Early Morning of the Living Dead

by Raye Larson

Not-Parker collided into her, sending them both onto the ground.

  Charlotte struggled with Not-Parker, trying to force him off. Not-Parker–screw it, Parker, Parker, it wasn’t Parker, but it was his body, and he was trying to kill her–snarled and tried to bite her.

  Fuck.

  Charlotte grabbed Parker’s hair with one hand and grabbed his shoulder with the other. She couldn’t get bit, she couldn’t get bit, she–

  Parker’s hair tore.

  Charlotte caught a glimpse of Parker’s face coming at her and yanked the hand that had been holding onto Parker’s shoulder up. She felt pressure against her arm and then her free hand shot up, fingers steeped together, and diving into Parker’s face.

  Contact.

  Parker jerked.

  The sharp movement shifted his weight. Charlotte hoped it’d killed his balance–killed, killed, killed–and shoved him back.

  Parker fell over.

  Once he was off her, Charlotte crawled back quickly. The fingers of her right hand felt wet, and a glance down revealed blood and gore.

  And when Parker looked back at her, Charlotte saw why: in her panic, she’d torn into his eye.

  If he’d been alive, that wound would’ve sent him to the ground.

  Since he wasn’t, it left Parker snarling.

  Parker pushed himself up.

  And then shuddered violently.

  Parker dropped, revealing Weatherby holding a baton.

  Charlotte rose. She was glad to see him.

  Weatherby struck Parker’s head again and again, turning it into a pile of broken bone and red meat.

  Charlotte was a little less glad to see him.

  Especially when Weatherby looked up at her.

  And then down.

  And then frowned.

  Charlotte glanced at her arm.

  And was immediately sorry she had.

  A crescent of blood marked the skin below her elbow.

  Looking at it now made Charlotte realize her arm hurt. It had been hurting, in fact, for a bit, but in the chaos of everything, it’d become a background thing, like the fact that her legs were trembling and she felt nauseous and Weatherby was now moving toward her, raising the baton.

  Weatherby was going to kill her, wasn’t he?

  “You could at least wait until I died,” Charlotte said, inching back.

  “Mr. Blake gave orders to take care of anyone who’d been bit,” Weatherby said.

  Of course he did. The jerk. A ruthless and practical jerk, but a jerk none the less.

  Charlotte looked around. There was only one door in this room and the windows looked like they were made of the same earthquake-proof material as the rest of the building. Which was good, considering there was a zombie at one of them, watching her, but also bad because Charlotte was trapped.

  And... dead. Like Parker. And Chaucer. And Faith.

  Who may have gone on and killed Derek after she realized her cell phone wasn’t something she could eat.

  Charlotte stilled.

  She wanted to argue, to move, to fight, but she was in this place now because at some point, someone else had done likewise.

  Those people had meant no ill. They hadn’t known what would happen. She did and...

  She wanted to keep moving. It took everything she had not to.

  “I'm sorry,” Weatherby said.

  Charlotte believed him. It made her upcoming grisly and painful death a little less awful.

  Weatherby raised the baton.

  “Please aim for the left,” Charlotte said. “The right’s my best side.”

  chapter six

  Charlotte thought of Faith. Of Derek. Of sitting in Derek’s office last night, drinking soda water. She wanted the last thing she remembered to be them alive. She didn’t want her last memory to be of Weatherby.

  Of watching his hand come down.

  “Hold,” Blake said.

  Weatherby jerked.

  The baton swept past Charlotte, sending a fwoosh of air past her left ear.

  Weatherby kept his attention on Charlotte. Past him, Charlotte saw Blake and Zach hurrying over.

  “What’s going on?” Blake asked, stopping beside Weatherby.

  “Parker bit her,” Weatherby said.

  Zach frowned. “I tied his hands behind his back.”

  “The rest of him was still mobile,” Charlotte said.

  “Do you want me to take her to the shower and take care of her there?” Weatherby asked, glancing at Blake briefly before looking back at Charlotte. “It’d be easier to wash the blood away from the tiles.”

