by Stuart Keane
Worry about that later.
You need to get off this roof.
Taking a seat on the floor, Bruce kept his eye on the zombies and began to make a plan.
*****
Morgan hesitated and handed the shoes to Trent. "Thank you for that. It was … very kind."
Trent blushed and averted his eyes, placed the shoes on the counter, and ignored his female colleague as she swiped them away. He breathed out, unsure of how to respond to the appreciative woman before him. He scratched at a spot on his chin.
This is new.
A woman never thanked you before.
Play it cool.
Yeah, right.
He simply nodded. "No problem."
"No, I mean it. That's the nicest thing anyone has done for me in a long time. I don’t have the fortune to know … generous people." Morgan bit her lip, rueful. "I don’t suppose I've earned it before now, you know?"
"You're a shoplifter, karma was bound to bite you in the arse," the other woman chided. Morgan glanced up, her eyes narrowing. She sighed and chuckled. "Yeah, I suppose you're right."
Trent stepped forward, suddenly confident. "Ignore Dee, she just has a chip on her shoulder." He shot her a derisive glance. "Permanently, it seems."
Dee snorted. "I saved her arse, didn’t I?"
Morgan held her hands up. "Yes, you did. I really appreciate that. Thank you."
Dee folded her arms and grunted. "Did he really ask you to … you know?"
Morgan nodded. Said nothing as the memories stabbed at the inside of her skull. "What a psycho," Dee responded. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. I'm sorry when any woman has to."
Morgan remained silent. She eyed Dee, studied her closed-off expression, the folded arms and the dismissive manner. The fact the woman had come to her aid spoke volumes. A realisation slowly dawned on her. "He did it to you, too?"
Dee sighed. A heavy nod dipped her chin. "Yes."
Trent spun around. "What?"
"The circumstances were … different. I didn’t steal anything; he simply escorted me to the store one morning and asked me out. He seemed nice, genuine. A little bit of attention is always nice, and that doesn't happen often in this job. On the date, it was clear he was only after one thing. I declined a goodbye kiss or a further date, he got aggressive, and we haven’t spoken properly since."
"I'm sorry," Morgan said, returning the comment.
Trent nodded. "Me too. You should have told me."
"It's fine. He's clearly an arsehole."
"Speak of the anus himself," Morgan uttered.
The security guard strode back into the store. He paused and surveyed the premises, chest high, breathing rapid, his face beetroot with exertion. His left hand fiddled with his belt, the fingertips stroking the Maglite there. His hovering gaze stopped on Morgan. "You. You're coming with me."
She backed away a step.
The guard started towards her. Trent moved into action and blocked his path. "This matter is concluded. You have no authority here. You need to…"
With a meaty hand and minimal effort, the guard shoved Trent out of his way. The young boy flew into the counter and connected with the wooden surface headfirst. He collapsed to the floor in a heap, his glasses sliding across the tiles. Dee groaned, before stepping out from behind the counter. "Gareth, don’t do this."
Gareth paused and placed his hands on his wide hips. "Is the entire female species against me today? Get out of my way, Dee."
"No."
"I don’t want to hurt you."
"Meaning you actually would if needed?"
"Don’t force my hand, and you won't find out."
Dee refused to move. She watched Morgan move over to the fallen Trent, and collect his glasses from the floor. A brief smile crossed her lips. "Leave the girl alone."
"No, she's a thief, a fucking thief who stole from your store, and you're protecting her."
"She didn’t steal, she attempted to, and you know if you take her in that could prove costly for you. If … you know, what she said was true. Skeletons fall out of wardrobes, you know?"
Gareth rubbed his chin. "You'd dob me in?"
Dee smiled. "Don’t force my hand, and you won't find out."
Gareth clenched his jaw, revealing badly maintained teeth. "Okay. You win."
