Drink in case of Emergency

by Oliver, Carl

  His heart still racing in fear, Father O’Connell whispered a small prayer to himself as he saw a thick, wet, purple substance ooze from the back of the creature’s head, causing a dark stain to form in his hall carpet.

  Father O’Connell was reaching for the phone on his hall table to call 911, when he saw the books strewn about the floor. He saw his bible, faded and frayed from decades of use, opened to a verse he had read many times, but never put much stock into.

  1 Corinthians, verse 52.

  in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed.

  Father O’Connell had addressed many questions on this verse in his thirty plus years as a man of the cloth. It was popularized as a message dealing with the rapture, and he had always took this as false. But as he looked down at the purple stain growing in his carpet, he felt doubt.

  Was this a message from God? Were the end times upon us? Had he misunderstood the rapture this much?

  He had heard many theories on the subject, and most of the debate was in regards to the timing of when the savior would come again.

  We shall be changed. The words repeated in his mind. If this was the end, and if God raptured the souls of the true believers, leaving behind their bodies, as they would not need them in the kingdom of heaven, then why was he still here? He was a man of faith, how could he have been left behind?

  He looked down at the corpse which was staining his hallway carpet, and felt a shiver. This shiver was not one of fear, but of loss. He felt cold, and alone. Why was he still here, what could be the purpose?

  Father O’Connell was torn from his thoughts by a scream. The sound didn’t come from within the building, but from the street. He looked back out through the window and saw a woman, alive, and running from several of the creatures.

  We shall be changed.

  The words echoed through his head. He hurried to his window and was beginning to pull it open, to call to the woman and let her know that she would find safety with him, when the words began to take shape, to hold meaning for him.

  ...shall be changed.

  Not ‘could’ be changed, or ‘should’ be changed, but ‘shall’ be changed. It is God’s will. His people are meant to become these creatures, because in becoming them, we are set free. Our souls are able to cast off these mortal bonds, we shall be changed.

  I must do God’s work, his will. I must free them.

  As the realization dawned on him, he felt an overwhelming surge of hope and power. The breath of God passed over him to let him know he had found the truth.

  This is my purpose, to bring those that remain into God’s grace. To facilitate their change. I must serve a little longer before looking upon His face.

  He opened the window and shouted to the woman on the street below. “Turn right! That alley leads out into the park!”

  He watched through the window, as the woman, panicked and looking for any kind of help, turned down the alley he directed her.

  A dead end.

  A few seconds later, two of the creatures followed her. For almost a minute, Father O’Connell could hear her screams echoing off the buildings. Five minutes later, three creatures stumbled out of the alleyway and into the first rays of the morning sunlight. From his window, three stories up, Father O’Connell shed a tear of delight, as he had brought a soul to heaven.

  God works in mysterious ways.

  Chris woke with the sun glaring into his eyes. He rolled off the couch, roused Scott, and the two of them found Justin and Tyler in the office kitchen area, enjoying a cold breakfast of cereal.

  “I’m not sure how you do it every time, Tyler. I’m assuming it was you who was up first?” Tyler, mouth full of Captain Crunch, nodded at Chris’s question, but it was Justin who spoke next.

  “Anyone remember where the girls went?”

  “They went down to the second floor. Apparently there was a dental office of some sort that looked more secure than this place.” Scott mumbled as he began to pour his own bowl of cereal.

  “Do you guys remember making this list last night?” Chris looked down and saw the yellow legal pad in Justin’s hand, the first few pages wrinkled and covered in writing. Scott accepted it and started scanning through it, talking as he read.

  “I remember some of it, or at least the idea of it. I remember the idea of coming up with a list of things we wanted to do. I just don’t exactly recall what was on it.” His eyes danced down the first page, before flipping the page and reading the second more intently.

  “Build a....What’s this word?” Scott’s finger pointed at a place near the top of the page.

  “Treehouse. Build a treehouse in a giant redwood tree.” Justin replied.

