It's the End of the World as we Know It (and I feel fine)

GRISSOM

I still had Jim waiting on the line, but it took a second for me to respond; the sound of the clattering fence down below had sent a surge of very primitive fear along my spine. I'm not ashamed to admit that things were getting VERY beyond my comfort zone now.

The image of the Undead snapping and biting, climbing up the stairs on hands and knees through the darkness, moving relentlessly upward, driven by an ongoing madness for flesh and blood that went beyond reason or logic was . . . Christ, terrifying.

I've never considered myself a brave man. In the face of evil I've sought the logic and looked for the motivations, but in this case it would be easier to look at strains of Ebola and ask why it does what it does. In the sterile and controlled setting of a lab or a hospital, maybe the answers could be found, but right now we were trapped, trapped by my stupidity---

"Gil, say again?" Brass's voice brought me out of my momentary panic and I cleared my throat.

"Th-thirteen oh one Pine Plaza!" I yelled. "Jim, it's a Bio-hazard situation; do NOT come without protective gear, got that?"

"What kind of hazard? Chemical? You got something radioac—"

The call went dead; a complete silence that cut us off. I looked at the phone, but it still had an hour's worth of charge on it, and up until that moment, the reception had been perfect. I turned it off and tried to turn it back on, but it didn't, and that was even more odd. Sara looked at Greg, and he took his out, but it didn't activate either.

"Freaky," he muttered, and I was inclined to agree with him.

"Think he got enough?" Sara asked softly. I didn't want to bolster false hope, but I had a feeling that Brass had, and nodded.

"So now?" Greg asked, and I gave him the answer none of us wanted to hear.

"So now we wait."

Waiting has never been something I've enjoyed, even when it was for something pleasant, like Christmas, or a plane. I try not to fidget, or waste time, but my usual outlets of reading or sleeping weren't really options at the moment. After walking all around the edge of the Manly Hammers building, I found a spot up against the cinder blocks of one of the vent housings and sat down for a while, thinking.

Sara joined me, and the comfort of her up against my side felt extremely good. Had we been alone on the roof, I would have put my arm around her and debated doing it anyway. She solved the problem by laying her head on my shoulder and speaking softly. "So . . . this isn't really how I pictured our third date going."

"No," I agreed with a dry smile. "Not quite."

"See, I had this whole scenario going where I invited you back to my place, and while we talked about where we wanted to go for dinner, we'd be making out like fiends, and eventually I'd lead you off to my bedroom for our first serious . . . you know."

I groaned a little, taking in her words and fleshing them out with some stunning visuals, mostly of her in an erotic state of undress.

Sara laughed. "You sound like one of the things downstairs."

"Trust me, it's a very living reaction to images of you that have nothing to do with your brains, impressive as they are," I assured her. "And I have my own thing downstairs."

"Yeah, I remember—I still have the indentation on my thigh," she murmured, making me blush. I haven't blushed in years, and yet around this personal, private Sara, I did quite often.

It felt good. Fine, in fact, even in the face of our bleak situation.

Then the dog came over and sniffed Sara's shoe; she sighed, reached for him and patted his head. "So. . . what's the plan, Grissom? Are we going to consider going down to the roof of the ice cream parlor and beyond, or stick it out here?"

"Both have pros and cons," I sighed. "Pros--right now we're at the highest point, so we're more likely to be spotted by any helicopters. It's also the biggest roof of all of them, so we've got space for something to land here. I'm also sure that the Undead won't be able to push their way to the surface from the roof access ladder since it only allows one person at a time."

"And the cons?"

"Right now we have no supplies beyond our handful of items. We also risk exposure to the sun in the daytime. With no water, we're sure to dehydrate quickly, especially Ms. Miller and myself, since we have more . . . bulk than you and Greg."

"More mass-- and in a good way—" she teased. "I have a suggestion, if you're open to hearing it."

"What's that?"

"Let me and Greg go down to Cone, Cone on the Range."

GREG

Ms Miller only worked part-time at Manly Hammers.

She and I were sitting on the edge facing out over the parking lot, looking down over the Denali and the police car out in the darkness and talking. Below us at the front doors were a few of the more stupid zombies still trying to push up against the locked doors, and with them was Officer Krupke's arm even now knocking on the glass.

I heaved a rock at it. What the hell was it crawling around for anyway? It wasn't going to be eating a brain, not without teeth, a mouth or a digestive system. It unnerved the hell out of me because it seemed to show that even if you chopped up a zombie, parts of it kept going with the original imprinted imperative—namely, 'hunt prey.'

I wondered if it was because the arm used to belong to a policeman—sort of the predator of society, as it were.

"—The rest of the time I deliver singing telegrams for Happy Cluck."

"Happy Cluck—the singing, dancing chicken people?" I asked her, distracted for a moment from the arm way down below. She nodded. I threw another rock and hit the arm, right in the bicep and I wasn't sure--

--but I swear it flipped me off.

Leaning over and watching, Ms. Miller shook her head. "Uh-oh . . . looks like you aren't exactly making a friend down there, Greg."

