by D A Madigan
"I'm sure iCarly is fine," he said, as he sat in his recliner again. "It's just..."
His eyes fastened on the pictures scrolling across the TV screen. "What?"
A harried looking fellow Dan had never seen before was sitting behind what looked like someone's office desk. The man himself was light skinned; maybe mixed, maybe Latino, Dan couldn't tell. He was wearing a light green short sleeved polo shirt and looked more like he should be working a control board than in front of a camera. Papers were scattered haphazardly all over the desk's surface; even as Dan watched, a flustered looking young woman in jeans and a vintage Def Leppard t-shirt came running in from the left and handed him yet another piece of paper.
Someone else yelled from off camera "Hey, Chuck, you're green! You're green!" and the guy behind the desk straightened up and ran his hand across his greying hair, smoothing it down.
"Ah," he said, sounding light years away from the urbane smoothness of even a local news reporter, much less one of the senior correspondent/deities who stood up in front of national audiences at 6:30 pm every evening. "Um... sorry to break in like this. We... okay. This is important. My name is Charles Serta, I'm a technician here at Galaxy Cable, and we're trying to get some important news out on all of our broadcast channels, even the ones that wouldn't normally break into a broadcast to do so. So we apologize for interrupting your program, but we think this is important news. Ah..."
He seemed to remember the piece of paper he was holding in his hand, that the girl had just handed him. He smoothed it out on the desk and, making no effort at all to hold eye contact with the audience, started to read:
"If you have been watching some of your local channels, or one of the news channels, you may have seen reports of unusual outbreaks of strange and even violent behavior today, especially at hospitals and funeral homes. The purpose of this broadcast is to advise viewers in our coverage area that this is not a local or regional phenomenon. We have been monitoring this situation and there have been reports of similar outbreaks of extreme and deadly violence from all over the country... even some from outside our borders. Whatever is happening, it appears to be happening everywhere."
Someone from off screen yelled then "It's the zombie apocalypse! Tell 'em it's the zombie apocalypse! It's real! It's really happening!"
The man on screen half stood up and screamed "SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP! YOU DON'T KNOW SHIT!!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
There were sounds of scuffling coming from off camera. The announcer sat back down, ran his hand over his hair again, and resumed reading. "These outbreaks of violence appear to be spreading. If you are watching this from the safety of your home, we urge you to stay inside. You may want to barricade your doors and windows if feasible or retreat to a safe area... some place you can fortify and defend. These violent outbreaks are extremely dangerous and spreading unpredictably."
Vicki burst into tears. "I want Mom!" she screamed. "I want Mom right now!"
Dan sat in his recliner, fingers digging hard into the padded arms of the chair. Yeah, babe, he thought, almost idly, me, too. I want your Mom, too.
The zombie apocalypse. How the Christ could the zombie apocalypse actually be happening?
Dan was something of a zombie flick aficionado, so he was very well aware of how fictional zombie apocalypses had evolved and changed over the last thirty years of film making.
So he absolutely knew what the crucial question really was, if indeed the zombie apocalypse was actually kicking off right this very minute --
Fast zombies, or slow?
He got up and walked over to the couch where his daughter had been laying all morning, put his arm around her and held her, saying comforting words.
With his other hand, he parted the venetian blinds covering the front windows -- carefully. Not wanting anyone -- or anything -- that might be outside to register any kind of movement coming from his house.
He had to put his head down to peer through the narrow opening he'd created. The front porch was gloomy with shade this time of morning, of course. But the sun was out, and bright, on the front lawn and the street beyond it. Nothing looked strange or out of place for this time of day. There were cars parked at the curb up and down the street. Someone walking their dog on the other side of the street, heading down towards the small park in front of the police substation, maybe.
All very typical for this time of day on Douglass Boulevard just off Bardstown Road in the Highlands of Louisville, KY.
