Friday, March 12th

11:13 AM
Vehicles clogged the roads leading out of the Queen City. All along the narrow streets in the
western hills, families threw luggage into their cars and mothers screamed at their children to
move faster. The kids would bring their toy trucks or Barbie doll houses, and their fathers
would tear them out of their hands and leave them scattered about the lawns. Those who didnt
have cars roamed the streets laden with traffic, knocking on car windows, begging for rides out
of the city. These roamers knocked on the Celicas windows, and Amos kept telling them we
were going downtown; the roamers gawked at us as if wed lost our damned minds before
moving on to the next car. I couldnt help but wonder if we had. It took us an hour to reach the
intersection of Race Street and the 8 th Street viaduct spanning the rail-yards, and here traffic
thinned out, and we were one of the few cars in the three lanes heading downtown.
The citys skyscrapers rose up through the windshield, their upper floors shrouded in lowhanging fog. The bridge was slick with last nights rain, and it emptied into a labyrinth of oneway streets snaking through downtown. Police cruisers blocked the major intersections, the
flashing lights reflecting in the dew-dripped windows of the flat-faced 18 th-century buildings.
The intersections branching out from Fountain Square were barricaded, so I pulled into an
alley adjacent to the Hyatt Regency hotel and Amos and I got out. The air was damp, you could
taste it in your mouth. There came a roar like that of thunder, and a flock of National Guard
Blackhawks flashed over us. The helicopters were heading south, towards the river, and as we
made our way towards Fountain Square, we could see the helicopters descending into the
football stadium.
We neared Race Street, officers telling us we werent allowed to pass.
I patted my pocket, looking for my cigarettes. They werent there.
I asked Amos if he had a cigarette.
He shook his head No, said he left his at the house.
I cursed, told him I left mine in the car.
Beyond the cruisers with the flashing lights, you could see Fountain Square all abuzz, tents
being erected, soldiers hurrying about. Several squat tanks sat on the road, hatches latched.
Amos suggested a shortcut, so we hurried east past Fountain Square to the Chiquita Building.
The wide-mouthed windows loomed dark, the marble steps empty except for papers flitting
about. A handful of people stood on the corner, most with cameras. We rushed up the steps and
pushed into the lobby. No attendant manned the station. We took a flight of steps up to the next

level and began following the skywalk as it cut through several buildings. The skywalk crossed
over the street, and we paused to watch tanks rumble beneath us, the floor shaking. A
helicopter had landed at Fountain Square, and soldiers were unloading unmarked wooden
crates. Amos said we should get moving, and we followed the skywalk until it reached the
building opposite Tower Place. We dashed across the street and into the alley running along the
skyscraper. Amos used a copy of the managers key to get us in through a maintenance door.
We hurried into the lobby. One of the security guards remained at his post.
What the hell are you guys doing down here? he croaked.
We stopped in our tracks.
Whatre you doing here? Amos demanded.
Im getting paid time and a half.
Were just here for the coffee, Amos said, and we went past him and through the doors
of The Quill. We hurried into the roasting area and opened one of the bourbon barrels. We
stored roasted coffee in most of them, but these particular ones were filled with old burlap bags
used to ship coffee from Guatemala. Amos began filling his with bags of coffee, and I ran into
the backroom and began looting canned vegetables leftover from when we were forced to shut
down the salad bar. I could only fit a handful of the industrial-sized cans into the bag before it
was too heavy. I cursed and knelt down, opened the bag, began fishing out the cans, putting
them on the stores plastic four-wheeled cart, thinking maybe we could somehow wheel it
through the streets back to the car, and then there came a deep rumbling, again like thunder. I
thought it was another flock of helicopters, and I reached for another can when the thunder
came again, sharper and quick, several concussions, and I heard Amos shouting out in the caf.
I forgot the cans and the cart and rushed out to see what Amos was all excited about. Hed
already left the caf; he and the security guard stood in the lobby facing the bay windows
overlooking the intersection of 6th and Vine. I joined them, and the security guard pointed:
down Vine Street, towards the river, there were flashing lights, flames crawling up the sides of
Carew Tower. And there was smoke, but the smoke was different, something wed seen that
morning on the news.
It had a greenish hue.
Are these doors locked? I asked, my throat dry.
The security guard nodded, said they were.
Amos double checked; one of them opened.
The security guard cursed, fumbled with his keys.
Hurry, I said.
No ones coming, Amos said.
I want the peace of mind, I snapped.

The guard locked the door, and we stayed rooted in place, staring through the windows.
The green smoke billowed north, hugging the ground. I remembered Dad telling me something
about how the smoke was heavier than air, how it would sink and crawl along the ground until
it spread too thin to be toxic. As long as it wasnt green, hed told me, you were okay. This
smoke was definitely green, and police officers and soldiers rushed up Vine Street, away from
the smoke, throwing glances back over their shoulders, back at the madness.
Helicopters roared overhead, banking over the buildings. A tank on Fountain Square was
being engulfed in smoke; as the smoke wrapped around the turret facing the river, the hatch
opened and the soldiers began bailing out, scrambling over the sides and falling to the
pavement before dashing north up the street. The last crew member emerged just as the smoke
wrapped over him, and he grasped at his throat, pitched against the side of the hatch, and fell
back into the tank. The smoke kept up its monotonous crawl, enshrouding the tank; and then
hands reached out of the hatch, groping, and the man pulled himself out and rolled over the
tank, onto the ground. He got to his feet, stumbled, began shambling, his eyes shifty and fingers
twitching. Several shots rang out and he pitched forward, his body swallowed up in the
encroaching smoke.
Do you think itll thin out before it gets here? Amos said.
The security guard pointed at the soldiers and police officers running up Vine Street, away
from the river. Maybe we should follow them?
A tank appeared on Vine Street going south towards the river. It stopped in the
intersection, the turret facing the oncoming smoke. I wondered just what they planned to do,
threaten the smoke back? The hatch opened and a soldier pushed his upper body from the
hatch, began shouting at those hurrying past. The mans face was bloated red with anger, and
you could almost hear his words in the quiet lobby. No one listened to him, everyone knew that
the smoke couldnt be survived, not without gas masks, and they didnt have any; the masks
were probably still in a Blackhawk being unloaded in the baseball stadium. The man dropped
back into the tank and shut the hatch, and I wondered if he knew the smoke could penetrate
the machines armor. I didnt want to think about it, the whole crew turning and being locked
inside that undying vault. But the tank began to move, the treads going the opposite direction,
the driver taking it back the way itd come. By now the smoke had engulfed Fountain Square,
and shapes could be seen among the green smoke, the figures of men and women clad in
military and law enforcement attire, some dragging their feet, others lurching forward, mere
shadows in the green smog.
Soldiers appeared down 6th Street, hurrying with assault rifles slung over their shoulders.
They spread out across Vine Street facing Fountain Square, weapons held at the ready. Their
leader was shouting something to them and waving at the tank commanderand then the tank
stopped as if to take a breath, and it fired, a deafening blast that rattled the windows, and the

