As she descended the stairs, she wondered what she might find beyond the parking lot. Would there be cameras? A news crew waiting for survivors? The FBI was probably staked out somewhere in delivery vans and ice cream trucks.
As she crouched in front of the front doors, watching for the infected, she wondered if she ought to go back for Gary. He was probably terrified, if the real Gary was still inside that infected body, in the dark and totally alone. It wasn't fair that he should die down there.
But then again, it wasn't fair for her to make the choice: risk her life or rescue a friend who might already be lost to her.
In the end, Sara chose Sara. She spent most of her day putting people ahead of her: clients, gym goers, colleagues, and friends. Her needs were always last, always at the bottom, and she wasn't going to ignore her most desperate need of all.
Survival. No way was she going back down there. No way was she descending into the dark to save a guy who, in the end, was a work friend and nothing more.
Gritting her teeth, she pushed through the Plexiglas doors and crawled along the side of the building, scuttling to freedom in the heat of the afternoon sun.
She was safe.
For now.
*****
Hank – Episode 3
"Do you think I want to work late?"
Hank heard his wife of almost fifteen years sigh dramatically through the phone, and he added, "Do you think I want to be here until midnight? Do you think I like the smell of teenage B.O. long after the little cretins have left?"
"Well, I just don't understand why you have to stay." She sounded just about as exasperated as he felt. Did she really think he'd rather be here, the high school that had been sucking out his soul since, well, he attended it all those years ago, than at home with her? It was late—too damn late to be here. If he were at home, he'd have his feet up on the footrest, a bottle of beer in one hand and a bowl of chips on his lap. Susan would be dozing on the other couch, as she usually did in front of the TV as they watched the late night news, and he'd smile at her like he always did before gently prompting her to go to bed.
Yeah, scrubbing floors and toilets and gym lockers sounded so much better than a night in with the love of his life.
"Susie—"
"I mean, this is the third week in a row where something like this happens," she continued. In the background, Rudy, their cocker spaniel mix, started wailing at something, and he smirked when his wife told him to can it. She cleared her throat before continuing, "Can't they make Bill or Louise stay late just once?"
"Bill was supposed to," he argued as he sat on one of the cushy couches in the teacher's lounge. "I was supposed to be done two hours ago and he was supposed to work the graveyard, but his kid got in a fight with another kid at the mall, and he needed to go down to the police station to sort it out."
There was a brief pause from his wife, a sign that she was unimpressed with the reasoning behind his late-night work hours. "Ah."
"I told him to go," Hank insisted. "Wouldn't you want to be there if we had a kid in jail?"
Five years ago, the mere mention of a kid or baby would have sent her into a crying, dry-heaving mess, but she'd come a long way since then. They had Rudy instead of a baby—they had incompatible downstairs parts, apparently.
"I'd probably let my kid spend the night in a holding cell," she said without missing a beat. "Maybe he'd learn something. Bill's kids are menaces."
"Yeah, well, it's done now." Even if those kids were neighborhood jerks, Bill was a good guy trying to be a good dad, and Hank wasn't going to hold it against him. He had tomorrow off anyway—he'd try to make-up the late night with Susie then. Maybe he'd cook her a fancy dinner and surprise her when she got home from her shift at the hotel, her feet sore from standing behind a reception desk all day, her head killing her from assholes arguing about reservations.
Yeah, that's what he'd do. He'd whip up a casserole to die for, and he'd grab a pie from the grocery store up the street. They'd both know he didn't bake it, but it'd taste just as good, probably better, than any of his bumbling attempts. Hank wasn't a world-class cook, but he'd entertained the idea of becoming a chef after getting a useless arts degree in college.
Lack of ambition, motivation, and drive landed him right back at his old high school, cleaning toilets and fixing cracked windows.
At least the kids liked him. Bill was a bit of a quiet guy, not willing to joke around when the teenage creeps were actually hanging around during school hours, and Louise loathed students for the mess they made day in and day out. Hank found it easy to connect. He liked to chat with the kids he knew. He had no problem cleaning the cafeteria after a hectic lunch period. Janitor wasn't exactly his life's ambition, but it wasn't exactly hell on Earth either.
But he'd definitely rather be home in front of the fire, watching Susie nap with her mouth open, the TV blaring in the background. Janitorial work was for the day, not night. Nights at the school were boring—and a little creepy, honestly. A big building for rich kids in the uptown sector of the city: it was supposed to look cold and clean and elitist, which meant there was no warmth for him on nights like this. Sometimes, he wondered if it'd be different at an elementary school: at least there you'd see shitty art hanging on the walls instead of sports plaques and "motivational" sayings. At least elementary kids were taught to clean up their messes at the end of the day: high school kids seemed to think it was a blessing they walked the halls—why would the blessed ones need to put their garbage in the bin or clear off a cafeteria tray?
Idiots. Interesting idiots who made Hank laugh, sure, but they were still idiots.
"Look, I'm not trying to drag it out longer than necessary," he promised, easing to his feet, his back ache worse now than it was at the start of his shift. "I've got a few classrooms left, then the gym lockers, then gotta take all the garbage out to the compactor. Should be another two hours, maybe three. Don't wait up."