I shrugged. "What's he going to do—climb up here and bitch slap me?"

That set her off, and let me tell you, when Ms. Louise Miller goes into the giggle zone, look out, because you're going to get taken there too. She laughed, all big and hearty; I couldn't help myself and busted up as well. Every time we looked at each other we started laughing, and when Ms. Miller crossed her eyes and made a slapping gesture I had to sit down just to breathe.

It felt good, and I can't really tell you why—maybe because even in the middle of the worst case scenario, there was still enough residual . . . goofiness to keep me from going numb. So I sat there wheezing a little, and Ms. Miller dropped down next to me, our backs against the ledge of the roof, both of us catching our breath.

"Oh Lord . . . Too damned . . . funny," she chuckled again, shaking her long braids out. "We make it through this night, I don't think I'll ever forget that snap, baby."

"Yeah," I admitted, feeling just a little better now. "I oughta give myself a high five for that one—"

That set her off again, and I just basked in the sound of her giggles. When they died down again, I looked over at her, and she smiled at me.

"You ever thought of doin' stand up? You'd be good at it," Ms. Miller told me. I shook my head, but felt warm at the compliment.

"Nah—too much of a science geek for that, but thanks. So you really are a Happy Cluck Telegram Chicken?"

That was a heck of a mental image. I'm not saying Ms. Miller was fat—she was more of what my grandfather would have called 'cuddling plump.' Not that I minded; when it comes to women I'm pretty open-minded these days. More so than I used to be . . . this job's made me see and understand a lot.

"Oh yeah, and I'm the best. I can sing on key, I don't mind looking foolish or posing for pictures, and I love to make people happy. Back when I worked at Chuck E. Cheese I was one of the best Chuckies they ever had in that costume. I'd hug kids, let'em pull on my tail—whatever. Was a pretty sweet gig, for minimum wage."

"What happened?" I asked her. She sighed.

"Kinky boss—wanted to do me . . .in the suit."

"Get out!" I spluttered. I have just as many twisted fantasies as the next guy, but doing it with Chuck E. Cheese after hours in the ball pit was NOT a mental happy place. Ms. Miller laughed a little.

"Oh yeah—It's freaky world out there, Greg, Frea-ky. So tell me about yourself—no offense, but you look kinda young to be a police scientist."

So I gave her the quick version of Greg Sanders, Geek, CSI, all-round amazing guy. It wasn't supposed to take long, but she kept asking me questions, and I'd have to backtrack a little. By the time I reached the part about the Sherlock Holmes case and making CSI, I could see her face, nodding and watching me.

Dawn was definitely coming.

SARA

It took a while to convince Grissom. I knew if I kept working on the logical aspects of the situation he'd finally agree—he can't really fight facts, and the big ones of dehydration and sun exposure were pretty bleak. It was getting lighter now, and I could see more of his features. He looked stressed. I was sure I wasn't exactly the poster girl for serenity myself, but waiting has never been easy for me.

From what I could see, the Cone, Cone on the Range store was flush up against the Manly Hammers building and shared part of a wall—the one over the Garden department in fact. The drop off was only about eight to ten feet, and I was pretty sure Greg and I could rappel down that far without a problem, if we were careful.

"What will you use to protect your hands?" Grissom asked me skeptically.

"My socks," I told him calmly. I had been thinking about this for a while. He tried not to look impressed, but when I nudged him he gave a small nod. I added, "Not a lot of protection, but better than bare palms."

"Sara—I'm still not happy with the idea. Splitting up is dangerous, and we have no idea if the shop has anything useful or even if you can get into it. "

"Nevertheless," I prompted him. Grissom's mouth twitched; I SO had his number.

"Nevertheless, I suppose it's worth a try," he admitted.

I looked at him. At some point in the night, Pepito had decided Grissom was a Dog Person and had curled up in his lap. He looked sort of cute, but being an old dog he had this problem with . . . emissions? Both Grissom and I had been ignoring it for the last hour, but right at this moment, Pepito shifted and a little treble note blatted out of the back end of him.

"I think I'd prefer the zombies—" Grissom muttered, but he was too tenderhearted to just brush the dog on the ground. I was holding back my hilarity as best I could while Grissom gently scooped the Chihuahua up and set him amid the gravel. Pepito stretched, which resulted in another little series of toots, and trotted off, arthritically to take care of some business.

"Come on, before he gets back," I whispered, and Grissom rolled his eyes. We rose up, and I heard the cartilage snapping and popping in our knees. Grissom rolled his head a little and looked out to where the clear glow on the horizon heralded dawn.

We made it over to where Greg and Ms. Miller were sitting and broke the idea to them.

Greg was all for it; Ms. Miller was cautiously supportive. "The water thing was on my mind too," she admitted, "And I know for a fact that the store's got some in a big case along with sodas. But the door's gonna be open, and that means you won't be the only ones who can get in, you know?"

"It's not a big place—we can probably barricade the door and take our time," Greg suggested.