"Good. You're doing…"
Gareth lunged forward and grabbed Dee by the collar. As he hoisted her towards him and pushing his chubby face into hers, the anger frothed over. His eyes widened with the enthusiasm of a psychopath. Dee, terrified, could smell his sweat and body odour. "Get. Out. Of. My. Way," he hissed.
An explosive crash from outside shattered the tension in the room. Gareth dropped Dee and turned towards the sudden ruckus. Morgan glanced up. Trent stirred beneath her.
Across the thoroughfare, a green Ford Focus had embedded itself in the window of River Island, the rear of the vehicle tilted into the air. The wheels were still spinning, emitting smoke, and the brake lights glowed red. The car had obliterated the large double pane; glass tinkled and glistened from a thousand spots on the white tiles of the mall, the sunrays from the skylight above creating a beautiful light display. As the occupants of the shop paused, the sign wobbled and toppled onto the vehicle's roof, cracking in half. Morgan covered her mouth; she could hear muffled screams from across the way, a sound that added to the increased murmuring generated by the mall customers that were slowly surrounding the accident. Mobile phones flashed and stood proud.
Gareth stepped forward. "What the hell?"
Dee, holding her throat, looked at Gareth. "This is an indoor mall. How the fuck did a car get in here?"
No one answered. Logic vanished from the equation.
Then the screams started.
People began to run to the left, dropping their phones and sprinting from sight. Shoes squeaked and footsteps thundered. Morgan watched with total detachment, her brain throbbing at the bizarre events taking place before her. Trent sat up beside her, groggy. He groaned, holding his head.
Dee backed to the counter and lifted the telephone. She dialled a number, but no one answered. After seven rings, she placed the device in its cradle. "Gareth?"
"What?"
"Do something."
"Okay, okay." He flicked his eyes to Morgan, Trent and Dee, uncertain. "Wait here."
The front window exploded and a lithe figure leapt through the air. A primitive roar echoed around the shop as the figure collided with Gareth. Glass pattered the floor. The security guard crashed into the wall as the figure landed on its feet, rolled its shoulders, and howled.
Dee screamed and dropped behind the counter. Morgan shot to her feet. Trent climbed the counter to see what the noise was. All remained idle, silent.
Gareth climbed to his feet. Walking over, he thrust a hand out, pointing. "Hey, mister."
The figure turned towards him.
Gareth swung a fist and struck it on the chin.
The figure didn’t move.
The security guard yelped as his fist cleaved through the figure with no effort, like a hot knife through butter, destroying the lower half of its face and spraying its liquefied jaw and cheek onto the floor beside it with a soggy slap. The smooth swing knocked him off balance.
Which is when the figure struck.
Reaching out, it clutched Gareth by the neck and tore his head from his shoulders with one swift twist. A sickening crunch filled the space as Gareth died before their very eyes. The figure paused, growled, licked the severed spinal column that protruded from the neck stump and violently whipped the decapitated skull against the wall. It bounced to the ground like a flat football. Gareth's mutilated corpse collapsed with a thud.
Three violent seconds.
One. Two. Three.
Morgan screamed.
The figure gargled and shuffled to face the remaining people in the store. The backlit shop window displayed the remainder of its head as a ragged moon shape. Rolling its shoulders once
more, it prepared to attack. Another growl escaped its being.
Trent pushed Morgan, sideways, aiming for the back office behind the counter. Dee was holding the door open, prepared. As Morgan entered, she noticed the door was made of steel, several inches thick, and possessed thick iron rods at regular intervals down its side.
Trent followed her in, and Dee followed him. They stopped beside a cluttered desk and a battered chair, the stuffing poking out through several holes. Six filing cabinets lined the room, all overstuffed and dented. As they pulled the door closed, it thunked shut. Dee rolled the circular handle, locking it. The stifling silence filled with heavy breathing.
Trent adjusted his glasses. "What the fuck was that?"
"That…"
No one had an answer.
"Poor Gareth," Dee said.
"Fuck Gareth," Morgan spat. She held her head, breathing heavily. "Sorry, I didn’t mean that."
