as a response, Mike signaled for a stop.
“Shane and Erik will be back in twelve minutes. We need to find our people and get the hell out of here. Once they pull up, we won’t have much time to load in. Andrew, you search the first three floors. Paul, you’ll take the next three. I’ll head up to the tenth and work my way down. Whether you find them or not, I want your asses back down here in ten minutes. Clear?”
Paul was clearly against the idea of splitting up, but, as expected, he took the orders without question and the trio headed to their assigned detail. As Mike climbed the stairs to the top floor, the exhaustion of no sleep in over twenty-four hours warred with the adrenaline needed to reach the top. His legs burned with pain and his breaths came in short gasps by the time he reached the door to the tenth floor.
The corridor was a sea of upturned gurneys and wheelchairs. Deep red flakes of dried blood splotched the walls. Mike ranged his arms before him, the twin Glocks in his hands having long since become a natural extension of his own body. He called for his fellow refugees knowing that in doing so he risked attracting more Tils. With minutes fleeting by, the usual caution with which he operated had to be temporarily suspended. As with the lobby, his calls were met with no reply from the missing. He raced through the halls relying on what little they had learned about those infected with the virus. In most cases, Tils shied away from the upper floors of buildings, preferring the lower places where prey was plentiful. No sign of the others, Mike looped back to the stairs and began his search of the floor below.
The ninth yielded the same result and within minutes he headed to the eighth. The digital watch strapped to his wrist indicated that he only had five more minutes before he needed to return to the lobby. Despair began a slow but steady march in his heart as the minutes rolled by without a sign of Michelle and the others. As he reached for the door to the eighth floor, Mike heard Paul call to him from the stairs below.
“Mike, we got ‘em!”
Pivoting swiftly, the refugee leader took the steps two at a time as he made his downward retreat to his companions. Over the railing Mike could see six or seven heads racing down the stairs. A half minute passed in a blur before he reached the lobby. Immediately, he took stock of those gathered. Michelle Lafkin leaned against the lobby desk, her arm in a splint. With her were two others from her team of foragers. On the floor before them rested the prone body of the lieutenant. His side was wrapped in thick layers of blood-soaked gauze. The visible skin of his face and hands were sallow from obvious blood loss. Tending to him was Lisa Velazquez, one of the handful of female members of the camp’s security team.
Paul was midway through briefing Mike on the situation when Andrew joined them from his search of the hospital.
“Lisa was able to take down the Til before it bit him, but the glass from the window went in deep. They’ve done what they could here, but, Mike, if we don’t get him to the doc soon, he’s not going to make it.”
“And the others?” Mike asked.
Shaking his head, Paul replied, “The team got separated during the attack. Michelle and the others managed to get inside the hospital, but no one has seen the others since.”
Still missing were two from security and one from the foraging team. Glancing at his watch, Mike cursed silently realizing that he would be forced to make the decision to abandon the three unaccounted for in order to save the lives of the ones now under his protection. Three blasts of a car horn indicated that Shane and Erik had returned.
“Load up!” Mike commanded.
As the group exited the hospital, they found the Chevy waiting outside, doors ajar. Further down the street was the seemingly tireless horde that had followed it. Quickly placing the backboard carrying Lieutenant Olinder into the rear hatch, the
“Shane and Erik will be back in twelve minutes. We need to find our people and get the hell out of here. Once they pull up, we won’t have much time to load in. Andrew, you search the first three floors. Paul, you’ll take the next three. I’ll head up to the tenth and work my way down. Whether you find them or not, I want your asses back down here in ten minutes. Clear?”
Paul was clearly against the idea of splitting up, but, as expected, he took the orders without question and the trio headed to their assigned detail. As Mike climbed the stairs to the top floor, the exhaustion of no sleep in over twenty-four hours warred with the adrenaline needed to reach the top. His legs burned with pain and his breaths came in short gasps by the time he reached the door to the tenth floor.
The corridor was a sea of upturned gurneys and wheelchairs. Deep red flakes of dried blood splotched the walls. Mike ranged his arms before him, the twin Glocks in his hands having long since become a natural extension of his own body. He called for his fellow refugees knowing that in doing so he risked attracting more Tils. With minutes fleeting by, the usual caution with which he operated had to be temporarily suspended. As with the lobby, his calls were met with no reply from the missing. He raced through the halls relying on what little they had learned about those infected with the virus. In most cases, Tils shied away from the upper floors of buildings, preferring the lower places where prey was plentiful. No sign of the others, Mike looped back to the stairs and began his search of the floor below.
The ninth yielded the same result and within minutes he headed to the eighth. The digital watch strapped to his wrist indicated that he only had five more minutes before he needed to return to the lobby. Despair began a slow but steady march in his heart as the minutes rolled by without a sign of Michelle and the others. As he reached for the door to the eighth floor, Mike heard Paul call to him from the stairs below.
“Mike, we got ‘em!”
Pivoting swiftly, the refugee leader took the steps two at a time as he made his downward retreat to his companions. Over the railing Mike could see six or seven heads racing down the stairs. A half minute passed in a blur before he reached the lobby. Immediately, he took stock of those gathered. Michelle Lafkin leaned against the lobby desk, her arm in a splint. With her were two others from her team of foragers. On the floor before them rested the prone body of the lieutenant. His side was wrapped in thick layers of blood-soaked gauze. The visible skin of his face and hands were sallow from obvious blood loss. Tending to him was Lisa Velazquez, one of the handful of female members of the camp’s security team.
Paul was midway through briefing Mike on the situation when Andrew joined them from his search of the hospital.
“Lisa was able to take down the Til before it bit him, but the glass from the window went in deep. They’ve done what they could here, but, Mike, if we don’t get him to the doc soon, he’s not going to make it.”
“And the others?” Mike asked.
Shaking his head, Paul replied, “The team got separated during the attack. Michelle and the others managed to get inside the hospital, but no one has seen the others since.”
Still missing were two from security and one from the foraging team. Glancing at his watch, Mike cursed silently realizing that he would be forced to make the decision to abandon the three unaccounted for in order to save the lives of the ones now under his protection. Three blasts of a car horn indicated that Shane and Erik had returned.
“Load up!” Mike commanded.
As the group exited the hospital, they found the Chevy waiting outside, doors ajar. Further down the street was the seemingly tireless horde that had followed it. Quickly placing the backboard carrying Lieutenant Olinder into the rear hatch, the
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