shell passed into the smoke and detonated somewhere near the Square, the concussion pushing
the smoke, acting as a catalyst, so that it wrapped around the makeshift barricades, the soldiers
dropping where they stood, writhing about on the pavement. The tank accelerated in reverse,
disappearing from view.
The three of us in the lobby stared at the smoke in the intersection, the twisting bodies of
the heroic last stand overtaken by those unlucky enough to escape the smoke. I forced myself
to look away, my stomach all up in knots, as the soldiers in the intersection were torn limbfrom-limb, their stomachs gutted, their bowels spread out over the pavement. I looked to Amos,
his eyes hard and focused, stone-faced. The scene disappeared as the tank farther up Vine Street
fired again; this time the shell burst right at the intersection, shredding the victims and
attackers in a fury of fire and smoke. The concussion blasted the windows; I had turned my
back in disgust at the carnage and was thrown forward onto the ground, glass raining down all
around me. The security guard was screaming. I rolled over and sat up, my jeans covered in
glass, the fresh wind blowing in my face, the green smoke stretching with wispy fingers
towards the lobbys blown-out windows.
I turned my head to see the security guard gripping his leg. A piece of glass the size of a
grapefruit stuck out of his black pants now soaked with blood. Amos had staggered backwards
into a pillar, was standing numbly in place, staring out at the street. Blood crawled down his
arm, a grisly slash across his tattoo of the caged William Kidd, and the blood broke into
tributaries across his fingers. I hollered at him and he looked over, eyes glazed and bits of glass
in his beard.
I scrambled over to the security guard, and Amos joined me, glass crunching underfoot. I
told him we had to move him, get him away from the smoke, and we grabbed him underneath
the arms and pulled him through the swinging doors of The Quill, our path marked by a swath
of his blood. We set him against the roaster and shut the doors.
Amos said the smoke would still get in; I dashed into the back and grabbed sanitizer
towels, began stuffing them under the door, just like Amanda and I would do when we smoked
weed at our parents house, back when Mom was still alive. Amos had a towel left over, and he
wrapped it around his arm to stop the bleeding and fastened it tight with zip-ties from the
roasting area. He grabbed a roll of Saran wrap and began drawing sheets across the door. We
stepped back to admire our handiwork, done in moments, and wed all but forgotten the
security guard until he shouted out again.
His face was beginning to pale, his eyes sinking.
His lips, they were turning blue.
Hes going to bleed out, Amos said.
I grabbed more sanitizer rags and knelt beside him, the glass still wedged in his leg. I
began wrapping his leg with the glass still embedded, how they teach you in those First Aid

classes, just taking the towels up over the tip of the glass and down around his calf. The glass
was too big, and I couldnt get any pressure on the wound. I knew if I pulled out the glass, with
this much blood loss already, itd be the equivalent of uncapping an artery. I looked over my
shoulder to tell Amos as much, but he was gone, in the back; I stood and he came out with his
hands full of knives from the kitchen prep station. He spread them out on the counter by the
cash register. He rejoined me, and we lifted the security guard and carried him to the leather
sofa. He seemed delirious, rambling incoherently.
Hes lost too much blood, I told Amos.
I know. Hes going into shock.
You know theres nothing we can do.
Damn it, Anth, I know that.
The green smoke had drifted into the lobby and pressed up against The Quills doublewide glass doors. The makeshift barricade of towels and Saran wrap kept the smoke at bay.
Everything outside the bay windows was masked in the green hue, and I remembered that the
gas attacks in the New York refugee camps had been able to spread the equivalent of several
city blocks before dissipating. I did the calculations in my head: itd start dissipating around
ninth or tenth street to the north, maybe spread as far as the Viaduct to the west and to Main
Street to the east. I doubted it could reach the stadiums, but there was no way to know; who
knew which way the wind was blowing? What was for certain, in that moment, was that our
route back to the car through the skywalk was off-limits, blocked by the green smoke; and by
the time the smoke cleared, itd be the smokes bounty wed have to worry about, a bounty
already evident: those who were unable to avoid the gas were but shells of their former selves,
and they sauntered about the street, mingling around the bus stop, lingering around the
fountain. They were grotesque, some quite bloodied, but most were in reasonable shape: if it
werent for the hollowness in their eyes, the twitching of their fingers, the way they licked their
teeth and chewed on their lips, if it werent for their aimless shambling, you wouldnt think
anything of them.
The security guard started shouting out again, delirious.
The sound carried beyond the windows, out into the street.
Some of the nearest shamblers paused, looked towards the windows.
Oh shit, I growled. I glared at Amos. Make him stop.
He hovered over the guard. What do you want me to do?
Gag him or something, hes drawing attention
The guard started screaming, hysterical.
The shamblers began dragging their feet towards the windows, their unified movement
attracting the attention of those farther out, who turned and started making their way towards
the building.

I cursed and ran into the back, grabbed a towel, rushed back out to the sofa.
The guard was twisting about on the leather cushions, thrashing his leg, the bandages
coming loose, the bloodied glass exposed. Amos tried to subdue him, but the guard was losing
it, and he kicked his legs and the glass stabbed at Amos jeans. Amos swore and staggered
backwards, blood beginning to smear his pants. He cut me! he bellowed as I scrambled past
him and thrust the towel into the mans mouth, muffling the screams. He tried biting down on
my fingers but only bruised them.
He was quieter now, but it was too late.
Shamblers surrounded the bay windows, their lifeless eyes peering into the store. They
pressed themselves against the glass, drawing their hands across the panes, probing for a way
inside. More were entering the lobby, making their way towards The Quills door. Once the
buildings electricity went out, the electric locks would be useless, and the door would easily
open, the towels brushed aside, the weak Saran wrap tearing apart. Amos limped over to the
cash register, his leg still bleeding, the pain sharp, and he grabbed a pair of knives, one in each
hand. I reached down for my belt, felt the Ka-Bar in its sheath, wished I hadnt left the handgun
in the car.
Amos looked at me, said, I think the glass will hold.
I nodded, Of course it will.
But then the bay windows began to crack, weakened by the concussions from the tanks
shells, and the glass webbed out from the pressure of the bodies massed against it.
Amos face drained of blood, and my pulse quickened.
Once the glass broke, in would come the smoke, and in would come its bounty.