Grissom said nothing at first; I could see he was thinking, and when he finally did speak, he spoke low. "Water would be the first priority, then shade. If you can find aprons or tarps or anything we can use for shelter from the sun, take it. We should also put one of our vests up as high as we can on one of the antennas here, so people on the ground can spot it."

One of the things I love about Grissom is how he takes charge without really even thinking about it. Sure, Greg and I had been working with him for years and for us to follow his lead was natural, but right now, even Ms. Miller was nodding, listening to him.

"First of all, we need to secure the rope and hang it down to see if we've got enough."

We took the coil of rope I'd snagged from the office and wrapped part of it around the housing vent. Grissom tied it off, securing a good bowline, and Greg uncoiled the other end, walking it towards the edged of the building where the Cone, Cone on the Range was. He reached the edge, no problem, and tossed it over the side; it dropped down and reached the other store with a couple of feet to spare.

Ms. Miller cheered, and I grinned—for the first time it looked like something was going our way. I looked at Grissom and he had a faint smile as he came over to join us at the edge. Greg was looking down, nodding to himself and I heard him pointing something out.

"See those rails? I think Cone, Cone may have a ladder built on the side of the building. If that's the case, then we're sitting pretty in terms of getting down to ground level."

GRISSOM

"Don't be too sure," I told Greg. "Check it out, but if it doesn't reach all the way down, skip it—the last thing you want to do if you get chased down there is to jump for a ladder and miss it."

It was clear Greg hadn't though of that, and he nodded tightly.

Sara was already sitting, pulling off her shoes and peeling her socks off. Her feet were pale in the light, long and narrow. She wrinkled her nose and laid the socks aside as she put her shoes back on and Greg did the same with his, taking longer to lace his sneakers tightly.

They both got up again, and slipped their hands into their socks, making mittens of them. Sara's hands looked like little white paws, and Greg's . . .

It was time. I knew Sara would take the lead; she's always felt a strong sense of responsibility for Greg and would take good care of him down there. I passed her the Glock and spoke to them both.

"Climb down carefully. Don't take any risks; Ms. Miller and I will be right here, waiting and listening. We'll pull you back up one at a time. Keep your ears open—not just for us, but for anything that sounds like help—a siren, a phone ringing—anything at all. And—"

I was going to say 'be careful' but I didn't get the chance to do that because Sara threw her arms around my neck and kissed me.

Kissing Sara is . . . words fail me. I haven't done it enough to be able to quantify it, or resist it. She's by turns passionate and tender and when she kisses me, the whole focus of my world narrows down to her lanky frame in my arms. Sara kisses completely; body and soul; all of her heart in every one.

Dimly I was aware of Ms. Miller whooping a little, and Greg muttering 'whoa!' but only as background noise. Sara broke away from me and grinned, unashamed and licking her lips. "I needed that for luck," she murmured.

"Excuse me, but I could use some luck?" Greg broke in, but he was grinning, and when I met his gaze there was something there in that glance between us that pacified any excuse I was going to make. I smiled crookedly.

"I'd kiss you Greg, but Sara's the jealous type," I told him.

Greg snorted, and even Ms. Miller laughed. Sara patted her Glock at the small of her back once more, and moved over to the ledge. Working carefully, she eased herself over the side and began to shimmy down the rope. The difference in height between the two store was only about twelve feet, but it was enough to make me tense. A fall would be no laughing matter.

Sara was halfway down and we had the rope braced when the sun finally came out fully. The long shadows stretched out over the gravelly rooftops and I for one was glad to see it. Night might be cooler, temperature-wise, but visibility was going to be a benefit.

Ms. Miller gave Greg a hug. "I'm not gonna kiss you, but you take whatever luck you need, okay?"

"Thanks," he murmured and squeezed her back. Down on the Cone, Cone on the Range roof, Sara was peeling off her sockmittens and stuffing them into her vest pockets. I noted she was flexing her hands and called down to her.

"Sara! Are you okay?"

"I'm good—rope's a little prickly, but I'm good. Let me check that possible ladder—" she called back.

I shook my head. "Wait for Greg—"

He was over the side now, and had his legs wrapped around the rope in a fashion I dimly remembered from ancient days in PE classes. Ms Miller was bracing the rope, trying to keep it steady for him.

Sara turned back and steadied the line from the bottom, standing on the rope, adding her weight to pin it. Greg wasn't as coordinated as Sara, and it was when he was nearly a fourth of the way down that he slipped and fell.

Ms. Miller gasped and I gripped the edge helplessly, watching Greg tumble the last nine feet down and hit Sara, knocking her flat and driving the breath from both of them with an audible 'Woof!' that carried on the still morning air.

"Greg! Sara!" I yelled, and all the fear and regrets I'd been harboring roiled in my brain, bubbling up only to be quelled a few seconds later by Greg weakly rolling off the love of my life.

"Ow," he called up. Sara rolled in the other direction, waving a hand weakly up at me to indicate she was all right.

I'm not sure I believed it, especially since she was cradling her stomach, and bent over. Greg clambered on his hands and knees to her—

She threw up on him.