Brew

by Bill Braddock

  "What’s going on?" Soccer Shirt asked.

  "It’s not contained," the black guy said.

  "What do you mean?" Boyd asked. That phrase—not contained—brought the foreboding back stronger than ever. Here we go. Here it comes.

  "Whoa," the Goth girl said, still at the window. "There must be like two hundred more people coming up the hill."

  The black man nodded, as if he’d been expecting this. "The way the man tells it, it’s happening all over. The whole town’s in chaos."

  Soccer shirt whistled. "The hooligans come to College Heights."

  "So what do we do?" Boyd asked.

  "Stay put," the black guy said. "I’d rather be home, armed, but that’s not an option. The gentleman I spoke with said people are going stark-raving mad all over town. Total psychotic rage." He gave the room an appraising glance. "Our position is fairly defensible. What, two doors, two elevators?"

  Boyd tried to make it real. "You really think they’ll come up here?"

  The black guy nodded. "We must assume they will."

  "Oh my God," the Goth girl said. "You guys, it’s like World War III down there."

  "It’s not at all like war," the black guy said. "Not at all."

  A voice came over the intercom. "May I have your attention, please." It was a statement, not a question, one followed by a pause during which Boyd could hear background noises, chanting and pounding that he assumed meant the lunatics really were trying to get inside. "The library is presently in a state of lockdown. As per university instruction, we’ve secured all outside entrances. Patrons may not leave the library until the conclusion of this lockdown. Please remain calm, and we’ll keep you informed." Someone near the speaker shouted unintelligibly, and Boyd thought he heard glass shatter in the background. The transmission cut.

  "Oh shit," the redhead said. "Does this mean we’re stuck here? I should’ve ridden that sardine can and gotten out while I still could." She dumped her pack on the table behind them.

  Soccer Shirt turned from the window. "Should we go down and help?"

  The black guy shook his head. "Not me, friend, I’m no hero. I’m a survivor."

  "I’m with you," Boyd said. A strange, quivering stillness had overcome him. Everything felt super sharp, like if he tried hard enough, he could hear every blink, feel his hair grow.

  The black guy left the window and sat at the table across from the redhead. Boyd joined them.

  "Demetrius Devereaux," the black guy said, shaking their hands in turn. He pulled a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and tapped one free. "I guess the no-smoking light’s gone off, anyway," he said, flicking open a Zippo.

  The redhead laughed. "Maybe every cloud does have a silver lining." She dug in her purse, pulled her own pack, and stuck a cigarette in her mouth.

  Demetrius grinned. "Menthol, huh?"

  "Yup," the redhead said, and Boyd saw something he’d seen before, other times, with other people, something like magic, these two making that weird smoker’s bond, snap, just like that. Minutes ago, they were banging heads. Now, it was all grins and nods.

  Demetrius lit her cigarette then his own, and snapped the lighter shut.

  "Thanks," she said. "I’m Eileen."

  "Pleasure," Demetrius said. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, and set his pack and lighter on the table.

  Seeing an inscription on the silver Zippo, Boyd leaned in for a better look.

  I love the fucking army, and the army loves fucking me.

  He chuckled.

  "You prior service?" Demetrius asked.

  Boyd shook his head. "My grandfather, he was in Vietnam."

  Demetrius’s grin grew sly. "Your grandfather, huh? Vi-et-nam."

  Boyd didn’t understand the grin, but he smiled and nodded because he sensed no meanness in it, sensed that this was one of those we-both-get-it moments. He didn’t want to break that connection, make things awkward, and drift even farther from the smokers’ club.

  Soccer Shirt came over. "The crowd broke up. Most of the people moved on. The ground’s covered in bodies."

  Eileen shuddered, and they were quiet. The mood had shifted. Moments earlier, denial had ruled, people joking around and making introductions, lighting up cigarettes and trying their cell phones. Now, though? Bodies, Soccer Shirt said. Not people, bodies.

  This was real.

  "That had to hurt," the Goth girl reported from the window.

  "Shit," Boyd said, "where are the cops?" He tried his phone again. Nothing. Network full.

  Watching him, Eileen said, "The cops already know. Listen."

  She was right. Outside, sirens rang in all directions.

