by Morris, Jacy
"Watch that thing, asshole," Chloe spat at him.
Joan saw his face turn bright red, and then they were pelting up the stairs again. Rudy made to open the door to the second floor, but from below Lou yelled, "Not that one!"
For a second, it looked as if Rudy was about to say something, but then he thought better of it. Huffing and puffing, he turned and went up the next flight of stairs, his breathing becoming a sickly wheeze as they moved. Amanda put her arm under his and dragged him to the third floor landing.
"You ok?" Joan asked as Rudy bent over, planting his hands on his knees and gasping for breath. He nodded yes, and then placed his sword on the ground. He pulled his backpack from his back and began rummaging through it.
Chloe moved to the door to the third floor, placing her hand on the handle. Then she hesitated.
"Go on," Clara said. "Open it."
With that, Chloe pulled the door open. She held her handgun at the ready. Through the doorway, Joan saw a shadowy environment. There was enough light to see a room full of office cubicles constructed from six-foot high portable walls. It was dim, lit only by the little light that managed to sneak its way in through the walls of windows that ran around the north and south sides of the building. A row of offices, the doors all closed, dominated the west side of the building.
Joan moved into the office, stepping lightly on the gray carpet. It seemed as if the entire office was just waiting for the workers to return, as if at any moment employees would start showing up, coffee in their hands and stories about their weekends on their lips. But that would never happen. She wondered if anything as mundane as a Monday morning at an office would ever occur again.
Behind her, she heard grunting and groaning as Mort and Blake began pushing office furniture up against the doors. She tried to help out, but the partitions were too heavy for her, so she cleared out everything that she could, swiping staplers, cups full of pens and pencils, and computer equipment onto the floor. The men had a nice barricade of partitions and desks pressed against the stairwell door when the first banging began. Long after they were safe, they continued to pile the furniture. When they were done, the cubicles had largely been dismantled, and their barricade almost reached the ceiling, and they all stopped, panting and sweating in the heat of the office.
"We better search this place," Joan said. "There's always multiple stairwells in a building as big as this."
Mort wiped a sheen of sweat off of his forehead with the back of his arm and said, "Yeah, you're right. We don't want a bunch of those fuckers to come sneaking in the back door."
In typical Rudy fashion, he whined, "I wish it wasn't so damn hot in here."
Chloe looked at him, annoyance on her face. "You want some goddamn air conditioning?" She raised her gun before anyone could say anything and fired through the glass windows. The first bullet flew through the window cleanly, creating a tiny hole.
"Hey! Hey! Hey!" Joan yelled, trying to get Chloe to stop.
Chloe fired again, two rounds, each one hitting a different window.
"Save the bullets, Chloe," Joan said. "There are more important things to shoot out there."
Chloe said nothing. She picked up an office chair and walked over to one of the windows she had perforated with lead. She hefted the chair and swung it at the window. The chair bounced off, but she swung again. This time the glass shattered. She threw the chair out the window, smiled and said, "There you go. There's your air conditioning."
The group looked at her. Joan wondered if she was losing it. Maybe they were all losing it. How long until Joan herself had some sort of psychotic tirade? Hell, she wondered how she could be so calm in a moment like this, trapped in an office building, the dead surging below them and in the stairwell. Maybe this was her version of crazy, calm and reflective when she had no right to be. Maybe going crazy was bound to happen to all of them.
"Let's reload," Lou said, breaking the tension in the room. "Mort, Katie, Blake, you guys come with me. The rest of you guys see what you can find in here."
"Who put you in charge?" Clara asked.
Lou just smiled at her. "You want the job? You can have it."
"Maybe I do," she said.
"Well, when we're all safe and secure, we can all talk about it. In the meantime, why don't you go through those offices and see if there's something we can use." Lou turned his back on Clara, discouraging further discussion. Joan could see that Clara didn't particularly care for how the conversation had ended. But that was Clara, she would hate any conversation or situation where she didn't come out on top or at the very least even.
Lou and the others loaded their weapons, quickly and efficiently. Then they were off. Clara stood fuming in the middle of the office floor, the ground strewn with discarded telephones, computer monitors, and office supplies. Joan walked over to her and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Come on. Let's go check out those offices."
Reluctantly, Clara turned, and they walked up to the first office door. The nameplate read "Mr. Brown." Glass windows looked out onto the office floor, but all of the blinds inside were pulled shut. Anything could be in there. Clara knocked on the door. It was an absurd gesture, but if there were something dead on the other side of the door, the knock should draw some sort of reaction. Joan and Clara put their ears up to the door. There was no sound whatsoever.
They held their guns at the ready, just in case. Joan remembered to thumb the safety off. It was becoming more natural for her. She didn't know if that was a good thing or not. Before the whole world had died, she had been anti-gun. Working in an E.R. room will do that to you. She still remembered the time when a three-year-old boy had come into the E.R. with half of his face blown off, his tongue lolling freely where his jaw should have been, all because his dumbass, redneck father had left a loaded handgun lying around. That night was one of the ones that would always haunt her... along with every night that she had tried to sleep through for the last two weeks. She was glad America was a land of guns. She couldn't imagine how some countries that banned gun ownership had fared. If it weren't for guns, she likely never would have made it out of the hospital. They would have died fleeing the Coliseum. Downstairs, they would have been sandwiched and eaten in the lobby as soon as they opened the door to the stairwell. Guns were life. That's just the way it was.
