Surviving The Evacuation (Book 6): Harvest by Frank Tayell

road behind. She looked for an escape and saw a thick wooden door partly blown off its hinges and singed by a familiar burn pattern. She was still debating whether to risk the unknown or charge the undead when McInery shoved the ‘copter into her hands and ran into the building. The expression on her face was so out of place that Tuck had stuffed the drone in her pack and followed McInery into the building before she realised what it was. Triumph.
     
    They were in a wide corridor with open doors spaced equidistantly along it. Daylight streamed through each. Axe raised, expecting the undead to spring out, Tuck moved past McInery and looked through the first door. It was a meeting room with a ring of tables and enough chairs to seat a dozen. Was it a government office, then? The next room was the same, but with a name only a hotel would use printed on a plaque by the door.
    As she neared the end of the corridor, Tuck looked back and saw a zombie stagger into the building, with a second creature a flailing arm’s length behind. McInery, reading something in Tuck’s expression, turned, twisted, and flipped her battle-axe around. It carved a chunk out of the ornate wallpaper before the blade cleaved up through the zombie’s chin, splitting its face in half. As red-brown gore and black gobbets of brain slid down the blade, McInery punched the axe at that second zombie’s legs. It fell, and when McInery turned, motioning for Tuck to continue, her expression was utterly emotionless.
    Tuck quickened her pace, as much to get away from McInery as from the undead. The hallway branched. To the left was a hasty barricade. To the right were three uniformed bodies, each with matching head wounds that told the story of their deaths. She jumped over them and kept running. Another junction, another barricade. More bodies. She turned left. The corridor curved and she was worried they were heading back on themselves. McInery grabbed her arm and pointed at a doorway, wider than the others. On it was a tarnished brass sign. ‘Gravington Ballroom.’ Underneath that was a torn piece of paper, all that remained of the words printed on it were ‘no admittance.’ Before Tuck could protest, McInery had pushed the doors open.
    One side of the room was empty; the other was full of tables. On them, behind, and underneath were crates. Tuck recognised the type instantly as those used to store and transport ammunition. She grabbed a stack of chairs from near the wall, and pulled them down in front of the door. The barricade was rough and ready, but would hold back the undead long enough for them to escape. There were two other doors from the room, a small one marked as an emergency exit and another, larger than the one they had entered by. That, she hoped, would lead to the front entrance.
    McInery was going from crate to crate, opening some, ignoring others, and occasionally pulling out a few loose rounds of ammunition and throwing them into her bag with a casual disinterest. Tuck realised that McInery was talking to herself. Her head was half turned, and the only words the soldier caught were, “Must be here.”
    Tuck ran to her and grabbed her arm. “We have to go,” she signed.
    “Not yet,” McInery said. “Look, there’s ammunition here, at least.” She thrust a fistful of rounds at Tuck. The soldier pocketed them.
    “And it’s useless without a rifle,” Tuck signed, but McInery hadn’t seen. Tuck grabbed her arm, turning her to face the now shaking doors.
    “Yes, fine,” McInery said. “Time to go, but get the ammunition. There’s no point leaving empty-handed.” She scooped up another few fistfuls, dropping them into her bag.
    “Now!” Tuck croaked.
    McInery grabbed one last handful of cartridges and pushed past the soldier, heading towards the doors. She leaned an ear against the wood. “It’s clear,” she signed.
    A real battle had been fought in the corridor beyond. Bodies were strewn about one on top of another. Some