Just as the elevator dinged, I grabbed Alan’s elbow and tugged. “Stairs.”
“Why?” he asked but followed me around the corner to the back stairs.
There were several others already heading down the steps. Alan pushed ahead of me, and I stayed at his back as he shoved past others, followed by a chorus of “hey” and “watch it.”
We were only on floor eight, so we made it down the stairs fairly quickly. I paused at the third floor landing when I saw two men tackle a third man. One bit a chunk out of the guy’s face while the other went for the screamer’s throat. My adrenaline had already taken over, and my feet kept moving despite my shock. A gunshot rang out somewhere on the first floor. It was kind of like watching disasters on TV. It’s so horrendously surreal that it doesn’t fully register in the brain as reality. The whole Prima Insurance building had turned into the set of a slasher film, and unwillingness to face reality was the only reason I hadn’t frozen.
Alan flung open the large glass doors. I rushed outside, shading my eyes against the afternoon sun, and scanned the parking lot. Some spaces were empty, some cars were tearing out of the lot, but most were still peacefully parked, waiting for their owners.
Gunfire erupted somewhere in the distance.
“Where’s your car?” I asked breathlessly.
He turned around and looked at me like he’d forgotten I was still there. “Uh.” He looked around. “Over there.” He pointed to Lot C and took off toward it.
We were panting, but we sprinted all the way to his car, making wide arcs around other people running to their cars. It was a warm spring day, and my clothes clung to my sweaty skin.
Alan was an early-morning person, so his small Mitsubishi was parked only a few cars down the second row. He fumbled with his keys before holding out the fob. The lights flashed, and I yanked open the passenger door.
I swept the papers and CDs off the seat with a brisk move and fell onto the hot black leather. I had my door locked before Alan had the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and he squealed the tires in reverse, throwing me against the dash.
I hastily fastened my seatbelt and held on.
“What the hell is going on around here?” he muttered, throwing the car into gear and squealing the tires again.
I swallowed. “No idea.”
For the past two weeks, there’d been talk about a fast-spreading epidemic in South America that had been quickly moving northward, though I hadn’t worried. The Midwest was a long distance from South America, and we’d closed our borders to Mexico over a week ago. And most of the military stood between us and them to make sure the borders stayed closed.
Strange. The epidemic in South America was said to cause violent symptoms, exactly like what I’d seen today.
Maybe I should’ve worried.
Today had started as a typical Thursday. I’d listened to the radio on the commute to work. There’d been more talk on the growing epidemic, but local news overshadowed talks of the epidemic. At Prima, gossip ran wild all morning about last night’s attacks on joggers and walkers in nearly every southern state west of the Mississippi. Several paranoid employees had called in sick today.
Then, two cooks in the cafeteria got into some kind a brawl just before lunch. One left in an ambulance, and the other had been taken away in handcuffs. The news was reporting similar attacks across the Midwest and Western United States. With all that, would Prima close for the day? Hell, no.
Several worried employees had already left for home to pick up their kids from school. And now, not even three hours after lunch, half of the office was going ape-shit crazy on each other. Whatever was going on, it felt like I was caught in the middle of Ground Zero for some seriously screwed up shit.
I focused on breathing in and out. I reached for the radio and fumbled with the knob. I wrung my shaking hands, wiped them on my black pants, but they kept shaking.