shaft, grabbed a sturdy piece of conduit, and swung a leg out over the chasm to find footing on the wall. I spider-crawled sideways, grabbing onto anything that look like it would hold my weight. The three men followed. Dalhover and three soldiers were in the shaft across the hall, doing the same.
After a frightfully long time that in reality couldn’t have been more than a minute, I put one bandaged, slippery hand on a rung of the service ladder and thanked God, though I don’t know why.
My feet found the rungs below and I wasted no time in working my way down to make room for the following soldiers. Moments later, I was down to the tenth floor, but well beyond the reach of rapacious hands.
Looking to solve that problem, a bold White leaned far out into the shaft, focused on the meals coming down the ladder. A moment later, a computer monitor crushed his head as it fell from above, dragging his big white body into the chasm. More infected were there behind him but it wasn’t my job to deal with them. That was for the three men above—soldiers to spread out on the walls around ten, opposite the elevator doors. They had side arms, and their job was to keep the infected focused on this shaft, another diversion.
I hurried down into the darkness, hoping nothing waited for me down there on the wall or the ladder.
The floor numbers were sloppily spray painted in large numerals on the concrete walls of the shaft beside each set of elevator doors. I had just passed the seventh and was barely able to make it out in the darkness when a white body and another piece of equipment crashed down not two feet away from me.
Gunshots echoed down from above.
Two more bodies fell.
I passed the sixth floor. A computer monitor, terrifyingly close, whooshed by and crashed into the pile of medical equipment and bodies below.
Only two floors to go!
But I was in the blackness now, feeling my way down the ladder, pausing between labored breaths and listening for the sound of a White. The air was full of sound seeping through the walls from outside, echoing down from above and up from below. From below, the sounds were of dying Whites, wrenched in the broken equipment at the bottom of the shaft. Or if my luck had turned to shit, it was the labored breathing of Whites climbing up out of the darkness toward me.
I hurried as fast as my bandaged hands allowed.
A very faint seam of light outlined the edges of a set of elevator doors. That was five.
More gunfire.
Another body.
I was breathing heavily from the exertion. My arms and hands were stiff.
Four!
I hollered up, “I’m here! Don’t drop anything else!”
I worked my way off of the ladder and onto a thin metal support attached to the wall, wide enough for only my toes. I grabbed conduit and pieces of metal framework and went as swiftly as I could.
More gunfire from above. I pressed myself to the wall, in case a flailing infected body was coming.
More gunfire.
“Damn! I just need another minute!”
A body brushed me as it fell past.
“Fuck!”
“You all right?” a voice called from above.
“I’m good!” My hands were shaking. I was breathing a lot more rapidly than necessary.
Calm down. I have to do this. I have to.
Necessity pushed caution aside. The longer I stayed on the wall of the shaft, the more likely it was that I would die at the bottom. I grabbed hurriedly with my hands and shuffled my feet. I slipped, almost fell, but recovered.
In seconds, I was in position beside the door.
I drew my machete, reached across the smooth, stainless steel width of the door, jammed it into the seam, and pried.
A gap appeared.
Light!
I looked around me. There were smears of blood on the wall. Bits of scalp here and there where sharp edges of the supporting steel framework stuck out an inch or two into the shaft. And below me, nothing moved on the walls, but the dying moans from the white bodies crammed into the broken equipment drew me to look at the bottom. That was an
After a frightfully long time that in reality couldn’t have been more than a minute, I put one bandaged, slippery hand on a rung of the service ladder and thanked God, though I don’t know why.
My feet found the rungs below and I wasted no time in working my way down to make room for the following soldiers. Moments later, I was down to the tenth floor, but well beyond the reach of rapacious hands.
Looking to solve that problem, a bold White leaned far out into the shaft, focused on the meals coming down the ladder. A moment later, a computer monitor crushed his head as it fell from above, dragging his big white body into the chasm. More infected were there behind him but it wasn’t my job to deal with them. That was for the three men above—soldiers to spread out on the walls around ten, opposite the elevator doors. They had side arms, and their job was to keep the infected focused on this shaft, another diversion.
I hurried down into the darkness, hoping nothing waited for me down there on the wall or the ladder.
The floor numbers were sloppily spray painted in large numerals on the concrete walls of the shaft beside each set of elevator doors. I had just passed the seventh and was barely able to make it out in the darkness when a white body and another piece of equipment crashed down not two feet away from me.
Gunshots echoed down from above.
Two more bodies fell.
I passed the sixth floor. A computer monitor, terrifyingly close, whooshed by and crashed into the pile of medical equipment and bodies below.
Only two floors to go!
But I was in the blackness now, feeling my way down the ladder, pausing between labored breaths and listening for the sound of a White. The air was full of sound seeping through the walls from outside, echoing down from above and up from below. From below, the sounds were of dying Whites, wrenched in the broken equipment at the bottom of the shaft. Or if my luck had turned to shit, it was the labored breathing of Whites climbing up out of the darkness toward me.
I hurried as fast as my bandaged hands allowed.
A very faint seam of light outlined the edges of a set of elevator doors. That was five.
More gunfire.
Another body.
I was breathing heavily from the exertion. My arms and hands were stiff.
Four!
I hollered up, “I’m here! Don’t drop anything else!”
I worked my way off of the ladder and onto a thin metal support attached to the wall, wide enough for only my toes. I grabbed conduit and pieces of metal framework and went as swiftly as I could.
More gunfire from above. I pressed myself to the wall, in case a flailing infected body was coming.
More gunfire.
“Damn! I just need another minute!”
A body brushed me as it fell past.
“Fuck!”
“You all right?” a voice called from above.
“I’m good!” My hands were shaking. I was breathing a lot more rapidly than necessary.
Calm down. I have to do this. I have to.
Necessity pushed caution aside. The longer I stayed on the wall of the shaft, the more likely it was that I would die at the bottom. I grabbed hurriedly with my hands and shuffled my feet. I slipped, almost fell, but recovered.
In seconds, I was in position beside the door.
I drew my machete, reached across the smooth, stainless steel width of the door, jammed it into the seam, and pried.
A gap appeared.
Light!
I looked around me. There were smears of blood on the wall. Bits of scalp here and there where sharp edges of the supporting steel framework stuck out an inch or two into the shaft. And below me, nothing moved on the walls, but the dying moans from the white bodies crammed into the broken equipment drew me to look at the bottom. That was an
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