  "Mass chaos," Demetrius said. "It happens. People just go crazy. Schools, concerts, sporting events, different places."

  Soccer Shirt snapped his fingers. "I saw a thing on TV once where it happened in a hospital operating room. They blamed it on gas, I think, some kind of gas trapped in the patient’s body."

  "Spare me the details, please," Eileen said. "My question is what do we do? I mean, what if they do come up here, all those crazy people? We’re screwed."

  Demetrius said, "Plan for the worst, hope for the best." Then, grinning, he added, "Anyone have an M-16?"

  Boyd laughed, glad Demetrius was there, the man’s calm demeanor settling the room.

  "Should we block the entrances?" Eileen said.

  Demetrius squinted, taking a drag, then nodded slowly, exhaling, and dropped the cigarette into the nearly empty water bottle he’d been using as an ashtray. "Good thinking. We could move tables in front of the stairwell doors."

  "They open out," the Goth girl said, finally joining them.

  "At least tables would create an obstacle," Soccer Shirt said. He leaned back and spread his hands. "Anyone trying to attack us would have to come through the barrier first. If we know they’re coming, we’ll have time to react."

  Demetrius said, "Good point. An obstacle would give us the upper hand, first strike."

  "Strike with what?" Eileen asked.

  Demetrius stood. "We’ll need to improvise." He slapped his hands together and rubbed the palms in small circles. "Suggestions?"

  "Fire extinguishers," Soccer Shirt said.

  "Good," Demetrius said. "How many on this floor?"

  "Two? I’m not sure."

  "Let’s gather them. They’ll be useful. What else?"

  Soccer Shirt jogged off.

  "I have mace," Eileen said.

  "Beautiful."

  "And pens," she added, brandishing a ballpoint.

  Demetrius smiled. "Let’s hope it doesn’t come to pens. All the same, have them ready. What else?"

  The Goth girl pulled a fork from her backpack. "I stole this from the dining hall."

  Demetrius rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Normally, I’m against theft, but under the circumstances, I’m in favor. Anything else in there?"

  She dug through the pack, biting her lip, and then held up a thick textbook. Clinical Endocrinology. "I could toss it to them, lull them to sleep."

  "You’re premed?" Demetrius said.

  "I detect a note of surprise."

  "You do. I’ve never seen a doctor in bat wings and black lipstick before."

  "You don’t know what you’re missing. Examinations are memorable."

  Demetrius laughed and turned to Boyd. "What do you have?"

  Boyd emptied his pockets. "My Ipod and meal card. A pen. A tissue. Just the pen, I guess."

  "Hey," Eileen said. "Get your own weapon."

  The Goth girl pointed at Boyd’s stuff, looking incredulous. "Is that tissue folded? Did you actually take the time to fold that tissue?"

  Boyd pushed everything but the pen back in his pocket. "Yeah, so?"

  The Goth girl laughed, jabbing at the air with her fork as she walked off toward a library station. "I say we throw Boyd’s tissue at them."

  Demetrius laid a hand on Boyd’s shoulder. "I think we’d better look for something heavier than that pen. W
hile I’m happy to see you all in high spirits, I don’t want to underestimate the danger here. If these people do come up here, we’re going to need to strike and strike hard. I’d like to see you armed with something more than a writing utensil."

  Boyd nodded.

  Soccer Shirt returned, holding a pair of large fire extinguishers. "I only found two."

  "Good work," Demetrius said. Then, to Boyd, he said, "Why don’t you go ahead and take one of those. As for me…okay, this might work." From a display shelf, he lifted an obsidian bust, the form of an African woman, possibly Nefertiti. "Heavy."

  "What about the doors?" Eileen said.

  "Right," Demetrius said. "Let’s at least throw some tables in front of them, like…what’s your name, kid?"

  "Brian," Soccer Shirt said.

  They shook hands, and Demetrius turned to the Goth girl, who’d been working at something behind the library station. "How about you, Doc? What’s your name?"

  "Miranda." With a grunt, she hefted a paper cutter onto the desktop. It was a big one, large enough for construction paper, with single arm hinged to the rear of the cutter. The arm was fixed with two feet of cutting edge. It even had a handle. "Better than a fork."

