Parasite; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Doug Ward

It was a normal day at work.  Phones ringing in cubicles filled the air with a strange, repetitive symphony of sound.  The clicking noise of staplers and keyboards only enhanced the effect.  I had learned during my first week how to completely block it out.  Coworkers bustled to and fro about their individual tasks.  We must have resembled a beehive.

  I repeatedly told my husband that he should come in and see my place of employment.  I’m sure he would have found many similarities to his field of entomology.  He had passion for his study of insects that people found hard to understand.  Some of my friends openly questioned why I stayed with him.  He often forgot appointments, friends, and even my birthday.  I literally had to buy him the largest clock in the store so that, maybe, he’d notice what time it was and come home at a reasonable hour.

  I swear, if I ever left him, he would move into his University office and would never leave, lost in a world of insects with no human contact.

  People didn't understand why I loved him.  He's a good man.  His job doesn’t pay that great, but his heart is in the right place.  He does truly love me.  It's just his way to lose track of everything else when he becomes immersed in his work.  He isn't a knight in shining armor type, but he is a good guy.

  I was just about to send him a text, thinking that we could meet for dinner and, maybe, make it into a date night.  As I brought my cell phone to life, a scream broke through the routine noises of the Xanthco office.

  People rushed toward the elevator as one of the downstairs secretaries nearly fell out of the tiny space holding a wounded shoulder.  Blood flowed through her fingers, making short streams down her white blouse until it eventually absorbed as a red stain in the fabric.

  “Help me! They’re killing each other!” she yelled all at once. Her words were hard to understand because they came out so quickly that they blended together as one.

  “What’s happening?” and “Who did this?” were some of the questions my coworkers fired back as they surged toward the woman.

  I dialed the extension for the first floor to see what was going on.  Cradling the phone to my ear, I listened to it ring.  It rang about eight times and eventually went to voicemail.  I hung up and was about to punch in 911, but a voice stayed my hand.

  “911 is down!” came a voice from the crowd.

  “What?!  How can that happen?” shouted another excitedly.

  “It said all their responders were busy and to try again!"

  Betsy Wellington and Mitzie Todd tried to get her back into the elevator.  "My car is just outside," encouraged Mitzie.

  Having none of that, the woman shrugged off their helping hands and slipped back through the crowd.  I took my eyes off of her as I redialed the front receptionist desk to see what is going on.

  "We need to get you to the hospital," Betsy pleaded.

  "I'm not going back down there!  They're all crazy!" she said, picking up a Swingline stapler and holding it menacingly in her good hand.

  The phone line for the front desk just rang and rang before going to voicemail.  I left a brief message explaining that we needed help and replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  "Everyone!" boomed a loud voice from the back of the floor.  "There's something on the TV.  I think something's going on!"

  All eyes turned that direction.  One of the local Pittsburgh newscasters was speaking and the image on the screen behind him looked like pandemonium.  Police, decked out in riot gear, were trying to push back an angry mob who were coming at them with gusto.

  As the sound turned up the reporter said, "No one knows why the mob is rioting.  There was no sign of any protests, but angry groups are breaking into violence all over the city.  We even have reports of people attacking each other in the suburbs and surrounding areas.  The hospitals are flooded with wounded.  The local authorities are asking that all people stay inside and lock their doors.  Do not go outside for any reason."  He said all of this with that cool, detached look newscasters get when speaking of wars or disasters.  He continued, "The news wire is confirming that this outbreak of criminal violence is happening in many other cities as well as..."

  I grabbed Ned Fisher's arm and said, "We have to see what is going on!"

  My momentum propelled him toward the front windows.  They provided a clear view of the parking lot below.  The area was full of cars neatly pulled into each space, but there wasn't a soul around.

  We looked around in frustration.  I had expected to see angry crowds pounding at the doors, but it was completely still.  Not a single person stirred outside.

  "Let's go downstairs and see what's happening," Ned suggested, starting off toward the elevator.

  I followed his lead, enlisting a large intern to join us.  I didn't know his name.  He was a young man who had just joined us at Xanthco a few days ago.

  We entered the elevator and faced out.  Most of the office workers gathered around the television, but a few women were assisting the wounded woman from the lower level who was now lying on the floor.

  The doors closed and we felt that familiar falling sensation. As the elevator descended, the Muzak playing over the speakers had a calming effect as the illuminated floor display switched from a three to a two.  I felt my nerves relax as we slowed to a stop at the ground floor.  The doors opened on the first floor, noisily sliding on their tracks.

  The scene before us was one straight from a nightmare.  Red blood covered everything.  The walls were literally dripping with it.  People and body parts were lying in heaps all about.  Some coworkers were on their knees feeding on the prone people, while others just wandered about looking disoriented.

  A group of five people were eating the front receptionist on the floor directly in front of us.  The tone signaling the arrival of the elevator sounded, "Ding," and all eyes turned on us.

  I couldn't do anything.  I was totally unprepared for the scene before me.  I tried to scream but it caught in my throat.  Ned immediately started hitting the button for the third, floor.  As the cannibals got to their feet, rather unsteadily, they began to slowly shuffle in our direction.

  I was frozen in place while Ned was still hitting buttons; having given up on the third he repeatedly struck the one for the second floor.  The young intern leaned close to Ned and calmly punched the close door button. The bell sounded its warning as the door began its slow journey closed.  We were going to make it.  The door would close on this nightmare.

  I was beginning to exhale in relief when a blood-soaked hand reached around the tiny opening and halted its progress.

  Chapter 3

  Henry

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