11:42 AM
We stood rooted in place, the wounded security guard basking in our twin shadows, as the
glass doors threatened to break. Amos thrust his pair of kitchen knives under his belt. We
need to get higher, he said. The smoke, itll fill the ground floor. I told him we couldnt just
leave the security guard exposed on the sofa, and he agreed. He took him by the arms and I
took him by the legs, and we lifted him off the sofa. He groaned, half-conscious, and we backed
our way out of The Quill, moving through the smaller side door into the break-room. Vending
machines filled with candy bars and snack packs hummed in the quiet; the cushioned chairs
where I would so often nod off on my breaks were abandoned. We moved past the bathroom
with its Tenants and their Clients ONLY! sign and went out into the hallway. Directly across from

us was an empty office, gutted when companies began clearing out with the economys
downturn; to our left lie the lobby and the elevator bays, wreathed in the green smoke that had
begun crawling down the corridor towards us. There was no way we could reach those
elevators.
The freight elevator, Amos said, nodding down the hall to our right.
The hallway ended at another pair of double-wide glass doors facing the alley, and an
adjacent hallway extended along the side of the building to the loading docks. I gripped the
guards legs tighter, my sweaty hands beginning to lose traction, and we shuffled that direction.
The sounds of shattering glass met our ears as the shamblers broke into The Quill. Smoke had
filled the alley beyond the double-wide doors, and shamblers began pressing up against the
glass doors, their hands smearing the panes. We reached the adjoining corridor and began
moving down it as shamblers from the lobby caught our scent.
I looked over my shoulder, saw them coming out of the green smoke in the lobby, their
listless legs carrying them forward at an awkward pace.
Amos, I hissed. The shamblers, theyre shambling this way.
Then pick up the pace, he growled.
We turned down the adjacent hallway, a wall of windows passing on our right. Shamblers
from the alley pressed themselves against the glass, their numbers growing at the sight of prey
so close. The glass began to web and crack as we passed the Mail Room and reached the
loading dock door and its keypad. Amos released the guards arms, and I sagged under the
weight, catching myself on shaking legs. He began pressing numbers on the keypad, the
buttons glowing green, the last one growing red.
The door beeped three times, alerting us that hed entered the wrong code.
Shit, Amos said, staring at the keypad.
What? Did you forget the code?
I know the damned code
5-4-2-8-1?
Damn it, yes, thats what I did. They mustve changed it overnight
They did that sometimes, when there was a security breach. We would get the new code in
our emails, so that we could ferry our garbage and recycling out to the trash compactors.
Try it again, I said, keeping my eyes behind me, on the hallway.
If we dont get it by the third try, well get locked out.
Oh fuck, theyre coming. The shamblers had been disoriented at the double-wide glass
doors, but theyd spied us down the corridor and began moving our direction.
Amos hammered at the keypad, another three beats.
Amos

He cursed, told me he was trying, pressed more buttons. None glowed red this time, and a
single beep came, accompanied by the sound of the locking mechanism releasing. Got it! he
yelled, and he pushed open the door, revealing a small flight of steps leading to the gargantuan
trash compactor overshadowing the loading docks garage doors. I told him to grab the guards
arms and help me carry him, but the shamblers were nearly upon us, and he abandoned the
guard, pushing into the loading docks. I cursed, looked down at the guard, his face ash-white,
lips swollen blue. He was already bleeding out, may have already been dead; I didnt have time
to take a pulse. I asked forgiveness of any god out there and leapt over the body, hurrying after
Amos, as the shamblers came within spitting distance. I looked over my shoulder, saw them set
upon the security guard, who didnt make a sound as they set their teeth against his bare and
cooling flesh.
We darted past the trash compactor, our eyes on the security door that opened to the
freight elevator. The grooved metal garage doors were closed, tendrils of green smoke snaking
in through small indentations along the bottoms of the doors. At the far corner of the room a
security guard gaped at us from his glass-walled security booth. Amos reached the security
door leading to the freight elevator and slammed the button on the wall; the door clicked and
began to open at an amorphous pace.
I hurried over to the security booth; the guard opened the door, gawking at me through
thick-lens glasses. Security monitors mounted on the booths walls showed hazy images from
the lobby, shamblers shuffling about.
We have to get higher, I told him, my tongue catching on my words.
He shook his head, told me we should stay with him: the security booth could lock, and
the glass windows were reinforced, the infected couldnt get in.
The glass may stop the infected, but it wont stop the smoke, I told him.
He gripped the taser on his belt, told me he had protection.
What the fuck is a taser going to do? I croaked.
Amos shouted at me, standing beside the security door, now opened.
I begged the guard to come with us, pleading like a dog.
His eyes went wide, looking beyond me to the entrance to the loading docks. The
shamblers that had set upon the security guards bled-out body had come through, blood
staining their hands and mouths. One of them let out a gurgled shriek and began leading the
foray towards us. Color bled from the guards face, and he backed up into the booth, shut the
door, locked me out.
I cursed him and ran towards Amos, ducking behind the security door. Amos pressed the
button to close the door, and the door began to slowly close. I wheeled about, gripping the KaBars handle jutting from its leather sheath. The shamblers had all but reached us when the

