Allison Hewitt Is Trapped by Madeleine Roux

to face it, ready, poised, and he’s raised the bat and taken a hard, crashing swing before I even have time to warn him. I glance at Ted, who seems less skeptical now, even through the barrier of Matt’s flannel shirt.
    The floor is littered with books, stained, ruined books with pages glued to the floor by God knows what. I ax down a few Groaners right before we take the right turn into the storeroom and I can see that in the bookshelves across the room, there are more and they’ve noticed us. But the plan is to keep moving, so we do, and we maintain a fast, shuffling walk that turns into a jog when we make it into the back room. The storeroom is a big, open area with a few long tables for organizing shipments that come in. There are two areas, the first large room which has mostly empty shelving units and restocking supplies, and then the very back room which has the doors leading to the outside world. We make it to the very back and I know it’s grim before we even get there—the noise, the grumbling, pained noises of dozens of undead shifting around. They’ve anticipated our arrival and begin slowly meandering out to meet us at the doors.
    Phil is still focused and on point and cracks a few right on top of the head. I don’t recognize any of these Groaners, which makes it a little easier to clean up Phil’s work with a few well-placed swings to the neck. The hardest part is keeping a good, safe distance from Phil, who throws himself into the work with a real admirable zeal. Ted hangs back, shooting out loud jets of foam with the fire extinguisher, pushing the oncoming undead back so Phil and I have time to dismantle each one. We work out a rhythm.
    When the storeroom is clear and the floor is covered in a sticky, black sludge, we take a moment to breathe. Phil’s shoulders are shaking from the exertion, and he leans over to rest his hands on his knees and pant. I forget how lazy we are, how we sit around all day passing around the same book, the same magazines, playing cards, eating junk food and sleeping.
    The back storeroom isn’t anything remarkable. There’s a long table and a few ancient computers for checking in shipments and a few more shelving units. I can see that the back doors are open a crack; a thin, ghostly line of sunlight runs down the middle of the floor. Phil staggers upright and soldiers on, boldly striding toward the door. It feels like something big, something important. We’ve conquered something, reached a goal that was once just a vague, imaginative “there.”
    I’m worried about Phil. I know he’s a grown man and he can take care of himself, but I’m not sure he’s prepared for what he’ll see when those doors open all the way. I’m not sure I’m prepared either. Phil pushes hard against the heavy door and it lets loose a long, metallic squeal. The world outside is gray, punctuated by a few slender shafts of sunlight bleeding through the clouds. It’s colder than I expected, late September, chilly and overcast and crisp. It’s the kind of weather I used to love, sweater weather, sit outside bundled up in a blanket weather. But there’s no lush, amber scent of burning leaves and no squirrels frolicking in the trees, just abandoned buildings in the distance, standing like forgotten monuments, the lights out, the people gone.
    I can hear that car alarm again but no running engines, no mysterious rescue vehicle en route to save us. It’s ghastly and quiet. The cement landing outside the door is empty. There’s no greeting party of undead to interrupt the horrible, aching calm. This was a city once, a living place, and now it’s gone muted and gray. Phil stumbles out onto the landing, heedless of the cold, but I can see the hairs on his arms standing up and goose bumps. I go out too and then down the steps. The big recycling Dumpster and the garbage Dumpster are open, riffled through, papers and boxes scattered across the pavement. Ted is jabbing at my back urgently. I turn