"You know I will." She always did. Even if they lived in a better neighborhood now than when they were first married, Susan always waited up for him. Sure, she was usually asleep when he tiptoed in the front door, but Rudy's howls usually roused her. And then she was a real peach—just the friendliest wife in town. Ha.
"I'll give you a shout in an hour or so," he offered, knowing she liked to hear from him, and he'd do whatever it took to make her feel comfortable. "Let you know how the science labs look once I've buffed the little torch things."
"You mean Bunsen burners?"
He rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
"Just trying to help you stay hip with the lingo," she laughed, which made him smile. "Talk to you soon."
"Love you."
"Always," she said in reply, their usual sign-off for all manner of things. He hit the disconnect button on his phone, then stuffed it in his pocket.
To Hank, the staff room always seemed unnecessarily big. Why did they need such a huge space anyway? From his experience working days, most teachers spent their breaks and free periods in their classrooms anyway, so overworked and overwrought that they barely had a chance to escape for more than five minutes. Still, when they did have a chance to escape, good gravy what a mess they made. Coffee grinds littered the counter and dirty dishes filled the sink, and if Hank and the rest of the janitorial crew didn't do anything about it, the room would be coated in a permanent layer of dust. He knew it wasn't a teacher's responsibility to keep the place clean, but it was the duty of a human being to pick up after themselves.
Some people were spoiled, others lazy. The teaching staff at his old high school was a good mix of the two, and most didn't even acknowledge him unless he was cleaning up a spill in their room or showing them how to get the digital projector working—again.
He was midway through setting the clean dishes back in their appropriate spots when he heard something—something unusual. Nothing in the room could have made the sound, but Hank swore he heard glass shatter. Slowly, he set the mug in his hand on t
he counter, then glanced over his shoulder to listen more closely this time.
Sure enough, thirty seconds later it sounded like more glass breaking, and he knew he couldn't chalk it up to the building settling or the pipes creaking. Why anyone would want to break into a school was beyond him. Even if it was a fancier place than the public schools downtown, it wasn't like there was a lot of cash floating around. Pricey TVs, yes. A high-tech computer lab—definitely. But most of the lights were still on across the building, which was a security precaution while he worked. Even if it was only Hank, and occasionally one other janitor, after hours, the administration decided it was better to look like the place was hosting a party than to care about electricity rates.
Licking his lips, he reached for his phone and gripped it tightly. There was no point in calling the cops if it was just a couple students throwing bricks through the windows—or whatever kids these days did. It wouldn't be the first time a disgruntled teen damaged school property. In his experience, the high-ups preferred handling internal conflict on their own.
However, he wasn't about to get shot or stabbed on the off chance that it wasn't a couple of stupid kids throwing rocks at windows. He crossed the room swiftly and placed his ear next to the wall, flinching back when he heard the telltale sounds of people in the next room over.
"Damn it," he muttered, taking a few steps away and resting his hands on his hips. Susie was going to kill him, but he needed to be sure before he contacted the police. So, he moved as silently as possible, taking extra care to watch for creaking doors and scuffing shoes. Once he was in the hall, he could hear them better—sounded like a couple of guys… groaning? Maybe they were drunk. Just as he had experience dealing with hooligans who actually attended the high school, he'd also had the occasional drunk try to seek shelter in an empty classroom at night. It was especially bad in the winter, when the guys on the street tried to avoid the frost and sleet.
But it was spring, and maybe he wasn't close enough to catch any of the conversations, but it definitely didn't sound like they were talking to one another. They were all making noise, sure, but it wasn't anything coherent. Hank held his cell phone a little tighter, then stopped at the edge of the classroom's door. Drawing in a slow, steady breath, he waited for a few more moments, listening, trying to assess the situation, and then threw caution to the wind and peeked in.
Just as he suspected, there were a couple of guys milling around the desks—and they definitely looked drunk. Slow and lumbering, the duo bumped into desk corners and stumbled over chair legs. They were probably the most uncoordinated drunks he'd seen since his college days, and that was saying something. Frowning, he leaned on the doorframe and watched them, knowing full well he'd at least be able to outrun them should anything go sour. Behind them, two windows were shattered, big shards of pointed glass still stuck on the ledge. How had they managed to climb over that without gorging themselves?
His eyes widened when one of them turned toward him, Hank's phone falling from his hand. They hadn't managed to not gorge themselves—they'd definitely cut themselves on the glass. Ordinarily, these two would have been regular guys: jeans, t-shirt, spring jacket. But here, they were coated in blood, and Hank could barely bring himself to look away from the gaping wound in one guy's stomach—probably slit open from the jagged shard as he clambered into the room.
But it wasn't just blood from a wound that caught his attention. No, there was blood everywhere. From their faces to their shoes, they were absolutely covered in the red stuff. Some of it looked dry, while other stains seemed fresher—the bright, glossy red on one of the guy's fingers made him want to gag.
What the hell kind of situation had they just walked out of? Murder spree? Bar fight? Mass car accident? Were they drunk or just dazed? Did the blood belong to them, or had they attacked someone else?
