Stained Glass, Stained Hands

The clatter of the overturned pedestal echoed, ridiculously loud in the sudden, brief quiet. Milo pressed himself against the cool marble of a plinth, one hand instinctively covering his mouth, the other gripping the jagged edge of the broken display case. Glass shard, really. Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing against… them.

Zara, crouched lower than him behind a colossal, abstract sculpture made of welded scrap metal, nudged his ankle with her foot. She gestured with her chin towards the main hall. A low moan, wet and gurgling, drifted in from that direction. They had to move. They couldn't just stay here, pressed up against this monstrous, silent metal flower, waiting for the shamblers to find them.

The first wave had been pure, unadulterated panic. One moment, patrons in their evening wear sipped sparkling cider and admired the new contemporary Canadian collection; the next, a security guard, eyes milky and limbs jerking, was tearing into the neck of a philanthropist near the Riopelle. It had spiralled faster than a broken carousel.

"Back hall," Zara whispered, her voice rough, hoarse. She’d been shouting, screaming, earlier. "Maintenance access. I saw a sign earlier, near the restrooms."

Milo nodded, his throat tight. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He could feel the cool sweat on his temples, the faint tremble in his hands. "Too open," he mouthed, gesturing towards the wide, exposed space between their hiding spot and the archway leading to the gallery's south wing. That’s where the restrooms, and hopefully, the maintenance access, were.

He risked a quick peek. A handful of them were still milling about, like macabre tourists, bumping into priceless paintings, their vacant gazes fixed on nothing in particular. One, a woman in a crushed velvet gown, was gnawing slowly on what looked like a piece of a shattered ceramic vase. A small, almost irrelevant detail in the grand scheme, but it snagged in Milo's mind—the utter pointlessness of it. She wasn't eating it for sustenance. Just… chewing.

"Wait for it," Zara breathed, her knuckles white where she clutched a heavy brass plaque she'd pried from a wall. "When that one passes the 'Untitled Landscape'."

The 'Untitled Landscape' was a vast, bleak canvas, all greys and muted blues. The shambler, a tall, spindly man in what had been a sharp suit, lurched past it, its head lolling. This was their chance. Milo took a deep breath, the metallic tang of something unpleasant sharp in his nose. He pushed off the plinth, not quite steady on his feet, and darted forward. Zara was right behind him, surprisingly agile for someone usually glued to her tablet.

They moved low, hugging the walls, past a room dedicated to Inuit carvings that now seemed to stare with hollow, ancient eyes, past a series of unsettling modern photography. Each step was a tightrope walk over polished stone, the fear of a misplaced footfall, a dropped shard of glass, a sudden lurch, a sudden *gurgle*, a constant companion.

They reached the south wing archway, just as the velvet-gowned shambler turned its head, a slow, unnatural pivot, as if its neck was made of rust-eaten gears. Its eyes, rheumy and filmed over, seemed to fix on them, or rather, on the faint tremor of their passage.

The Glint of Authority

A shot rang out. Not the muted thud of a zombie slamming into a wall, but a sharp, undeniable CRACK that made Milo flinch, a jolt of pure adrenaline spiking through him. The velvet-gowned shambler, mid-lurch, crumpled. It hit the marble with a sickening thud, its head now a messy ruin.

"Here!" a voice yelled, strained but authoritative. "Over here, you two!"

Milo and Zara spun around. Further down the south wing, near an emergency exit sign that pulsed with a dull red glow, stood Officer Bell. His uniform was rumpled, streaked with dirt and something darker, but he held a service pistol steady, aimed at another shambler trying to round the corner. He looked older, more tired than when Milo had seen him directing traffic downtown last week. Bell was sweating, his face pale beneath the grime, but there was a flicker of determination in his eyes.

"Officer Bell!" Zara exclaimed, relief washing over her face, making her almost stumble. "Thank God."

"Move!" Bell barked, firing another shot. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. "Don't just stand there!"

They sprinted towards him, the adrenaline pushing away the fatigue. Bell kicked open the emergency exit, revealing a narrow alleyway bathed in the bruised light of a late autumn afternoon. The air, though cold and damp, was a welcome reprieve from the gallery's putrid warmth.

"Thought I was the last one," Bell muttered, checking behind them, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Whole block's gone to hell. What are you two still doing here?"

"We got trapped in the archives," Milo explained, his own breath ragged. "Managed to get out through a service lift. Thought this way would be clearer."

"Clearer?" Bell gave a bitter, short laugh. "Nowhere's clear anymore. We gotta get to the loading dock. There's a chance, a slim one, a police transport might still be trying to evac through there. Or at least, that was the plan this morning."

He led them into the alley. It was a tight space, lined with overflowing dumpsters and fire escapes. The chill November wind whipped around them, carrying the faint, distant wail of sirens – or were those screams? The air smelled of damp concrete and rotting leaves, a normal city smell now tainted by an undercurrent of something else, something fetid.

"Stay low, stick close," Bell instructed, his voice lower now, more controlled. He moved with a practiced caution, checking every shadowed nook. "They're drawn to sound, mostly. But some of them…"

An Unnatural Swiftness

A rustle from above. Milo instinctively looked up, his neck muscles tensing. A dark shape dropped from a fire escape, landing with a soft thud on the grimy concrete. It wasn't shambling. It wasn't moaning. It was *fast*.

This one was different. Smaller, wirier, its limbs almost spider-like in their disjointed flexibility. It moved with a twitching, predatory grace, not the lumbering horror they'd grown accustomed to. Its clothes, once a delivery driver's uniform, were shredded, exposing pale, stretched skin. Its eyes, unlike the others, seemed to hold a flicker of dark, malicious intelligence. It didn't just stumble; it *stalked*.

