Staring down at the smiling television family, her mind raced. He would never leave this stuff here. Oh, God, what happened? Did I accidentally lock him inside the building last night? Is he okay? Where is he? Why didn't he call somebody?
A loud clack noise drowned out the rain. It sounded like someone had hit or thrown something against one of the large windows that overlooked the courtyard and the park between the library and retirement home. Turning to look she belched as her stomach rolled crazily. The long row of windows required a few seconds to take in. Other than the thick gray somewhat gauzy looking fog beyond the glass there was nothing to see, or at least she hoped that was the case. It was only there for a fraction of a second if indeed it had been there at all. The shape of a person with its face pressed against the glass was only glimpsed out of the corner of her eye before she turned to see it better. But then it was replaced by the dark fog and rain... IF, indeed, it had been there at all.
“Overly emotional women are frequently given to bouts of hysterics and hallucinations when under stressful circumstances. It's one of the many reasons a jury and trial witnesses should only consist of men. Indeed, I should not feel embarrassed by your natural inclination toward unreasoning fear if I were you,” Sherlock commented in his maddeningly sympathetic tone of voice.
“Oh, just shut the crap up, you goofy hat wearing chauvinistic goober!” Brianna yelled then quickly slid a mint from her pocket into her mouth. It helped to kill the taste of the nasty bile belch that was caused by the sound, the blood, her imagination running wild, and the entire situation in general. She rolled the mint with her tongue and sucked on it while staring defiantly at the windows as if daring something to present itself. Nothing did.
“He might be a goober, but he's right. You need to calm down and focus. You should go see if Mr. Schwartz is alright. Follow the blood trail,” Nancy Drew advised in a soothing and far less annoying tone of voice.
“It would be more prudent to telephone for the constables first then perhaps investigate the trail,” Holmes insisted.
Brianna clutched her head with both hands and covered her ears while muttering. “What is wrong with me? Why am I hearing voices in my head?”
Both Miss Drew and Holmes began speaking, taking turns. “You're a woman alone in a building and possibly suffering from terror induced hallucinations.”
“Don't listen to him, you're okay and can handle things.”
“I never suggested she couldn't handle the situation. But you should pick up Mr. Schwartz's umbrella and be ready to use it as a weapon, just in case your nosebleed theory proves to be only wishful thinking. I believe there is significantly more afoot than you are willing to suspect.”
Brianna took a deep steadying breath before saying, “If you guys don't shut up, and I mean right now, when I get home I'll pack up my entire collection of your books and drop them off at a thrift store.”
Blessed silence descended, but she decided the umbrella suggestion might actually make sense. After picking it up from under the desk she pressed the button that caused the umbrella to extend to double its length but didn't open the clasp that would have the nylon material to spread open. I don't believe in bad luck, but opening an umbrella indoors might be pressing my luck in general, she thought while experimentally swinging the umbrella as if it were a club.
She followed the blood droplets, feeling a bit silly holding the umbrella up over her head, like a weapon. The trail led to the short hallway that had two doors leading to the restrooms and a water fountain located between them. It appeared the droplets led into the restroom with the word MEN written on the door. She felt even sillier but couldn't bring herself to simply push open the door. After rapping the wooden door a few times with her fist, she called out fairly loudly, “Mr. Schwartz, are you in there? Are you okay?”
No one answered, although with the heavy pattering of rain she wasn't certain but thought there might have been some kind of noise beyond the door. “I'm coming in, and I've got a weapon. So, if there's a pervert in there look out. I'm not afraid to bust you up,” she warned even louder and pushed on the door.
It didn't open.
Locked? Why would anyone lock themselves in the restroom? She wondered while digging into her pants pocket and lifting out her set of keys. The restrooms door locks key was painted blue to make it easier to identify. She quickly slid the blue one into the lock and turned it. There was a soft metallic click. The door was unlocked. The thought of taking the key out of the lock didn't occur to her as she cautiously pushed open the door.
