Early Morning of the Living Dead

by Raye Larson

  “What could I want from you?” Blake asked. “With all due respect, you work for a little-known e-zine.”

  Oh, he didn’t…

  Charlotte smiled. He had. Good.

  “From me personally?” Charlotte asked. “Nothing. From the little-known e-zine? A chance to test the waters. For certain reasons–Benjamin Cooper–you’ve kept to yourself the last few couple of months. The police may have cleared you of any charges but, in the court of public opinion, you’re suspect. If you’re ever going to live as publicly as you did before Cooper disappeared, you need to fight publicly. You also need to do it in a place where, if the battle turns against you, you can play things down.”

  Blake studied her. After a moment, his smile eased. “And you thought there was nothing I could want from you.”

  “Aside from my charming company?”

  Blake chuckled.

  Charlotte withdrew her iPad from her satchel and set it on the desk. “I’ll be taking notes on this.”

  “I trust your fine editor relayed my request not to be recorded?”

  “Yes.” Charlotte turned the iPad towards Blake. “I’ve now put it on mute,” she said, hitting the mute key to make it flash the red slash through a speaker icon. “I’ve also got the volume turned up high, so if I turn the sound on–” the iPad made a sharp beep as she undid mute. “You’ll know if I start recording you.”

  “What an interesting mix of new and old school.”

  To survive in the brave new media world, Charlotte thought they needed both.

  There was a quiet click behind Charlotte. She glanced back and saw Kiera heading towards them, carrying a tray.

  She set the tray–two black cups, a silver carafe, a cup of milk and a small plate filled with various types of sugar–on Blake’s desk.

  “Thank you,” Blake said.

  Kiera smiled, turned, and left.

  “We have excellent coffee here,” Blake said. “I hope you’ll enjoy it more than you did when it was spilled on you.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  “If you’ll send me the bill for the dry cleaning–”

  “It’s fine. Really.” Charlotte made herself a cup. Where she went for two and a half sugars, lots of cream, Blake drank his black.

  Wow. Someone in the world who actually did that. Charlotte’s past existential poet self would’ve been impressed.

  When the coffee making was behind her, Charlotte put her iPad back on mute and opened her Pages app.

  “I’d like to begin the interview by asking you about your recent quiet period,” she said.

  “Ah. Straight to the heart.”

  If Charlotte was doing that, she’d ask Blake where he buried Cooper’s body. Or if he’d been plotting world domination or embezzling zillions of dollars.

  Or, heck, brainstorming a new product. Anything was possible.

  “For a man who’s usually seen about the Bay Area, going from event to event, the radio silence of the last two months was interesting,” Charlotte said.

  “The answer, I’m aware, is multifaceted.” Blake reclined back in his chair. “I could’ve continued going out and been accused of being indifferent to Cooper’s worried relatives. I could say I’d decided to stay in and be accused of hiding because of guilt. I could say I’d focused on my next project and been accused of being heartless. I could say I hired a private detective to look for Cooper but since I have nothing to show for it, would anyone really believe me?”

  No. Maybe. It depended on the tone he used. The reputation of the detective he hired.

  The kind of media he chose to reveal his lack of success.

  Charlotte quickly wrote what Blake had said. “Did you hire a detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you announce it before?”

  “Whatever I do, I’m aware that I’ll be suspect. I’ve been hoping that she’d find something, so I’d have good news to share.”

  “Has she found anything?”

  “No.”

  “If you have nothing to share, why are you bringing it up?”

  “Because you’re right, I have been hermitting. And in my hermitting I’ve realized that since I didn’t do anything to Cooper, I shouldn’t have to hide.”

  Reasonable. In theory, doable. In practice…

  “Are you worried about your decision?” Charlotte asked.

  “I’d be foolish not to be. I also know that I’d second guess whatever I decided, so I might as well do it here.”

  “I’d like to have your detective’s contact information,” Charlotte said.

  “I’ll give you the number of the agency. All they’ll likely tell you is whether or not I hired someone, though.”

  Charlotte was aware. She was also aware that Blake could’ve hired someone to find his fourth-grade teacher and just tell people what he thought they’d want to hear.

  “Has your quiet period effected the people within your company?” Charlotte asked.

  “No. My core group has been with me since the beginning, when our board meetings were held at a kitchen table. I knew they could handle whatever the police or media threw our way. As for the people who came afterwards; it was a fine time to see what they were made of.”

  “You see,” Blake added, “I consider myself a great judge of character. When I meet someone, I watch them and try to figure them out. What moves them, what they’ll fight for, what they won’t. I have a fairly good assessment, within an hour, what they’d be like in a crisis.”

  “Do you expect many crisis’s?”

  “Earthquakes. Flooding. Kids on summer vacation. My people have faced some pretty surprising things, and they know that in an emergency they can count on me, and that I will count on them.”

  “How did you count on them these past couple months?”

  “Not to believe everything they read. Nothing personal, of course.”

  “Of course.” Said the man who wanted to make sure nothing he said was being recorded, lest it somehow be used against him.

  Though, since he hadn’t shied away when Charlotte brought up Cooper before; “You told the police that you met Cooper at a film premiere.”