Clara threw the door open, jarring Joan from her thoughts. Her thoughts had been overtaking her lately. Maybe that was a sign of her breaking down. Chloe's tell was blasting bullet holes into whatever pissed her off; Joan's insanity was getting lost in the past, revisiting the worst moments humanity had to offer, in an effort to make everything seem normal... just another day with murder, violence, and traumatic injuries.
She shook her head again, and they stepped into the empty office. It was nice, but nothing special. A desk, a calendar on the wall, a couple of comfy looking office chairs. It was just an office. Joan moved around to the desk to rummage through the drawers. She avoided making eye contact with the picture on the desk, and went straight for the first drawer. It slid open with ease, and she ran her hands through some loose papers and some binder clips, nothing of real interest. She pushed the drawer shut, making sure that everything was just as it was when she had opened the drawer, just in case the person who worked here ever came back. It was a nice thought, completely ridiculous, but nice.
Next, she pulled open the bottom drawer. It was mostly empty, but for a bottle of alcohol and a tiny jeweler's box. She pulled the alcohol out. It was a cheap bottle of whiskey, nothing special, but maybe someone would like a sip from it. She felt like she could use one right now, but she decided to put it off until later, when they knew that they were safe.
She reached into the drawer and pulled out the jeweler's box. She already knew what was inside; she didn't even have to open it. She did anyway. It was beautiful. It was the type of ring that she had dreamed of her whole life. It was then that she looked at the picture. A man and a woman, the man standing behind the
woman, his arms wrapped around her. It was a cheesy photo, with one of those blurred-out, photography studio backgrounds. Out of all the things she had seen that day, this one bothered her the most. She held the ring up to the light coming in from the window and tilted the box so that the sunshine would catch the diamonds.
"What do you have there," Clara asked as she searched fruitlessly through the file cabinets.
"Nothing," Joan said. "Just an engagement ring."
Clara looked over at it. "Hey, that's a nice one. You gonna try it on or what?"
Joan tried to smile at her, but she couldn't make it happen. "No, I don't think so. It's not mine." The box closed with a clap, and then she shoved it inside the desk, leaving it just as it was. She closed the drawer and stood, pointedly ignoring the picture on the desk. She turned to look out the window of the office, and then she quickly turned away. She couldn't escape the visions of destruction and death. The sky was hazy from all of the fires burning in the city, and the streets were dotted with the dead shuffling.
They had to get out of the city. They had to get out before she turned into a complete wreck.
****
Lou walked the others through the third floor of the Teller & Associates building. He walked them the same way that Zeke had walked him through the apartment building they had escaped from, the one where he had executed his own father. They moved slowly, guns held in front of them, checking each corner. Blake was a natural. He had never said anything about his past, but Lou was sure that Blake had done this before.
Katie and Mort were not naturals, but they were quiet at least, Katie eerily so. He wondered what was going on in that gray matter of hers. Most of all, he wondered if he could actually trust her. He would hate to get bit by one of those things only to have Katie end his life moments later, just as she had done with Brian and his little girl. There was no warning, no "sorry," just the blink of an eye and a life snuffed out. Lou wanted every moment he could get. Maybe he'd have a talk with Katie once they made sure the building was clear.
They moved quickly through the cubicles, checking everywhere for signs of movement, sniffing the air for the telltale scent of the rotting dead. There was nothing. They reached the other side of the third floor, passing a break room, which Lou kept in the back of his head. Hopefully, they had a vending machine... and even more hopefully, that vending machine wasn't full of candy bars. He thought he could kill someone for a chance at a nice steak. Maybe there would be some jerky. That would be close enough.
They spotted the stairwell sign and its picture of a zig-zag line that was supposed to represent a stairwell. Lou opened the door while Blake covered him. As soon as the door was thrown open, Lou popped into the open doorway, his machine gun locked and loaded.
There was only air to shoot. He was thankful for that. Lou leaned his head over the stairwell rail and peered between the crack in the middle. He could see nothing at the bottom of the stairs, and there was no noise in the stairwell. More good news.
"There's nothing in here," he whispered.
Blake just shook his head. He hadn't heard what he said. "I think we can get out if we need to," Lou said a little louder, though it didn't make a bit of difference to Blake.
"What about above us?" Katie asked.
"What do you mean?" Lou asked.
Katie pointed up. "Shouldn't we see what's above us? Maybe there's some supplies, something we can use."
Lou looked up between the rails of the stairwell, trying to see above him. "Let's not push our luck. Those dead things that we killed in the stairwell came from somewhere, but it clearly wasn't the third floor. I don't want to kick the hornet's nest if I don't have to."