door shut and locked, and through the doors small glass window we could see them crowding
the door, smearing the window-pane with blood, their fetid breath fogging the glass.
Amos and I stood there, cognizant of our hearts hammering in our throats.
I felt weak, seeing them so close, and then they abandoned the door.
Amos crept closer, stood on his tip-toes, looked through the glass.
They forgot about us, I breathed, leaning against the wall.
Theyre surrounding the security booth, he said.
He shouldve come with us
Hes a fucking fool, Amos growled. I never liked him anyways.
We moved down the corridor to the entrance to the freight elevator. I hit the button calling
down the elevator, and we heard muffled metallic groaning from beyond the thick elevator
doors as the elevator made its way down the shaft. The freight elevator always took a long time;
we used to joke that running upstairs was the equivalent of taking a ten-minute break when
you could just dick around on your phone. The elevator reached the bottom floor and the doors
opened. We stepped into the spacious industrial elevator and I hit Floor 17. Amos asked why
that floor; I asked why not? He shrugged. I told him I knew some of the people on Floor 17, it
belonged to two different companies, an insurance agency and a marketing firm, and it would
be high enough to avoid the low-lying smoke. The elevator rumbled upwards, and Amos
looked at his arm: blood had soaked the towel straight through.
Theyll have towels upstairs, I told him. We can rewrap that.
He shrugged, didnt seem to care. Nothing ever fazed him, it seemed.
The diode display in the elevators corner rang off the floor numbers, and there was a
chime and the door opened. We stepped out of the elevator and into the garbage room of Floor
17. The janitors used the freight elevators to collect trash, and the tenants were required to place
all their trash in the highlighted bins in the cramped room. A blue bin read Paper and Plastic
Bottles Only, a green bin Recycling Only, and there was a rugged-brown elbow-high trash bin for
everything else. I pushed open the double-wide doors leading into the parallel office complex,
and the moment I stepped out a blinding pain flashed over my neck, and I toppled to the
ground. Stars swam before my eyes and Amos shouted, and I rolled over thinking we had
walked right into a death trap to see Gary, a 48-year-old marketing cowboy (his words, not
mine) standing over me with a three-hole-punch in his hands.
Oh my God, he croaked, dropping the hole-puncher. Shit, Anthony, Im so sorry, I
thought I thought you were one of them.
I sat up, felt the scars along my cheek. They didnt help to convince otherwise.
Its not the scars, he said, helping me up with a calloused hand better suited for making
rope than punching digits on a calculator. Ill show you what I mean.

11:57 AM
Gary led the way down the corridor. I trailed after him, rolling my head on my shoulders,
trying to get the kinks out of my stiffening neck. Gary had been a faithful customer at The Quill,
even buying our stale robusta coffee when government restrictions on exports had caught us
unprepared. He led us through a pair of swinging doors to the entrance to Amerika Marketing.
Cheap sofas had been thrust against the double-wide doors, and computers had been stacked
on top of the cushions, their cords reeling about like snakes on the floor. Beyond the glass doors
lie the ornate elevator bay, rosy wallpaper matching the bright red Persian rug stretched out
across the polished hardwood. Cincinnati Insurers occupied the office space on the opposite side
of the floor. Their doors hadnt been barricaded and were opened. Someone walked
shambled, ratherinside the agencys lobby, moving in- and out-of-view.
They came up on the elevators, Gary said.
They know how to use elevators? Amos said.
Holly, I think you know her? We nodded: another customer. Holly, she came up on the
elevators, said that there had been a lot of people trying to get to higher floors. These walkers,
thats what I call them, they were hot on their heels. Holly and a couple others, they made it to
their elevator safely. Not everyone was so lucky. Melissa and Amy, they were waiting for
another elevator when Hollys began moving. She waited for it to arrive up here, and when it
did, both of them were gone. And by gone I dont mean missing, they were in the elevator all
right, but they werent breathing anymore. The walkers had gotten to them, and theyd ridden
up the elevators, too. The walkers, they decided to go inside the insurance agency, there were
more people there. There was nothing we could do but take our own precautions. He looked
over at us. God only knows how many floors have been jeopardized because of the damned
elevators. Thats why I thought you two were spooks.
I thought my scar had been the culprit of that, I said.
Not at all, Gary said. Scars, theyre fashionable these days.
He led us away from the double doors and through a break-room with meager industrial
tables and a microwave bay. Beyond another set of doors were dozens upon dozens of cubicles.
We heard some weeping and hushed conversations. Sunlight dappled over everything from the
floor-to-ceiling windows facing south to the River and east to Mount Adams. Gary told us they
had around twenty to thirty people on their floor, that they were planning on just waiting it out.
He took us to another break-room with plush sofas and chairs. A wall-mounted HDTV had

garnished attention: the sofas and chairs were full, with some people standing around,
everyone quiet, hands over their mouths, jaw-dropped as they watched a haggard reporter
ruffling through papers and trying to get the facts straight.
He was saying that the National Guard and law enforcement agencies were combining
their forces to thwart the spread of the disease in lieu of the terrorist attacks. A quarantine zone
had been established around downtown Cincinnati: to the south, the bridges into Kentucky
across the Ohio River had been shut down, and news footage showed police cruisers and tanks
wedged shoulder-to-shoulder on the double-spanned Brent-Spence Bridge. In all directions,
various roads were barricaded in an attempt to stop-gap the spread of the strain. The reporter
advised everyone to stay in their homes. Those downtown were to protect themselves and wait
for rescue: The National Guard has vowed that they will sweep downtown clean, street-bystreet, and theyre already mounting rescue operations for those who may be trapped nearest
the epicenter of the outbreak. I wished they had given us information on the other cities hit by
terrorist attacks: the refugee camps outside New York City, or the subway stations in Chicago.
The reporter instead droned on about how the interstates had been shut down, and anyone
thinking of taking the highway was advised against it: Again, remain calm and dont try to
move. If youre home, stay home. If youre at work, stay at work. So long as people stay indoors
and let the authorities do their jobs, this will be contained within the next couple hours. Were
being told the situation is under control.
Under control my ass, I thought, and I left the break-room and walked past the rows of
cubicles to the windows looking south. Beyond the rooftops of lower buildings, I could see the
various stadiums along the river: the Bengals football stadium, the Reds stadium, the US Bank
Arena. Blackhawk helicopters continued to rise and fall into the Paul Brown Stadium, using the
Bengals home turf as Ground Zero. The streets directly below us remained wreathed in green
smoke.
Amos came up behind me, asked what I thought; I asked about what. Staying here, he
said. I told him we didnt have much of a choice: As long as the smoke hasnt cleared, were
stuck here. He nodded, said that we stood a better chance of waiting for rescue on Floor 17. It
was barricaded, after all. I asked him if he meant that, reminded him of what we had seen from
the lobby downstairs. He didnt have an answer, said he was going to go try to find Holly.
He left me standing there, and I tried calling Amanda but couldnt get through. I tried my
dad next, but his phone went straight to voicemail. It didnt bother me: he worked for the
Health Department in a county to the north, and no doubt hed been called in and was
swamped trying to keep what happened in Cincinnati from taking place in Dayton. I ended the
call and my sister called me back.
I fumbled with my phone. Hello? Ams, are you there?
Of course Im here, she said. I called you.