  “Yes, the one about the Sutter Creek gold rush. Cooper was most vehement about the historical inaccuracies.”

  “Did the inaccuracies bother you?”

  “No. I rather liked the accidental steam punk flavor.”

  “And yet you two found a common ground.”

  “It wasn’t gold rush history, I assure you.”

  “What was it?”

  Silence.

  Charlotte leaned forward. Here was an interesting thing about this case. Blake was vague about what they discussed–business matters, being the favorite euphemism–but he was open about meeting with Cooper a few times. It wasn’t a romantic thing, according to Blake. Since he tended to have a beautiful woman on his arm whenever he was seen about town, people believed him.

  Faith hadn’t. Charlotte was open, though she suspected that someone who liked abstract art but was media-minded enough to be careful who he was seen with in public would be more honest about his preferences behind closed doors.

  “Something about what he said made you want to meet again,” Charlotte said. “What was it?”

  “The lawlessness of the gold rush era and its similarities to how chaotic things can get now during a crisis.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m afraid my reasoning will seem very morbid,” Blake said. “Some of the scenes in the film reminded me of how people reacted during Hurricane Katrina. It seems like no matter how much we grow as a society, when something knocks us off our feet we aren’t any different from desperate gold rush miners. Cooper and I debated that. At the first meeting, anyway. After that we moved on to various other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “Business matters.”

  Charlotte should’ve placed a bet when Blake would tell her that.

  “Did you two agree?”
Charlotte asked. “About people’s reactions to crisis’ between the two eras?”

  “No. I thought people could change if they studied what happened before, and he thought that humanity repeated history because we’re idiots.”

  “Therapy can help.”

  Blake snorted. “You know, neither of us considered that. I suppose we thought there’d be no psychologists in an apocalypse. Perhaps if there were–”

  Someone screamed.

  The sound cut through Charlotte like a knife. It was ephemeral, lasting but a moment, but that moment lived on in her.

  Charlotte had heard screams like that before. Take away the expensive clothes and twenty-odd and she was just a kid, stumbling across a man doing something to a neighbor’s daughter that she didn’t understand.

  The thing was, she didn’t have to understand to interrupt.

  Charlotte rose and tried to place the fading scream. Across from her, Blake rose and tilted his head to one side, frowning.

  The scream returned. It was sharp and frightened and–

  Outside. It was outside the office.

  Maybe in front of the building, maybe across the lot. The person could be anywhere.

  Making the terrace outside the office a good place to start looking.

  Charlotte hurried out.

  The wind bit into her skin the moment she was outside. It tugged at her coat, the ends of her auburn hair. It was cold. The air smelled like rain.

  Charlotte ran up to the railing and looked down.

  The pedestrians she'd noticed earlier had surrounded a man in a navy suit. They tore at him, biting and scratching and pulling him down.

  Shit. That man needed help. Now.

  Charlotte turned–

  And found Blake there.

  “My security is trained to deal with this,” Blake said.

  “That one guy in the lobby?”

  “Chaucer was once in the military."

  Kiera's brother had skills. He was also alone.

  "I also have a few other security guards stationed around the building," Blake said. "Plus Mr. Weatherby. If more than one person is needed, they’ll join Chaucer.”

  “There’s a crowd outside. They–”

  The man screamed again. The sound was terrible. Sharp and agonized and hurt. So hurt.

  “I respect that there’s a very interesting story unfolding before you,” Blake said. “Why don’t we let my security settle things before we go down.”

  He thought–

  Of course he thought that. A lot of people would. That and let’s-keep-this-quiet-we-don’t-to-bother-the-victim-even-though-it’ll-actually-benefit-the-bad-guy-because-he’ll-be-getting-away-with-it.

  Those people fucking sucked.

  Blake motioned back to his office. “Why don’t we go back inside and–”

  “Because there’s only one guard there, and there’s a lot of people in that group, and go to hell but that guy’s in trouble, and–”

  Fuck it.

  Charlotte ran past Blake. Back into the office, down the hall, and then to the elevator.

  Then, because the elevator wasn’t there now and she wanted to be elsewhere now, she turned to the stairs and hurried down.

  In the lobby, Charlotte found the security guard–Chaucer. Cool name, really cute–in the entryway. The receptionist stood at her desk, on the phone, scowling.

  “Stop!” Chaucer screamed. “We’re calling the police!”

  “Emergency’s busy,” the receptionist said.

  That was possible?

  Oh hell. That was not only possible, but also happening.

  Charlotte crossed the lobby, reaching the entryway just as Chaucer went outside. Charlotte hurried after him.

  And then stopped.

  The crowd was crouched in a circle, pulling at the man they’d brought down.

  And tearing pieces of flesh off.

  And eating them.

  chapter three

  For a moment, Charlotte was positive she’d walked onto the set of a horror film. Late Morning of the Living Dead or Twenty-Eight Minutes Later.

  This close, she saw that many of the pedestrians’ clothes were torn, and some looked badly wounded. There was white bone, blue and gray bruised flesh.

  And blood.

  Bright crimson blood.

  The people should be dead.

