Thompson
As they placed the last table in front of the stairwell doors, Director Thompson stepped back and wiped the sweat from his face. His heart was pounding. The rioters – possibly the Army of the Dead – had suddenly exploded around the city. The City Garrison was overrun, and the police had scattered. Branton's millions of citizens were frantically struggling to escape the city for a threat they hadn't even been informed of. There was no contact with the Prime Minister. All of the phone lines were down.
"My god," a voice came from down the hall. "They've surrounded the building!" He raced over to the windows and peered outside. Sure enough, the streets were flooded with people. There were so many that it was impossible to see the street itself. His heart, perilously close to an attack, sank. As if on cue, the power cut out and emergency lights illuminated the now darkened halls and offices. Screaming could be heard faintly rising from the stairwell from behind the barricaded doors.
"Stay calm," he urged, failing to believe his own words. "As long as the barricade holds, we'll be safe until they either get bored and leave or can be taken into custody!" Murmurs of disappointment and disagreement echoed throughout the floor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. No signal. A loud shriek came from behind the door. It sounded feral, almost inhuman. People began to panic.
"Why are they even coming here?" a woman pleaded. "We're nobody!" He didn't have an answer.
"Get into the offices! We can barricade the individual doors!" a man commanded, rushing into one of the smaller offices in the hall. Others began following. The doors started slamming shut, causing the people in the hallway to scramble to safety. The Director stood in the hallway watching as the last doors closed behind him and he found himself all alone. A loud bang against the stairwell door caught his attention, followed by another shriek. Dozens more shrieks and shouts from the hallway followed.
He dropped his phone on the ground, no longer needing it. The screen cracked into a spiderweb as the light flickered within. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his trusty vape pen. The pounding on the door intensified as the tables and chairs stacked in front of it began to wobble. He clicked the single button on the pen until it illuminated and stared at it for a moment, finding himself smiling sadly. He brought it to his lips and pressed the button down as he inhaled deeply. He felt the vapor enter his lungs.
As the cloud of vapor exited his mouth, the pounding and shrieking intensified. The doors were now on the verge of breaking as they strained under the pressure from within. The tables and chairs in front of it were slowly inching away. He stepped against the wall behind him and slumped down onto the floor, taking another hit from the pen. He found peace as he pondered the events that had occurred a thousand years before. Was it this terrifying for them? They seemed to know this was coming... they all gathered at Winterfell to fight it. How could we have been so blind? A strong thump against the door cracked the locks, allowing a few scant inches of visibility into the horror behind it.
Blue eyes shone from behind the door as the white and red fingers clawed at the opening. He took another hit from the pen as the effects of the drug began to make themselves known. I wonder if any of them gave up? He wished he would have been able to read the books that Dr. Stone and Dr. Ebrose had studied. He lamented dying having never read the stories of how they defeated this before. He wondered mostly if there was any particular reason they'd failed in making it permanent. Is this fate? Did they miss something? The doors burst open even wider, enough for the heads of the dead to push through, along with arms reaching out to grasp him. He took one last puff from his pen before setting it on the ground next to him and exhaling deeply.
I'll bet Sandor Clegane didn't give up. Why else would they name an island after him? He snickered at the thought, proud that in his dying moments, he could at least feel some sort of connection with the old legend. He'd probably think me a coward, sitting here, waiting to die. The tables and chairs gave way, allowing the doors to swing open. A torrent of dead men and women flooded out and raced across the hallway, targeting the first living being they saw before smashing open every single door in the office and adding two dozen more men and women to the Army of the Dead.