Inside the restroom the tiled floor was covered in trails of crimson that looked as though someone had dragged a bloody mop around. The wall with the two urinals appeared normal. The counter with the sink was covered in a considerable amount of blood as was the mirror and the mural painted on the wall near the hand dryer. The friendly, cartoon-style, green, smiling, worm featured in the wall painting was covered with blood trails but the words above it remained legible: Everybody Poops, but smart bookworms always wash their hands after they're done.
Much less legible were the words drawn in blood across the mirror's surface. She could read the top two words easily; GET OUT! The other words were scrunched up together and written in a confusing jumble. TV wasright, Ifelit, runlockdr.
It only took a couple of seconds for her to understand the message. TV was right. I feel it. Run lock door. Brianna understood the message but not precisely what it meant. After only a moments consideration she concluded that Mr. Schwartz, if indeed it was he who had left the message, had probably been delusional from so much blood loss.
“Yours is a classic case of denial. You have my pity,” Holmes said.
“Mr. Schwartz, are you in here? It's me, Brianna Keene. Where are you?” she called out, while pointedly ignoring Sherlock's opinion, and turned toward the row of shut toilet stall doors. It was apparent he had to be inside one of the stalls. There was nowhere else he could be.
Only one stall seemed a likely choice. It was the one with a sizable puddle of crimson colored liquid splattered on the tiles and again it reminded her of someone using a bloody mop to make a mess.
Stop being such a coward, Brianna. Grow a backbone and just go check it out. He obviously needs help, her thoughts suggested. But her body was trembling and both feet seemed unwilling or unable to follow her brain's suggestion.
It wasn't Sherlock or Miss Drew that spoke up and gave voice to a growing sense that she was being recklessly foolish. “Excuse me, Miss, I hate to intrude. I don't want to seem pushy but I think there's plenty of reasons for you to leave and go make a call for help.”
Brianna imagined a short man with thick brown hair. He was wearing a rumpled, somewhat stained, khaki colored, raincoat and even holding a cigar. Despite her unsettling situation she couldn't help smiling. While growing up she and her father frequently watched reruns of a television show about a rather unorthodox police detective, and the comforting memories finally got her feet moving. For most of her life Brianna had a crush on Peter Falk, the actor who portrayed the raincoat wearing television detective, and if he suggested leaving the restroom that was good enough for her.
She only took one step toward the exit when a strange clattering sound came from inside the blood stained toilet stall. “If I were you and in your situation, I doubt I'd have been brave enough to even come in here. Do yourself a favor, ignore those sounds, and keep heading for the exit. And watch where you step. Some of those blood spots could still be slick, and I really don't think you'd like to fall.”
The last tiny sliver of her peppermint hard-candy dissolved on her tongue at the same moment Brianna's resolve to 'tough it out' evaporated. The bloody mess of a restroom coupled with the crimson colored finger painted enigmatic message on the mirror were literally impossible to ignore signs that something was horribly wrong. Even if it wasn't Mr. Schwartz who left the disturbing note, she decided it was time to phone the police, or constables, as Mr. Holmes was fond of callin
g them.
The furtive noises coming from inside the toilet stall stopped. Stepping cautiously on the cleanest (least bloody) tiles, she struggled to make no sound whatsoever. Her pair of old, rubber-soled, sneakers were comfortable, if not terribly stylish, but as long as she avoided stepping in anything wet they were nearly silent.
With exaggerated slowness and caution, she stepped on only the driest looking tiles. Her imagination seemed to be running at full speed and presented a plethora of most disturbing images of who- or more accurately WHAT might be lurking beyond the stall's door. The least troubling possibility was the corpse of Mr. Schwartz, although the idea of him being dead was plenty disturbing. She pictured his short, skinny, elderly, body propped up and sitting on the toilet seat. Brianna fought down a powerful urge to cry for two reasons: the idea that Sherlock would likely say something else incredibly chauvinistic was one. The other reason was related to the less likely (and what she felt to be an embarrassingly stupid) fear: that there might actually be an elderly zombie lurking inside the toilet stall.
