Slowly, so gradual that Roger could barely register the increments of change from one moment to the next, he reached out to her. Diane? Darlene? What’s-her-name, she was from marketing. Roger didn’t liaise with her; he dealt exclusively with Brock and Susan. Regardless, Roger needed this woman’s help, so he reached for her, with agonizing lassitude in his limbs.
Standing as she was, waiting for the elevator, the woman’s back was to Roger and the rest of the office corridor. She couldn’t see his desperate reach.
He’d fallen over, in his office. Roger understood that much. One minute he’s hacking out that same terrible cough that’s been going ’round the office, the next he woke up on the far side of his desk. Everything ached. His tongue was so swollen it forced his mouth open—he could barely breathe, his joints ground to a dry halt, his muscles burned with a wet, sloppy feeling. Holding on to his display case for support, Roger had inadvertently pulled it over, shelves of glass shattering overtop of him. There was blood, everywhere. Roger knew something was terribly wrong, and he needed to get to a hospital, he needed help, and this woman from marketing was the only other person he could find.
Finally, contact.
Straining to open his jaws even further, to squeeze some air out his mouth, Roger hissed phlegm and blood all over the turning woman. He was sorry about that.
Seeing him, she screamed while shoving Roger down to the ground, before climbing up the wall in hysterics.
Envious of their speed, Roger saw some co-workers sprint towards the screams as he shambled back onto his feet. In an attempt to calm everyone down, he raised his hands as high as he could—about shoulder height, erect before him due to the searing pain in his elbows—and started lurching towards the crowd, trying his damndest to say something. More fluids escaped him, and a moan or two.
As everyone in the hallway was frozen in place, Roger’s ungainly stride eventually connected him with one of the secretaries, Janine. Roger leaned his aching frame on top of her, one arm over her shoulder, the other on the wall behind her. Blood and something else was leaking out of Roger something fierce, all over Janine’s nice blouse. Straining, Roger lifted his head to look her in the eye to apologize, but he misjudged the distance between them and must have clocked her in the chin, because she started sagging. That marketing woman was still screeching like a banshee, and Roger twisted around to try and point, shrug, gesture, anything, to indicate that he had no idea why she had flipped out so much. He just wanted to go to the hospital.
He forgot about the arm now wrapped around Janine’s shoulder and neck. As he twisted, Roger threw Janine against the wall, to a delicate crunching sound in between the screams. She crumpled on the floor. Falling to his knees, Roger shook Janine to try and wake her up, but as limp as she was this only cracked her skull against the floor, again and again.
Panicking, Roger leaned against the wall to help himself up, pushing through the drywall, and pulling down a half a meter of the stuff onto Janine’s supine form. Turning to the crowd, Roger had no idea what to say—not that he could say anything, anyway.
Grabbing his face, digging his fingers deep into the skin of his forehead and temple, Roger began screaming and weeping, only none of it came out.
* * *
Slowly, he didn’t want to startle it, Bruce tip-toed forwards. The thing that had been Roger—zombie-Roger, monster-Roger, whatever—was now kneeling on the floor convulsing in rage. Covered in blood and peppered with shards of glass, the brute was pissed off. Correction: pissed off, and strong. He had snapped poor Janine in two, like a carrot, and punched a hole through that wall like it was a wet paper bag. Edging to the front of the crowd, Bruce tried to get everyone to settle down.
“Listen,” he said, under his breath. “Someone’s gotta call the police, and the ambulance. And someone’s gotta shut-up Darlene.” The screaming was getting out of hand; Bruce was worried the woman from marketing would blow a gasket in her throat, maybe screw up her voice-box forever. Then where’d she be? A marketer who couldn’t talk was like a chicken without eggs.
Gibbering and keening were his only response.
“I’m gonna make a distraction, try to hold his attention. Maybe some of Roger is still alive in that… thing. Someone, or all of you, bolt for the phones.”
One foot inching in front of the other, no sudden movements now, Bruce stepped out from the safety of the pack. Anonymity in numbers gone, he made a target of himself. A few baby steps, a few more, looking over his shoulder to the crowd he flashed a thumbs-up, the same one Bruce whipped out every time he made a sale, behind the client’s back. Okay, far enough away from the rest, Bruce slowly, deliberately raised his hands above his head.
The thing that was Roger had stopped shaking on the floor, and was jittering as it tried to stand up straight.
Bruce had no idea how to address this mass of twisted, gangrenous flesh, so he flashed a smile.
* * *
“Ahoy there!” Bruce yelled, far louder than necessary, as always, with his hands stuck up in the air, looking like a loon. Even with Diane screaming incessantly behind him, Roger could have heard Bruce at a normal tone. Anyway, Roger had noticed him skirting the gaggle of office workers who had pressed themselves into the corner of the corridor long before Bruce had stuck his hands into the air. What was the self-proclaimed King of Sales doing, anyway? Couldn’t he see that Janine needed to get to the hospital? She’d hit her head pretty bad, and was probably concussed—or worse.
Why weren’t they doing anything?
Why were they looking at him like that?
Roger didn’t understand what the hell was wrong with these people, but it was time to do something about it. Scooping his tender arms underneath Janine, Roger slowly forced his legs to function, wincing from the effort at straightening the rebellious muscles and tendons against their desired dissembling.
Not yet, body, whatever else, not yet.
Bruce took a step towards Roger. “Now c’mon there, why don’t you leave Janine out of this? You’re just making things worse for everybody,” he said in a rush, all pomp and bluster gone from his oily face.
Resting his shoulder against the wall, heaving loud enough to be heard over the now hoarse screams, Roger angled his head towards Bruce, made eye contact with the salesman, then nodded towards the elevator.
* * *
The creature meant to communicate something, Bruce was certain of that.
But what?
Nodding, with a wink thrown in for good measure, Bruce hesitantly made his way towards the thing, pausing to look down at Janine, who didn’t seem dead after all. Stirring in once-Roger’s arms, her eyelids fluttered open to reveal bloodshot eyes, and she let out a low, raspy moan.
Poor girl. Gotta get her to a hospital, quick.
Again, Roger-thing motioned towards the elevator, this time with increased urgency. Was it—he, trying to help her?
Hoping for the best, Bruce stepped past the pair and pressed the “Down” button on the elevator, then stepped back to wait for the doors to open. Glancing down the hall, Bruce couldn’t see anyone, and couldn’t hear anyone, which meant that they had followed half of his instructions. Since nobody was daring the call to 9-1-1, it dawned on Bruce that he could call with his cellular. Reaching into his pocket, Bruce fumbled through spare change and pens to see if his cell phone was in there, nope back at his desk.
“One sec,” Bruce said, gesturing back towards the office. “I’ve gotta get my cell phone, want to stay connected, y’know? Hold that door for me, I’ll be right back.”
It seemed like Roger nodded, but Bruce couldn’t be sure, so he loped quickly down the hall, passing Darlene with a nod.
Someone had finally shut her up, it seemed.
* * *
Standing with her arms behind her as he ran by, Bruce hadn’t noticed a thing.
Typical. How could they all cower back there, after that abomination had tried to take advantage of her? She had screamed and screamed, and then it had assaulted Janine next. Now it was going to take her away and do unspeakable things to her body.
Bruce’s distraction had worked well; nobody saw her open up the emergency fire hatch once she realized screaming would get her nowhere.
Bunch of cowards, too stupid or afraid to see what needs to be done here.
Raising the fire axe above her head, Darla from marketing tensed her muscles to give the swing everything she had.
There weren’t going to be any second chances.