No one said anything.
"Is it still out there?" Morgan asked. Trent listened, but the thick door muffled any sound. He shrugged his shoulders. "Probably."
"Fuck this shit." Dee patted her pockets, and slid a box of cigarettes from within. Her hands shaking, she offered them. "Anyone want a smoke?"
Trent knocked them from her hand, a hint of trepidation in his voice. "Fool. This is a panic room. There's paper all around, and the air is limited. We could burn or suffocate. Should the vent break, we're dead, you know that right?"
Dee nodded, gaining her senses. "Right."
Trent returned to his original question. "What was that?"
Again no answer.
"We're safe in here, right?" Morgan whispered, running a hand through her hair. Trent watched her, and couldn’t resist a smile. "I mean … no one can get in … through there?" she said, pointing to the door.
"We're safe. It's like Fort Knox. We have a phone and a stash of food."
"What sort of shop do you run here?" Morgan uttered, bemused.
"A prepared one," Dee replied.
"That chip I told you about?" Trent said, smiling. "Becoming a little clearer?"
Morgan nodded.
"We have cameras, a phone, and if I keep my cravings under control, a healthy supply of air." Dee stepped around the desk and opened a thin locker. Inside sat a monitor with a keyboard and two computers. Blue lights flashed and hard drives whirred, the fans keeping them cool. She leaned in and peered at the screen.
And saw the strange figure looking back at her.
It was standing on the floor below, head arched, its shadowy face hidden but staring into the camera. Dee watched as its head tilted slowly, as if analysing something. The low light beyond caught the gaping hollow in its face.
"Jesus, what the hell is that?"
"And more important, how can it growl without a mouth?" Morgan added.
Silence filled the room as all three of them watched the solitary screen.
FOUR
The unnatural silence struck Sean Harrison as odd, but as he ventured through the police station doors, and moved deeper into the quiet building, odd soon morphed into bizarre, overshot weird by a country mile and landed in eerie territory.
The patter of keyboards, gone. The hum of stifled conversation, non-existent. The whirr of machinery now mute. General sounds of the average police station no longer pricked at his eardrums. Harrison frowned as he turned left at the empty reception desk and entered the bullpen. He spun in a full circle, and forced himself to believe the peculiar sight before him.
The lack of sound soon became an afterthought.
The station was empty.
Not one person sat behind their cluttered desk, conversed at the water fountain, or scribbled endless commands on the huge whiteboard. No one slammed a door in frustration or rage, or tossed a tennis ball in a brief respite from the heavy workload. Coffee cups remained inert, papers unshuffled, and computers idle.
No one was here.
A forty-strong police force had vanished.
"Hello?" Harrison called out.
*****
"I think that’s all we have time for today," Melanie purred, putting an end to the session.
"The sessions always go so quick," David replied, standing up. He brushed his shirt, wiping away nothing in particular. "It's a shame. I feel like I'm getting somewhere with you."
Melanie nodded, cautious. "You're making progress, but we don't want to force it, rush it. Sometimes therapy is quick, but on occasion, it takes time. You need to let the thoughts sink in, let the session take effect. It takes a little commitment."
David smiled. "Oh, I'm committed." There was an edge of uncomfortable enthusiasm to his statement. "I thought I would hate therapy, but now … I wouldn’t miss this for the world."
Melanie forced a smile, a tremble of doubt creeping into her thoughts. "Same time next week?"
"Sure." David moved for the door, turned, and held out a hand. "Thank you, Melanie."
"Dr. Bartram, please," she replied, her voice strangled.
She delivered on the handshake. David pulled her hand to his lips, and kissed the back of it. The skin felt smooth and soft, and smelled of lavender. He resisted the urge to sigh deeply.
Melanie pulled away slowly. "That was … inappropriate."
"I'm sorry," he lied. "Was that too far?"