Damn those reporters for all their stupid talk about ghouls, walking dead, and all that other crap, she thought while creeping toward the exit. As she moved cautiously across the floor a feeling that she was being a silly woman grew stronger until she reached the halfway point to the exit. Brianna felt a powerful urge to deny her fears and let loose a war cry, or perhaps just scream in terror because she was uncertain which way the yell would come out. She was even taking a deep breath in preparation to holler when two things happened simultaneously.
The brief, soft, echoing sound of a toilet being flushed was followed by a clatter against the tiles.
Don't look, just go. Whatever is in there must have moved enough to trigger the motion sensor on the toilet, she realized even while turning and gazing down toward the toilet stall's partition wall. A thick, squat, orange colored, plastic, empty prescription pill bottle with no lid on top rolled across the tiles until it came to a stop at her feet. The bottle was covered in brownish red bloody splotches, but even without bothering to bend over she could see the name Schwartz printed on the label along with the words Patterson's Pharmacy- Charenton Louisiana. She'd seen the same bottle, or one just like it, countless times when the elderly man would be chatting or sharing some homemade soup with her. He explained once, “I got one of them overactive tickers. Most old farts, like me, have the opposite trouble. Their hearts beat irregular or too slow, mine tends to slip into high gear unless I take these dang pills.”
She remembered yesterday around noon, as they shared some soup from his thermos that he'd mentioned needing to go to Patterson's for a refill of his pills. He even called the pharmacy but the lady told him the shipment they were waiting on was late due to all the growing trouble in the cities. He never got there and was all out of pills, she realized then imagined the old man had probably had one of his frequent nosebleeds and rushed to the restroom while she was ushering out the few other library patrons at closing time. She grew angry with herself for not checking the restrooms before leaving yesterday, which she was supposed to do. But the news was filled with ever spreading reports of inexplicably murderous folks and she'd desperately wanted to get home before nightfall. A heavy weight grew in her midsection as she realized if Mr. Schwartz died or was sick it was all her fault for not checking the restroom yesterday. Her feet seemed glued to the floor. She was still scared, and ashamed of herself for the emotion, but couldn't leave without knowing if he were alive. It was incredibly difficult, but she turned around and went back to stand in front of the toilet stall's closed door. She pressed her hand against it but the latching lock was engaged. There was a rattle of metal hardware as the stall door remained securely shut.
“Uhhh mmm,” a weak, confused, whispering voice called out from inside the stall.
The famed literary detective annoyingly spoke inside her head. “I realize that you have already repeatedly requested my silence, and I hereby sincerely apologize for speaking up. But a cursory glance around this chamber would lead even the most dense-headed detective from Scotland Yard to deduce several pints of blood have been spilled here since yesterday. You are in classic denial and behaving foolishly.”
Brianna ignored the comment and dug a coin out of her pocket then slid its edge into the narrow groove of the stall door's lock. A simple twist in a counter clockwise direction would open it.
“Excuse me, Miss, I hate to interrupt. Sometimes people find my interruptions annoying. My wife sure does at any rate. But I think the snobby sounding fella, wearing a goofy looking old fashioned hunting hat... I guess that's what it is anyway because fashion trends aren't something I generally keep up with... where was I?” Brianna smiled in spite of the bizarre situation as the television detective rambled from somewhere inside her imagination. “Oh, now I recall. The funny talking guy, sounds foreign, may have a point. There really does seem to be much too much blood on the floor for anyone to possibly be alive inside the john... Um, excuse me, I meant to say uh... Inside the facilities.”
Her breathing had slowed down and a feeling of firm resolution fell across her like a warm blanket as she focused hard. Exactly what are you dimwit detectives saying? Are you actually suggesting there's a boogerman hiding inside a toilet? Really, is that what you think? She thought angrily as more furtive sounds of someone moving around inside the stall could be heard.
