The footsteps grew louder, as did the stench. The zombie was on the landing above them. Jim could see its shadow in the glow of the emergency lights. Then they heard something else: the racking of a shotgun.
'Ready or not,' the zombie chuckled. 'Here I come.'
Frankie and Jim pointed their rifles back up the stairs, waiting.
Unnoticed, a blued shotgun barrel was lowered between the handrails on their level and the level above them. The explosion was deafening, and rocked them all.
Frankie ran halfway up the stairs, spun around, and dropped to her knees. Her eyes widened in surprise. Dr. Stern's dead face split in a wide grin. His abdomen had been emptied; his ribs pried apart and sticking out of his flesh like porcupine quills.
Frankie squeezed off three wild shots and then ducked down again, crab-walking back to the wall. One bullet plowed into the wall, and the others ricocheted through the stairwell.
'Did you hit it?' Jim asked.
'I don't think so.'
'Now that's not very nice,' Stern taunted. 'After I took such good care of you when you were hurt.'
'No,' Frankie said, 'I guess not.'
The thing began talking in a language that Stern had never known. 'Enga keeriost mathos du abapan rentare.'
Several landings below them, Quinn's M-16 rumbled a staccato beat.
Distracted by the sudden gunfire, Frankie and Jim didn't notice the zombie. Stern rounded the corner and charged down the stairs, shotgun pointed directly at them. When the thing that had been Stern saw that he was outgunned, he pulled the trigger and then turned to run.
The shotgun pellets peppered Branson's face. Blinded, he slammed into the handrail and tipped over the side, teetering for a moment like a seesaw before he fell. His screams ended in a sickening thud from far, far below. More cries drifted up to them from Quinn's location.
Frankie and Jim simultaneously returned fire. The barrage ripped into Stern, severing one arm and splattering his brains all over the stairs.
Jim whirled. 'Danny, are you okay?'
Staring in horror, Danny pointed at the handrail. His bottom lip quivered.
'Daddy-Mr. Branson fell...'
Jim rushed to Danny's side and pulled him close, whispering in his ear and smoothing his hair.
'And that nice doctor turned into one of the monsterpeople. He was all opened up.'
'I know,' Jim soothed. 'I know. It's okay. There was nothing we could do.'
Frankie stepped past them and looked over the handrail.
'Quinn?' she called. Her voice bounced back to her. 'Quinn? Are you okay?'
'Come quick,' he shouted. 'Get down here. We've got trouble!'
Another voice followed his, one that sounded familiar. 'You're a god damned idiot, Quinn.'
'Who the hell is that?' Jim asked. 'Is somebody down there with him?'
'Couldn't see. They're too far down. It sounded like Steve.'
'Who?'
'The pilot that was with Quinn when they rescued us. The guy from Canada.'
Danny wiped his nose with his sleeve.
'Come on,' Frankie urged. 'Let's go.'
They ran down four more flights of stairs. Steve and Quinn were crouched over a body. They saw black combat boots and black leather pants. The legs beneath the pants trembled in pain and shock. A white shirt, soaked with blood, and more blood spreading onto the stairs in a widening pool.
The blood, the shirt, the pants and the boots all belonged to Bates.
'Oh shit,' Jim muttered.
'Understatement... of the ... year, Mr. Thurmond,' Bates hissed through clenched teeth. His face was chalk white.
'I'm fucking sorry, Bates,' Quinn sobbed, clenching the wounded man's hand.
'This is Bates?' Frankie whispered. Jim nodded.
'And you must ... must be Frankie. Nice ... to make ... your acquaintance.'
'Does it hurt?' Quinn asked.
'Shock ... is starting to ... set in.'
'We need to move,' Steve said. 'The zombies must have heard the gunshots. They'll be here any second.'
'What happened?' Jim asked.
'Bates and I entered the stairwell,' Steve said. 'We heard you guys above us. Before we could call out, the fighting erupted. That was when genius here shot Bates in the stomach.'