  “That was one of mine.” Chris said as he poured himself a bowl of Captain Crunch. Not my best, but we were just throwing out ideas.

  “Who wrote ‘Get high and use flamethrower?’” Scott asked, eyes still on the page. Justin raised his hand, smirking sheepishly. Scott rolled his eyes and continued down the page. “Play hide and seek in a real haunted house. Fill a swimming pool with money and jump into it. Drive a tank.”

  “That one continues on the next page.” Justin said, he had clearly read the list thoroughly.

  “Drive a tank...through a shopping mall.” Scott stopped reading each one and simply browsed the list silently, he read on for about thirty seconds, turning the page and finally speaking up. “Paintball war with tuxedos. That’s just juvenile.” Tyler started chuckling to himself, Scott was not amused. “Seriously you guys, is this the best you can come up with? The world just ended, and you want to play paintball?” Tyler’s chuckle grew into a full laugh. Chris joined in with him. The laughter went on until Chris finally spoke up.

  “That was one of yours. You don’t remember writing it, do you?” Scott tossed the list back to Justin and sat down in embarrassment. He grabbed the box of Captain Crunch and poured himself an enormous bowl which began overflowing when he added the milk. Justin turned to the third page and picked up where he had apparently left off when the list had been taken from him.

  “Crash a cruise ship into England. I don’t know if that one’s going to be possible. I mean, I bet cruise ships require more than six people to pilot.” Justin looked around, searching his friends faces for support that this particular goal was a terrible idea.

  “Well pardon me for not being a realist after drinking a half bottle of vodka.” Chris said with a haughty look on his face. “Speaking of which.” Chris reached beneath the breakroom table and pulled out a half empty bottle of Grey Goose vodka.

  “I don’t think I could handle even the smell of alcohol right now.” Scott said, his face taking on a shade of sick at the sight of the bottle.

  “I’ve always been a ‘hair of the dog’ kinda guy myself.” Chris grabbed a can of Sprite, popped the top open, took a long gulp and then began pouring the vodka into the open space he had just created in the can.

  “Who cares how realistic it is, that list was just a draft. We can figure out a solid plan over the next couple of days.” Tyler said, hoping to smooth over the subject. He knew that Justin was likely still a little sore that this was part of their plan at all, instead of just looking for other survivors.

  The room fell silent for a minute, Scott rummaged through a box of groceries they had brought back and pulled out two bananas. Tyler, having finished his cereal, pulled out the papers he had liberated from Charlie’s office and was reviewing them. Chris simply sipped on his vodka Sprite and Justin continued reading the bucket list that they had created the previous night.

  “You guys gonna be ready to go soon?” Tyler mumbled, not looking up from his papers.

  “This might be a little bit vain, but is there any chance that there’s a shower in this office building? I smell like I’ve been on a two day bender, which, I sort of have been.” Justin sniffed his underarms as he made the statement.


  “I could really use a change of underwear too.” Chris said after another sip of his drink.

  “I think we could all use a full change of clothes. Switching over to something a little more functional for the potential end of the world seems like a smart move.” Scott said, his mouth half full of banana.

  “Functional? What kind of function are we dressing for?” Chris retorted. “Is there a dress code for the end of the world?”

  “No, but business casual isn’t exactly the best option for fighting or running from zombies.” Scott nodded to Tyler for his example. Tyler was in fact still wearing the khaki pants and yellow polo he had first put on over forty eight hours ago now. The khaki’s had various dark stains running down the leg from spilled beverages over the last two nights. The yellow shirt was wrinkled, dirt and stains covered the front and sleeves. Tyler hadn’t seen it yet, but the back of the shirt and pants both had dull green grass stains from their time laying in the grass while Beth and Justin fought, which seemed like a lifetime ago now.

  “I bet we could use the shower at Charlie’s house.” Tyler offered, holding up the paper he had been reading. It was a emergency contact form, filled out by Charlie with his address and other pertinent information.

