl. Blake folded his arms loosely and looked unimpressed.
Wow. Charlotte had never noticed before but Blake was exceptionally unattractive. Rather like a chiseled ogre in a suit, if one were to impugn upon an ogre’s honor.
Weatherby knelt and drew up one pant leg, and then the other.
“She’s clean,” Weatherby said, rising.
“Thank you,” Blake said. “If you’d be so kind as to escort Chaucer out the back door? I'm thinking that if you put him near where we hide the garbage bins, he'll be hidden from the... people.”
“Yes, sir.”
Crap.
Charlotte stepped between Weatherby and Chaucer. “You could quarantine him.”
“Pardon?”
“Quarantine him. Wait for him to die. Please. If you put him out there now and they’ll find him...” Charlotte glanced out the window.
The sight of the pedestrians caught her. There were so many of them. A dozen, perhaps, striking the glass and smearing blood across the surface. Filmy gray eyes stared in, not focusing on anyone but still searching. They knew people were in here. They would wait forever.
If they were zombies, mind you. Which they couldn’t be.
Maybe.
Charlotte turned back to Blake. “If they get him–if they get anyone–it’ll be awful.”
Blake released a drawn-out breath. The sound was sad and weary.
That worried Charlotte. A bored sound would at least paint Blake as a monster. Pained meant that the guy had thought about it and was deciding to do it anyway.
“We can’t afford kindness,” Blake said.
“Why not? We’re safe and unhurt.”
“You’re taking our safety for granted.” Blake motioned towards the windows. “You’re presuming that since they’re out there, we’re safe. We’re not. Chaucer could turn on us in a moment. If we don’t take steps to protect ourselves, we might as well open the doors.”
“You could tie him up.”
“Would you? In the state he’s in now, when he could turn around and bite whoever gets close?”
If Charlotte had anything on hand, yes. She...
Reached down to her jeans and began undoing her belt.
Blake raised an eyebrow.
Charlotte frowned back. Her belt–leather so soft, it felt like silk–was three hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of fuck you, you draconic bastard. From personal experience, Charlotte knew it could bind someone’s wrists and hold onto them far longer than the other
person would like.
Just, um... don't ask how she knew that.
Chaucer moaned.
The sound was quiet but pained. Charlotte hurried over to him. He was a good guy. He was Kiera's brother. He–
Jerked, twisting one way and then another way.
And then stilled.
Oh God, she had to tie him up quickly before–
Someone grabbed her arm and drew her back.
“Bloody hell,” Blake said, drawing Charlotte away from Chaucer.
Weatherby hurried past them towards Chaucer. As he drew close, he raised a baton.
Charlotte yanked her arm away from Blake. She walked around Chaucer, toward him, away from him. She wanted–she had to...
She stopped.
Chaucer lay a few feet away, his twisted body facing her. It didn't matter what she wanted. There was nothing to do. Chaucer was gone. He’d died in relative peace. Weatherby had to now make sure the man wasn't going to get back up.
Then someone would have to tell Kiera that her brother was gone.
“Mr. Weatherby, wait,” Blake said.
Weatherby stilled.
“I hired him,” Blake said, approaching him. He held out a hand. "He went out for me."
"You don't have to, sir."
"I know. I need to, though."
Below them, Chaucer’s eyes opened.
"He's awake," Charlotte said.
Chaucer looked at her and moaned.
Blake had been right; the zom–the pedestrians were drawn to whatever caught their attention. Chaucer now pulled himself toward her despite the fact that Blake and Weatherby were closer. Chaucer's back was to them, though, and Charlotte was before them. It seemed pedestrians and babies both had object impervious.
Weatherby offered Blake the baton. Blake took it and approached Chaucer.
"I'm so very sorry, my friend," he said.
Chaucer looked up, confused. He fixed milky gray eyes on his former boss and moaned.
Blake raised the baton and brought it down sharply.
One strike, and Chaucer went down.
Two ensured he’d stay down.
Three, because apparently Blake had seen the same horror movies that Charlotte had, and while she personally preferred vampires, she’d seen enough slasher movies to know that the bad guy never really stayed down. They were too franchise minded.
The last strike caved Chaucer’s head in. Red and black, with bits of white. The colors were beautiful and ghastly, alive and dead.