"Yes, in all honesty. You're in therapy for sex addiction. Intimacy, even friendly or polite gestures, is something we should refrain from. For the good of the sessions. Keep it business-like, okay?" She opened the door for him and stood aside.
David ran an approving eye over his therapist. She spent most of their sessions sitting down, legs crossed, bosom amplified by her crooked posture, but his favourite part was the very end, when she stood upright, her full figure on show. The curves of her hips, the shape of her legs, the natural settle of her bosom, and her curvy form. He gambled that a gym and tennis courts took pride of place in her restricted downtime. Again, he resisted the urge to sigh.
"Goodbye, Mel … Dr. Bartram."
"Goodbye."
He exited the room. The door closed behind him with a clunk.
After a little hesitation, he ambled over to the reception desk. Leaning on the elevated wooden surface, he drummed his fingertips in an attempt to get the attention of the woman behind it. After a long moment spent in a typing daze, she glanced up at him with beaten brown eyes. She forced a fake smile and greeted him. "Yes?"
"Hello. I just wanted to check my appointment with Dr. Bartram is scheduled for next week."
"Again? You do this every time."
David nodded. "You can never be too sure."
The woman sighed, her face illuminated white by the screen in front of her. She clicked a few keys, and looked up once more. "Yep, you're booked in. As always."
"Thank you."
"Oh … and you've been asked to remain in the office," the woman added.
David frowned. "Huh? Why?"
"Dunno. Some bloke came in a few minutes ago and asked us to remain inside. I'm not sure why."
"It's in your nature to listen to any random person who walks in off the street?"
"No. We're secure up here. No one can enter without a key card, and he was dressed in uniform. You know, badges, weapons belt, hat that resembles a pert tit, the whole nine yards. He seemed pretty serious. He didn’t have a doughnut in his hand or anything," she chuckled.
"A police officer?"
She nodded. "Well, duh!"
"Great," David uttered. He moved across the room and slumped onto a leather sofa. The material squeaked beneath his rump.
"Can I get you a coffee?"
"Might as well. There's nothing else to do." He smiled and added, "Please."
But inside his head, David was already thinking of an elaborate excuse to spend more time with Melanie Bartram. His leering gaze latched onto her pale oak door, the red In Session light above it blazing away. He knew she was alone; no one had passed him since his exit moments ago.
H
e remembered her beauty, her curvaceous figure.
Those eyes.
Those legs.
Those…
David smiled.
He just needed one good idea…
*****
She counted the eightieth minute in her head.
Sixty seconds for each, eighty times over.
A slow, convoluted procedure against the backdrop of the boiling terror that subsided deep in her stomach, with the graphic events that had played out before her very eyes. Resisting a natural scream had dried the walls of her throat, which in turn brought on the urge to hack and cough, another noise she'd withheld. Shutting down her body with the chaos around her had been difficult, one of the hardest things she'd ever had to do. Eighty minutes was a short period, but on this occasion, it had been agonising and torturous.
Torturous, but vital.
To ensure she was safe.
Four thousand, eight hundred seconds in total. A fraction of her mundane life, yet possibly the most crucial to date. Eighty minutes that could have swung from one extreme to the next, from guaranteed survival to a gruesome, painful death.
And although she'd heard nothing but heavy silence for the last thirty-two minutes—if her math was correct—she'd remained still and idle, and subdued her panicked breathing. She'd fought the need to vomit, fought the urge to cry and scream and give away her location.
She fought to stay alive.
I need to get out.
I need to…
What?
Help?
Fight them? You can't fight them, they're too quick, too fast.
Just look at your fallen comrades.
They didn’t stand a chance.
Naomi Goodright flicked a wary glance over to the fallen figure of James Anderson, his stocky frame nothing but a slush pile of mutilated flesh and bone, his uniform tattered and torn by unyielding teeth and claws and grasping appendages. The stench of copper in the room was pungent and bitter, almost overwhelming. Had movement been a valid option during those eighty minutes, Goodright would have wiped away the hot tears that streamed down her blood-soaked face.