She didnt seem too scared. She was with Josh, that probably helped.
Listen, I said. I need you to stay at Joshs, okay?
Were not there anymore, she said. Were going to the Zoo.
The Zoo? I thought they shut it down months ago?
Because the strain was communicable through mammalian species, the government had
taken strict precautions to keep outbreaks from occurring. Domestic pets, likes cats and dogs,
had been forcibly euthanized. Zoos had shut down because of the rampant number of disease
vectors; the government hadnt instituted the genocide of exotic animals, of course: PETA had
gone berserk with the edict against domestic pets, and slaughtering elephants, rhinos, and
giraffes wouldve incited a nationwide insurrection.
Its closed to the public, but Josh still works there, she said. Someone has to keep the
animals fed. Josh, he works with the elephants.
Her voice, it was mechanical.
Ams? Are you sure youre okay?
Im fine, she said. Where are you? Are you at home?
I shook my head No but didnt say anything.
Anth?
Im not home, I said. Im with Amos, though.
Where?
I sighed. Downtown
There was a pause. Oh fuck.
Its okay. Were okay. I promise. Look. Im with Amos, and were going to come to you.
Stay at the Zoo, okay?
We will. Josh says well be safe in the elephant house.
The elephant house? Okay. Stay there, and well come for you when we can.
Okay.
I saw Amos coming towards me, his phone in his hand.
Ams? I said.
Yeah? Her voice, it was weaker now.
I love you, I said. I really do.
I heard sniffling. She was scared, trying to hide it. I love you, too.
Can I talk to Josh?
Yeah. Here he is. The voice changed, a nasally fellow: Hello?
Josh. Its Anthony. Youre with Ams?
He said he was.
Make sure shes safe. Dont do anything stupid.
Im taking her to the Zoo. The elephant house, well be safe there.

Wheres that?
Its in Clifton.
I know where the Zoo is, I mean the elephant house.
Its next to the giraffe exhibit. Therere maps at the entrance.
Okay. Amos and I, were coming up there, in a bit. Keep her safe.
Youre coming up here? The radio says to stay where you are, that theyre clearing out the
streets.
You know better than that. I knew he did: he was going to the Zoo, after all, rather than
staying put at his apartment. Take care of Ams until we get to you. Got it?
I got it, he said, voice low.
You fucking better. And I hung up the phone.
Amos stood beside me now. Who was that?
Ams. Shes with Josh, theyre going to the Zoo.
The Zoo?
Its safer there. Safer than Joshs place, they suppose.
Fair enough. I called Rob, he and Mandy are at the house, boarding things up. Rob told us
we were damned fools for coming downtown.
I told him that Rob was right.
I also called Blake, he said. Hes in Lawrenceburg at the Sleep Center, far removed from
all of this bullshit. He said hes just going to stay there.
Blake, he wasnt a damned fool.
You said staying here is the best bet? I said.
Right now. The streets, youve seen them.
I dont buy what that damned reporter says. This isnt ending anytime soon. Once the
streets are clear, Im going down, back to the car. Im getting Ams from the Zoo. You can stay
here if you like, but thats what Im doing.
Then Im doing that, too, he said. Besides: you drove us here.
He managed a wry smile, but I couldnt mirror it.
Did you find Holly? I said.
He said he did. Shes a wreck, though.
If what Gary says is right, she saw Melissa and Amy after they you know.
The three of them, they were close.
I looked back out the window.
The green smoke clung to the streets, blurred shapes moving within.
Distant explosions sent slight vibrations through the double-paned glass.

I wagered that the authorities had pulled back towards Over-the-Rhine, were probably
setting up more barricades and getting ready to blast the hell out of any shamblers heading
north from downtown.
Amos asked me to tell him when I was planning on moving out. As soon as the smoke
clears, I told him. He said something about seeing Holly, and he left me standing alone at the
window, downtown spread out before me, helicopters filling the noonday sky. More distant
explosions rattled the glass, and I struggled to breathe. I wondered if I werent hyperventilating
and pondered searching for a brown paper bag, but my feet wouldnt leave the windows.
It was too much to take in and too much to miss.
Gary came and stood beside me, and out the wide window we could see flashing lights
along the steep and grooved hills of Mount Adams. Our dim reflections looked back at us, and I
couldnt help but think that Gary with his distressed brown Heritage Roper boots protruding
from his suit pants, and the rattlesnake head attached to his carabiner keychain, looked more at
home on the range than in an office building. After a moment he told me theyd wrapped
Amoss arm in some bandages from the first-aid kit.
What happened to him? Thats a hell of a nasty cut. It isnt a you know
I told him, No, it wasnt a bite.
He breathed a little easier.
Im sure hed asked Amos and came to double-check with me.
You think well get out of this? he said.
Sure, I said, the windowpanes rattling as a helicopter flew past the building.
Yeah, he said. I think so, too.
His voice needed more convincing than mine.
I asked where Amos was. My office, he said, and he pointed the way. I left him standing
at the window, and I went past the cubicles and into one of the offices, Garys name on the
fogged-glass door. I saw Amos inside with Holly and a couple other people. I knocked on the
door to announce my presence and stepped inside. A radio sat on a cherry-top desk, Kelly
Clarksons What Doesnt Kill You interrupted by local service announcements.
Holly sat in one of the cushioned chairs facing the desk, her ragged black hair falling
before her face, her head in her hands. Amos knelt beside the chair, a box of tissues in his
hands. He looked at me and shook his head. An older man sat in the other chair, fish-scale
wrinkles on his brows, and his liver-splotched hands gripped the chairs armrest, his ears
attuned to the broadcast. A pregnant woman occupied the leather chair behind Garys desk, her
shaking hands splayed over her bulbous stomach, quivering lips repeating My first baby, my
only baby A woman in a wheelchair shadowed her, a plaster cast stretched over one of her
legs.
I knelt down beside Amos, nodded to his bandage. Looks clean. Hardly any blood.

He shrugged. Gary said the cuts deep.

