Night 47: West Wing, South Hall 2-B
[from here]
S.T. stopped as soon as he'd reached the side hall and took a deep breath. It still smelled like roadkill, but at a lower concentration. A few parts per million. Fucking boxcars.
The incipient catechism was interrupted by a brief word from their sponsors. He wiped his eyes and nose surreptitiously as he stopped to tune in.
"Lame." The word came out like a belch, guttural and dismissive. "Tell us something we didn't already know."
Carter wasn't going to have a clue. He'd have to head off the questions before they overflowed everywhere. "There was this dude. Jack. On the radio, before my time. The Head Bastard offed him on live coverage. Then he came back as a zombie, returned the favor, and it didn't do a damn bit of good. The intercom announcements sounded like a robot phone sex operator for a few days. Then the whole place rebooted -- Martin Landel, and Jack, at least for a day."
He took a breath. "This was all over the intercom. Could have been just a show, except the zombies were real. And the deaths. The patient ones. Be glad you missed your chance to play Jesus. Shit fucking hurt, man."
There had been ethanol in that supply cabinet, hadn't there. S.T. knew better than to add more volatiles to an already aromatic situation, but he was earmarking one of those for his personal stash.
S.T. stopped as soon as he'd reached the side hall and took a deep breath. It still smelled like roadkill, but at a lower concentration. A few parts per million. Fucking boxcars.
The incipient catechism was interrupted by a brief word from their sponsors. He wiped his eyes and nose surreptitiously as he stopped to tune in.
"Lame." The word came out like a belch, guttural and dismissive. "Tell us something we didn't already know."
Carter wasn't going to have a clue. He'd have to head off the questions before they overflowed everywhere. "There was this dude. Jack. On the radio, before my time. The Head Bastard offed him on live coverage. Then he came back as a zombie, returned the favor, and it didn't do a damn bit of good. The intercom announcements sounded like a robot phone sex operator for a few days. Then the whole place rebooted -- Martin Landel, and Jack, at least for a day."
He took a breath. "This was all over the intercom. Could have been just a show, except the zombies were real. And the deaths. The patient ones. Be glad you missed your chance to play Jesus. Shit fucking hurt, man."
There had been ethanol in that supply cabinet, hadn't there. S.T. knew better than to add more volatiles to an already aromatic situation, but he was earmarking one of those for his personal stash.