  They weren’t. They were ripping into the man they’d brought down and eating and moaning and oh God they were eating–

  This couldn’t be happening.

  It was.

  Charlotte moved forward.

  Something grabbed his arm.

  Charlotte jerked back, her free hand shooting up. Her fingertips clenched together, forming a bird-beak, an attack she’d picked up while writing a story about a women’s self-defense workshop in college. Faith had wanted to cover it–

  Faith. Had the guy who’d bitten her been like them?

  –but their editor at the time was a jerk and didn’t think people would be interested in the subject. So Faith and Charlotte pushed and pushed and finally he'd given it to Charlotte.

  That man had been an asshole. This attack, and the people who’d shown it to her, were wonderful. When applied to someone’s eyes, the attack was also exceptionally effective.

  Chaucer released her, moving quickly back.

  Judging by how quickly he’d released her, Charlotte suspected the man recognized the maneuver.

  “Sorry,” Charlotte said.

  “It’s all right.” Chaucer’s face was thoughtful and sad and respectful and Charlotte was certain that the other man not only recognized the maneuver but also understood that Charlotte knowing it likely had a history. Just as Charlotte understood that Chaucer coming out here without imminent backup because someone was in danger had a history.

  “You need to stay behind me,” Chaucer said.

  “We’re outnumbered.”

  “I’m thinking of the insurance forms.”

  Oh. Crap.

  Chaucer moved towards the crowd. “Stop!”

  The crowd didn’t stop.

  Some, in fact, looked up at Chaucer and moaned. The sound was hungry and alive and desperate and the man who made it shouldn’t be making it. The left side of his face was missing. If he was going to make a sound, he should also be screaming.

  He wasn’t. He was moaning.

  He was also now struggling to his feet.

  Charlotte hurried after Chaucer.

  Chaucer glanced at her. “If they attack you–”

  “Fuck the paperwork.”

  “I’ll swear in court you said that. I’m sorry but–”

  “I know. I do.” And while Charlotte understood that Chaucer was trying to protect both her and the company, she couldn’t leave. She didn’t want to leave either Chaucer or the man alone. Not with people who attacked people like they were…

  People who weren’t zombies. Maybe insane or sick or–yes–zombie-ish. Maybe.

  They most certainly weren’t zombies, though, because zombies weren’t real, and anyone who thought the pedestrians were zombies was insane, and Charlotte might sleep with a stuffed bear but she was irrelevant, not unstable.

  She hoped.

  She was also afraid, desperately afraid, that she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. That the people in the crowd weren’t moving despite their wounds, they were moving because they weren’t alive. They weren’t alive but they were hungry.

  And she didn’t have a weapon.

  “Stop!” Chaucer’s voice grew sharp.

  Several of the not-zombie pedestrians looked up at him and moaned. The man who’d risen now stumbled towards him.

  Charlotte shrugged out of her coat and began wrapping it around her right hand, forearm, and elbow.

  Her coat–God, it’d been expensive and she’d loved it–wasn’t going to make a great weapon but if the pedestrians were... not pedestrians, Charlotte wanted that small bit of cloth between them.

  She also wan
ted to be cautious.

  “Sir.” Charlotte approached Chaucer. “Chaucer, right?”

  Chaucer looked at her and then back at the pedestrians. “Yes.”

  “The man we came to help… he might be dead. These–” not zombies, zombies weren’t real, zombies weren’t real but if they weren’t real then what were these things? “–guys are now looking at us. We should head back inside and wait for the police.”

  “I can’t. Not yet. I have to see if I can get to that man.”

  The not-zombie stumbled closer.

  “Chaucer, look out.”

  “I see him.” Chaucer withdrew a baton from his belt. “Sir, if you don’t stand back I will use this.”

  The not-zombie moaned and reached for him.

  Chaucer struck him. Once, in the outstretched hand, and then the side of his face, knocking the guy back.

  The not-zombie fell, his face hitting the ground in with a heavy, wet sound.

  Chaucer stepped around him and closed the distance between him and the other pedestrians.

  Charlotte followed, slamming her velvet-wrapped elbow into one man's face and kneeing another.

  And then, when the man–who had a chunk torn out of his neck, he looked like he should've passed out from the blood loss but he was up and moaning softly–shrugged off the kneeing, Charlotte elbowed him in the throat.

  His head tipped back.

  He remained standing.

  Charlotte stared. The pedestrians... they were...

  Pedestrians.

  They had to be.

  She elbowed another one.

  “Get away from him,” Chaucer called out. His voice was firm. Certain. His baton-hand trembled. “Get away from him or–”

  The not-zombie grabbed Chaucer’s foot.

  Chaucer jerked.

  And fell onto one of the pedestrians.

  Shit.

  Charlotte hurried toward him.

  The pedestrian–a woman missing the skin along half of her face, making her look like she was smiling crazily–grabbed Chaucer and bit into his throat.

  The fallen man clawed up Chaucer’s foot, accidentally yanking off his shoe. The force of the pull sent him back.

  Charlotte stepped up to him and brought her covered elbow down onto the man’s head, hard.

  Pain blossomed across her elbow. The man jerked and then dropped.