He could tell by the look on Katie's face, that she didn't like the idea, but she didn't push it. That was good. He didn't like when people pushed it. If everyone would just listen to him, everything would be ok. The problem was that not everyone seemed ready to listen to him, and some of the people were already doing their own thing, like that Chloe girl. Boy, did she have a temper on her. He would hate to get on her bad side, as Rudy so often seemed to do. Rudy was an alright guy. He wasn't made for this world, but that wasn't his fault. The way Chloe always snapped at the guy seemed unnecessary, and blasting out the windows was absolutely uncalled for and only served to draw more attention to their location.
Fragility and impulsive actions could lead to the death of them all. They stepped back and closed the stairwell door. They began piling furniture up against it, their guns tucked into belts or leaning against the wall. Lou fumbled with some cubicle walls, trying to find the trick for disconnecting them. Blake leant him a hand, and soon they were pulling the panels apart as if they were nothing, carrying them over to the door and stacking them up. The partitions were long enough that they could be sandwiched perfectly between the stairwell door and the hallway, jamming the stairwell door shut. If they took apart enough of them, there would be no way for anyone, living or dead to make it through that door.
When they were done, they were sweating in the heat of the third floor. Lou wiped his brow, and said, "Let's get back to the others and see what they found. We'll stop by that break room and see if there's anything good. I'm starving."
"Yeah, me too," Mort said.
Katie and Blake just followed along, not saying anything. They walked to the break room and threw the door open. It was just as empty as the rest of the third floor. The break room was a windowless, ten-by-fifteen-foot room. One wall was lined with cupboards and cabinets, and a refrigerator stood in the corner. Lou eyed the refrigerator with skepticism. He would let someone else open that bad boy. Whatever was in there was most likely spoiled by now, the electricity having gone out two weeks ago.
Lou moved to the cupboards and began opening them. He was greeted by row after row of plain white coffee cups. That meant there had to be coffee. He wouldn't mind a cup of coffee right now. Although, he doubted that the coffee pot worked without electricity. That would mean boiling water... that would mean a fire, which was probably not the best idea given their circumstances.
He found the coffee in the next cupboard and pulled it out. If he could carry it with him, he would. He turned to set the red coffee can on the counter, and then he was assaulted by the rotten smell of the refrigerator as Blake pulled it open.
"Ooooo-wee. That is ripe," Blake said as he bent down to examine the contents of the fridge. He pulled his white t-shirt up over his face, and rummaged through the rotten milk, forgotten lunches, and spoiled vegetables. He held up a bloated container of yogurt, the foil on the top of the plastic container bulging outwards as whatever rotten concoction inside struggled to find its way out.
"Man, shut that thing. Nobody wants anything from in there," Lou said.
"I'm going to throw up," Katie added.
Blake did nothing. He had his back to them. He couldn't hear them. So, Lou just went about his business, trying not to think about the smell that was assaulting his senses. He was on the edge of vomiting. He pulled open the next cupboard in line and found a collection of cereals, granola bars, and some more sugary snacks. He pulled them out and placed them on the counter. He looked at the cereal, and silently wished for some milk. He wondered if this was how life was going to be for him, one part good news accompanied by one part bad news. You have coffee, but no hot water. You have cereal but no milk. You have a safe place to stay, but you're trapped inside by a legion of the dead.
He felt anger rise up inside him, irrational, uncontrollable anger. He grasped the edge of the counter and tried to let it pass. Leaders weren't supposed to feel this sort of rage. Zeke never showed anything like what Lou was now feeling. Maybe Zeke had felt it, but he had never let anyone know. Maybe that's what a leader was, someone who was willing to put their own worries and concerns on the back burner so that others would have someone to at when they started having doubts. He had to be the rock. So he hid his anger. He denied his impulse to pick up the box of cereal with the big red letter K on it and
throw it across the room.
They packed up their meager haul of food and headed back to the others. They set the food down on the ground, just as Clara and Joan were getting ready to enter the last office.
"You guys find anything good in there?" Lou asked.
"Plenty of pens and notepads. Blake should be happy. As for anything useful, not really," Clara replied.
Lou watched them work. They knocked on the door and waited to see if there was any response from within. It was a good technique. He would have to remember that one. After waiting a few seconds, they threw the door open and entered the last office.
****
Clara threw the door open, and immediately wished she hadn't. The smell of the rotting man at the desk hit her full on in the face. She rocked backwards and put her hand to her face to cover her nose. Clutched in his hand was a handgun. The back of his skull was missing, and maggots crawled through the spot where his brains should have been. A cloud of flies buzzed in the room, occasionally landing on the dried bloodstains on the window.
She wondered if smells were something that you could get used to. She hoped so, as she was currently immobilized by the nauseating smell of the man's decaying corpse. Her eyes teared up, and it took every ounce of strength to keep from vomiting. She didn't want to know what would happen if one of the dead who were as ripe as the gentleman at the desk got close enough to make her want to be sick. She wondered if she would be able to fight, or would she just fall to her knees and throw up while the dead fell upon her devouring her?
The brownish splatters on the window told her everything she needed to know. Here was a man who had taken the easy way out.
She removed her hand from her face and was able to say, "Grab the..." before she deposited her breakfast in the dead man's trash can. "Grab the gun," she spat at Joan, before another dry heave drove her to her knees.