Does it hurt?
He shrugged again. The shrugs, sometimes they could get annoying.
But Amos, he didnt really give a shit. Ever. He might as well have YOLO tattooed across
his back; but that space was taken by an octopus whose tentacles crept up onto his neck,
slithering from underneath his shirt.
I looked up at the woman in the wheelchair, nodded to her cast. Whats the story there?
She jumped a little, startled. What? Oh. This? I fell down a flight of stairs.
Oh, I said.
What about you? she said, pointing to the trident of scars across my face.
A rake, I said.
Wait, did you say a rake?
I started telling her how it happened, how I had rushed home after a frantic call from my
mother to find the house turned into a miniature model of New York Citys Ground Zero,
and how our family dog had been infected with the strain and had attacked the neighbors boy.
I didnt have time to explain the intricacies of how I had cut myself with a rake in the process of
impaling our beloved pet, nor did I have time to tell how the boy had turned and come at me.
Time didnt permit to tell her how his mother had turned, too, and I didnt get to the part where
I strangled the boy in a shower curtain and blasted his mothers brains all over my parents
bathroom tile, because come mid-story, high-pitched screams traveled through the ceiling
above.
We all went quiet, looking up.
Rushing feet, more shrieks, muffled shouts.
Someone yelling about a door, shouting about the stairs.
Amos started saying something, and the old man looked at him, hissed, Shhh!
We all held our breaths.
The screams died down, footsteps right above us. Then there was a heavy thump, and the
sound of gurgling. Something being knocked over. Our eyes, they were locked on the drippedplaster ceiling, and the plaster began to brown and moisten, a dark stain swelling. We knew
what it was. Amos suggested we move to a different office, and thats when Holly leapt up from
her chair with such force that it shot backwards into my knees. She whirled about, twisting this
way and that, frantic hands gripping at her jet-black hair. Cant stay here Oh my God
Theyll get in Cant stay here Nowhere to go, trapped Amos shot up from his perched
position, tried to calm her down, but she writhed away, threw open the door, and lurched out
into the hallway.
Amos and I, we hurried after her.
The old man, he did, too, but he was slow, couldnt keep up.

Holly ran down the hallway, passed all the cubicles where small groups or individuals
huddled, everyone looking up at the ceiling. She whipped around a corner and came to a deadhalt against Garys titanic body. She flailed backwards, falling on her ass, screaming like a hen
whos lost her chicks. Gary tried to help her up, but she scooted across the floor, away from
him, used a water fountain to find her footing. Gary tried to calm her down, Amos and I
standing in her shadow. People were gathering behind us, drawn from the cubicles.
She turned from Gary, faced us, ranted about how we couldnt stay on Floor 17, how Floor
18 had fallen, how the doors wouldnt hold if the shamblers picked up on our presence. It
didnt seem to bother her that she was screaming so loud, her voice hoarse now, and someone
recommended that we knock her out before she hysteria gave us away to the shamblers above
us. Garys voice boomed, trying to settle her down, but she cursed all those who wouldnt listen
and bolted down the corridor, heading straight for the stairwell door. Gary echoed her curse
and ran after her. Holly reached the door; a roll-top desk had been pushed against it, and the
lock had been thrown. She fumbled with the lock and began pushing the desk away. Amos and
I backed up a few steps as Gary tried intervening yet again. She turned on her heels and cursed
him with such force that spittle flung onto his suit. Managing to push the desk aside, she
opened the door and slipped into the quiet stairwell, begging us to follow her.
Others had gathered, but none of us took her up on the offer.
Holly, Gary said one last time. You cannot go out there.
He spoke coolly, as if he were reading a story-book to his grandchildren.
The green smokes still down there, and if you breathe in even a bit of it, youll turn into
something worse than death itself. He stuck out his hand, inviting her to come back inside.
When the smoke clears, he said, Ill go down there with you, and we can see what its like,
you and me.
Amos stepped forward. Hed always flirted with her, pouring hearts in her cappuccinos,
and I could see in his eyes that part of him pondered going with her, if just to keep her safe. But
he knew better than that: Gary was right, the smoke remained. Amos told her that wed come
up from the lobby, that it was swarming with shamblers. He told her that one security guard,
and maybe two, had been killed.
But she wouldnt listen. Floor 17, it suffocated her.
And so she left, her footfalls disappearing as she reached Floor 16, and Floor 15, and Floor
14. Gary swore and shut the door, and Amos moved forward and helped him slide the roll-top
back in place. He reached for the lock, pausing as if to ponder his actions, and then he threw
the latch.
We were locked in and she was locked out.
Do you think shell make it? a woman said behind us.
Gary looked at her. Maybe, he said.

He didnt believe that, and neither did she.

We just keep waiting, Gary told those gathered. You heard what they said on the TV:
theyre going to rescue us. They just have to wait until the smoke clears.
Someone muttered What a day, and they began to disperse.
Amos said, Im going to stay here. In case she changes her mind.
Ill stay, too, Gary said. She may change her mind. Wishful thinking.
Rhythmic squeaking came behind me, and I turned to see the woman in the plaster cast
wheeling up. You owe me a story about a rake and a dog, she said.
Im a bad gardener, I said, and I left it at that.

12:56 PM
I left Amos and Gary at the door, passing the break-room with the television where people had
gathered again. The pregnant woman stood while three obese men hogged the sofa. I leaned
into the break-room and told them to be gentlemen and give her a seat. They grumbled but
listened, huffing as they got to their feet, swollen ankles chafing in their business shoes. My
scars seemed to give me an added weight of authority, even if they were caused by a rake.
I continued on into the room with the cubicles and stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows
looking south towards the river. The smoke had begun to thin, and more details could be seen
on the street.
Debris fragments peppered the post-haste barricades on 6 th and Vine.
Half-eaten bodies lie sprawled about, but there were fewer bodies than before. I figured
those that were missing were shambling away from the intersection.
Fountain Square was hidden beyond the roof of the parking garage that set atop Rock
Bottom Brewery, but I had a good view of Carew Tower. The fire that had begun at its base had
crawled ever-higher, left out-of-control in the absence of fire-fighters, and now flames licked
from the mid-stories. The higher windows vomited choking black smoke.
Hey! Hey! A mans voice carried from the other side of the floor, and I turned to see a
man barreling past the cubicles, coming in my direction.
His eyes, they were so wide I thought they might pop out.
Helicopters! he hollered. Helicopters, theyre picking people up from the rooftops! His
shouts had drawn observers, and we followed him back the way he had come to the windows
facing east towards Mount Adams. He pointed out the windows, and sure enough National