"New one," Zara breathed, her voice a tight knot of fear. "Faster."

Bell reacted instantly, pushing them both behind a overflowing skip. "Stay down!"

The 'afflicted' snarled, a dry, rasping sound unlike the wet gurgles of the others. It scrabbled at the side of the dumpster, its long fingers, tipped with broken, yellowed nails, finding purchase on the grimy metal. Its head snapped from side to side, as if scenting them out.

Milo fumbled for his glass shard, his hand slick with sweat. He pressed his back against the cold, corroded metal of the skip. The stench of rotting food and garbage was overwhelming, but he barely registered it. All his senses were honed on the creature just metres away.

Zara, ever practical, grabbed a broken broom handle from inside the skip, a desperate improvisation. "We can't outrun it in this alley," she hissed, her voice barely audible. "It'll corner us."

Bell fired. The shot went wide, ricocheting off the brick wall with a shower of sparks. The creature shrieked, a sound that grated on Milo's nerves, and scrambled higher, onto the top of the skip. It hung there for a moment, silhouetted against the dim sky, before dropping onto the narrow ledge of the building opposite.

"Up and over!" Bell shouted, pointing towards a low-slung, unmarked door further down the alley. "That's the loading dock access!"

They burst from behind the skip, Bell leading the charge, firing suppressive shots that chipped away at the brickwork around the agile creature. It hissed and leaped, a blur of motion, landing squarely in their path.

Milo, still holding his pathetic glass shard, stumbled. The creature was on him in an instant, a whirlwind of clawed hands and gnashing teeth. He felt a searing pain as something raked across his forearm, a dull, shocking ache that spread quickly. He cried out, more from surprise than agony, and swung his arm wildly, the glass shard catching something solid. The creature shrieked, a high-pitched, almost human sound, and recoiled, its face briefly contorted in what looked like pain before it dissolved back into primal fury.

Bell slammed into it with his shoulder, sending it sprawling into a heap of rubbish bags. "Run!" he bellowed, his voice raw. "Just run!"

Milo scrambled up, his arm throbbing, a slick warmth spreading beneath his jacket sleeve. He didn't look back. Zara was already through the low door, her hand outstretched, pulling him through the narrow gap. Bell followed, struggling to get through the door, his pistol still up, covering their retreat.

They burst into a cavernous, dimly lit space. It was the loading dock. Pallets of crated art were stacked high, towering walls of plywood and canvas. The air here was cooler, tinged with diesel fumes and the dust of concrete. A single, massive bay door, rusted and industrial, stood at the far end, partially open, revealing a glimpse of the empty, grey street beyond. It was their only way out. But the sound of shuffling footsteps and guttural moans was growing louder, echoing off the high ceiling, coming from the shadowed recesses of the loading dock itself.

And then Milo saw it. A trail. Not blood, but something sticky, glistening and faintly green, smeared across the concrete floor, leading directly from a half-closed storage locker towards the partially open bay door. It looked like mucus. He remembered the agile shambler's unusual snarl, the way it moved, the flicker in its eyes. This wasn't just a zombie outbreak anymore. This was… evolving. And whatever left that trail, it was already ahead of them, waiting.

"Bell," Milo croaked, pointing, his injured arm burning. "The bay door…"

Bell squinted through the gloom. Before he could react, a monstrous, echoing growl rumbled from behind the crates, a sound that vibrated in Milo's chest, far deeper and more resonant than any of the shamblers they had encountered so far. The steel door to the alleyway behind them shuddered, something heavy slamming against it, straining the bolts. They were trapped. Between the approaching menace from the alley and whatever lurked in the loading dock, their 'escape' felt more like a sacrifice.

Trapped in the Liminal Space

Zara pulled Milo behind a stack of crates, her hand gripping his injured arm, her face a mask of terror and grim resolve. He could feel the blood seeping through his sleeve, a slow, cold dampness. The growl came again, closer this time, and the shuffling in the alley intensified, a chorus of hungry, rattling breaths. The bay door was their only hope, but the green trail and the unseen terror within the loading dock itself painted a grim picture of what lay beyond. They were caught in the middle, prey between two unknown, evolving threats.

"What now?" Zara whispered, her voice barely a breath, her eyes wide, darting between the shuddering alley door and the shadowed depths of the loading dock. The question hung heavy in the air, unanswered, as the concrete floor beneath them began to vibrate with a slow, deliberate thud, a rhythm that was far too heavy to be human.

Bell, pressed against a towering stack of wooden crates, clicked off his safety, his face a grim, resolute line. His eyes met Milo's, a silent message of desperate, weary courage passing between them. The growl came again, this time accompanied by the distinct, sickening sound of something large dragging itself across concrete, getting closer, much, much closer.

Milo’s injured arm pulsed. He wasn’t sure if it was the wound, or just his body screaming in panic. He could feel the vibration of the approaching behemoth through the floor, a slow, heavy pulse. The alley door groaned, about to give. They were out of time. And whatever was making that dragging sound, it was here. In the loading dock. With them.

"Wait!" Zara suddenly hissed, her eyes fixed on something above them. "The skylight…" She pointed to a small, grimy opening high above, almost swallowed by shadow, an impossible sliver of dirty glass in the vast concrete ceiling. It was too high, too narrow, too far. But as the growling beast in the loading dock let out another bone-chilling roar, and the alley door finally splintered with a sickening crack, Milo knew: impossible was all they had left.

The first shamblers from the alley burst through the ruined door, their arms outstretched, their groans hungry. And from the shadows of the loading dock, a new shape began to emerge, vast and hulking, its movements slower, but far more deliberate, its immense mass pushing aside crates with ease. Milo could only stare, heart hammering, at the impossible gap in the ceiling, as a guttural bellow filled the entire space.

What now? Indeed.