by White, Ben
Better get to work.
Imogen sighed, took a few small breaths, then began trying to work herself free, moving her shoulders and arms and kicking hard with her legs—
"AAAAAH!"
Lances of agony shot through her, gripping her body and squeezing tight—Imogen choked on the pain, gagging as nausea filled her, hands clenched tight as she writhed and moaned.
My leg, Imogen thought, as she lay there gently whimpering. My right leg. There's something really wrong with it. Broken? Oh god I hope not. That's all I need, a broken leg, that's ALL I need. This is going to make getting free so much harder. Maybe I should just forget it. Just lie here and wait for someone to come rescue me. If my leg's broken then moving it would be bad, right? So just lying here would be the—
Imogen froze mid-thought, her eyes wide. The air was still and far too warm, not even the slightest trace remaining of the killer winds that had caused all of this. It was silent, eerily so ... except for a single noise.
Something thumping against the ground.
Something being dragged.
Something thumping against the ground.
Something being dragged.
It was close, and getting closer. One of the people the wind threw against the building, Imogen realised. Legs broken. Dragging themselves forward. They're coming this way, soon I'll—
A hand appeared from around a pile of BioCrete!tm and slim supports, just a few metres away. It was scratched and bleeding—no, not bleeding. Just bloodied. This close Imogen didn't need her glasses to make out details; there was a simple gold band on the index finger, and it was too delicate a hand to belong to a man. The fingers scrabbled at the ground before finding purchase on the smooth white material, then with a single powerful motion the wounded girl dragged herself forward.
There was a moment of complete stillness. Imogen had locked up, utterly unprepared for what she was seeing, unable to comprehend the sight before her.
The girl was dead. There was no question of this; she was missing half her face. Imogen could see inside the girl's skull, a thick mess of brown-grey sludge, white bone jagged and broken around it. Her left arm was stiff and her fingers were broken, the flesh torn away, sharp gore-covered bone all that remained. Her right arm had been torn off at the shoulder, nothing left but a sodden mass of cloth and dead blood.
Her right eye was missing.
Her left eye was wrong.
It bulged from its socket, no pupil or iris or anything visible except for that sickening brown goo. Some kind of thin yellow liquid trickled from the malformed organ and down the girl's cheek, staining her skin and what remained of her clothes.
While Imogen had lain there frozen, staring, the dead girl had reached out to drag herself further forward. She had no legs. In their place was a long tail of red-brown guts, thick and glistening sticky.
Something in Imogen's head changed, a switch labelled 'DO SOMETHING DO SOMETHING GET AWAY RUN WHY ARE YOU JUST STARING YOU IDIOT RUN!' had been flicked, and she began struggling against the blocks covering her, thrashing her arms as hard as she could against them, working her good leg against whatever resistance she could find.
With an audible click the girl's head snapped around. Her mouth opened, strands of brown filth connecting upper lip to lower, and with a horrible lack of noise she brought her arm stiffly around to drag herself towards Imogen.
"No," Imogen breathed, hands shaking as she desperately tried to free herself, blocks of BioCrete!tm avalanching down—but she was still stuck, couldn't get a grip, couldn't find anything to push against, and the girl was coming, her broken fingers grasping against the ground, glistening entrails leaving a dead brown trail behind her, and she was making a noise, she was close enough now for Imogen to hear it, a low rumbling that came from deep in her throat, like a cat, she was purring, she was purring and that should have been ridiculous but it wasn't, it was the most terrifying sound Imogen had ever heard—
With a harsh shriek Imogen managed to wrench her right arm free of the blocks, scattering them everywhere, and with this another minor avalanche of the wretched useless things came cascading down—Imogen grabbed at them, desperate fingers clutching hard, and with a defiant cry she hurled a hunk of BioCrete!tm at the dead girl.
It bounced off her forehead and came to rest a metre away.
The dead girl didn't so much as flinch.