  “I only see two issues with that plan.” Chris said. He had just finished his drink and was about to pour himself another. “Number one, Charlie doesn’t really like you. He did just fire you, after all.”

  “You don’t know how he felt about me!” Tyler yelled jokingly. “We had a close and emotional friendship that you could never understand.”

  “Which brings me to problem number two. There is an overwhelming chance that he is a zombie right now too. Or dead. If he isn’t a zombie, there is an overwhelming chance he is dead.”

  “Well either way, alive, dead, zombie, he’s getting punched.” Tyler closed his hand in a fist and shook it in a threatening manner. “And then I’m going to pee in his shower.”

  Scott reached out and gently took his hand. “If you punch him like that, you’re going to destroy your hand. And I don’t think there’s too many doctors around to fix up a broken hand.” Scott pulled lightly on Tyler’s thumb, pulling it out from under his fingers and letting it rest on top. “You can’t close the thumb inside, you definitely break it, then.”

  “That actually does bring up a good point.” Justin said from the opposite end of the room. “I’m all for you wailing on this Charlie guy, but do you want to wear boxing gloves? I mean, if he is a zombie, and it is something you can get if he bites you, wouldn’t you rather be safe than sorry? I bet it will still feel pretty satisfying to punch him with gloves on.”

  Tyler looked torn. Wearing boxing gloves, while being safer, and possibly more fun, wasn’t part of the way he originally pictured today happening. “I suppose I’d be up for it, but where are we supposed to get gloves, anyway?”

  “I just happened to see a svelte looking pair of boxing gloves at our friendly neighborhood MegaLowMart just yesterday.” Chris said cheerfully. He was now halfway through his drink and the twinkle in his eyes showed it. “And the price was right, Free ninety-nine.” Chris began to chuckle at his own pun.

  Scott didn’t want to give Tyler a chance to talk himself out of it. “So it’s back to MegaLowMart then? We wake up the girls, grab a few more supplies, maybe a change of clothes, and then go over to Charlie’s? We watch the ‘Rumble of Revenge’ and we can all get cleaned up then, too? Assuming that Charlie has a shower.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.” Justin said, rising up and grabbing one of the cans of soda from their stockpile. “Did anyone bother to grab any aspirin when we were loading up yesterday? I’ve got a bitchin’ headache.”

  “I know the front secretary always kept a bottle in her desk. Bottom left drawer if she didn’t move it.” Tyler gestured as he spoke, and Chris tossed him a soda as well.

  “You want one too, Scott?” Chris had another ready to throw, but Scott waived him off.

  “I’m good with water, thanks. Caffeine makes me all jittery when I’m hungover.”

  Scott grabbed an extra bottle of water and the four friends made their way back toward the stairs, stopping briefly at the reception area for Tyler to grab the aspirin and toss it to Justin, who popped a couple pills and stowed the bottle in his jacket pocket.

  Chris was the first to reach the door for the stairs, he pushed the long horizontal mechanism that unlatched the door and continued pushing until the door was fully open. He stood with his back into the door, holding it open for his three companions to pass in front of him. Scott, Justin, and finally Tyler moved through and began walking down the stairwell. Chris began to follow, letting the door close behind him.

  He was two steps away from the first stair when he felt a hard jerk pull him from behind. Chris first thought that the hood of his sweatshirt must have been caught on door somehow. He was about to mumble an obscenity when he felt a second tug, this time rougher, pulling him off balance so that he fell back, landing against a cold, solid mass. Cold panic ran down his spine as he reached back and felt a thick, cold hand gripping the hood of his sweatshirt.

  Now Chris had long considered himself a brave soul, maybe not the most courageous of men, but certainly brave enough to face death with dignity. He no longer felt this way about himself. Chris let out a muffled squeek, twisting his body to try to escape the grasp of his assailant. If his friends hadn’t been turning to face in his direction on the landing between the fifth and sixth floors, they wouldn’t have noticed until they reached ground level that he was even missing.

