Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City by M.W. Duncan

down there. Just let me pass and I’ll get out of here. Nobody will get hurt.’ His eyes turned.
    Magarth’s feet caught at a bench. He righted himself and put the bench between he and … he still didn’t have a name. The infected lunged, his steps slapping the cold tiles as he crossed the room. Magarth kicked at the bench, sending it careening across the floor. It struck the man’s shins and he toppled awkwardly, his face smashing against the floor with sickening force, but he began to rise almost immediately. The fall had shattered his nose, leaving it little more than a patchwork of broken cartilage and pulverised flesh. Teeth were left in a puddle of blood.
    Magarth turned and ran. He slammed the door shut, grabbed the handle and held it fast. He prayed as he’d never prayed before. The door vibrated then shuddered with force, and then a great weight slammed against the frame. The wood seemed to heave outwards. The handle moved beneath his grip. Painful millimetres were given up as he shouted for help.
    ‘Let me the hell out.’
    ‘I can’t!’
    The pressure on the handle ceased. Magarth snapped it back to its locked position.
    The steel leg of a bench drove through the door sending a fountain of splintered wood to the floor. Magarth swore. The makeshift battering ram was wrenched free. Another impact smashed the hole wider. Magarth again yelled for help. The corridor remained empty. He lost count of how many times the steel was rammed against the door. The hole widened, and widened some more. The infected reached though, splinters tearing at his skin, shredding it as each inch of his arm pushed further through the gap. More prayers. More cries for help.
    The bloodied hand scrambled around, fingers snatching, clawing, frantic, dripping crimson to the floor inches from Magarth.
    ‘Tim!’ the wretched thing cried.
    Magarth screamed not words, but a burst of fear. Why didn’t he grab that taser? Why didn’t he do as Dr. Holden had insisted? Stupid!
    A blood-covered splinter spun through the air and landed on the back of Magarth’s hand. He let go of the handle and flicked at the splinter as if it scolded. Red. On his hand. That was it!
    He stumbled back from the door with his eyes fixed on the tiny smear, tripped, and landed hard on the cold floor.
    Someone called his name, not in the savage way the infected did, but softer.
    Coleman’s hair was not tied back into its usual ponytail. Magarth felt his back sliding away from the broken door. Two other figures, in biohazard suits, pulled what appeared to be torches from their belts.
    ‘They’re going to use the ESBs,’ Coleman said. Electric Shock Batons were the favoured method of subduing the infected. ‘Man, I love to see them get shocked.’
    One of the batons was thrust at the protruding arm. A quick jerk, then nothing.
    The other man directed a solid kick to the door. The infected reeled from the impact and hung, suspended by his arm. The two men drove their batons into his chest. The bloody form convulsed then stilled again. They applied plastic zip ties to the arms and legs. A crude mask was yanked over its head. A strange thought entered Magarth’s head; still no name.
    ‘Must’ve got them from Guantanamo Bay,’ said Coleman, nodding at the mask. ‘You know, like the terrorists have on their heads when they’re wandering about.’
    ‘What happened here, Tim?’ The suited man’s voice was distorted through the helmet’s speaker.
    Two names came to Magarth, names for the suited men. Solomon Schur and Mark Goodwin, two from the response team he drove for. Their faces were lit up by the suits’ internal lights.
    Still no name for the infected man. Magarth knew Solomon’s name. He knew Goodwin’s. He knew Coleman’s, but not the infected. A nameless monster.
    ‘I don’t know. When I got here, he was in the shower. He wanted me to let him leave so I ran and held the door closed. Then you were here.’
    Solomon loomed over him, stun-rod at