The purring noise was louder now, the dead girl's closeness bringing with it a nauseating sour-sweet smell that filled Imogen's head as she pushed desperately with her good leg, only managing to dislodge further blocks, she was just as stuck as ever and now the girl was reaching out, crawling up over the blocks—and then falling back. The blocks of BioCrete!tm shifted beneath the dead girl and she slid down with them, the rumbling purr growing louder as she clawed at the air, searching for solidity.
Imogen was still struggling, crying now in fear and frustration, her breath coming in ragged sobs as she tried to get her other arm out, tried to pull or push or wriggle or ANYTHING her way free, but without anything to push against it was impossible, all she could do was squirm uselessly as the dead girl found her grip, as she dragged herself up the pile of BioCrete!tm, as she slashed once more at Imogen's face—
Utterly helpless, Imogen was unable to do anything but scream as the dead girl's sharp bone stumps tore against the BioCrete!tm near her.
She missed. She missed! Frenzied hope rose within Imogen as she tried once more—
My leg. My other leg. It hurt when I kicked with it; I was pushing against something solid.
The dead girl's purr had grown into something like a snarl now, deep and raw as she clawed at the blocks, searching for the living flesh she knew was close, her head arching back as something caught her attention, as she found her prey, and her hand came around in a horribly fast arc towards Imogen's face—
Imogen scream of agony became a choking gag as she pushed as hard as she could with her right leg, a horrible wrong feeling deep inside even worse than the pain as she forced herself a few inches out of the BioCrete!tm blocks. The dead girl's hand scraped against the leather of her jacket—and found a grip. Imogen shuddered violently, near paralysed with fear and shock and pain and nausea, the stench of the girl almost a physical force, her face just inches from Imogen's, her mouth open wide as she lunged forward—
"NO!"
Imogen brought her left arm around in a desperate punch, the impact against the side of the dead girl's face sickeningly moist, and suddenly the dead girl's cheek was against hers, so hot it almost burnt, she could feel the girl's jaw moving, could hear the deep vibration of her harsh purring, and for a second they stayed like this, in this perverted embrace, before Imogen reached up and grabbed whatever she could, her fingers sinking into hot, yielding goo as she got a grip on the edge of the dead girl's exposed skull, and as the dead girl thrashed stiffly against her Imogen pulled as hard as she could, kicking with her good leg and scrabbling against the blocks, wrenching herself free of the cursed things with a wild, desperate yell. With an almost convulsive movement Imogen managed to get herself further up, the dead girl losing her grip on her jacket as she tried to claw at something soft, tried to bite at Imogen's stomach, her teeth clicking together so hard that Imogen could hear them breaking inside the girl's mouth. With no other choice Imogen pushed herself over, releasing the dead girl's skull as she rolled over her back and down, tumbling down the BioCrete!tm to the firmness beneath.
For long seconds Imogen lay there, face against the white ground, wheezing and snuffling and crying and winded, then she forced herself up, to her hands and knees as she scrabbled away, a low, raw purring coming from behind accompanied by the clinking of falling blocks, she looked back as she crawled to see the dead girl's arm raised high, clawing at nothing as she tried to turn in the unstable heap of blocks—suddenly Imogen remembered the drop, stopped herself a metre from the edge, her breathing shallow and fast now, too shallow, too fast, the beating of her heart hard and loud
and frantic—
Imogen took a breath, but that didn't help. She looked back again, still on her hands and knees, at the dead girl struggling to free herself from the pile of blocks. It's okay, Imogen tried to tell herself. It's okay, she's trapped, but that didn't help either, she could feel panic and terror still inside her, suffocatingly heavy, she tried to take another breath but it wouldn't come, her throat had tightened and her lungs were empty—
Get away. Just get away. That's all I need to do. That's what I HAVE to do—stand up. I have to stand up, I can't crawl, I have to stand up, it doesn't matter about my leg, I'll deal with that, I can't be down here, I can't be like her—
Imogen hissed in pain as she tried to push herself up, the pressure on her leg too much—with clenched teeth she crawled away from the edge, away from the heap of BioCrete!tm with the dead girl clicking and purring and scrabbling within, towards the entrance, the hallway with the wide glass windows—
Except they weren't windows any more. Surrounding the entrance, the only way back inside, was a field of broken glass, shining in the bright sunlight.
