cars collided and the tremendous thunder of hundreds upon hundreds of feet pounding the roads, running in all directions.
As soon as they were out of the building , Christina’s staff scattered. Edward followed three of his colleagues toward the tube station only to find it closed. There were scores of people climbing over the barriers and running down the tracks past a stationary train. As he followed them past a ransacked coffee shop, banknotes fluttering in the wind, he heard a terrifying roar from the tunnel ahead. From the darkness came a wave of people, running back to the station.
“ Stop! Please, stop!” He heard people call out, but it was futile. Up ahead in the tunnel the dead were coming. Masses of people were still trying to get into the tunnel to escape the streets, only to meet a wave of people, dead and alive, coming back. In the confusion, scores of people were crushed in the icy blackness of the tube tunnel.
Edward saw the dead rushing thro ugh the crowd; biting, tearing, and ripping at anything that moved. Those who had been crushed by the stampede lay still. Those poor souls killed by the dead, or those mortally wounded, soon sprang back up and feasted upon the dead, or chased after the living. Edward retraced his steps and clambered carefully up onto the roof of the coffee shop, as those around him charged around in a mad panic.
One by one they fled , or were struck down by the dead. Edward pressed himself against the small roof of the shop and clamped his mouth firmly shut. He put his hands over his ears to block out the sounds of the living being torn apart; their awful screams made him dizzy. He could almost feel his own mind shattering. He cried as he waited there for it to stop, wishing he were with his wife.
Finally , the screams subsided, but the dead did not disperse. They stayed, feasting on the juicy, warm flesh that had been unable to rise again. Some ran into the carnage of the streets. Some stayed in the station. They could smell life. They could smell Edward. They would not rest until he was found and devoured.
* * * *
Christina stared out of the huge window, wondering if Edward had made it home. They had left hours ago. She had tried the phones but they were all dead. The internet told her nothing. It was as if the internet was dead too; there had been no news stories of any kind since nine this morning. Since a very brief call from someone called, Ranjit, this morning, she had rung security back every hour but had received no reply.
She tried looking down at the ground to see what was going on , but it was pointless. The storm had not let up and the rainy mist obscured any vision of the ground below. It was impossible to hear anything either. The silence of the office and the quiet ticking of the clock were both irritating and stultifying.
Christin a walked over to the lifts and tried the buttons, but they were still not working. Presumably in an emergency, they shut off until someone turned the power back on again. She walked over to the exit door and poked her head around it into the empty stairwell. It was bizarrely quiet.
“Hello?” she said, her voice echoing back to her. There was not a thing to be heard. She did not like the idea of being trapped in here and went back to the office to grab a litter bin. She opened the exit to the stairwell once more and wedged the bin in the doorway so it would not shut on her. If the door got locked , she would be stuck in here forever. What if the police or the fire brigade came, couldn’t get in, and left her behind? She felt much better knowing there was an exit for her.
Christin a walked back through her office slowly. It was so strange to be here in daylight. It was doubly strange for it to be so empty. She had bought top of the range computers and the best workstations money could buy. She rented this floor from Fiscal Industries, because, quite simply, it had the best ‘pulling power.’ She could have gone elsewhere and
As soon as they were out of the building , Christina’s staff scattered. Edward followed three of his colleagues toward the tube station only to find it closed. There were scores of people climbing over the barriers and running down the tracks past a stationary train. As he followed them past a ransacked coffee shop, banknotes fluttering in the wind, he heard a terrifying roar from the tunnel ahead. From the darkness came a wave of people, running back to the station.
“ Stop! Please, stop!” He heard people call out, but it was futile. Up ahead in the tunnel the dead were coming. Masses of people were still trying to get into the tunnel to escape the streets, only to meet a wave of people, dead and alive, coming back. In the confusion, scores of people were crushed in the icy blackness of the tube tunnel.
Edward saw the dead rushing thro ugh the crowd; biting, tearing, and ripping at anything that moved. Those who had been crushed by the stampede lay still. Those poor souls killed by the dead, or those mortally wounded, soon sprang back up and feasted upon the dead, or chased after the living. Edward retraced his steps and clambered carefully up onto the roof of the coffee shop, as those around him charged around in a mad panic.
One by one they fled , or were struck down by the dead. Edward pressed himself against the small roof of the shop and clamped his mouth firmly shut. He put his hands over his ears to block out the sounds of the living being torn apart; their awful screams made him dizzy. He could almost feel his own mind shattering. He cried as he waited there for it to stop, wishing he were with his wife.
Finally , the screams subsided, but the dead did not disperse. They stayed, feasting on the juicy, warm flesh that had been unable to rise again. Some ran into the carnage of the streets. Some stayed in the station. They could smell life. They could smell Edward. They would not rest until he was found and devoured.
* * * *
Christina stared out of the huge window, wondering if Edward had made it home. They had left hours ago. She had tried the phones but they were all dead. The internet told her nothing. It was as if the internet was dead too; there had been no news stories of any kind since nine this morning. Since a very brief call from someone called, Ranjit, this morning, she had rung security back every hour but had received no reply.
She tried looking down at the ground to see what was going on , but it was pointless. The storm had not let up and the rainy mist obscured any vision of the ground below. It was impossible to hear anything either. The silence of the office and the quiet ticking of the clock were both irritating and stultifying.
Christin a walked over to the lifts and tried the buttons, but they were still not working. Presumably in an emergency, they shut off until someone turned the power back on again. She walked over to the exit door and poked her head around it into the empty stairwell. It was bizarrely quiet.
“Hello?” she said, her voice echoing back to her. There was not a thing to be heard. She did not like the idea of being trapped in here and went back to the office to grab a litter bin. She opened the exit to the stairwell once more and wedged the bin in the doorway so it would not shut on her. If the door got locked , she would be stuck in here forever. What if the police or the fire brigade came, couldn’t get in, and left her behind? She felt much better knowing there was an exit for her.
Christin a walked back through her office slowly. It was so strange to be here in daylight. It was doubly strange for it to be so empty. She had bought top of the range computers and the best workstations money could buy. She rented this floor from Fiscal Industries, because, quite simply, it had the best ‘pulling power.’ She could have gone elsewhere and
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