Was he going to be a victim or a hero? Hank never wanted to be a hero—he preferred to just coast by in life, never sticking out in a crowd, never being called first for anything. He definitely wasn't going to risk himself for these guys if it meant going above and beyond…
That's what the police were for.
Still, it was hard to look away. Like driving by a car wreck on the freeway, all he could do was stare as the pair of blood-covered creeps fumbled their way through the rows of desks, only pausing when they staggered or seemed to fall. Their legs were… stiff, just like their movements. It was like watching somebody learning to move for the first time after a coma or something—neither was in control of their bodies.
Well, until they realized they weren't alone. The one farthest from Hank caught wind of him first, coming to an abrupt halt, his head snapping in Hank's general direction. The guy's eyes were like lasers as they narrowed in on Hank. That stare practically stopped his heart. The second guy soon caught on, staring Hank down with a fierceness that sent a shiver down his spine.
It wasn't until they started moving toward him, stumbling faster than he'd seen them move in the five minutes he'd been watching them, that he felt genuine concern. Arms outstretched, they snapped their jaws at him, biting the air, their eyes growing wide. Panicked, he grabbed the door and slammed it shut, fumbling for his keys in his pocket. This time, he actually did drop his phone, not caring about anything until he managed to get the door locked from the outside.
He staggered back when it sounded like a body threw itself up against the wood, a bloody face hovering behind the small Plexiglas window. Staring, Hank listened to one of them throw their bodies against the door, over and over again until the wood started to give a little with each hit. Cursing under his breath, he swiped his phone off the ground and raced back to the staff room, locking himself inside and rushing to the windows. He squinted into the darkness, watching as more human shapes lumbered across the soccer field just beyond the first floor of the building.
Nope. He wasn't about to deal with this kind of bullshit. Punching in 911, he brought his phone to his ear and quickly closed all the curtains. The emergency line rang and rang, a discomforting sound, and he paced the full length of the large staff room, waiting. When he didn't get through to someone on the tenth ring, he hung up and tried again. It was unlikely he was the only one trying to get a hold of the police, especially if there were more of those blood-covered drunks out there, but there should have been at least one emergency line open. Again, he waited, and then hung up forcefully on the twentieth ring, unable to listen to it anymore.
His ears perked when he heard something that sounded like a hand slapping the nearby window, and he wondered just how sheer those cheap curtains actually were. Shaking his head, he dialed the police once more as he slipped out of the room, using his janitorial master key to bolt the door shut. If any more of those guys decided to break in, he wasn't about to let them get into the hallways. Once they were in the halls, he had less of a chance to avoid them.
And avoiding them was the name of the game. Hank power-walked down the hall toward the main doors, figuring now was probably a good time to get in his car and head for home. He'd keep trying to reach the police, but any sane person could understand why he'd abandon the school in a situation like this. There was no way in hell he got paid enough to fight off a bunch of… whatever they were out there. They didn't seem drunk—the look in those guys' eyes when they realized he was there was enough to tell him that. Maybe they were on some other kind of drug? After all, there was probably a street drug out there that made people do some crazy shit, including breaking and entering, and maybe beating someone to death in the process.
The one thing he didn't get is how that one guy didn't realize he'd basically gutted himself like a fish climbing in through the window. No matter what kind of drug he was on, he must have felt at least a little or something: to Hank, the guy looked about thirty seconds away from losing his intestines. The ringing in his ear carried on, never once averting to a standardized message or a busy tone.
He passed the secretary's office and the principal's wing, hi
s stride long and fast, and only stopped once he reached the front door. All around him in the empty building, he swore he heard the sounds of more glass shattering, but he figured his brain was starting to play tricks on him—fear had a tendency to do that to anyone.
Unfortunately, he realized he wasn't the only one who thought the front door would be a good idea. As soon as he pushed through the metallic blue doors, leaning against them heavily, he let out a long, low groan at the sight of even more blood-covered people marching toward him. They didn't seem to be looking at him, exactly, but were instead focused on the big light fixtures overlooking the front entryway to the school. Like moths to a flame, they shuffled toward them, most with their mouths hanging open and their arms swinging limply by their sides.
"Holy hell," he muttered, slipping back inside and catching the door before it banged shut noisily. He went for one of the wooden benches in the foyer, ones students sometimes sat on while waiting to be picked up after the buses stopped running in the evenings, and then propped it up in front of the door. He might have initially thought he could outrun the two seemingly drunk idiots in the classroom, but he wasn't about to try to slip by the herd outside—not after those other two practically flew at him when they realized he was there.
No, at this point his best option was to wait for help. If the police and emergency services lines were busy, so busy that they hadn't answered any of his calls, then that meant something big was happening. People were probably calling in all over the neighborhood as they watched those bloodstained creeps marching down the streets, like the most depressing parade of all time. He was surprised he didn't hear the sirens yet: the school was nestled amongst rich homes and parks—not a bar in sight. If they were all drunk and stupid, they must have wandered in from somewhere beyond the nearby elites.
Z Walkers: The Complete Collection Page 7