Guard Blackhawks and wide-bellied Chinooks were landing on various rooftops, refugees
being ushered inside.
Thats it! he boomed. Thats the rescue operation!
Gary and Amos joined us, and the very whisper of hope rippled through us like a murmur
but grew into an uproar. Someone said something about how we couldnt possibly make it up
to the rooftop, that the shamblers that had taken Floor 18 had come from the stairwell (thats
what the people above us had been shouting, at least), and there was no reason to suspect the
stairs were clear. Another person said it was better than staying put, and he pointed to Carew
Tower and talked about how the fire could spread; Were only two blocks away, well be
burned alive! A younger woman echoed his sentiments, reminding us quite vividly how on
September 11th eleven years ago, people had jumped to their deaths to avoid being consumed
like firewood. Thats when I remembered the freight elevator: Amos and I had ridden it to the
rooftop once after work, just to see if we could.
We wont all fit in one go, I said, but we can take it up in shifts.
Someone said we didnt have time for that: the helicopters wouldnt keep coming, and the
fire from Carew Tower would only spread.
That all-consuming fire had gone from a possibility to a certainty.
Thats what hysteria will do to you. Glasses are never half-full these days.
Gary said there was no point in trying to cram into the elevator: it had a weight limit, after
all, even as a freight elevator; as he said this, he looked at the three morbidly-obese men, one of
whom I used to see sitting at the fountain outside The Quills bay windows every morning,
eating four breakfast burritos and two McGriddles from McDonalds and washing it all down
with a super-sized Coca-Cola. One time I had smoked out there, watching with a blend of
disgust and fascination as he ate so fast he could barely breathe; hed choked on his own food
more than once, and the sounds of his subsequent hiccups had carried up the elevator.
Bickering ensued about who would go first, and Gary said the elevator would go to those
who needed it most: the woman in the wheelchair, the pregnant chic who couldnt keep her
sweat-slicked hands off her hippopotamus stomach, the fish-net-skinned elderly and the three
obese men who looked like amateur Sumo wrestlers. He said they didnt have the stamina to
even walk up a flight of stairs without going into cardiac arrest; none of the three begged to
differ, their pride swallowed by fear and the all-pervading hunger for self-preservation (a
hunger that went beyond breakfast burritos and McGriddles).
The elevator will come back down, Gary said, and anyone who doesnt want to risk the
stairs can wait for it.
Some people grumbled, but no one dared to deny the pregnant woman or the chic in the
wheelchair the right to the elevator.
Gary led the way to the elevators bay and hit the button on the wall.

The grinding of gears could be heard beyond the door.

Didnt some of the infected come up on the main elevators? Amos said.
Gary nodded, knew what he was saying.
We all stepped back from the elevator, and again I wished I hadnt left my handgun in the
Celicas glove compartment.
I drew the Ka-Bar off my belt.
Amos stood beside me with one of the kitchen knives.
He handed the other to Gary.
The elevator chimed, we held our breaths, and the door opened: it was clear.
All right, lets go, Gary said.
The woman in the wheelchair wheeled herself in, the pregnant damsel-in-distress
following right after her. The elderly packed in next, and then the three obese men filed inside.
The elevator groaned under their weight. A few more were able to fit inside. See you at the
top, Gary said. One of the women inside hit the R button for Rooftop, and the doors closed.
We left the elevator bay and made our way to the door blocked by the roll-top desk. There
were about fifteen of us, since a few had opted not to risk the stairwell. Gary and Amos shoved
the desk aside, and Amos flicked the latch.
On three, Gary said.
He counted down, and Amos opened the door.
The stairwell looked clear.
Lets move fast, Gary growled, and quiet.
We moved single-file into the stairwell and began making our way up.
Gary paused at the door to Floor 18. It hung open a crack. From beyond we could hear
movement and something that sounded like a ruddy-faced kid drinking a slurpee through one
of those wacky twisting straws. Those behind us were stacked shoulder-to-shoulder, holding
their breaths, as Gary gripped the handle and gently pulled the door shut. The latch clicked,
deafeningly loud. He pressed his ear to the door, his eyes closed, and after a moment he
nodded, and we continued on.
Our footfalls thundered in the confined space.
Someone slipped and fell, shouting. Another person hushed them.
How many flights? Amos said.
Therere forty-seven stories, Gary said, his breathing labored.
How many have we gone?
I dont know
We passed a door that read Floor 24.
Seven stories, Gary said.
Fuck, Amos huffed, and I echoed his curse.

My legs, they were burning.

My heart, it threatened to break free from my ribs.
We were at Floor 32 when shrieks came from below, followed by the rushing of feet. Our
caravan came to a grinding halt, those at the rear wheeling about. I leaned over the stairwells
balustrade, looking down the way we had come. About a dozen flights below, people were
rushing up the stairs, but they werent making sounds normal people make. Oh shit.
Someone at the rear of our train started screaming, and his screams were matched by the
shamblers coming after us from below. We didnt spend anymore time shambler-spotting: we
began booking it up the stairwell, and my heart didnt seem so laborious, and my legs, they
didnt burn so much.
I counted the floors as we passed them: Floor 33, Floor 34, Floor 35.
The shamblers, they moved faster than youd think.
Floor 36, Floor 37, Floor 38.
Someone tripped and fell, began screaming.
The people behind her, they didnt stop.
Her screams died down, her body trampled underfoot.
I know its awful, but I was thankful: shed slow down the infected.
Floor 39, Floor 40, Floor 41.
Gary wheezed, staggered, kept going. Just a few just a few more
Floor 42, Floor 43, Floor 44.
I risked a glance over the banister: I could see the womans crushed body on the stairs
several floors below, but then it was overtaken, and shamblers fell upon her, tearing at her
clothes and dismembering her limb-from-limb. Even from my vaulted height I could see the
blood running down the stairs like a ruby-tinted waterfall.
Floor 45, Floor 46
Gary threw his shoulder into the door labeled Rooftop, and the door flung open, brilliant
light washing over us. The stairwell, itd been so quiet, but now we were hit with a barrage of
sounds: distant explosions, gunfire, the screeching wail of jet engines as Air Force F-18s
rocketed overhead, chem-trails in their wakes. The light blinded my eyes as I followed Gary and
Amos onto the gravel-topped roof. Shoulder-high boxed ventilators sprouted up in mismatched
patterns, and I saw the freight elevator doors wedged into what looked like a bunker rising like
a swollen pimple from the rooftop. It hadnt opened yet, but I wasnt surprised: it moved slow
as melting glass. We burst into the sunlight, the last person throwing the door shut with a
cacophonous bang. We pushed through the maze of ventilators, someone complaining about
how they had blood on their Nike sneakers from where theyd trampled the poor woman who
couldnt keep up.
Gary, Amos and I rounded the last ventilator to find a gun in our faces.

