Our Undead (59 page)

Paula:
This isn't good.

Brent:
No,
it isn't. I've seen this before… on the surface.

It has only been a little
over two weeks since they've been underground, and Paula has become
very comfortable with her living conditions. Her whole family had
made it down, and she has been safe here. She doesn't need to worry
about what is happening above them, and she doesn't bother to. She
is more than happy to live underground, if it means that her and
her family get to live out the rest of their lives in peace. She
was actually quite happy, until Brent's words remind her of the
nightmare she was once living. Could the same disease have followed
them down into this place they called a safe zone, through
thousands of metres of soil, rock and gravel?

Paula:
But
that's… impossible.

Brent:
Nothing is impossible… Not anymore.

Heather's breathing is so
shallow, and she barely looks alive anymore. Her head hangs limp,
her eyes half open and her mouth half open. Leftover vomit and
saliva hang from her mouth in multiple strings, their ends sticking
to the front of her flour-covered apron. Brent stoops down beside
Heather's feet and hesitantly reaches for her injured ankle. The
square Band-Aid Heather has placed on the bite is already
completely bled through, and the area around the bite has become
blackened with dark purple and blue veins sprouting out from the
cover of the Band-Aid. Brent takes the Band-Aid at its corner and
peels it off. It comes easily because of the blood. Underneath, the
bite itself is pustulating and is even blacker than the rest of
Heather's ankle.

Brent:
Ugh,.. the mouse. It had to be that mouse.

Paula:
We have to tell someone.

Brent:
Uh…
Maybe you should stay here with her. I'll go get
someone.

Paula:
What?! But what if she actually does turn into one of those
things?!

Brent:
Don't worry. The change doesn't happen that fast. It takes
like a day or two, but just in case, you should grab something to
protect yourself with.

Paula:
There's nothing here.

Almost out the door, Brent
grabs a mop that is resting against the wall near the bathroom
exit.

Brent:
Here, use this.

He tosses her the mop and
runs out of the girl's washroom. She catches it and looks at the
useless weapon. It wouldn't be much help if Heather actually did
turn into a zombie, and from the looks of her, the odds of that
happening seem to be rising. Paula sucks it up and waits. If there
is any possibility of saving her friend and coworker, she needs to
be in there. But she will stay near the washroom door, just in
case.

Brent walks through the
back halls of the cafeteria, trying to be fast but not look
panicked while looking for anyone in a higher position than him,
anyone that he can pass this unwanted responsibility off to. He
isn't a doctor, but then again, neither is anyone else on the
Block-D cafeteria staff. Even if he is by some chance able to find
a doctor in this, the least popular cafeteria, Heather's fate is
bleak at best. The halls are still empty because of the dinnertime
rush, but luck strikes when one of Brent's coworkers, his manager,
comes walking briskly down the hall toward him.

Brent:
Dorian! Hey, Dorian! We got a big problem,
brother.

Dorian:
You're telling me. There's a mouse in the dining
hall.

Brent:
What?!

Dorian:
Yea. It must've been hungry too. The little fucker already
nipped like seven people on the ankle. Don't worry, though. We
caught and killed the ugly little bastard. I'm just gonna grab the
first-aid kit, and get the people some Band-Aids.

Brent's manager Dorian
continues down the hall past him and enters the kitchen. Brent lets
the hurried man go unwittingly and in disbelief. His mind is still
trying to figure things out, or maybe it already has and is just
having trouble digesting this unwelcome news. The mouse was the
cause of Heather's symptoms, and now at least seven other people
were about to go through the same things. Dorian pokes his head out
of the kitchen.

Dorian:
Brent, have you seen the first-aid kit? It's not on top of
the fridge where it's supposed to be. I don't know how many times I
have to tell you people to put things back where they
be-

Brent:
It's in the women's washroom.

Dorian:
Well, what the hell is it doing in there?

<><><>

Dorian:
Jesus Christ…

Brent:
Yea.

Dorian:
Is
she still alive?

Paula:
Her
breathing was really shallow when I was here by myself, but I'm not
even sure if she
is
breathing anymore.

Dorian joins Brent and
Paula in the washroom where Heather still sits with her back
against the wall. Her body is totally sagged like an empty sack of
potatoes, her head hanging loosely in front of her. To someone just
walking in on them, it might look like Heather has had too much to
drink. Her three coworkers stand a good distance away from her,
afraid of getting too close and possibly catching what she had
caught. They can see enough from where they are; Heather's black
apron is still on and covered mostly in puke and drool, and what
they think might even be blood, but it is too black to tell against
her black apron. The area around her ankle has turned just as black
as the pants she is wearing.

Dorian:
And you say a mouse bite did this?

Brent:
Yea, I heard her screaming in the bakery, and when I got
there she told me a mouse bit her. She said she kicked it, and it
ran away. I never actually saw it, myself. I swear, she wasn't
nearly this bad when I first saw her. Fifteen minutes go by and…
this.

Dorian:
Those people out there…

Brent:
Forget them!
What about us?! If
these people are infected, where else can all of us healthy people
escape to?! This compound will become a death
trap!

Dorian:
Maybe if we get to them in time, we can have them
quarantined. Uh, you guys stay here, and make sure
Heather-

Paula:
Oh, no. No way.
I'm not staying
here again.
Forget
that.

Brent:
Yea, dude. Make sure Heather what? Look at her. She's as good
as dead.

