Read Online Blood on the Floor: An Undead Adventure by RR Haywood - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: RR Haywood
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the cable starts to give.
Synchronicity of movement and as she reaches to get through the last door in the corridor so he gets through the main door from the stairwell. She goes in. He comes in. She closes the door as he breathes deep to catch that scent of blood and runs snarling to the office.
She slides down the door. Heaving for air with a hand clamped over her own mouth to stifle the ragged noises of her breathing. This room is darker. Blinds on the window half turned to let only slivers of light through that create bars of silver reflected on the desk and chairs.
She reaches up, feeling for the handle then down a bit groping for a lock. A small sliding bolt is found by her fingertips and she gives a prayer of thanks for small mercies. She slides it home. A tiny metal bar that will give easily but it’s something.
Soaking wet and half naked but also now half clean and she scurries on all fours away from the door. Her naked arse poking up to be bathed in the bars of moonlight. A big desk at one end. The room must be the general managers. A quick look round and she realises there is no other way out. No other doors. Not even a private bathroom for the manager to use.
She sags, sinking onto her bare bum on the carpet while staring at the door to the corridor. Her heart races, her legs burn, her backache is immense, her head is pounding and she now wishes she had drunk some of that water. That thought makes her look down at her own groin. She’ll still be bleeding and without something to stop the flow it will keep coming out. She has to stop it. Plug it. What with though? She looks round idly as though expecting to see a box of tampons on the desk. She rolls over again onto all fours and crawls round to the other side and opens the first drawer. The light is poor so she gropes in, finding the usual stationary items. A stapler and hole-punch. Boxes of staples, drawing pins, paper clips. Pens, pencils. Old notebooks and pads. She goes through the two drawers then navigates round the plush swivel chair to the other two drawers and opens the top one. She reaches in, feeling while leaning up to peer over the desk. Noises outside in the corridor tell her the lot of them are now up here. Bangs and snarls sound here and there.
Her hand grips something. A circular tub that she pulls out and stares at. A flip top lid that she pops open to see the first cleaning wipe poking out the top. It must be for computer screens or keyboards but it’ll do. She pulls one out then more. Plucking them one after the other until she clutches several that she bunches and starts to shape.
The noises in the corridor grow louder. Closer. She works quickly, flexing and forcing the wipes into something that resembles the shape of a tampon. With a grimace she plunges her hands between her legs, finds the opening and shoves them in. It feels awful and she chokes the sob for the sheer horror of the situation. She pushes deep, worrying for a second of going too far but the blood flow cannot come out. She cannot smell like she did a minute ago. She will survive this night whatever the cost.
With another grimace she levers herself up onto her feet and looks at the only viable exit from the room. She twists the lever of the blind to open the slats. The room is instantly bathed by moonlight. She yanks the cable next, drawing the blinds back on their runners until the frame is exposed. One handle for a small push out window of an old style metal frame in keeping with the art deco style. She pulls it up and pushes the window open then leans out to look down at the sheer drop to the road far below. Not a drainpipe in view. Nothing. No bedsheets to knot together. No ropes to dangle. No escape plan now and the whole frenzied desire to live comes crashing to a halt with the realisation there really is nowhere to go.
In the office he finds the jeans first. Soaked in blood and sweat. He goes deeper into the room. Striding in with hands clawed into talons. Lips
Synchronicity of movement and as she reaches to get through the last door in the corridor so he gets through the main door from the stairwell. She goes in. He comes in. She closes the door as he breathes deep to catch that scent of blood and runs snarling to the office.
She slides down the door. Heaving for air with a hand clamped over her own mouth to stifle the ragged noises of her breathing. This room is darker. Blinds on the window half turned to let only slivers of light through that create bars of silver reflected on the desk and chairs.
She reaches up, feeling for the handle then down a bit groping for a lock. A small sliding bolt is found by her fingertips and she gives a prayer of thanks for small mercies. She slides it home. A tiny metal bar that will give easily but it’s something.
Soaking wet and half naked but also now half clean and she scurries on all fours away from the door. Her naked arse poking up to be bathed in the bars of moonlight. A big desk at one end. The room must be the general managers. A quick look round and she realises there is no other way out. No other doors. Not even a private bathroom for the manager to use.
She sags, sinking onto her bare bum on the carpet while staring at the door to the corridor. Her heart races, her legs burn, her backache is immense, her head is pounding and she now wishes she had drunk some of that water. That thought makes her look down at her own groin. She’ll still be bleeding and without something to stop the flow it will keep coming out. She has to stop it. Plug it. What with though? She looks round idly as though expecting to see a box of tampons on the desk. She rolls over again onto all fours and crawls round to the other side and opens the first drawer. The light is poor so she gropes in, finding the usual stationary items. A stapler and hole-punch. Boxes of staples, drawing pins, paper clips. Pens, pencils. Old notebooks and pads. She goes through the two drawers then navigates round the plush swivel chair to the other two drawers and opens the top one. She reaches in, feeling while leaning up to peer over the desk. Noises outside in the corridor tell her the lot of them are now up here. Bangs and snarls sound here and there.
Her hand grips something. A circular tub that she pulls out and stares at. A flip top lid that she pops open to see the first cleaning wipe poking out the top. It must be for computer screens or keyboards but it’ll do. She pulls one out then more. Plucking them one after the other until she clutches several that she bunches and starts to shape.
The noises in the corridor grow louder. Closer. She works quickly, flexing and forcing the wipes into something that resembles the shape of a tampon. With a grimace she plunges her hands between her legs, finds the opening and shoves them in. It feels awful and she chokes the sob for the sheer horror of the situation. She pushes deep, worrying for a second of going too far but the blood flow cannot come out. She cannot smell like she did a minute ago. She will survive this night whatever the cost.
With another grimace she levers herself up onto her feet and looks at the only viable exit from the room. She twists the lever of the blind to open the slats. The room is instantly bathed by moonlight. She yanks the cable next, drawing the blinds back on their runners until the frame is exposed. One handle for a small push out window of an old style metal frame in keeping with the art deco style. She pulls it up and pushes the window open then leans out to look down at the sheer drop to the road far below. Not a drainpipe in view. Nothing. No bedsheets to knot together. No ropes to dangle. No escape plan now and the whole frenzied desire to live comes crashing to a halt with the realisation there really is nowhere to go.
In the office he finds the jeans first. Soaked in blood and sweat. He goes deeper into the room. Striding in with hands clawed into talons. Lips
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