  Scott was in front, and the first to turn the 180 degrees on the first landing. His vision was pulled up to the motion above, and he locked eyes with Chris and saw sheer terror. He noticed the large dark shape looming in the shadows above Chris. Scott only had time to shout and point before Chris felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder. Chris jerked hard away from the pain and was able to pull his body away from the shadowy figure, but it still held onto the hood of his sweatshirt. For some reason, Chris remembered a video he had seen on the internet once, something about lizards escaping from predators by breaking off part of their tail. Chris threw his arms up and turned his head sideways. At the same time, he let his legs give way so he could fall straight down. The gamble worked. His body slipped through from the captured sweatshirt, just in time for his friends to run up the stairs, grab him and pull him away.

  As the immediate panic subsided, Chris was able to focus on what had attacked him. The shape was coming into view as Justin and Tyler pulled him down the stairs and onto the next landing. The shape walked on two legs, held his sweatshirt in one hand and the other hung limply at it’s side. Chris finally looked his attacker in the face and saw the cloudly blue eyes he was beginning to associate with danger. The eyes looked like they had once been black, or dark brown. The man who owned them was clearly of Hispanic descent, although Chris assumed that it didn’t matter much now. The zombie’s mouth was twisted into a grimace, showing white teeth and purple gums. The lips were smeared red, a trickle of Chris’s blood dripping down his chin. As the zombie stumbled out of the corner of the stairwell and down the first two steps, Chris could tell that he was wearing blue coveralls, and had a nametag on the left side of his chest. It read “Jesus.” As he was being pulled past the landing and down to the fifth floor, the shock subsided further and he realized that the stairwell was filled with shouting.

  “What the fuck! I thought you guys said we were safe in here?”

  “Shut up! Grab his other arm. Oh fuck. Chris. You better not die.”

  “How many other zombies got through?”

  Chris could tell it was Scott and Justin shouting back and forth. Tyler was ahead of them, he had opened the door to the fifth floor and was holding it so Justin and Scott could pull him through. The hallway that the staircase opened into was much darker than the stairwell had been. The carpet was thin and rough, Chris felt as Justin and Scott lowered him against a wall. His knees
dragged briefly and he felt what was sure to be a rugburn forming on his shin.

  Tyler had pulled the stairwell door shut and was pulling on the crossbar door handle to keep it shut. His breath was heaving, not from the exertion, but more the shock of what was happening. Justin and Scott were still screaming in confusion.

  “Why the fuck didn’t we check the stairwell, and where the fuck did we leave the guns? Fuck!” Justin was rubbing his head, his face flushed with anger and fear.

  “There is no way he could have gotten in from outside. We locked the ground level up tight.” Scott had a look of bewilderment. “And we left the guns in the boardroom. Amy didn’t want us drunk and armed.”

  “Jesus is the night cleaning man. I’ve only talked to him a few times. Usually when I forgot something in the office and had to get him to let me in the floor.” Tyler said solemnly, knowing full well that the blame for this fell squarely on his shoulders. Nobody else could have known there was a night janitor. “He must have been in one of the bathrooms or something.”

  The shock of what had happened was beginning to wear off, and a dull pain was registering in Chris’s shoulder. Looking down, he saw that Jesus had bit through the long sleeve shirt he had been wearing, as well as the lighter tee shirt below. It was a small hole through the fabric, all things considered. Before yesterday, he would have actually kept wearing the shirt, worst case scenario he could cut off the sleeves and wear them both as workout shirts for the twice per month he felt guilty enough to go jogging. His throat felt tight from the adrenaline that was still pumping through his system, but he managed to squeak a few words.

  “I’m okay. It’s okay.” Justin and Scott stopped arguing to look down at him.

  “What do you feel?” Scott asked, concern in his voice. Justin wasn’t as politically correct.

  “Are you turning? Do we have to cut your head off?”

  “I feel,” then the content of Justin’s message sunk in. “Cut off my head? Really? That’s your ‘go-to’? Decapitation?”