The last zombie flick Dan had seen, he and Sheila had watched together while Vicki was home with a babysitter. WORLD WAR Z. Scary as hell. What had impressed Dan the most about the movie was the abruptness with which everyone's normal, everyday routine had gone completely to hell once things started to go bad. One second Brad Pitt and his family were taking the two daughters to school like they did five mornings a week. Next second, a screaming horde of flesh eating zombies had descended on them with no warning at all.
Or course, Brad Pitt's character had been a hotshot UN troubleshooter with the sort of skill set you expected from Hollywood action heroes. Dan was an auto mechanic. If the zombie apocalypse was really jumping off here, well... you needed to keep your clunker running another week, Dan was your man. You needed to shoot your way through a horde of screaming zombies...
The first floor of this house was absolutely not defensible -- way too many windows that blood crazed ghouls could smash their way in through. The basement -- would be a deathtrap; there were great big windows along the upper halves of two walls that couldn't possibly be defended.
The upstairs -- maybe. One interior stairwell.
They'd just bought groceries yesterday. They had a pantry full of canned food -- he was automatically discounting anything in the fridge or freezer, God alone knew how long the power would stay on. They had some two liters of soda and a flat of bottled water they'd bought for Vicki to take to school in her lunches. They'd need can openers, dishes to eat out of, silverware... weapons?
Shit.
Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe...
Vicki had started up wailing again. "I want MOM! I want MOM! I want MAMA!!!!"
"Mama will be coming home real soon," Dan said, hoping to God it was true. He needed to call her. But she wasn't allowed to get calls on the floor where she worked, and she could get in big trouble if her phone rang...
Across the street, he saw the front door on the expensive Georgian with the grey front pillars open. Nothing new there, it was about time for the white haired, portly gent who lived there to come out with his wife's two poodles on leashes for their morning constitutional.
And out he came... but he didn't have any poodles with him.
He was wearing what looked like pajamas. Light green silk pajamas with white piping... and a huge dark wet looking stain all down the front of his torso. And smeared reddish black stains around his mouth.
He was walking more like a gorilla than an affluent elderly man... wide-legged, arms bent at his sides... eyes staring around him as if he'd never seen an autumn morning on Douglass Boulevard before. Head jerking back and forth like a bird of prey.
Dan felt something like greasy lead settle into the pit of his stomach. Unease... rapidly shading into dread.
The elderly man's stare seemed to rivet on something. His head went still. He turned, looking down the street in the same direction the dog walker had just gone...
...and with a bloodcurdling scream, he ran, with truly frightening speed, scrabbling and tearing at the ground with his hands, across his yard and down the sidewalk, in the direction he'd just been staring.
Jesus.
Fast zombies.
That was really really bad.
Dan's cell phone rang.
He hit the button, quickly. If there were any more nightmarishly strong, fast dead people wandering around within earshot (what was earshot for a zombie? did they hear? they sure as hell did in the zombie movies) he didn't want them hearing anything that would indicate ta
sty living critters inside his house.
He put the phone to his ear and heard "Babe, is that you? Listen --"
And then nothing.
Dan waited a second, then said, softly, "Hello?"
No answer.
He looked at the phone. It had his wife's cell phone number on it, and 'call ended' and the duration of the call -- 8 seconds.
8 seconds.
There was a Luke Perry movie about bull riding called 8 SECONDS...
"Was that mommy?" Vicki asked, sounding scared now.
"I think so, honey," Dan whispered. Focus, Danny boy, focus. No time for the old brain to wander into pop culture trivia, however much reality seemed to suck at the moment. "Listen. We have to be really quiet now. And we have to start moving some stuff upstairs."
Vicki instinctively started to whisper. "Why, daddy?"
Now, from outside the house, Dan could hear someone screaming. It sounded like it was coming from the direction his elderly neighbor had just sprinted towards. "O MY GOD GET OFF ME GET OFF ME GET OFF OOOO AAAAAAAAA GAWDDDD STOPPPPPPPPP DON'T DON'T DON'TTTTTTTTTT"
And then it stopped.
