very quietly pushed the door open.
I followed him into the stairwell, carefully and quietly. As much as I wanted to hurry, hurrying led to mistakes, and mistakes were paid for in blood. I stopped when he did. We listened to the sounds from far below. The infected were down there, and they were pissed.
Dr. Evans looked down the center gap between the stairs.
“Anything?” I softly asked, leaning over to look myself. The pungent smell of their unwashed bodies, thick enough to taste, wafted up in the confined space.
“We’re clear for now,” he whispered. “Let’s go. They're trying to get at the soldiers behind the barrier down there. They never give up."
“Can they see the soldiers through the barrier?”
“Yes, of course.”
“They won't give up as long as they can see your guys.”
Evans stopped halfway down the first flight of stairs and gave me his attention.
“Look,” I said to him, “if they can't see you or hear you, they eventually lose interest and go away.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I got lucky. It worked the first time I tried it.”
Evans started downward and didn't speak again until we were on next flight of stairs. “I don’t think Sergeant Dalhover would agree with you on that.”
“You know that every time you shoot a gun all you accomplish is to draw more of them in.”
“It's been discussed.”
“It's true,” I reiterated.
Dr. Evans said nothing else on the subject until he swung the door open for us to leave the stairwell. “Why don’t you talk with Sergeant Dalhover about what you know? If we need to alter our tactics, we will.”
We came out at the nurse’s station, just like the one two floors up where Dr. Evans had treated my wounds. A skinny man in civilian clothes with a very unmilitary slouch and a droopy, broken man's face eyed us lazily.
A soldier far down the hall, his weapon at the ready, called, “Everything all right, Top?”
In a raspy, smoker's voice, the skinny sergeant replied, “Yeah.” Then with no change in his posture or facial expression, he looked me over and asked Dr. Evans, “What's this?”
“Slow burn,” Evans answered as though all the life had drained out of him. He hadn’t emotionally prepared himself to be down among the volunteers.
“So they’re real?” the sergeant asked.
“So it seems.”
“I'm real,” I confirmed, “and just a normal as you.”
“Yeah.” The sergeant said it in a way that made it clear he didn't agree.
I already didn't like him.
The entire length of the long hall was lined with chairs spaced about five feet apart. In most of those sat a sagging person with a torn bed sheet gag between his or her teeth, arms and feet restrained. Some of them stared at the wall across the hall. Some slept with chins on their chests. A few looked at us with interested eyes. Ten or eleven were obviously transitioning from human to beast. One close to the nurse’s station was bleeding from his mouth while trying desperately to gnaw through his gag. Down from him, the skin of a woman’s wrists and ankles was worn through from her struggles against her bonds.
Many of the chairs were empty and sat below big, bloody stains on the wall. And like red entrance ramps to a highway that nobody wanted to be on, a trail of blood led from each chair to merge with a long bloody smear to the end of the hall. It was immediately clear what was going on. When the volunteers turned symptomatic, they were shot where they sat. I asked Evans, “What are you doing with the bodies?”
In his gruff voice, Dalhover answered for Evans, “ Throwin’ ‘em out the window.”
Just listening to his voice made me want to cough the phlegm out of my own lungs. “That's a bad idea.”
Using apathy as a defense, the sergeant said, “Can't keep ‘em here.”
“But the infected are eating them below,” I protested. “You're giving them a reason to keep hanging around.”
“Doesn't matter. They'll be eating us all soon
I followed him into the stairwell, carefully and quietly. As much as I wanted to hurry, hurrying led to mistakes, and mistakes were paid for in blood. I stopped when he did. We listened to the sounds from far below. The infected were down there, and they were pissed.
Dr. Evans looked down the center gap between the stairs.
“Anything?” I softly asked, leaning over to look myself. The pungent smell of their unwashed bodies, thick enough to taste, wafted up in the confined space.
“We’re clear for now,” he whispered. “Let’s go. They're trying to get at the soldiers behind the barrier down there. They never give up."
“Can they see the soldiers through the barrier?”
“Yes, of course.”
“They won't give up as long as they can see your guys.”
Evans stopped halfway down the first flight of stairs and gave me his attention.
“Look,” I said to him, “if they can't see you or hear you, they eventually lose interest and go away.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I got lucky. It worked the first time I tried it.”
Evans started downward and didn't speak again until we were on next flight of stairs. “I don’t think Sergeant Dalhover would agree with you on that.”
“You know that every time you shoot a gun all you accomplish is to draw more of them in.”
“It's been discussed.”
“It's true,” I reiterated.
Dr. Evans said nothing else on the subject until he swung the door open for us to leave the stairwell. “Why don’t you talk with Sergeant Dalhover about what you know? If we need to alter our tactics, we will.”
We came out at the nurse’s station, just like the one two floors up where Dr. Evans had treated my wounds. A skinny man in civilian clothes with a very unmilitary slouch and a droopy, broken man's face eyed us lazily.
A soldier far down the hall, his weapon at the ready, called, “Everything all right, Top?”
In a raspy, smoker's voice, the skinny sergeant replied, “Yeah.” Then with no change in his posture or facial expression, he looked me over and asked Dr. Evans, “What's this?”
“Slow burn,” Evans answered as though all the life had drained out of him. He hadn’t emotionally prepared himself to be down among the volunteers.
“So they’re real?” the sergeant asked.
“So it seems.”
“I'm real,” I confirmed, “and just a normal as you.”
“Yeah.” The sergeant said it in a way that made it clear he didn't agree.
I already didn't like him.
The entire length of the long hall was lined with chairs spaced about five feet apart. In most of those sat a sagging person with a torn bed sheet gag between his or her teeth, arms and feet restrained. Some of them stared at the wall across the hall. Some slept with chins on their chests. A few looked at us with interested eyes. Ten or eleven were obviously transitioning from human to beast. One close to the nurse’s station was bleeding from his mouth while trying desperately to gnaw through his gag. Down from him, the skin of a woman’s wrists and ankles was worn through from her struggles against her bonds.
Many of the chairs were empty and sat below big, bloody stains on the wall. And like red entrance ramps to a highway that nobody wanted to be on, a trail of blood led from each chair to merge with a long bloody smear to the end of the hall. It was immediately clear what was going on. When the volunteers turned symptomatic, they were shot where they sat. I asked Evans, “What are you doing with the bodies?”
In his gruff voice, Dalhover answered for Evans, “ Throwin’ ‘em out the window.”
Just listening to his voice made me want to cough the phlegm out of my own lungs. “That's a bad idea.”
Using apathy as a defense, the sergeant said, “Can't keep ‘em here.”
“But the infected are eating them below,” I protested. “You're giving them a reason to keep hanging around.”
“Doesn't matter. They'll be eating us all soon
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