We came to a dead stop, stumbling over our own feet, a rustic-looking Swedish man
pointing a 9mm in our direction. He stood before a group of about a dozen people whod
gathered in the limited open space on the rooftop, the perfect place for a helicopter to land.
We werent, it seemed, the only ones intent on making an airborne exit.
Stay back! he screamed, his hands shaking, the pistols aim everywhere.
Gary raised his arms. Whoa, wait a minute, wait just a fucking minute
Those behind us came to a stop, jaw-dropped at the Swede and his gun.
Everyone has to wait their turn, the Swede stammered. We were here first!
All right, Gary hissed. All right, calm down, theres room on this roof
I said stay back!
No ones moving! Gary shouted. Were just standing here!
The mans eyes darted between us.
His eyes, they looked like those of a pinned animal.
Listen, Gary said, his arms still splayed wide. Can you listen?!
The Swedes voice lowered, his eyes fixated on Gary: Everyone takes their turn.
I get that. Believe me, I get that. Its just Look. He took a deep breath, calmed his
nerves. He didnt seem to be wheezing anymore, but neither was I: seeing the gun pointed in
our faces had a tendency to slow down our breathing. I get what youre saying, Gary said,
and Im in total agreement. But listen: weve got some people coming up here, on the freight
elevator He pointed across the rooftop to the bunker with the wide elevator doors. Theres
a woman in a wheelchair, some older people, and a woman whos with child.
And theyll all wait their turn, the man said.
A Chinook passed overhead, our hair whipping about. The helicopter banked out over
Fountain Square and began turning, making its way towards us. A strobe light affixed to the
nose flashed several times, the pilot alerting us that wed been spotted.
Everyone waits their turn, the man said again.
Shes pregnant, Gary said, taking a step forward.
The Swedes shaking grip tightened, the pistol aimed right at him.
Back! he snarled. Step the fuck back!
Gary kept his arms up. Im unarmed! Were just talking!
Bullshit!
Bullshit?! Do you see a gun on me?! Ive got no weapon!
I see the knife in your belt.
Its a kitchen knife, for Gods sake
The helicopter rose above us, slowing, turning. The blast from its propellers washed over
the rooftop, kicking up dust and dirt from the gravel under our feet.
I blinked, trying to clear my vision.

Gary, he was shouting something over the roar of the Chinook, trying to talk some sense
into the madman; and in the next moment gunshots rang out, and Gary staggered backwards,
sagging into Amos. Amos leapt back, surprised, and Gary fell to the ground, blood sprouting
from his suits breast pocket, the rattlesnake head on his keychain lying cockeyed in the gravel.
More gunshots rang out, and a burning sensation ripped through my arm, jerking my
shoulder back. A woman behind me screamed, falling back behind one of the ventilators.
Bullets chirped off the ventilators metal housing, and I felt myself on autopilot, turning and
running. Those behind us scattered among the ventilators, and I threw myself behind one,
wild-shot slugs kicking up gravel by my feet.
The woman who had screamed lie there in the gravel, groping at her throat.
Blood seeped through the cracks in her hands, spilled down her blouse.
Her eyes rolled like loose marbles in the front of her skull.
Let me see! I shouted. Let me see!
I dont know why I said it: I dont know a damned thing about gunshot wounds.
She didnt let me see, but that was probably for the better.
Her pupils widened, and then she lie still. Blood swamped the gravel.
I looked up, saw Amos behind the next ventilator over. He pointed to the sky.
The Chinook, it was pulling away.
The pilot, he didnt seem to like the gunshots.
I looked back at Amos, yelled something about Gary. He shook his head (not an optimal
response) and pointed to my left arm. I looked down, aware of the stinging, the pain in my
shoulder. My shirt had been ripped, a gouge cut through my upper bicep. Add another scar to my
repertoire, I thought. But it was just a graze: I gave Amos a thumbs-up, and at that moment there
was the sound of the stairwell door being opened from the inside, and a torrent of shouts rose
up as shamblers flooded the rooftop.
The Swede with the gun was forgotten: he was less of a threat.
People swarmed around the ventilators, trying to find their way through the metallic
maze. I abandoned the corpse with the threaded throat and rushed to Amos, looking out
between the ventilators at the Swede and those behind him. The Swede was reloading, his face
white as Jamaican pearl, and those who had stood silent in his shadow were stepping back,
shocked by the onslaught of shamblers. The Swede didnt seem to care about us anymore,
began shooting above the ventilators.
I reached Amos and leapt to my feet, looked back the way we had come: I could see the
heads and shoulders of the shamblers moving through the maze of ventilators. The Swedes
gunshots echoed, but none seemed to find their mark; a woman screamed as two shamblers
came at her from either side, pushing her down and out-of-view.
I ducked beside Amos, said we had to get out of there now.

He nodded for me to follow him, and he took us towards the edge of the roof.
We crouched low, so as not to be seen.
The Chinook came back for another pass, so close we could see the twin pilots in the
cockpit. Their faces were ashen and eyes bottomless as they banked low over the rooftop, a
front-row seat to the carnage unfolding. Amos and I kept moving, and when we reached the
rooftops edge we began moving back towards the stairwell. The sounds of screaming had died
down, and peering between ventilators, I saw the shamblers feasting.
The Swede wasnt shooting anymore, and he couldnt be seen.
I thought of Gary: at least he had died an honorable death.
The Swede, he couldnt make that claim.
Amos stopped behind a ventilator, put a finger to his lips.
I hunkered down, my calves splitting with pain.
We can make it to the stairs, he whispered. Ill go first, and you stay on my heels. Shut
the door behind us. And then we run.
Was it a good plan? Hell no. But we were shit out of options.
I asked where we would go: back to Floor 17?
He nodded to the edge of the roof, and I leaned over: the green smoke had dissipated, and
except for a few shamblers, the street was clear. Now was as good a time as any to get the hell
out of Tower Place. Amos led the way, keeping low but moving fast. I followed his snaking
route, and then the stairwell door, wide open, came into view.
He darted inside, and there came a snarl behind us.
I looked over my shoulder to see two shamblers closing in, their suits and ties masked with
blood, eyes swimming crazily in their sockets.
They stretched out their arms, fingers twitching.
Their fingers, they reminded me of bobcat claws.
I grabbed the door handle and yanked the door shut as I launched into the stairwell. I
found a lock and bolted it down just as the shamblers threw themselves against the door. Amos
and I stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing the door, struggling to breathe. The shamblers kept
throwing themselves against the door, and I feared the latch would break. A few seconds
passedten, or twenty at the mostand then they stopped, hurriedly retreating back the way
they had come.
Did they forget? Amos said.
I think so. And then I remembered: No, I dont think they did.
Amos cocked his head to the side, eyed me.
The elevator, I told him, my face ashen.
The shamblers had found a buffet, and now they had dessert.
Amos wiped a hand across his sweating forehead. Cheese and rice.

Cheese and rice was right.