Quinn pulled out a pocketknife and cut a strip of cloth from Ramsey's pants leg. Then he tied the cloth around Branson's wound.
'You okay to move?'
Branson nodded. His face was pale and sweaty.
'I'm not going to be able to shoot for shit, but I'll live. Don't think I'm gonna go into shock or anything.'
'Just make sure you keep this tourniquet tight,' Quinn told him. 'Can't have you bleeding all over the place. That would be like leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.'
Jim stepped forward. 'I'll take your gun, if you don't mind.'
Branson shrugged. 'Sure.'
Jim gave Ramsey's pistol to Frankie and then picked up the rifle for himself.
'You guys know how to use those?' Quinn asked.
'We didn't make it this far shooting spitballs,' Frankie said. She got out of the wheelchair with a wince, and made a show of slapping her clip in and out of the semiautomatic pistol's handle.
Danny frowned. 'How come I don't get a gun?'
'Doc Stern kept an aluminum baseball bat in that storage room over there,' Quinn pointed. 'He and Maynard used to hit the ball down the hallway. How would that be?'
Danny's face lit up. 'Can I carry the bat, Daddy?'
'I guess.' Jim sighed. 'But if we come across any zombies, I want you to promise that you'll stay behind me and Frankie. Okay?'
Danny promised and then rooted through the storage closet. He came back out with the bat, and swung it like a sword.
'If they try to get us, I'll hit them in the nuts.'
'Danny,' Jim warned.
'Try their head instead,' Frankie whispered, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder.
Quinn checked the tourniquet and then disappeared into one of the offices. He came back out with a bottle of painkillers and made Branson swallow four. Then he turned to the others.
'Let's go.'
'What's the plan?' Frankie asked.
'We've got to catch up with Carson, and stop DiMassi before he gets to the helicopter. Then I'll radio Bates and see what our status is.'
'And if Bates is dead?'
'I'll fly us out of here the same way I flew us in. The chopper will hold us.'
'Where will we go?' Frankie said.
'Anywhere but here.'
Don's hands shook, and the rifle jerked up and down. He fought to calm himself. His handkerchief, tied around his mouth and nose to block out the smoke, was drenched with sweat, and his muffled breathing sounded very loud in his ears. Don wondered if the zombies could hear it too. He sighted on the first corpse as it rounded the corner, and squeezed the trigger. The hollow-point punched through the creature's throat. The second drilled into its head, painting the wall behind it. More zombies emerged, blocking the corridor, and the glow of the emergency lights.
Don poured bullets into them, readjusted his fire, and watched them drop with the second group of shots.
Smokey, Leroy, Etta, and a man who'd introduced himself to Don as Fulci, all had time to squeeze off shots as well, and then the zombies returned fire. They ducked behind their makeshift barricade of desks and filing cabinets.
Leroy dug in his pocket for more ammunition. 'Anybody hit?'
'I'm okay.' Smokey confirmed. Don and Etta murmured assurances as well.
Fulci said nothing, because his lower jaw and most of his throat were now a ragged, wet hole. Air whistled through it.
'Better finish him off, Etta.' Leroy quickly reloaded. 'Don't need any more of those things in here.'
Etta slid a screwdriver into Fulci's ear, shoving it through his brain.
Blood trickled down the side of his mangled face.
'He ain't getting up again.'
Don shuddered.
Another barrage slammed into the barricade, and all four ducked lower, hugging the floor. Smokey fired three wild shots, and the zombies laughed.
'What the hell do we do now?' Don asked, trying to eject the magazine.
'You're doing that wrong,' Leroy told him, then took the weapon and did it for him. He handed it back to Don.
'There's two more stairwells on this floor,' Smokey said. 'One of them is behind us. The other, the fire escape route, is on the other side of the building.'
