The Inevitable Zombie Uprising (7)

In a dark and forlorn basement, the popularly elected disk jockey was quite bored with waiting for a rescue. It had only been a few minutes, but he felt he needed to do something, and beating patterns on the door with his new broken-broomstick drumsticks did not really count.  
There was, in his mind, a back portion that he did not acknowledge very often. It rather enjoyed such things as Arena rock and great exploding hair and 80s TV shows, and knew just how popular it was presently. Perhaps its continued existence was simply a tribute to BJ's age, at having been quite aware of the entirety of the eighties. However, among its varied and useless trivia was a certain, well educated, mullet wearing hero who might build a bunker-busting bomb from the kitchen sink but refused to carry a pistol. So BJ looked around and asked himself, aloud
“What would Macgyver do? Well, there are about ten dozen tuna sandwiches. I bet those turn into bombs if you reverse their polarity... or was that deflector plates?... well, there's got to be another way out of here.”
He looked around as best he was able in the dim, red light. “At least the sirens aren't going off. That'd be annoying indeed. Hum, I wonder why they're not...”
“A sink, some pipes. A bottle of windex and some rags. A refrigerated cart thing with far too many tuna sandwiches. One coffee pot, three various coffee mugs, cream and sugar. Nothing that looks like it would open a door.”
“Chairs. A low table. There's the tiny corner bathroom....”
“That's an idea” BJ was back to thinking silently again. I know that bathroom has an exhaust fan. In a moment he was standing on a chair above the toilet, breaking the thing down from the ceiling. A rain of dust and the bodies of daddy-long-legs was unwelcome, but worse was the darkness that greeted him. The duct behind that fan was tiny and unlit, so even if it could open it up to something big enough for him, it might not lead anywhere anyway.
Ah! but the ceiling is just a drop – those little Styrofoam panels move easily.... and in moving one he discovered that behind it was a world of pink, fluffy fiberglass. Hardly conducive to any movement. 
He continued like this for the better part of an hour, bouncing around his confinement, trying any number of interesting escape mechanisms. In the end, he tried the door again.
And its magnetic seal had released of its own accord sometime during the last hour. At once joyous to be free and pained to have been kept from it, BJ threw open the door.
And was greeted by Henry S-something. The Janitor. Or, as least, it was Henry's body. The light was behind him, and BJ's eyes were not at all used to it, but he was fairly sure that Hal never shuffled that way. Nor did he smell so strongly like rotten fruit and gym-socks. Lastly, I'm sure that Henry, no matter how pleased to see someone, would not moan loudly and charge at him. BJ slammed the door. The barrier opened inward, so it did not present much challenge to the attacker, but it did slow him for a moment as BJ leaned on the door.
“OK. That's really weird. I can't hurt him... or at least I shouldn't.. but its like he's rabid.”  
Rabid hardly described it. Hal's face was oozing blood, his dark blue work shirt looked like a rottweiler had been chewing on it. Truthfully, his chest looked about the same. He's only had a glimpse, but the terrifying was burned into his brain.
In a moment, a plan was formulated. The next, the zombie-Henry broke into the room – that seemed quite empty. Empty, that is, aside from the upturned chair. With a mighty crash, the raving janitor collided with it, tripping and skidding across the floor, and smashing into a a small, portable refrigerator-on wheels. In a moment BJ stepped though the door and bolted it with a single chair leg. He felt quite clever about all this quick thinking, even taking a moment to wonder if old Henry liked tuna fish. This elation lasted all of three seconds and seven feet. 
The next second he realized that the court clerk, two judges, one cop, a half-dozen passerbys were wandering around in this room and the next, and every one of them was about as sane as the janitor. BJ ran for the stairs as fast as his feet would take him – on the way he swore off cigarettes and donuts and and potato chips and hard liquor and anything else that might be considered a generally bad idea by any god out there. He was working on promising a celibate life as a monk, but hadn't quite gotten that far when he puffed his way to the top. It seemed that he was not followed, perhaps they hadn't heard him (unlikely) or perhaps they had trouble with this door (that didn't quite make sense) or they didn't like stairs either (sounded reasonable, he thought).  
“Ahh, back in my own, tiny studio! No rabid bodies here, no sir, not one.”
He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk, and enjoyed a drawn out sigh before beginning to plot just what he should do next. The word 'zombie' drifted, unwelcome, into his mind, and he did his best to ignore it.