There were more piles of BioCrete!tm near the rippled side—or what used to be the rippled side—of the building, but closer to the hallway the wall was solid enough for Imogen to pull herself up and slump against, panting, exhausted and hurting and with sour-sweet brain muck under her fingernails, in desperate need of comfort.
With shaking hands, she reached into her jacket and pulled out a flattened packet of cigarettes and her lighter. Trying to ignore the cold, liquid pain of her injured leg, she managed to get her lighter to catch on only the seventeenth attempt, and soon after that she was holding a lit cigarette in her trembling hand, a thin line of smoke trailing up from its end.
For some time she stared at it, almost frowning, then with a sudden, jerky movement she brought it to her lips and sucked in a welcome breath of calming fire. She held it inside her then let it out with a long, shuddering breath, coughing a little before greedily sucking in another lungful.
After half a minute of this Imogen was almost feeling sane again—her hands had stopped shaking, at least, and she was far enough away from where she'd been trapped that she couldn't hear the dead girl's purring, and her leg wasn't broken, she was almost certain of that, she couldn't put any kind of weight on it but from what she'd read if it was actually broken she should be screaming in pain from her foot even touching the ground—
And then Imogen heard the howl, and all feelings of comfort and security left her in an instant, replaced by a chilling dread.
It was deep and hard and so low it rumbled in the gut. The howl hadn't come from the dead girl in the BioCrete!tm, it had come from below, from somewhere distant—and yet in this still, warm air it had carried all the way up here.
Slowly, not really wanting to but somehow compelled, Imogen half-limped, half-hopped closer to the edge, looking down through the thin red supports to the promenade below.
There were dozens of them.
Most were crawling, like the dead girl who had attacked her, their legs missing or otherwise useless, dragging themselves along with one or both arms. Others were upright and walking—if the shambling, stiff-legged gait they used could be called 'walking'. They seemed agitated and somehow purposeful, all of them slowly moving in a single direction, towards the left, although Imogen couldn't see any reason for this. Without her glasses she couldn't make out details, but the blurriness of the scene below didn't make it any less horrific.
With a quiet, shaky exhalation, Imogen moved away from the edge, hopping towards the wall and leaning heavily against it. She noticed she was holding a half-smoked cigarette in her hand, and she raised it gratefully to her mouth and inhaled as she tried to fit her head around what was happening.
The sound of clinking from further along the outlook made her turn, but she couldn't see anything. The dead girl, she thought. Still trying to get free. Eventually she'll succeed. I have to get out of here. I have to get ...
Oh my god.
"Zack," Imogen whispered. She'd left him alone in that corridor—the outside of the building had been stripped bare, little more than the supports and piles of BioCrete!tm remaining, what about the inside? Had it held together? The wind had been strong enough to shatter the glass of the hallway here, what kind of—
Imogen's cigarette dropped from shaking fingers.
The hallway was a mess, broken glass and brightly coloured paper and the remains of potted plants strewn everywhere, scattered by the merciless wind.
Standing amongst it all, staring at Imogen, was a dead man.
He was covered in glass. Shards of it stuck out from his body at all angles, from his legs, his torso, his arms ... and from what remained of his face. Through shocked terror Imogen found a small place in herself that was grateful for her poor eyesight; what little detail she could make out was horrible enough.
No eyes, came a sudden, clear thought. He doesn't have any eyes. He can't see me. That's why he's just standing there. He doesn't know I'm here.
And instantly came another thought, even clearer than the first; so then why is he staring at me?
With great care Imogen shuffled forward, her right foot dragging behind. The dead man was in the centre of the hallway, at least a couple of metres away from the wall—if I follow it like this, Imogen thought, and if he doesn't move, I can get past him. But if I just wait here and he comes out I could be trapped.