The clearest sound was a wheezy grunting. Her fingers felt sweaty as she clutched the coin painfully hard.
Neither fictional detective responded to her intensely thought questions regarding the possibility of boogerman hiding inside a toilet stall. “Well, no duh, Brianna, they're just your own imagination running wild,” the most reasonable voice that she usually listened to and sounded just like herself said.
As she twisted the coin and unlocked the stall she muttered, “Screw it.” Then while pushing the door open, in a louder and genuinely concerned albeit scared tone of voice she asked, “Mr. Schwartz, are you-”
Her question was cut off by a much louder grunt and the stall door being slammed shut again. A moment later there was a fierce series of what sounded like someone beating against the door.
Oh shit, she thought while quickly lifting up the umbrella and backing away.
The stall door swung slowly inward a couple of inches before a wrinkled, paper-white, claw-like looking hand clutched the side and yanked it wide open.
Brianna often thought Mr. Schwartz appeared very similar to a famous old (really old) comedian who was in a few films where he portrayed God... Albeit a short, round glasses wearing, wise-cracking, cigar smoking version of God.
But with one of his skinny ankles entangled by his red and blue checkerboard style trousers, along with a pair of whitish (nearly gray) colored boxer shorts and both articles of clothing being dragged behind him, Brianna could no longer see the resemblance.
Schwartz was still wearing his extremely thick round lens eyeglasses, which were secured tightly to his head by a sports-style lanyard. He often joked that someday he'd take up extreme skateboarding to justify the device used to keep his glasses from slipping off.
His face was far paler than she'd ever seen it before, or rather, the upper half was. From his nose upward his skin was the color of bleached bones, but below the nose the colors were reddish brown, black, and gray. Dark brown and crimson stains coated his chin, neck, and most of his shirt. The upper plate of his dentures was lopsided and partially sticking out of his rapidly opening and closing mouth, which caused an unsettling clacking sound.
Brianna felt horrible for the old man. She was scared, of course, but the fear was tempered by a powerful sense of pity. Her stomach seemed to be a churning cauldron, and the urge to be sick and throw up was intense. But despite all of this, she managed to speak up as the old man shuffled out of the bathroom stall. “Mr. Schwartz? It's me, Brianna. What... what's wrong with you?”
The elderly man's head tilted to the side, giving her the impression that he
was listening and trying to understand her words. But even then he continued unsteadily shuffling forward with both arms outstretched and his bony, considerably wrinkled, arthritic, hands reached toward her. His fingers made faint yet easily heard popping noises. It was like the bones inside them were unaccustomed to being so rapidly and repeatedly opened and closed as they clawed and clutched at Brianna.
She still dared to hope that her very old friend was merely sick and confused but prudent enough to back away.
“Watch your step or you might-” she heard the young, plucky, and usually optimistic, literary sleuth Nancy Drew warn while backing away from the half-naked man. But even as the prudent suggestion was made, Brianna yelped in surprise as her shoes simultaneously slipped and slid left and right across the bloody tiles. Her arms whirled up in the air as she struggled to keep standing. She glanced down; spotted the partly dry yet still slick dark crimson mess her shoes were sliding across and ran through a quick list of options.
Trying to keep her balance and arrest the unintended gymnastic style 'splits' already under way was the option she was already engaged in. (Brianna never managed to successfully do the 'splits' in her younger days and doubted her ability had improved with age)
Only two ideas sprang to mind, other than trying desperately not to fall down. The first, which she quickly discarded as unwise, was to grab onto Mr. Schwartz's outstretched and grabbing hands. If he appeared less monstrous, or even had his pants pulled up around his waist and didn't have his flaccid manhood bobbling around, she might have gone with that option.
All Things Zombie: Chronology of the Apocalypse Page 5