  “Parker was a bastard, then, for not thoughtfully dying in a place that’d be easier to clean,” Charlotte said.

  Blake snorted.

  Zach raised an eyebrow.

  Weatherby frowned.

  Charlotte had to learn to be quiet.

  Then again, considering she could probably count her life in minutes, maybe there was no point. Let it be written on his tombstone–would she get a tombstone?–there lay Charlotte Stevens. She could be witty. Or annoying. It depended on who was asked.

  Annoying, her last two exes probably would’ve said. Since one of them had once been a Boy Scout, he likely had a leg to stand on.

  “Sir?” Weatherby asked.

  “Charlotte argued that it would be more humane to quarantine anyone who’d been bitten,” Blake said.

  He... was actually considering that?

  Charlotte wondered what it meant. If he was starting to think it was a good idea or he just didn't want to lose someone else so soon.

  Or, you know, if he'd fallen for her. What handsome, wealthy CEO who was often seen with models wouldn't want a witty and charming and beautiful and exceptionally curvy reporter?

  Most, probably.

  Charlotte missed Lord Bearington.

  Blake loosened and removed his tie. “Your hands, Charlotte?”

  “Front or back?”

  Blake smiled. “Oh, the things I could read into that question.”

  Charlotte wondered if it was too late to get Weatherby to bash her in the head.

  “Surprise me,” Blake said.

  Charlotte held out her wrists in front of her. “All things considered, shouldn’t I perhaps be tied to a chair or something?”

  “Ignoring the few sofas we have,” Zach said, “which we’ll probably want for sleeping purposes, all of our chairs have wheels. You could just wheel after someone.”

  Charlotte thought she would look pretty goofy doing that. Admittedly, she doubted whoever she was chasing would think it was that funny.

  Blake stepped in front of Charlotte and quickly bound her hands together.

  “Sir,” Weatherby said, “I must caution against this.”

  “I note your caution, Mr. Weatherby,” Blake said. Both of their tones were pleasant, as if they were discussing the weather over tea. Some really crappy weather over some really crappy tea, but pleasant nonetheless. “Think of this as a chance for us to study the situation as safely as we can.”

  “He has a point, though,” Zach said. “Maybe we should gag her or something,” Zach said.

  Maybe he should go to hell. Because he had a point.

  “Once she’s secured, there’ll really be only one reason why we’d go near her.” Blake tightened his tie’s grip around Charlotte’s wrists. “I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

  “It’s okay.” As much as it could be. “I’d rather not hurt anyone.”

  “We should at least tie her to something,” Zach said.

  “The terraces on the second floor have an iron railing,” Weatherby said.

  “We’ll put her outside my office,” Blake said. He looked at Charlotte and frowned. “This isn’t exactly the way I imagined you and I spending the rest of this day.”

  “I hear you,” Charlotte said. “I thought we’d argue a bit more.”

  Blake laughed.

  Five minutes later, Charlotte was sitting in one of the nicest chairs in the world.
>
  The lumbar support was great, the arms rests were a good height, and the back was high and firm, never making her feel like she might accidentally fall over. If it’d just been her and the chair, Charlotte thought she would’ve been great.

  The problem was in the two sets of ties that were securing her wrists to the railing. Not only were those things a bit tight, one was a burnt orange and the other pale gray. They simply didn’t go with the blue sweats and t-shirt she was wearing.

  If Charlotte thought GQ would probably not call her when she’d been wearing torn and bloody clothing, they would certainly never call now.

  In a world of crap, where her lifespan could probably be measured in minutes, Charlotte chose this to think about.

  It was either that or the cold weather. Or the painful throbbing in her arm.

  Or the creatures moaning softly below her. She was too far for them to see him, but still they roamed and moaned. Food was out there somewhere. They just had to keep looking.

  The world was half full for a zombie.

