Us vs. the Apocalypse
Title: Another Monday Morning
Word Count: 805
I paced around the small office as Keenan worked the computers, occasionally letting my eyes trail to the security screens mounted on the wall. The parkade full of parked cars coated with dust. The hallways and cubicles filled with corpses long mummified by the stale and dry air. But what bothered me the most, and made me eventually turn away from the screens entirely, was the empty lobby. The empty security desk, the lonely red light of the keypads by the door. The end had come so quickly that none of them had even made it to the front doors.
"How does this place still have power?" Dixon asked, flicking through the employee logs and reports. "City's been dead for, what, fourteen months?"
"The backup runs on the same hydroelectric grid as the base," Keenan said absently. His fingers were a blur on the keyboard, his eyes riveted to the screen. "Can't exactly stop the water from running."
Dixon made some sort of smartass reply, but I tuned him out while I picked through the papers on the small break table. A sudoku puzzle book. A few memos about smoking in the security room. And a newspaper, brittle from age, an enormous black word sprawling across the front page.
EVACUATE!
I holstered my guns and lifted it from the table, the last edition of the Kensington Herald ever printed, only a few pages detailing evacuation protocol, locations of the safe havens, and what to do if you or someone you know is bitten by an Ollie. I noticed that in the instructions for the last it failed to list "kill yourself", which is really the only viable option. Not appropriate to publish in a newspaper, I guess.
There was something so terribly powerful about standing there, in that cramped office trapped in the last hours of Kensington's life, holding the paper that was likely printed in attempts to give hope to the millions of people in the city limits. Sighing, I slid my pack from my shoulders and rolled the paper tightly before shoving it beside my rations and canteens.
"Are we almost done?" I asked, turning around. "This place is giving me the -"
My voice choked off in my throat like someone had me in a headlock.
On the screen behind Dixon's shoulder, the lobby that had been empty before I turned my back was now full of people.
"What are you looking..." Dixon looked over his shoulder, saw what I was looking at, and lurched back from the screens. "Oh, fuck!" he cursed.
"Keenan?" I asked, edging toward the door. There had to be forty, fifty of them, congregating around the security desk, a collection of suits and and skirts and blazers and briefcases.
"Yeah, I see them," came his distracted and somewhat annoyed reply. I stared at them, watching them pick at something on the desk's surface, moving quickly before they edged out of line and let the next in.
"Keenan, we're leaving." Dixon already had his hand on the door, looking through the small window the hallway beyond.
"They're signing in," I murmured. Dixon's eyes darted to me, then to the screen.
"What?"
"They're signing in," I repeated, and walked forward until I could tap the screen. Buried beneath the grabbing hands was a clipboard, and I traced my finger in a circle around it. "Look."
"Great, that's great, can we go now?"
"Five minutes on this pull," Keenan told us.
"Five minutes?!" Dixon's voice was getting dangerously shrill. Admittedly, even I felt a tug of anxiety in my stomach. "Then we leave without the footage!" he snapped. Keenan barked out a laugh.
"Leave without it?" he asked, finally making eye contact with us. "You're kidding, right?"
"Guys?" Normally I would be the first to tear into them for arguing - again - but my eyes are glued to the screens. "How... did they get in here?"
That was enough to get even Dixon to quiet down, and he joined me at the screens again.
"Broken window?" he asked, as we watched the throng move from the lobby camera to the hallway in front of the elevators. "Maybe a panel got blown out. Or maybe... oh fuck."
One by one, we saw the lurching, trembling, twitching masses reach into their collective pockets and briefcases and product a variety of small white cards - ones attached to lanyards, to keychains, ones carefully tucked into wallets and plastic sleeves. And one by one, they extended swollen and blackened and decaying limbs, and pressed the cards to the readers beneath the elevator call buttons, making the red lights flash to green.
"There's not enough juice to run the elevators, is there?" Dixon asked.
Down the hallway, the elevator whirred to life.
"Keenan?" I asked quietly.
"Leaving now," he said, grabbing his tablet from the counter. "Gotcha."
