A white pool of light flicked from desk to desk, momentarily pausing between the isles. A balding man, indeterminate age, tattered suit, and caked with dirt. Two shots from a 9mm pistol.
The pool of light proceeded forward now, footsteps crunching fallen leaves and broken glass. Measured and slow, ignoring the sun rapidly moving towards the horizon. Something in this office complex is more important than leaving before the creatures' preferred hunting hours.
A corner, deeper into the halls, no windows facing west, just the perfect circle of leds, reflector, and lens.
Black crud climbs the walls, soaked acoustic ceiling tiles lie where they fell, and the carpet is covered with fungus. Spiders crawl in and out of every corner, and mice can be heard running through the cable trays, should one stop for a moment.
Yet for all these inroads of nature, it seems very little has changed. Workers simply stopped seeing jobs as filing clerks important with increasing news of aliens, war, fuel shortages, and strange abominations took over the news. Why should they - with the servers literally cooked from the inside out by EMP, there were no files to review. What looter would break into an insurance adjuster's office when electronic stores and car parks were just a few blocks further north?
Having survived the early period, this place was now a treasure trove. First aid kits, batteries kept safe in metal lockers, phone wire, tape, lighting fixtures and bulbs, not to mention the basement back-up generator. Still not important for this trek though.
Footsteps faster. Another turn, doors with placards bearing familiar names. Outside somewhere, feral dogs howl, their usual reaction to spotting reanimates.
Another one stumbles out of an office, the gun fires before the thing can even be identified as a former man or woman.
Turn left. A Door. Open it.
The old suit is still hanging off the back, ready for another power lunch. Everything seems untouched, the phone on its cradle, an un-faded poster with some pithy comment about teamwork behind the computer monitor, and a pen still sitting next to a stack of note cards.
There it is. Why this trek through an infested city has been made.
A framed portrait, the last image of a wife not lost with the destruction of computer memory.