  On the bright side–oh, if only Koffee was there to see it now–Charlotte had a great view of her reflection in Blake’s windows. It was faint and she looked like an auburn-haired ghost in dark blue sweats, but she looked like a hot ghost.

  It was the little things, you know?

  Movement caught Charlotte’s attention past her reflection. She looked past herself to Blake’s office.

  Thanks to the thousands of windows along one wall–six, really, with a set of glass doors, a bit of wall, and then floor to ceiling windows all the way to the corner–Charlotte saw Blake heading towards the doors.

  And then, a moment later, opening the door, cutting off Charlotte’s reflection.

  “Comfortable?” Blake asked, stepping outside.

  “Very,” Charlotte said.

  Blake smiled. It looked strained, which made Charlotte realize that Blake was taking her upcoming death personally.

  Who knew? Maybe Blake had no one else in his life who made him laugh in the face of a zombie apocalypse.

  Charlotte wondered if, before she died, she could get Blake to reveal if he had done anything to the missing Cooper. Dead men–and future zombies–told no tales. Moaned, yes, but man could they keep secrets.

  “I regret this,” Blake said. “I really enjoyed your company. If we’d had more time... I would’ve liked to get to know you better.”

  Was he... serious?

  Judging by the look on his face, he was.

  Charlotte was flattered. She would’ve said no but...

  Career: one thousand.

  Love life: zero.

  "I wouldn't have thought I was your type," Charlotte said.

  "To be honest, I originally didn't think you were. Then you kept fighting and talking and... I like you."

  She... liked him too. Sometimes.

  “I would’ve been tempted,” Charlotte said. “I probably would’ve said no, but I would’ve regretted it.”

  Blake’s smile softened. “If I’d sensed regret, I would’ve sent gifts.”

  “Journalists frown on that kind of thing.”

  “Did I mention that my gifts would’ve been in the form of coffee?”

  “I would’ve been less frown-y then.”

  Blake laughed softly. He...

  He was Spencer. And Blake. Spencer Blake had wanted to send injured men out of the building and Spencer Blake would mourn him. He was a weird, complex man, and handsome.

  In a he’s-occasionally-a-bastard kind of way.

  “You know I would’ve still asked you about Cooper,” Charlotte said.

  “I would tell a reporter I just met that Cooper and I parted on friendly terms. I would tell a potential lover that... I’d known Cooper was going to disappear. I didn’t assist him but I knew he was going to do it.”

  “Why would he want to disappear?”

  Someone moaned below.

  “Was it because of the zombies?” Charlotte asked.

  Spencer shook his head. “I doubt he knew about them. For reasons I can’t get into, he was going to go off the grid. If I’d known everyone would think I’d killed him, I would’ve suggested he send his car into the ocean before disappearing. At least then people would’ve thought he’d committed suicide and not suspected foul play.”

  “Why did you hire a detective, then?”

  “I think Cooper purposely disappeared after being seen leaving my office, in the hopes that people would focus on me and not where he could’ve gone. The suspicions that I caused him ill have hurt my company. I can forgive painting me in a bad light, but not anything that could harm my people. I hired the detective to see how well Cooper covered his tracks.”

  Interesting. It could all be a lie. It could all be the truth. The reality was probably somewhere in the middle.

  “Did your detective find anything?” Charlotte asked.

  “Yes. That Cooper was still subscribed to your paper.”

  Ah. Faith would’ve liked hearing that.

  “I figured wherever he was,” Spencer added, “he would still check in on it from time to time. I’d hoped seeing the article would make him slip up.”

  “And if it didn’t?”

  “I figured eventually there’d be some other catastrophe that would distract people away from me.” Spencer frowned. “In retrospect, I should’ve hoped for something less dreadful.”

  Charlotte understood. When her phone rang that morning, she’d hoped someone had died.

  Careless wishes. Neither of them had really meant them.

  It’d still happened.

  “Thanks,” Charlotte said. For telling her whatever version of the truth this was. For just sitting there with her.

  “I wish there was more I could do.”