Word Count: 805
I paced around the small office as Keenan worked the computers, occasionally letting my eyes trail to the security screens mounted on the wall. The parkade full of parked cars coated with dust. The hallways and cubicles filled with corpses long mummified by the stale and dry air. But what bothered me the most, and made me eventually turn away from the screens entirely, was the empty lobby. The empty security desk, the lonely red light of the keypads by the door. The end had come so quickly that none of them had even made it to the front doors.
"How does this place still have power?" Dixon asked, flicking through the employee logs and reports. "City's been dead for, what, fourteen months?"
"The backup runs on the same hydroelectric grid as the base," Keenan said absently. His fingers were a blur on the keyboard, his eyes riveted to the screen. "Can't exactly stop the water from running."
Dixon made some sort of smartass reply, but I tuned him out while I picked through the papers on the small break table. A sudoku puzzle book. A few memos about smoking in the security room. And a newspaper, brittle from age, an enormous black word sprawling across the front page.
EVACUATE!
I holstered my guns and lifted it from the table, the last edition of the Kensington Herald ever printed, only a few pages detailing evacuation protocol, locations of the safe havens, and what to do if you or someone you know is bitten by an Ollie. I noticed that in the instructions for the last it failed to list "kill yourself", which is really the only viable option. Not appropriate to publish in a newspaper, I guess.
There was something so terribly powerful about standing there, in that cramped office trapped in the last hours of Kensington's life, holding the paper that was likely printed in attempts to give hope to the millions of people in the city limits. Sighing, I slid my pack from my shoulders and rolled the paper tightly before shoving it beside my rations and canteens.
"Are we almost done?" I asked, turning around. "This place is giving me the -"
My voice choked off in my throat like someone had me in a headlock.
On the screen behind Dixon's shoulder, the lobby that had been empty before I turned my back was now full of people.
"What are you looking..." Dixon looked over his shoulder, saw what I was looking at, and lurched back from the screens. "Oh, fuck!" he cursed.
"Keenan?" I asked, edging toward the door. There had to be forty, fifty of them, congregating around the security desk, a collection of suits and and skirts and blazers and briefcases.
"Yeah, I see them," came his distracted and somewhat annoyed reply. I stared at them, watching them pick at something on the desk's surface, moving quickly before they edged out of line and let the next in.
"Keenan, we're leaving." Dixon already had his hand on the door, looking through the small window the hallway beyond.
"They're signing in," I murmured. Dixon's eyes darted to me, then to the screen.
"What?"
"They're signing in," I repeated, and walked forward until I could tap the screen. Buried beneath the grabbing hands was a clipboard, and I traced my finger in a circle around it. "Look."
"Great, that's great, can we go now?"
"Five minutes on this pull," Keenan told us.
"Five minutes?!" Dixon's voice was getting dangerously shrill. Admittedly, even I felt a tug of anxiety in my stomach. "Then we leave without the footage!" he snapped. Keenan barked out a laugh.
"Leave without it?" he asked, finally making eye contact with us. "You're kidding, right?"
"Guys?" Normally I would be the first to tear into them for arguing - again - but my eyes are glued to the screens. "How... did they get in here?"
That was enough to get even Dixon to quiet down, and he joined me at the screens again.
"Broken window?" he asked, as we watched the throng move from the lobby camera to the hallway in front of the elevators. "Maybe a panel got blown out. Or maybe... oh fuck."
One by one, we saw the lurching, trembling, twitching masses reach into their collective pockets and briefcases and product a variety of small white cards - ones attached to lanyards, to keychains, ones carefully tucked into wallets and plastic sleeves. And one by one, they extended swollen and blackened and decaying limbs, and pressed the cards to the readers beneath the elevator call buttons, making the red lights flash to green.
"There's not enough juice to run the elevators, is there?" Dixon asked.
Down the hallway, the elevator whirred to life.
"Keenan?" I asked quietly.
"Leaving now," he said, grabbing his tablet from the counter. "Gotcha."