And Dan thought Now there are two of them. At least, two of them.
"Honey," Dan whispered, getting off the couch, "Mommy's going to be coming home as fast as she can. But I need you to go upstairs and wait for me. I'm going to get some stuff from the kitchen and bring it upstairs, and we're going to wait for your mommy there."
Vicki hopped off the couch. "I'm gonna help," she announced. Then she remembered, and lowered her voice. She looked at the TV screen, which was showing iCarly again, broadcasting from a world where there would never be a zombie apocalypse. "Are there... monsters, outside?"
Dan had no idea how to answer that.
Finally, he said "We need to go put all the cans from the pantry into boxes and bags so we can take them upstairs. We need a can opener and all the paper plates and plastic cutlery and napkins..." What else? The bottled water, absolutely. Something to barricade the stairway with, in case they got in... his office was upstairs, and he had a fireproof filing cabinet up there... it had nearly killed him and his brothers, getting that sonofabitch up there. Close the door to the stairway and put that bad boy against it and nothing was getting past it...
Take all Vicki's medicine and everything else in the medicine cabinets, too. Sheila's spare contact lenses.... they'd already be in the upstairs bathroom. What else? What else?
Was there anything in the house at all they could use for a weapon? In the movies, zombies always went down from a head shot. Guns were best, but Sheila refused to have a gun in the house. They didn't have a baseball bat. Hammers? They had a few hammers. Maybe some of the weight bars from the barbell set he rarely used...
He went and made sure the doors were all locked. Then he and Vicki got busy.
iii.
Fred was tapping his watch meaningfully at Sheila. "Your break has been over for two minutes," he said in his prissy little whine. "One more minute and it's an occurrence... and you cannot afford another occurrence right now, Sheila. I suggest..."
Sheila looked at him. Fred backed up a step. "Don't you give me that look," he said, his tone suddenly uncertain. Then he found his footing again. "Insubordination is punishable by termination. And I will not hesitate to... "
Jerry said, "Fred, you're a horse's ass. Are you even looking at what's going on on the TV?"
Sheila said, "Are we even getting any calls?"
Fred flushed. "What is going on on the television has no impact on our job duties! Whether we are getting any calls or not currently has no impact on your duty to your adherence! Jerry, I can write you up for insubordination as well --"
Jerry said, very quietly, "You're about to write me up for punching you in the face, douchebag. Get out of my face."
Bad dialogue, Sheila thought. A screenwriter would never have a character say 'face' twice like that so close together.
Weird, the things you thought of...
Fred's features became triumphant. "That's it, McCormick. That's all for YOU. Threats of violence in the workplace are an immediate termination offense. Sheila, you heard him. I'm calling security."
"Call 'em," Jerry said. "I think that might be a..."
Someone screamed.
The sound cut through the background babble of conversation like a guillotine blade chunking through a neck. In the sudden silence, Sheila and Jerry both looked around frantically, trying to see who was screaming and why. Fred was still glaring furiously at Jerry, but... over his shoulder...
The door in the corner with the glowing EXIT sign over it, that led out into a stairwell and the actual door to the outside, was open. Dawn was standing in the doorway, her employee badge in one hand.
Her blouse was covered in blood. It was torn away from one shoulder, showing a blood smeared bra strap, and what looked like several mangled bite marks on her arm and shoulder.
She was staring wildly around at everyone on the floor, like she'd never seen the call center, or even the inside of an office building, before.
Then she shrieked. It was not a shriek you would ever expect a human throat to produce – it seemed to contain a sheer raw animal fury, a primal hunger. It was the bellow of a predator sighting prey.
At least half a dozen other people started screaming in response. And exactly that fast, confusion and panic ignited. Sheila saw people turn to run away, jump up on their chairs or desks... out of the corner of her eye, she saw Victor from Sales hit the ground and crawl underneath his desk.
