Free LZR-1143: Infection by Bryan James Page A

emergency exit procedure in case of fire, giving a map of the store, and I studied the layout of the place. Three other entrances: the front, a rear exit that only opens out, and a door into the loading dock, which looked to be protected by another, larger external door like the one we had to open out of the parking garage at Hotel Crazy. From the manager’s office, the sudden, unmistakable sound of movement behind the closed door brought me back to the task at hand.
    Backing away from the poster and staring at the door, I raised my shovel. I could hear my own breathing come in short spurts. My pulse throbbed in my temples as I strained to discern any more identifying information from the next room.
    Could one of those things have been left behind? Cold, dead, inarticulate fingers leaving it bereft of the ability to turn a simple doorknob? Leaving it locked in an internal office until dinner came looking for it?
    The alarm continued to blare its shrill alert, continuing to serve as an audible beacon announcing our presence. It had to be shut off. The more zombies that gathered at the fence, the greater chance they got in here. If it was human, it would respond to me if I spoke, right?
    “Hello?”
    Nothing. No more movement from inside, either.
    “We’re looking for somewhere to hide-we’re not looters or muggers or rapists, and sure as hell aren’t those things outside.”
    Still nothing.
    “No one has been bitten, and we’re just trying to get the lights on.”
    God, I hope this guy didn’t have a gun, I thought, as I reached for the door handle.
    Suddenly, the knob turned and the door flew open; I was staring at a small, middle-aged, balding man, wearing the uniform of a Target employee, complete with name tag that read Earl. My eyes strayed to the more important aspect of Earl’s appearance: he was also holding an ax.
    “What the hell are you doing?” I squealed, so surprised that I almost didn’t notice how very unmanly my girlish shriek of shock had sounded. Almost.
    “What the hell am I doing? What the fuck are you doing here! How’d you get in? You didn’t let those things in, did you? Fuck!”
    A shrill, nasal voice, as excited as I was, and much more high strung. He hefted the ax; I flinched and jerked my arm up, bringing the shovel into clear view.
    “No! Hold on, just calm down!” Easier said than done. “Look, we were running from those things, a crazy cop just splattered our friend all over the interior of a compact car, and we narrowly avoided being the main course on a crazy mother fucker all you can eat buffet line. Put the ax down, and let’s just talk for a minute.”
    Sounded reasonable. Well, under the circumstances at least. Reasonable was becoming a relative term these days.
    The ax dropped a fraction of an inch. “Who’s we?” he asked, looking nervously over my shoulder. “There’s more of you?”
    “Can we lose the siren and get some lights on first? My friends are trying to barricade the door to the garden center, and we’re losing time here.”
    He looked at me, and then over my shoulder again. The ax came down all the way, and he backed into the office, eyes still on me, and typed in a code to a panel next to the doorway. The siren died. He diverted his eyes to the panel for a split second, and flipped a couple switches that I heard click home. Ah-ha; let there be light.
    “How did you get in?” he asked again, his desire to deal with the open door apparently winning out over his distrust of me, as he moved past me into the store.
    “Magic,” I joked, following behind, looking for some amicable bonding. He glanced back over his shoulder at me, glaring briefly.
    “A brick,” I said shortly. And then, my smart-ass winning over my assessment of his personality, “a magic brick.”
    Fuck him if he can’t take a joke.
    “Dumb ass,” He threw back, moving faster toward the garden center.
    Nice come back, you clever bastard.
    “Listen, we had about zero options, man.