  "Beautiful," Demetrius said. "It’s the next best thing to a machete." Using the heavy bust, he broke the blade free of its cutter.

  Miranda sliced the air, batwings wobbling.

  Eileen said, "How about those stairwells?"

  "Right," Demetrius said. "How many are there, Brian? Two? Four?"

  "Two," Brian said. "I also wanted to show you something." He led them to the front of the room, near the elevator, and pointed at a small plastic door housing an emergency fire hose. "How about this?"

  Demetrius clapped him on the back. "Good thinking. Great thinking." He popped the door. The heavy hose coiled neatly inside was already hooked to its standpipe. "Eileen, you want to use this? Keep your pen as backup?"

  She nodded.

  Demetrius uncoiled several feet and twisted the nozzle back and forth. "Here’s your trigger."

  "Will it reach the door?"

  "No problem. This thing has to be thirty meters. Add the spray range and you could reach all four corners."

  "Think it’s got enough pressure? I mean enough to use it as a weapon?" Boyd asked. He liked the double threat of his fire extinguisher. Sprayed or swung, it was a formidable weapon. This hose, though, he wasn’t so sure about.

  "Sure," Demetrius said. He twisted the nozzle shut and spun the red wheel atop the standpipe. The fabric hose uncoiled rapidly, going thick as a ball bat. "Hell, yeah. This’ll do. It’s no garden hose, I’ll tell you that much. They come up those stairs, Eileen’ll blast them all the way down the stairwell."

  "But we’ll only be able to defend one stairwell at a time. What if they come up both sides?"

  "We’ll split up and do our best. Two per stairwell, and Eileen will go where she’s needed, when she’s needed."

  For a few seconds, everyone was silent, thinking it over. Boyd’s anxiety returned. "You guys sure we shouldn’t just hide? This is a big room."

  Demetrius shook his head. "Okay, let’s say we hide. What happens when they find one of us? What do the rest of us do? Lie there and listen to them ripping him apart? No thanks. If it’s going to come down to fighting, I want to maximize our natural advantages."

  They set to work, moving tables and chairs and finally books in front of the stairwells. Brian suggested tying the doors shut, running a line from the outer handle and anchoring it inside, but they couldn’t find a way to make it work.

  Boyd stood back, again finding it hard to make it all real. The group’s weird levity and calm acceptance of the situation fueled his anxiety. He wondered if Eileen, who’d been quiet for some time, was thinking the same thing.

  Behind them, something clanked. Then came the hollow groan.

  Shit. The elevator.

  Brian said, "That’s the elevator. Someone’s coming up."

  "It’s probably a staff member," Miranda said. "I don’t see lunatics taking the time to operate an elevator. They’d race straight up the stairs."

  The elevator climbed.

  "They won’t come all the way," Boyd said. "I mean, we’re on the sixth floor."

  "I hope you’re right," Eileen said.

  "Should we spread out?" Brian asked. "Go to our, um, stations? Some here, some at the stairwells?"

  "Not yet," Demetrius said. "Let’s see what the elevator does."

  They stood and watched indicator light move along the buttons. Third floor…fourth. Boyd cleared his throat and shifted the extinguisher in his hands. The elevator clunked to a stop on the fourth floor.

  "That’s that."

  "For now."

  The other shaft groaned.

  "Great," Eileen said. "Here comes the other one."

  No one breathed. Then the lights started downward. Five exhaled as one. Miranda laughed. "A bit tense."

  No one disagreed.

  Then Brian said, "Let’s call them."

  "Who?" Boyd said. "The phones are jammed."

  "The elevators," Brian said. "Let’s push the buttons and call them to us."

  "Fuck that," Eileen said. "What are you, out of your mind?"

  "It does come across a tad extreme," Miranda said.

  Demetrius said, "It’s a brilliant idea."

  Eileen turned on him, their shared membership in the smoker’s club apparently forgotten for the moment. "Are you fucking brain dead? Bring them to us?"

  Boyd wanted to say something, wanted to back her up, but couldn’t find the words.

  Brian said, "It would disable the threat. Get the cars up here, stop them, and we only have to worry about the stairwells."

  Demetrius said, "And if there is someone inside, we deal with them on our terms, not theirs."