Dorian:
Well, we can't leave her here. She might…

Brent:
Come back to life, and kill the fuck out of us?! Yea, I know.
That's why we're not staying here. Right, Paula?!….
Paula?

Dorian isn't listening to
Brent anymore, and neither is Paula. Their attention has been
shifted from discussing what to do next, to the movement coming
from the far wall where Heather has been sitting. Brent turns to
see what they're looking at and his jaw undergoes a progressive
drop.

Heather's head is no longer
hanging loosely in front of her. She is wide awake, and staring
intensely at her associates. "Glaring", would be a better word. She
looks at them with a very placid expression, her head swaying from
left to right, studying them like she has never seen them
before.

Dorian:
Heather… Are you feeling okay?

Brent:
Hell no
, she's not feeling okay,
man! Look at her eyes!

Paula:
He's right. She has.. los ojos de los
muertos…

Brent:
You
hear that, man?! The eyes of the
fucking
dead. Let's get out of
here!

Dorian:
We
can't just leave. We have to deal with her here and now. Give me
that.

Dorian snatches the mop out
of Paula's shivering hands and tries to break its wooden handle off
with his knee. His first attempt fails, and he lets out an
aggravated growl, frustrated and most likely bruised. To the now
undead Heather, his cry of pain is like a reminder of her purpose.
It rings in the altered brain like a siren song, calling her to
fulfill her true function. Her face morphs from placid and curious
to wrinkled and ferocious.

Brent:
Dude!

Dorian looks up at Brent's
warning and sees Heather getting to her feet.

Dorian:
Oh, shit…

Now, standing on both feet,
and ready for her first taste of flesh, the undead version of
Heather roars at her former coworkers, making her plans for them
very clear, then even more so when she begins her zombie trot
toward them. Paula takes shelter behind Brent, and Dorian tries
again and again to break the mop's handle in half.

Brent:
HURRY UP, MAN!!

Dorian:
It's harder than it looks, all right?!

Dorian fails to break the
handle before Heather makes it across the bathroom floor, coming
within reach of Brent and Paula. Brent has to shrug Paula off of
his back and deliver a heavy front kick to Heather's chest to keep
her infected hands away from him. She is sent tumbling backwards
and trips over her own clumsy feet, falling into and slamming her
head on the tiles of the wall she was resting on moments ago. Her
skull takes a good hit, but she shakes it off and gets back up to
her feet right away, relentless for her first official
feeding.

Paula:
Dorian, she's coming back!!

Dorian:
Yea, I can see that.

He tries a few more times
to break the mop handle over his knee, while Heather starts her
trot back up. She gets too close again, and Brent readies himself
to deliver another sturdy kick. Fortunately, it isn't needed.
Dorian springs in front of him, just in time with the broken mop
handle and plunges its jagged end into Heather's right eye. Heather
reels her head back and bellows causing Dorian to release his grip
on the handle. Zombie Heather dances frantically around the
washroom, arms flailing and screaming in agony.

Brent:
You
have to finish the job!!

Dorian: S
orry! She… went nuts!

Having had enough, Brent
steps forward, lifting his hands in guard. He attempts to get a
hold of the stick so he can take it out and give her a proper shot
to the brain, but Heather throws herself every which way, ramming
her hips into the sink and crashing into the stall doors. With her
constant jerky movements he is unable to catch the stick, so he
chooses to go for another straight kick, this time not timed but
placed just as well.

His foot lands in the
middle of Heather's back, and again, she is run into the bathroom
wall, after which she falls to the floor, still squirming around
like a lunatic. He walks over to her carefully. Because of the
stick in her eye, she isn't paying much attention to her terrified
friends anymore, but Brent doesn't want to take the chance of
getting scratched accidentally by her swinging hands. When he gets
close enough, he stomps one foot down on her chest to still her,
then as quickly as he can, takes the stick out of her eye and stabs
it down into her head two more times.

Heather falls silent, and
her body relaxes. Brent releases his grip around the makeshift
weapon and wipes the few driblets of blood caused by the splash
back, off of his face. He looks down at Heather. Her right eye,
which had been poked through by Dorian, is replaced by a dark red
pool of blood. Another large puncture is in her face, not too far
from the one caused by Dorian, this one made by Brent's first
attack, a handle sized hole on her forehead just a tad above her
right eye. Her last wound is filled by the still standing mop
handle. It juts straight up and out from the dead center of her
forehead.

Dorian and Paula are still
standing on the opposite side of the washroom. Both of them have no
words. Even living through an outbreak once before is not enough to
prepare them for seeing such horrific things again. An eerie
peacefulness fills the air in the washroom. The only sound that can
be heard is that of Brent's heaving breaths trying to regulate
themselves. Dorian's thoughts float around the air, focusing on
different subjects, most of which had just happened to him
personally. Suddenly, his managerial trait of having to take
responsibility for others kicks back in.

Dorian:
The dining hall!

Brent, Paula and Dorian
push through the main kitchen's exit and enter the dining hall. It
is just as crowded as it had been when Dorian left it to get the
first-aid kit, but now, the many people inside are clustered into
several concentrated groups. The din is alive and kicking, but with
the amount of people going on and on, it is impossible to make out
what anyone is saying. Even so, the energy in the room has changed
from slightly concerned to moderately hysteric. Brent, Paula and
Dorian look from group to group.