and comes crashing down the stairs missing me completely and slams into the landing below. I grab the door before it has a chance to close and pull it shut behind me.
“Fuck you, asshole. I hope you’re seriously hurt. And don’t expect me to pay any of the fucking medical.” I begin to say something further but realize that, as I’m looking at the man in the suit lying on the landing below, he’s getting up.
He’s crooked. Men aren’t supposed to be crooked like that. I pull the door closed. This isn’t right. He makes his way back up the steps; one at a time, he pulls himself up towards the door, then the window. My grip goes tighter on the handle, pulling it impossibly close to me. I start looking for the lock.
The door slams again but this time the sound is accompanied by shattering glass; I pull my head up to look but don’t realize that his arm is through the window until it’s too late. He grabs my throat. He lets out a moan. Hot, fetid breath hits me in the face. My stomach bottoms out again and I want to retch.
I can’t breath. He’s grabbing me; I have to let go of the door. His hands are so cold, digging into my neck. I can’t scream.
I smash the door into him. His grip breaks and pulls away from my throat, leaving burning finger marks along the sides of my neck. He falls back down the steps and I hear him smack into the landing again. Pulling the door back closed, I look around. There’s a gun lying on the couch next to man that doesn’t have a top to his head anymore. A Bible is on the floor.
I run to the couch and grab the gun. I have fired a gun five times in my life which was the sum total amount of times I had to go to a firing range so that I could carry the pistol in my car. I wouldn’t say I’m the best, but I know how one works.
From behind me I hear the door open. I turn around, the man is there. He’s wearing what looks like the remains of a suit and what’s left of him is big, muscular. He looks like he could have been on my security detail. His face is tattered and ragged. I can’t make out his features to know for sure. He’s moving towards me, pulling his dead appendages behind him. His clubfoot makes him unsteady; his left arm is pealed back and covered in shattered glass and scars. There’s no blood.
I pull the gun up on him and check quickly to make sure the safety is off and pull the trigger.
Click.
I look down at the gun then back up to him; he’s still coming, drool or fluids of some kind drip out of the corner of his jaw. I would say mouth, but that’s not really a way to describe it.
I pull the trigger again and again there’s another click.
Fuck.
He lunges at me. He hits me. We roll.
He tries to bite my face; I shove my hands into his neck to push him back and it feels like I’m grabbing at sausages. His neck collapses and I feel spine. Black, sticky fluid begins to run down my arms, covering them to my elbows. The smell is nearly unbearable. My throat and abdomen are gagging in tandem, sending waves of heaves up my body like water. The man clicks his teeth at me, clacks his jaws open and closed. I squeeze harder until I take hold of what I know has to be his spinal column. I turn and pull and then I hear a very uncomfortable thick crack.
His eyes roll back into his head and he slumps down on top of me. I push him off. I roll away. I’m covered in black to my shoulders.
I scramble away, looking for something to wipe my arms off with. I see Carol’s legs sticking out from behind her desk. I look when I know I shouldn’t. She’s wearing a skirt and from her feet to her stomach she looks pristine; from her stomach up there is an empty hole. She doesn’t have a face anymore because she doesn’t have a head. I pull at her skirt and it comes off; I wipe my hands off and throw the skirt back on top of her.
Leaning against the door to my office, scanning the room, I can feel my body start to shake. The adrenaline dump is making the room spin. I brace
“Fuck you, asshole. I hope you’re seriously hurt. And don’t expect me to pay any of the fucking medical.” I begin to say something further but realize that, as I’m looking at the man in the suit lying on the landing below, he’s getting up.
He’s crooked. Men aren’t supposed to be crooked like that. I pull the door closed. This isn’t right. He makes his way back up the steps; one at a time, he pulls himself up towards the door, then the window. My grip goes tighter on the handle, pulling it impossibly close to me. I start looking for the lock.
The door slams again but this time the sound is accompanied by shattering glass; I pull my head up to look but don’t realize that his arm is through the window until it’s too late. He grabs my throat. He lets out a moan. Hot, fetid breath hits me in the face. My stomach bottoms out again and I want to retch.
I can’t breath. He’s grabbing me; I have to let go of the door. His hands are so cold, digging into my neck. I can’t scream.
I smash the door into him. His grip breaks and pulls away from my throat, leaving burning finger marks along the sides of my neck. He falls back down the steps and I hear him smack into the landing again. Pulling the door back closed, I look around. There’s a gun lying on the couch next to man that doesn’t have a top to his head anymore. A Bible is on the floor.
I run to the couch and grab the gun. I have fired a gun five times in my life which was the sum total amount of times I had to go to a firing range so that I could carry the pistol in my car. I wouldn’t say I’m the best, but I know how one works.
From behind me I hear the door open. I turn around, the man is there. He’s wearing what looks like the remains of a suit and what’s left of him is big, muscular. He looks like he could have been on my security detail. His face is tattered and ragged. I can’t make out his features to know for sure. He’s moving towards me, pulling his dead appendages behind him. His clubfoot makes him unsteady; his left arm is pealed back and covered in shattered glass and scars. There’s no blood.
I pull the gun up on him and check quickly to make sure the safety is off and pull the trigger.
Click.
I look down at the gun then back up to him; he’s still coming, drool or fluids of some kind drip out of the corner of his jaw. I would say mouth, but that’s not really a way to describe it.
I pull the trigger again and again there’s another click.
Fuck.
He lunges at me. He hits me. We roll.
He tries to bite my face; I shove my hands into his neck to push him back and it feels like I’m grabbing at sausages. His neck collapses and I feel spine. Black, sticky fluid begins to run down my arms, covering them to my elbows. The smell is nearly unbearable. My throat and abdomen are gagging in tandem, sending waves of heaves up my body like water. The man clicks his teeth at me, clacks his jaws open and closed. I squeeze harder until I take hold of what I know has to be his spinal column. I turn and pull and then I hear a very uncomfortable thick crack.
His eyes roll back into his head and he slumps down on top of me. I push him off. I roll away. I’m covered in black to my shoulders.
I scramble away, looking for something to wipe my arms off with. I see Carol’s legs sticking out from behind her desk. I look when I know I shouldn’t. She’s wearing a skirt and from her feet to her stomach she looks pristine; from her stomach up there is an empty hole. She doesn’t have a face anymore because she doesn’t have a head. I pull at her skirt and it comes off; I wipe my hands off and throw the skirt back on top of her.
Leaning against the door to my office, scanning the room, I can feel my body start to shake. The adrenaline dump is making the room spin. I brace
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