  "Oh shit," Eileen said, shaking her head. "This is all so god damned crazy. I guess you’re right. I don’t want them showing up if we’re busy with the stairwells."

  Boyd said, "Maybe if we just ignore them, they won’t show up at all."

  Everyone looked at him, looked away. No one said anything for a moment. Then Miranda reached out and poked one of the buttons.

  An elevator clanked into gear and began its groaning ascent.

  Boyd stared at the illuminated up-arrow button, reminded himself to breathe, and found it difficult, wanting to run, wanting to stand still, wondering if what he was feeling was some sort of panic attack.

  "Here it comes," Brian said. On the numbered display overhead, the second-floor light went dim, and the third-floor button lit.

  Then the fourth.

  "You guys ready?" Demetrius asked.

  "Shit," Miranda said. "I’m actually scared."

  The fifth-floor button lit.

  "We are so fucked," Eileen said.

  Boyd swallowed with difficulty.

  Then the sixth-floor light clicked to life, and the elevator thunked to a halt right behind the burnished silver doors.

  Demetrius shifted the statuette. "Here it is. Don’t overreact. Get ready with those fire extinguishers. Everyone set?"

  The doors slid open. The elevator was empty.

  "Thank God."

  Demetrius stepped inside, and Boyd heard him flick a switch. "That’s that. Stopped. Now send for the other. We get this one up and stopped, I’ll feel a lot better."

  No one spoke.

  Miranda pushed the button.

  Clank, groan. The elevator rose slowly.

  Second floor.

  This is it, Boyd thought. The bad thing.

  Third.

  It felt like his gut was filled with eels, all of them squirming.

  Fourth.

  Someone burped. No one laughed.

  Fifth.

  Shit, Boyd thought. Shit, shit, shit. He was front and center, standing shoulder to shoulder with Demetrius. He braced himself, extinguisher at the ready.

  The sixth-floor button lit. Thunk. The elevator
had arrived.

  What was that? Boyd thought he had heard movement inside.

  Then the heavy doors moaned open, and behind Boyd, someone started screaming.

  Involuntarily, Boyd fired a short puff of expellant. Foam clouded the air but did little to hide the corpse sitting inside the elevator, legs splayed, and even less to suppress the smells rolling out at them now, the bad smells of shit and blood mixed most unpleasantly with the flowery scent of old woman’s perfume. The old woman herself, whom Boyd recognized as one of the library workers, slumped in the corner beneath a large smear of blood. Dress and abdomen were ripped wide, spilling a mass of ruined viscera onto the woman’s lap. Her head lay against one shoulder, its neck obviously broken, and her upturned face stared at Boyd, the open, lifeless eyes already rheumy in death. The woman’s lower jaw had been torn free of its hinge, and one side of her mouth was ripped or cut so that way too much tongue jutted from its corner. Expellant foam settled like snow upon the open eyes and exposed tongue.

  Someone puked.

  The elevator clicked.

  "Wake up, Boyd," someone beside him said.

  "What?" Boyd said. He was locked onto the old woman. She stared back…

  "Get the doors!"

  The doors started to close, and Boyd grunted as someone pushed into him, past him. He saw Brian jam himself between the doors, stopping them; saw the doors open again, Brian turning toward the panel, trying not to step on the woman; saw him slip a little on the blood.

  The elevator clicked again. Someone calling it from below?

  Brian reached for the switch.

  That’s when something—no, Boyd realized, seeing it happen, not something, someone—dropped from above, and Brian went down hard, face first, the attacker on top of him.

  So much noise! Screams all around! Boyd was paralyzed, reduced to a pair of eyes and ears and a great pounding heart, watching as the guy on top of Brian, some guy with a ripped shirt and a shaved head, grabbed a handful of Brian’s black hair…

  Screams everywhere…all around Boyd, in him, leaving him, screaming in the car, screaming behind him…and flashes, movement, a flash of the old woman, her mouth open so wide—was she screaming, too?—and the guy on Brian, something in the guy’s hand, something that flashed in the light and disappeared as the guy dragged it under Brian’s chin… Then someone was going past Boyd, Demetrius, leaping into the elevator, shouting, "Stop!"