Dawn, her face twisted into a terrifying rictus of utter madness, sprinted straight at the person closest to her -- Kathy Perrino, a short, rather stout middle aged woman with curly brown hair who worked in the IT department. Nearly everyone on the floor knew Kathy was a cancer survivor and the curly hair was an expensive wig prescribed by her doctor and paid for with her healthcare FSA. Now Kathy screamed and tried to shove Dawn away, but Dawn was all over her, hands windmilling, beautifully manicured bronze painted nails hooked into claws, head whipping in and out like a striking snake, teeth snapping like a rabid dog's.
"God DAMN it," Sheila heard Jerry say, from no more than three feet away from her.
He turned, took four steps, and grabbed up his backpack from the corner of his desk. Turned back again, and saw her, standing there.
Grabbed her by the wrist -- afterward, Sheila never could figure why he hadn't just left her. They were bucket buddies, nothing more. But in that moment, when everything had gone to sheer bloody chaotic hell all around them, and she was just standing there staring like an idiot, Jerry hadn't abandoned her.
She always remembered that. Until the very second that she died.
"We've got to get ou --" she started to babble. Jerry shook his head.
"More coming in behind her," he said, yanking Sheila away, towards the other end of the floor. "We need to get somewhere we can fort up."
Sheila got a glimpse as he pulled her around and they started to run... there were, indeed, more people -- people? -- coming in through the door Dawn had opened with her badge. All of them in torn and bloody clothes, showing wounds of some sort -- bite marks? -- on their faces, torsos, arms...
Everyone was screaming now. People were running, slipping, falling. Someone crashed into a cubicle divider and knocked it over onto a desk; someone else shrieked from the the other side of it. The -- zombies? -- at the door were running into the crowd and grabbing people. Biting them -- tearing at their flesh voraciously with their teeth -- chewing and swallowing, gobbling down the warm flesh. It was horrific. Ghastly.
And not special effects. There was no TV or movie theater screen framing it off from the sedate, reliable everyday world of crappy jobs and utility bills and office birthday cakes for people nobody really liked very much.
It was real. The office building where she worked was being invaded by a horde of ravenous, flesh eating ghouls, and they would kill her if they could.
Jerry w
as pulling her behind him down the hall that led to the far corner of the floor. On the left side were doors leading into offices and conference rooms. Jerry glanced into the first one, then dragged Sheila inside it and slammed the doors closed behind them.
It was the large executive conference room whose entire outer wall was made up of four foot square panes of heavy glass. This was where the big shots... VP level and above... had their conference calls and... whatever else it was they did. The center of the room was taken up with a large, highly polished table that was no doubt made out of some really expensive wood. There was a mini fridge to the side stocked with bottled water and various sodas; rumor had it the locked cabinet behind the mini fridge held a well-stocked bar.
Jerry had pulled one of the straps off his backpack and was using it to lash the ornate half moon door handles on the conference room's double doors together.
Sheila felt the shock and numbness that had fallen over her like a blanket loosen, just a little. She pulled out her cellphone, brought up the address book, hit the entry at the top labeled MAIN MAN.
The phone rang just once and she heard what sounded like Vicki, in the background, crying and wailing. She said "Babe, is that you? Are you --"
The phone went dead.
Jerry was looking at her. "Drop the call?" he asked.
"I don't know," Sheila said. "I don't know. I heard something, and then..." The phone was giving her a fast busy now. "Just a busy signal."
"Someone probably drove into a cell tower," Jerry said. "It's gotta be a nightmare out there."
It's pretty nightmarish in here, Sheila thought, but did not say. Jerry seemed to be dealing with things well enough.
It was amazing how fast you adapted... the two of them had very nearly tuned out all the screams and other sounds coming through the closed doors. But now, something bumped hard against the doors from the other side. "Fuck," Jerry whispered.