Ex-Purgatory: A Novel by Peter Clines Page B

security, but his phone was somewhere back in the tall grass. Even if he could get past the creatures, he wasn’t sure how long it would take him to find it. He ran in a wide circle around the dead things and headed out along the long walkway of the Court of Sciences.
    At least two dozen more monsters staggered in the courtyard. Maybe more. A few wore gore-splattered suits and ties. Some others had backpacks or messenger bags. One dead woman wore a UCLA sweatshirt. Something with one leg and long hair was dragging itself across the pavement. It had worn its face and chest down so far George couldn’t tell if it had been a man or a woman. The sound of clicking teeth echoed between the buildings.
    A dead thing over by the Geology building was wearing a campus security uniform. It was missing an arm. It raised the arm it did have at George, as if it could grab him from across the plaza.
    The court looked old. Weeds pushed up between the bricks. The small trees were withered and brown. Dark stains dotted the whole area, along with a few pieces of sun-dried garbage that looked like dead animals, but not enough to hide what they’d really been. The few windows around the court that weren’t shattered had more streaks of grime.
    Part of him, some animal, instinctive part, told him to run. Just run. That part shrieked in time with his pulsing headache. The corpses were still spread out wide enough to dodge. But hewasn’t sure where to go. Back to the maintenance office? Back to his car?
    And another part of him wanted to fight. Something told him these things weren’t a threat. Not to
him
, anyway. Buried right down next to the instinct to run was a certainty the dead things couldn’t hurt him.
    Running still won out.
    George ran a dozen feet and the throbbing pain in his skull made his eyes water. He made it a few more steps and fell to his knees. His stomach was churning and his throat trembled with the promise of impending vomit. Something burned at the back of his mouth.
    The dead people closed in around him. They dragged their feet. Fingertips brushed his shoulders. They gnashed their teeth and the
click-clack-click-clack
of ivory hit a rhythm with the pounding in his skull.
    He tried to get up but the nausea had crippled him. He bent over, his throat convulsed, and something hot forced its way into his mouth. It felt like wet smoke and acid streaming out between his teeth.
    “Jesus,” said someone. “You okay, guy?”
    George managed a deep breath and opened his eyes. He’d retched nothing onto the pavement. His nausea and headache had vanished like a light being turned off.
    He looked up. A man in a suit and a campus security guard stood over him. “You looked pretty bad there for a moment,” said the suit. He was bald and wore square eyeglasses.
    A ring of people surrounded George. Most were a polite yard or two away. Several watched from nearby tables.
    George stood up. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to freak anyone out. Just a … a bad migraine.”
    Half the crowd sighed and strolled off, their hopes for a serious incident dashed. A few lingered to be sure they weren’t going to miss anything. “You okay now?” the suit asked.
    “I’ve got some Advil,” said a woman in the dwindling crowd. She slung her backpack off her shoulder and rooted through a side pouch. “I get killer ones now and then.”
    George waved her off. “I’m good, thanks.”
    The suit—probably a doctor of some kind—helped George onto a bench and checked his eyes and pulse. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him. The suit squeezed George’s shoulder, told him to get some rest, and headed off across the plaza. Most of the bystanders vanished with him.
    The security officer waited until the suit was gone. “You been drinking?” he murmured. The name on his silver tag was Crosby.
    “What?” George shook his head. “No.”
    Crosby’s eyes dropped to George’s ID badge. “If you’ve been drinking I need to report