Blood Bay Episode 26, "Kicking the Little Guy"
From ZombieRiot
Sometimes you kick
Sometimes you get kicked
- INXS
Kicking the little guy
by Christopher Callahan
If there was one thing Mitch Heywood learned from his mother's incessant spewing of old clichés, it was that you never know what's waiting for you around the corners of life. And right now, he wanted to smack her for getting that ingrained in his head.
Less than five minutes had passed since he'd escaped from that prison of a training room, thanks to the access card Neil had left on the floor, along with the rest of his clipboard. Surely Mitch could see getting some kind of reprimand, despite this being only his fourth day of training, for violating who knew how many ISO procedures, or some kind of bullshit, regardless of the situation. Corporations like Elazar always found reasons to kick the little guy. But this time, Mitch would make sure he had all his ducks in a row, and was prepared to refute any charges they might try to pin on him. Hell, he was just sitting there reading; he wasn't responsible for the explosion that rocked the whole building, nor for the subsequent lockdown that occurred, which left Mitch standing alone in this subterranean labyrinth with no inkling of what to do next.
Neil, the HR guy, had told him to stay in the room until someone came to retrieve him, but hours had passed and no one showed up. Surely roaming these halls, despite how empty and dark they were was the wrong thing to do, but it beat hell out of just sitting there. Based on his brief exploration of this level, Mitch was fairly confident no one was coming to retrieve him.
Mitch grumbled as he approached another of those annoying YOU ARE HERE maps that were posted at every intersection. However, it was more of the same; you needed to understand all the abbreviations and symbols on the metal faceplate to know where the hell you were. Wait, he thought as he examined the map more closely. Next to the tiny red dot that theoretically represented HERE, there was an icon that looked like steps. Mitch stepped back and looked at the doorway next to him. The sign on it said STAIRWAY; the first clear marker he'd seen so far. He slid the access card through the mag-lock and nearly howled his relief when he heard the locking mechanism click and saw a small green light flicker on the control panel.
The door swung open with ease, presenting Mitch with an avenue of escape, which came at an opportune moment; he heard a gurgling hiss behind him that spun him on his heels as a chill traveled up his spine. Neil was there, as was Theresa, but there was something different about them. The first, most noticeable feature Mitch noticed as that they both had blood splattered on their clothes, and their hands were also stained with it, as were their faces. It looked to Mitch like wild animals, except they stood there, still as statues, except for the occasional twitch or spasm, and they sounded as if they were breathing through a tub of broken glass and mud. It was their eyes, though, that really started to freak Mitch out; it looked as if their eyeballs had been replaced with bright glowing red orbs.
"What's going on?" he asked, trying to mask his nervousness with a poorly feigned authoritarian tone. Neither of them responded, they merely continued staring at him, both leaning slightly forward, as if ready to pounce. "You guys look like shit."
Apparently, neither of them took kindly to honest criticism; they both lunged at Mitch, who was now standing in the dim doorway. Instinctively, he squatted on one leg while he kicked with the other, clipping Neil at the knee, which caused the diminutive man to fall to the ground. Theresa continued her advance, but there was enough distance that Mitch swung the thick metal door inward, using it as a shield, which caused Theresa to slam against it and bounce back. Mitch spun around to run toward the staircase and nearly tripped as Neil grabbed at his ankle, tearing through his flimsy dress sock and scraping a chunk of skin out of side of his foot. "Asshole!" he barked as he kicked back and felt the sole of his shoe make contact with Neil's face. He jumped away into the stairway, and just as the door was closing, he saw that both of them were already back on their feet and in pursuit. Neil seemed unfazed by the impact. It took Mitch no time at all to clear three floors of stairs. He recalled the training room being on level B5, so, in theory, he only had two more flights to clear before he was at street level. His pace was interrupted though, as he was assaulted by two sensations: firstly, he shuddered as he heard yet another explosion, this one sounding like something blowing up outside, which shook the foundation around him. Secondly, a burst of pain shot up his leg, as if acid was suddenly flowing through its veins, causing him to collapse on a landing, grabbing at his ankle as he grunted at the agonizing feeling. The sound of the pair of seemingly entranced psychos clambering up the stairs brought Mitch back to his senses, and he immediately pushed forward, standing on his foot despite the pain, and forced himself upward.
... eat...
He was a few feet from what presented itself as the exit to the street when he heard the... voice? Something seemed to whisper in his ear. He darted around quickly; no one was around. He shook it off and pushed the handle of the door that quite clearly announced EXIT TO CALIFORNIA STREET. He was safe. Free from the hell this underground torture chamber had become for him over the last several hours. But that feeling lasted only a few seconds. The street was thick with a chalky dust that sent Mitch into a painful coughing fit. The smell of dirt and dust and smoke filled his nostrils. Off toward the north he could see a fire engulfing some huge structure that looked like it was in the middle of the California Street. He could hear screams and shouts of those cloaked by the miasma that filled the area. He heard the door behind him open, and broke into a limping run without turning back, knowing full well it was his two pursuers. He ran toward the blaze, assuming he would find a firefighter or policeman to use for protection against whatever Neil and Theresa had become.
As he approached the intersection, a breeze blew a patch of covering away, and Mitch finally saw what was on fire. At one point, this large metallic tube had been part of an airplane's fuselage. Now, it was nothing more than a fiery coffin for the poor souls Mitch could see had remained in their seats during the crash, their charred husks the only evidence of their existence. He looked up over the wreckage and realized that what was once the Transamerica Pyramid was now a jagged tower of blackened girders and concrete, only a third of the height of its original structure. Could it be? Did an airplane run into the pyramid? The prospect of terrorism seemed so much more likely now. This was 9/11 all over again. But how come there were no cops or firemen? Why were there no emergency crews? Who were all these people screaming around him that he couldn't see? And why, in the name of God, were Neil and Theresa hunting him like starved jackals?
... meat...
Once again the tiny whispering claimed his attention. On impulse, he turned to see the pair a few yards away, but they were no longer chasing him. In fact, they looked as if they'd almost forgotten he was there. They almost looked as if they were conversing, yet their mouths hung agape, like drooling primates.
... immune...
He wasn't going to pass up this opportunity. Even with these random sputterings of some disembodied being, he had to keep himself as far ahead of the game as possible; who knew when they'd bolt after him again. He turned a corner and ran south on Sansome, in the hopes that if he got to Market Street, perhaps he could find someone who could explain what was happening. However, he found so much more than that. Every street was packed with abandoned vehicles. Off in the distance, just near Bush and Battery, through the haze, he could see figures moving, as if others were being chased as well. He could hear random sounds - barks, growls, hisses; noises he expected he might hear in the rain forests - mixed in with screams of panic, shouts of desperation, and moans of helplessness.
Torn between calling out for help and refraining from drawing the attention of some undesirable, he continued silently moving toward Market, picking up a length of rebar on the street; no sense in being at ground zero of the latest al Qaeda plot and not be ready for some unexpected attack. If it was terrorism, he pondered as he limped along. But then, what else could it be?
