When you have a key to the elevator, there's nowhere in the building you can't get to. Well, I guess there is the occasional locked door. But more often than not, the elevator gives you the means of bypassing them. (I'm doing my evil "I have so much power right now" face, just so you know.)
Don't get me wrong, a sonic screwdriver would be nice, but until technology evolves to that point I'll stick with the elevator key.
This was another one of those "Hey, Mark, I need something," moments. He kindly left the shop door unlocked so I could peruse at my leisure. Actually, despite the large sign that says "please keep locked at all times," I'm not sure the door ever gets locked. I only run things by him as a courtesy.
It wasn't hard to find the elevator key. There's a wall full of very deliberately labeled keys (about which Mark has complained to numerous times. Why can't they just have one master key to rule them all?) In a place this large, the keys need to be labeled.
There it was. "Elevator." Third from the bottom on the rightmost column, near all of the other keys going to major doors--the top left was devoted to things like desk keys, or the stray unlabeled key, which got little or no use, but had to be kept as a matter of practice. I swiped the elevator key and went to my deed.
My deed. I could probably be arrested for this. What would my defense be? "He was a zombie"? At the best, that's going to get me locked up in a mental institution. On the plus side, I could grow a sweet Matt-Smith-in-a-straight-jacket beard, but at the expense of being locked up in, you know, a nut house.
I guess that's the chance that has to be taken in order to finish a job which has already been started. Steve had already turned two people. It was too dangerous to keep him around.
I went to the basement with the help of my handy-dandy elevator key, and then I sent the elevator soaring back up, all the way to the top floor.
As the elevator stopped letting off its low groan, I pried open the doors. Steve was dangling there letting loose an incessant groan of his own. He always was unnecessarily chatty. I guess I can't count on zombification to make people bearable.
Admittedly, I hadn't really thought out how I was going to do this. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to. There was still, in the dark recesses of my mind, the fear that these were feeling beings, my once-human companions, and that my destruction of their bodies would bring immense pain. I've watched loved ones die in agony. Now I watched Steve grasping inefficaciously toward my throat.
I grabbed one of the pipes that was sitting beside the door--the basement was mostly used for storage by facilities--and wedged it between the elevator doors. Grabbing another pipe, I began swinging at Steve like he were some kind of overgrown, man-eating piñata.
In my attempt to bash Steve's brains in, I managed to break his arm, knock loose a handful of teeth, and bloody the walls of the elevator shaft. Of all the sports, I was always most inept at baseball. Basketball, I was passable at. Soccer, I was reasonable at, in certain capacities. With baseball, it took me four seasons just to finally hit a fair ball. With that minor success, I decided early retirement was my most strategic move.
Finally, with a little bit of sweat (mine) and blood (Steve's), I was able to knock him around the head enough to make him grow silent and still.
Okay. I didn't really think out how to deal with the body. Or the blood. (Does spraying it down with ammonia actually prevent a forensics team from getting a good sample?)
I probably shouldn't Google "how to hide a body."
I sprayed down the scene with ammonia I found down the the basement. Hopefully that actually does something if someone comes looking. Maybe they won't. Bob's wife thinks he's cheating on her.
I still need to do something with the body. I can't well leave it rotting down there. If you guys have any ideas, I'm all ears.