"Volontiers, ma'am, d'accord." Andrew agrees, in his french-english patois. Presently your peek begins informing you of the progress of the SPAT team, and the hastily-assembled police cordon being thrown up.
A hovership with two Crusaders is en-route to Shyla's, but the local plod are somewhat slower to react.
Once airborne, you find the morning traffic light - but even at full speed, the distance doesn't close as quickly as you might like.
Suddenly at your back, the air begins to fill with a cold, fetid mist. It spills through the rent in the door, and extends no more than a meter in, nearly to the foot of the stairs on which you are standing.
Through the mist, you hear a gurgling roar - itself a terrifying mix of rage and frustration - then, thrashing limbs, and blunt impacts. A piteous mewling, shreiking sound - that stops abruptly, and the huge shape of the undead primate tries one last time to force its way through the gap in the door - its massive arm reaching through more out of seemingly desperate need to escape something unseen on the other side of the door than a desire to reach you. The huge, muscled mass flails about - and there is a terrible death-rattle sound, before you see the arm shrink, and shrivel up into something distinctly smaller, human, and feminine. The hands have long, slender fingers - their untrimmed nails broken and filthy, whilst the whole thing is slick with blood.
Of more concern, perhaps, is the way in which the facsimile of Robert at the top of the stairs has begun, shuddering, sighing and (for lack of a better word) to melt. Clothes, skin, bone - all begin to run and bubble, like heated wax. Before long, all but the faintest resemblance of the man you've lived with for the past year is gone, and only a putrid, protean mass of flesh remains - and beings oozing its way down the steps towards you; not a pool of liquid, but an undulating form that creeps up the wall and rail on either side, driven by some unimaginable and doubtless malign intelligence.