Becks slammed her back against the open door, keeping it pinned against the wall. That gave her a good vantage position on the rest of the room, while defending her against rear attacks. She held her pistol in front of her in a classic shooting stance that would have sold a thousand promotional posters for her blog if she’d been wearing something other than jeans and a bleach-spotted gray tank top.
I couldn’t admire the precision of her pose; I had issues of my own to worry about, like the screaming lab technicians running for the doors. Half a dozen of our previously captured zombies were shambling after the fleeing technicians. Three former technicians were shambling with them, only their increased speed and bloody lab coats distinguishing them from the rest of the mob. All the zombies were moaning in a pitch that made my bones itch. No one knows why zombies moan. They just do, and it’s enough to drive you crazy if you listen to it too long.
Mahir stopped behind me, managing only a startled “Oh dear Lord…” before I whirled and shoved him back.
“Get in the van,” I snapped. “Lock the doors, engage the security. If we don’t come back for you, drive. Drive until you get back to England, if you have to.”
“Shaun—”
“You’re not made for fieldwork! Now get back in there!”
“Don’t argue, Mahir,” said Becks. Her tone was calm, like she was asking us not to raise our voices during a business meeting. “I need his gun, and you’re not equipped for this.”
Mahir’s mouth set in a thin line, and for a moment, he looked like he was seriously pissed. Someone else screamed in the main room, the sound cutting off with a gurgle that told me the infected had stopped trying to spread the virus, and started trying to feed.
“Get the others on the com,” I said, more gently. “Make sure they’re safe, and that they’ve managed to get themselves under cover. I don’t want to lose anyone today.”
The line of Mahir’s mouth softened slightly as he nodded. “Be careful,” he said, and turned to walk toward the van. I watched him just long enough to be sure he was actually going to get inside.
“Any time now, Mason,” said Becks. The moaning was getting louder. So were the screams. The fact that we hadn’t been attacked yet was nothing short of a miracle—one we could probably attribute to the fact that we were standing relatively still in a room full of much more active targets. Faced with a choice between someone who isn’t moving and someone who is, a zombie almost always goes for the runner. It’s something in their psychology, or in what passes for psychology inside the virus-riddled sack of goo that used to be a human brain.
“On it,” I said, and turned to face the main room, bracing myself in the doorway. As long as we held our positions, we knew we had a clear line of retreat.
“About fucking time,” said Becks, tracking the progress of one of the infected with her gun. As soon as one of us fired a shot, they’d stop looking at us like furniture and start looking at us as potential meals. That would be bad. Even if I was immune, Becks wasn’t, and immunity wouldn’t stop them from tearing me apart. “Got any bright ideas?”
“Prayer would be good, if either of us believed in a higher power.”
Becks’s eyes widened, disrupting her carefully schooled expression. “I don’t say this often, but you’re a genius.”
“Because I don’t believe in God?” I trained my gun on another of the infected, one that was drawing a bit too close to our position for me to be comfortable. The screams seemed to be getting quieter. I had to hope that was because most of the technicians were out of danger, and not because most of them were dead.
“No. Because there is a higher power at work here.” Becks removed one hand from her gun long enough to tap her ear cuff, saying in a calm, clear voice, “Open general connection, main lab.” There was a single loud beep.
Too loud. The nearest of the infected looked up from her meal—the torso of a technician whose name had either been Jimmy or Johnny; I wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter now. Her eyes searched the area, looking for new prey, and settled on Becks. With a low moan, she stood.
“Becks, whatever you’re doing, do it fast,” I muttered, adjusting my stance so that I was aiming directly at the standing infected. “Once the shooting starts, this is going to turn into one hell of a duck hunt.”
“I can handle myself,” she said. More of the infected were turning to face us, their attention attracted by the strange silence of the one nearest our position.
Steady, cautioned George. I thought I felt her fingers ghost across the back of my neck, and that was more frightening than anything else about our situation. If I started hallucinating during combat, there was no telling who I’d shoot, or what I’d let get past me.
“Not now,” I whispered. “Please, not now.”