The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 12: Situation Desperate (Parts 1 & 2 of 8)

Pure terror had a regressive effect. Emily was crawling like an infant and yearning for someone to come and take care of her. Her childhood, with all its feelings of helplessness, came back to her. It was a feeling she had worked desperately to avoid as an adult. She had learned to be independent through strength and deception, resilience and cunning. And for the times when self-reliance failed, Emily had made sure to tie herself to people who would protect her. But Lauren had abandoned her long ago. And where was Max?

Had something gone horribly wrong?

Had he failed? Was that what this was about? Did his plan backfire and unleash Armageddon down on her? If this wasn't the Torrealba's trying to put an end to her once and for all, who were these people, and what the hell was this about?

As much as Emily tried to figure it out, rational thought was being drowned out by the screaming in her head. There was a horrible wet feeling coming from her shin that was triggering an alarm inside of her. The trickling rivulets on her skin felt like a flood pouring from the throbbing gash on her leg. She clenched her teeth together hard enough for her jaw to ache and focused on just making it to the safety of the office wing.

It was two floors of cubicles and workstations on the north side of the building. She had never been in there, but she knew it should be empty this time of day. The only people who entered that area were the contractors, who labored under the mistaken belief they worked for the NSA. They showed up every day pretending to be clerks and accountants, PR men and data entry personnel when their work was really just window dressing for a con they weren't even a part of. Emily hoped she could get to an office or a meeting room and lock herself in.

So long as the doors weren't locked. So long as she hadn't gotten turned around when she tripped over the table.

Everything beyond the hands in front of her was lost in the smoke. For all she knew, she was heading toward some dead-end or back toward danger.

The distinctiveness and the direction of the shots were lost in the constant rat-a-tat. She glanced back over her shoulder. In the deep fog, black figures with the weight and substance of shadows spit fire at one another. Two mysterious forces were battling for some unknown prize.

Emily continued to shuffle forward unable to make any sense out of what was happening but hoping that they would be too occupied with each other to notice her.

It was the perfect metaphor for life: crawling along, moving with agonizing slowness toward the goal, and trying not to get killed because of other people's shit.

There was a change in the tiling. The uniform four-inch square terracotta changed to smoother marble. The grout lines were thinner and spaced further apart. She was past the lobby area. Another twenty feet and she'd be at the glass doors. She picked up her scrambling pace.

Do it for Aaron, she repeated to herself. She had to be here when he came home. He will come home. She spoke the words in her head as though to bend the universe to her will.

The chrome handle appeared before her as dull gray in the mist. She was less than ten feet from it. The sight represented life and safety. It felt like she just had to get to the door and everything would be okay.

Then, it exploded.

Glass shattered like a cataract of water. The handled dropped to the ground, falling through the air as though in slow motion. Her mind was playing a trick on her. Or maybe it was just teetering on slivers, before tumbling to the ground. Shards and diamond chips washed over the floor and surrounded her hands. A twinge made Emily reach instinctively for her face.