  Well, since he’d offered; “If you hear anyone screaming for help–”

  “You would have us risk a lot.”

  “From what I’ve seen of you, you won’t do it carelessly. You’ll watch, calculate if you can safely do it, and then proceed. The more people you save, the less zombies there’ll be. And, who knows, maybe someone will turn out to be immune.”

  “Something tells me that," Spencer said, "had this not happened, and we dated, you would have cost me millions in charity donations.”

  “If I had, you would’ve had the honor of waking up every morning next to a really good looking person.” In that Charlotte would’ve loaned him Lord Bearington III. And then taken photos of them sleeping together.

  "Will you tell Kiera sorry for me?" Charlotte asked. "For Chaucer and the coffee and... you."

  "For me?"

  "Because she has to work for you."

  Spencer smiled sadly. "I'll let her know."

  The door opened behind Spencer. Zach half leaned out.

  “Everyone’s waiting in the conference room,” Zach said.

  Spencer glanced back at him. “Thank you, Zach. I’ll–”

  Somewhere below, someone screamed.

  Charlotte turned. The sudden movement sent a spike of pain up her arm, briefly leaving her lightheaded. After a moment it passed, allowing her to see a couple people running across the lot.

  And the scattered, shambling figures that turned towards them.

  “Slight change of plans,” Spencer said. “Mr. Weatherby?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get Theo and go see if you can coax the people outside to come in.”

  Charlotte looked back at Spencer. “You’ll help them?”

  “Yes. If either of them are bitten, they can join you. You’re right. They might help us better understand what’s happening.”

  Relief flooded Charlotte, so sharp it hurt.

  It was a wonderful ache. Charlotte would give anything to feel it forever. Her forever likely was going to last another five minutes, so maybe that would work out for her.

  In the meantime, Charlotte gloried in it. She was going to die. Something good would survive her. If anyone was bit, they had a chance to die so
meplace safe. She would’ve wanted for Faith. If she couldn’t give it to her, she...

  Had to admit; Spencer had given it to her. For her, he’d give it to others. That was nice.

  Charlotte looked back. At Spencer.

  Spencer stood beside him, looking out at the parking lot. The wind teased with his hair, giving it a tousled look. He was sans tie, sans coat, with the sleeves to his white shirt rolled up to his elbows. He was...

  He was handsome.

  Career: one thousand.

  Love life: one. Because why not.

  “Should I get any water bottles or Band-Aids?” Zach asked.

  “No,” Spencer said. “There’s really no point.”

  Career: one thousand.

  Love life: zero.

  And if Charlotte could go back to thinking of Spencer as Blake, she would.

  “Why won’t you give them any water or first aid?” Charlotte asked.

  Spencer looked back at Charlotte. “I’m sorry but there isn’t any point. I need to keep track of my supplies, so they can help someone who’ll have a chance at surviving.”

  The relief Charlotte had felt faded. She was her again. Thirsty and afraid, with an arm that throbbed and weather that threatened rain and a man that could help people but would be draconic about how he went about it.

  Unfortunately, Charlotte understood. Spencer had a point. It was an awful point, and Charlotte didn’t like it, but she saw where Spencer was coming from. In his place...

  Charlotte would waste supplies.

  Unpleasant truth: she likely wouldn’t have survived long in an apocalyptic situation. Perhaps it was best this happened now, before she got others killed.

  Charlotte wondered how much longer she had.

  Macabre, perhaps, but also kind of interesting. Parker and Chaucer had died so quickly. Faith had lived for a couple hours, but she’d gotten medical attention. Her wound had been cleaned and she’d gotten stitches. It couldn’t save her, but it’d bought her a little time.

  Unlike her, Charlotte would probably follow Parker and Chaucer’s route. She’d feel a gradual loss of physical strength but, mentally, she’d be there until the end.

  Which would likely happen in five minutes. Maybe ten.

  An hour later, Charlotte was still alive.

  chapter seven

  Charlotte was kind of getting tired of waiting to die.