Manhattan

The doorman, an elderly white haired man, had been dead, lying in the doorway preventing the door from closing and locking. The dead had killed him but not turned him. Or at least he had not turned yet. What a lot you learn in three days, she told herself now, as she remembered. They had dug in, shifted him outside the door. Bear had dragged him to the gutter as she had held the door. They had no sooner let the door close than he had sat up in the gutter of the street."Bear! He's only hurt," she had said, shocked. She had turned to Bear where he stood behind her in the hallway. The words coming to her lips automatically."Baby," he had started. But that was when the doorman had hit the glass door. Rattling it in its frame, scaring her so badly that she had peed herself a little. Bear had dragged her unprotestingly, backwards down the hallway.They had used the elevator, taken it to the top of the building. There had still been electric in the building that first day. Now the elevator was dead, wedged open on their floor. I was raised in Texas and New York. I write short stories, novels, lyrics, poetry. I also enjoy building 3D models in my down time. I have written several series and collections.