Story Notes:
I was looking through old challenges for inspiration. This one looked interesting. Set in an alternate season two where zombies happened instead of "The Client." (Title from "It's Getting Boring by the Sea" by Blood Red Shoes. Awesome track.)
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
"Mark doesn't think Dwight really exists." Jim's propped up against Pam's desk, one finger rooting around in the jelly bean bowl for that last, elusive yellow. Ah-ha. There it is. Success! "I think we need to do something about that."
"Mark?" Pam powers down her computer and sighs. Another Friday gone. Another week gone. Another office full of people gone before she is. "And just which Mark would this be? Roommate Mark, or college roommate-Mark?"
"Roommate Mark." He pops the Jelly Belly in his mouth and chews vigorously. "Obviously."
"Obviously," she mirrors, rising to her feet. "Hey, have you ever thought to yourself, 'Wow, I know a lot of Marks?'"
Jim chuckles. "No."
"Well, that's something to think about, then."
"Look," he says while she's pulling her sweater over her shoulders. "I'm deadly serious."
"So am I," she says, and shakes her head ruefully. "Anyway, what are you going to do about this critical Dwight situation?"
"I don't know." Jim adjusts the strap on his messenger bag. It's digging a furrow into his shoulder. "Take a picture, I guess?"
"Jim," she says, sounding for all the world like a scolding teacher. "Dwight is far too big and colorful to be contained by any mere photograph." She pauses, buttoning up her sweater. "Ooh, I know! You could, like, throw a party at your house, and invite all of us to it. That way, Mark could meet him."
"What, like a house party?" He watches the quick up-and-down motions of her head. "With alcohol? And karaoke? And Michael and Dwight? You remember what happened last Christmas, right?"
"Ew," she says. "Good point. I didn't think it was possible to make Motley Crue sound worse."
"They found a way, Pam. They found a way."
"Well, maybe you could just... not invite Michael. Would that help?"
"Now, there's a thought," he says, and pretends to think about it. "Beesly, I'll take your suggestion under consideration."
"Good," she says, and smooths the front of her sweater and turns to him. "Hey," and she's changing direction on him here, "I just want to thank you for, you know, driving me home tonight. I know you probably had plans with Katy, or whatever, and I just..."
"Don't mention it."
"No, Jim. I just want you to know I really appreciate it. Really. Okay?" And she smiles, that sweet and wide grin that always sticks him right in the soft, defenseless underbelly.
"Okay," he says, observing the proper forms. "Shall we?"
"Home, Halpert," she says with another smile. "And step on it."
Outside the front doors, a giant lumbering shape is tottering back and forth. It smacks against the glass with this loud banging noise that makes Pam jump.
"What's that?" She points, which is completely unnecessary, 'cause Jim's already looking.
It only takes one more second for reality to collapse in on itself like a dead star.
Because in that next second, Lonny steps through the closed front doors. He's wearing a jumpsuit that's been dyed dark red with blood and various other fluids. He's drooling blood and spit from a mouth that no longer has a jawbone. He's eyeing them through bloodshot eyes like a rabid dog chasing an alley cat.
Something is very wrong.
Pam screams, kind of, but the noise dies in her throat before escaping into the air. Jim feels like he's going to be sick. Lonny lunges.
What happens next is pure instinct, conceived of and performed before Jim has so much as a second to think about it. He pushes Pam out of way, grabs the coat rack, and swings for the fences.
Unfortunately, baseball wasn't Jim's game in high school. Or in college.
The blow he lands is too soft to stun this weird, inhuman beast that used to be a co-worker, too hard to be ignored. Lonny's knocked back a few inches, which gives Jim just enough time to leap back before the thing lunges again.
The Thing That Was Lonny's hands close around thin air. It makes a weird, strangled noise from what barely passes for a mouth and winds up bumping into the reception desk. It snarls and flails its arms.
"Jim," begins Pam, in a small and nervous voice quite unlike anything he's ever heard come from her mouth.
He'd like to reply, but already Lonny-thing's swinging back around, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, growling something dead and primeval from the back of its throat.
Jim charges at the thing, coat rack extended, hard as he can manage. He catches it dead center of the ribcage, and expects a nice solid recoil. Instead, six feet of steel-capped wood passes through Lonny's flesh with a wet squirting noise, as easy as warm metal through cold butter, and pins it to the couch.
The good news: Lonny-thing is now trapped, its hands frantically opening and closing around a new wooden appendage. In this state, it's probably not a threat anymore.
The bad news: Lonny-thing is still moving, which is sixteen different varieties of Fucked-Up and Wrong.
"Oh, God," Jim mutters. "Oh my God." For a moment, he perceives the world's rotation, sees Lonny and the couch and the carpet and the desk all spin around his head at a thousand miles an hour. Forsaking all other options available to him, he throws up.
This seems like the thing to do after impaling a coworker on a coatracker and finding out he's still not dead.
"Jim..." Pam, he realizes, has stepped up next to him and is currently digging into his shoulder so tightly with her fingers she might be breaking the skin. It's the least of his worries.
"I'm okay," he says, trying to keep calm, but he doesn't know what he's saying. Okay? Okay?! No, he fucking well isn't okay, and it'll be a goddamned fucking miracle if he's ever okay again. What the fuck was that fucking thing? What the fuck did he just do? Why the fuck isn't it dead yet?
The thing groans again. "Help me," the groan seems to say. "Please," the groan seems to say, "help me back up so I can eat you."
"What was," Pam begins, but trails off, because what else can she really even say?
"I don't," Jim begins, but trails off, kneeling on the floor and heaving for breath.
Neither of them is looking at the thing anymore. It's a pink elephant. Not really there even if it's there. And grunting. And making these slick, sickening sounds with every motion.
He wants to empty his stomach onto the floor again.
She just wants to pass out.
"Hey," announces Creed, sounding more than a little hostile. He wanders out from the nook behind reception, taking one drowsy step after another, and then glares at Pam. "Would you mind keeping it down? Some of us are trying to sleep in here."
Chapter End Notes:
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I've been kicking this, and kicking this, and kicking this, and now the time has come to let other people kick it around for a while. Go ahead. Feel free. Chapters two and three are not yet written; chapters four, five, and six are. And a couple more will follow thereafter. So there's plenty more to come, whether you enjoyed it or not. Ha ha!
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