“Good.”
The halls were eerily silent. That would have been a good thing—moaning usually means you’re about to become a snack food—but we didn’t know whether or not the zombies were inside. Eventually, even the nervous banter stopped. The only sounds were breathing, footsteps, and the occasional soft beep as Alaric tried and failed to make a connection with the outside world. I wanted to be comforted by the fact that George and I were walking into danger together, but I couldn’t manage it. I kept thinking about how fragile she was, how breakable… how easily killed. She might have gotten better the first time, but now? In a new body, with a new immune system that never learned to coexist with the virus? She’d die, and this time, the CDC wouldn’t be standing by to miraculously resurrect her. She’d stay gone.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
No one said anything. At a time like this, me talking to myself was the least of our worries.
Steve led us to a T-junction and paused. “We can’t take the elevator back up to the public garage; we’re going to need to use the private vehicle pool. It’s the only way to be sure we haven’t been compromised.”
“It’s too quiet,” said Rick.
George grimaced. “Why do people say that? Wouldn’t it be quicker to just ask if that noise was the wind?”
Something moaned down the corridor to our right. I sighed. “That wasn’t the wind.”
“No, it wasn’t,” said Steve tightly.
“But how—” began Alaric.
“Questions later, running now,” said Becks.
We ran.
The Secret Servicemen fell back until they were running behind the rest of us, moving at that strange twisted half jog men use when they want to cover the ground behind them as they run. Becks and Rick moved to flank the noncombatants—Alaric was still frantically slapping his PDA, trying to get a solid connection even as we were fleeing for our lives—while George and I took the front, running close on Steve’s heels.
The moaning behind us continued, now getting louder. The zombies were fresh; they had to be, if they were gaining on us that fast. “I hate the fucking CDC,” I snarled.
“Save your breath!” George advised.
We ran.
The hall seemed like it might be endless, right up until the moment where we turned a corner, and it ended, terminating in a set of clear glass doors leading into an airlock. There was a red light on above the door.
“It’s gone into security lockdown,” shouted Steve. “We’re going to have to check out clean one at a time.”
One of the Secret Servicemen moved through the group to slap his palm against the testing panel. The other agents were close behind him, dragging a protesting President Ryman in their wake. His safety was their job; ours wasn’t. And the moaning was getting louder.
The light turned green. The first agent took his hand off the testing panel and stepped through the now-open door, letting the airlock cycle around him as he stepped out into the parking garage. Nothing attacked him immediately. He turned back to the rest of us, signaling for the second agent to send the president through.
“Got it!” said Alaric, his delight sounding almost obscene, considering the circumstances. The rest of us stared at him. He held up his PDA. “Upload established. I’m transmitting.”
“Finally,” breathed George, a certain tension slipping out of her shoulders. “Get those files up as fast as you can.”
“Working on it.”
“Even death doesn’t change your priorities, does it?” asked Rick, tiredly amused.
“Not really, no,” said George. She grinned at him, gun still aimed toward the unseen zombies.
I could have kissed her. It would probably have been a good thing, since we were all about to be zombie-chow. Instead, I adjusted my position, calling over my shoulder, “A little speed in the carpool lane would be appreciated, guys. We’ve got incoming, and I didn’t bring enough limbs to share with everybody.”
“The system’s cycling as fast as it can,” said Steve reproachfully.
“Don’t really give a fuck how fast the system is cycling. Just don’t want to get eaten by zombies right after uncovering a mass conspiracy to deceive the American public. Seems a little anticlimactic, you know what I mean? Like getting empty boxes on Christmas morning.”
“You got empty boxes?” asked Becks. “Lucky bastard. I always got dresses.”
Alaric glanced up. “Dresses?”
“Frilly dresses,” she said with disgust. “Lacy frilly dresses.”
“Are all journalists insane, or did I just hit the mother lode?” asked Gregory.
“Yes,” said Rick and George, in unison.