Fifteen
The rain was finally over. Occasional cold drops fell from the sky and waterfalls still spilled off of the top of the library and shot out of the downspouts. The clouds still hung heavy and dark over the building and the world outside was strangely quiet. A sudden scream came muted through the windows of the library, startling a pigeon off of the window ledge. It fluttered away into a grey sky, soon disappearing in the monotone sky.
In the city in general, few people milled about in the streets. Most office workers had sitting behind their desks, plugging away at keyboards, creating memos, answering emails and pouring their hearts into Powerpoint presentations. Then the power went out and they had to sit, twiddling their thumbs and talking by the water cooler. Bathroom breaks were an exercise in holding a flashlight with your knees. Still close to noon, people sat in restaurants and delis, savoring the crumbs at the bottoms of their chip bags and the crusts of their sandwiches. Anything to keep them out a few moments longer. The business district was operating as usual. No one had turned on a news channel or visited a news web site since the power was out. Still, nothing strange seemed to be going on.
In the slums and residential areas, though, a different picture played out. The few people milling through the streets weren’t very steady on their feet. Their eyes didn’t see and their ears didn’t hear, at least not like their still-living cousins huddled inside behind locked doors. Their eyes saw movement, their ears heard life, but they didn’t pick out sounds. They wouldn’t recognize their own name if it was called. The living, those smart enough to still be safe and whole, were barricaded in their homes. Doors triple-locked and deadbolted against the shambling hordes outside. All the windows had their shudders closed and curtains pulled. Dressers and entertainment centers had been scooted and slid to block every opening they could. Cold, sweaty hands held onto handguns and kitchen knives.
The police tried to fight the dead. Guns and billy clubs, tear gas and rubber bullets. Nothing seemed to effect them. Most police ended up running screaming to their squad cars, tearing off down the streets back to police headquarters where they would ignore incoming calls for help against this inpenetrable foes. A few officers got in lucky shots, tearing the tops off of their wobbling heads. The suddenly-shorter corpses fell to the ground and were still. More often that not, though, these lucky officers ended up being unlucky. Confident with their first or second kill, they went forward into the throng, determined to put an end to this madness. Into the group, where they were surrounded and where bullets quickly ran out.
Over all of this, the startled pigeon flew. He flapped his grey wings and climbed higher, lifting himself through the clouds until he could feel the sun on his wings. Winter was coming.