And so Imogen made her slow way along the wall, shuffling and hopping, wincing as shattered glass crunched beneath her boot—the dead man didn't hear, or didn't move anyway, so that was something, at least—and wincing further as she dragged her foot through it—her boots were tough but that didn't make the experience of walking over broken glass any more pleasant. As she rounded the wall and got closer to the dead man a spark of hope rose inside Imogen—he's staring at where I was, she thought, not where I am now. He doesn't know where I am. I can just slip past him and inside and then—
Imogen gasped and nearly tripped over her feet as a chilling howl sounded from behind her—glancing sharply back she saw that the dead girl had managed to free herself from the crumbling blocks and had dragged herself out, that she had raised herself up as high as she could on her one good arm, that her head was arched back and that she was crying out long and low.
It was only for a second that Imogen stared, before an answering purr from the dead man made her look back at him—he was shuffling towards her, his voice jagged and weak, his movements slow and awkward. Imogen took a trembling breath as she resumed moving forward, as fast as she could, her hands against the smooth wall as she crunched through the glass. The dead man was close, just a few metres away, but he could barely move at all, the way he twitched forward an inch at a time as pitiful as it was disturbing—
With a gurgling purr the dead man pitched forward, arms outstretched, and Imogen screamed as stiff fingers and shards of glass scraped hard against her side—with a repulsed, shuddering flail she fended him away but his hand caught on her sleeve and they both went down, hard against the glass-covered ground. The dead man was still gurgling and purring, the rumble low and desperate, his hands scrabbling at Imogen as she struggled to push herself away—pain shot through her right leg as it hit against the wall and through her hands as she cut them against the glass shards, but with a final heavy push Imogen managed to get away and grab at the wall, and from there she regained her footing—the dead man snatched at her ankle but Imogen staggered away, another flash of pain almost blinding her as she was forced to put weight on her bad leg, and then she was leaving red smears against the wall as she stumbled away from the dead man and into the hallway, half-hopping, half-shuffling over bright comic book pages and spilled soil and dying plants and lush blue carpet as another howl came from behind her, weak and gurgling—
With a gasp that was almost a shriek Imogen felt the floor slide out from under her, only just managing to catch herself before falling—she'd slipped on t
he glossy paper of a comic book page, and she cursed all comic books as she steadied herself and continued on, along the corridor, towards ...
No. Not towards. Away. This wasn't the direction she'd come in from. She was heading away from the stairs she'd come up—
Imogen shuffled to a stop, her breathing ragged and tearful. Too hard, she thought. This is all just too hard. I can't even walk without a wall to lean on. My hands are cut. I'm bleeding. This is too hard.
The other side of the hallway had a rail along the wall. Imogen stared at it, then hopped slowly across to lean heavily against it.
She stayed like that for a minute.
Then another minute.
Awareness came, of something further up the corridor. There was a door there.
SUPPLY CLOSET: KEEP OUT.
Inside. It was dark, except for the ghostly glow of an emergency flashlight beside the door. Imogen pulled it off its holder and it burst into life, shining directly into her unwary eyes.
It went down on a shelf, its beam bright against the plastic bottles opposite.
There were a couple of large square buckets stacked up in the corner. Imogen took one of these, upended it, and sat down. For a long moment she did nothing. Nothing but breathe, ragged and uneven and wheezing and frightened and confused and exhausted.
Then Imogen put her face in her bleeding hands and her elbows on her knees and she quietly sank into despair.
Imogen didn't know how long she stayed there, in the dark little supply closet, but by the time she sat up and blinked and started thinking again her hands were gummed to her face with sticky blood, and the sound they made as she peeled them off was anything but pleasant.
There was a medical kit attached to the wall. Once Imogen figured out the unnecessarily complex push-together-then-pull-out latch system it sprang open, spilling most of its contents onto the floor. Still inside was a small blue and red bottle of spray bandage, which Imogen took out, looked at, then sprayed over her left hand.