faded.
Arthur stopped and waited for Smith to be even with him. “What were the testing rooms for? There were people in there. I saw a woman…”
Benson passed them and Dixon continued a slow but steady pace to the next level. Arthur wondered why they didn’t just take the stairs all the way to the top and then he saw the reason. This staircase ended on Level 14. To get to the staircase to take them to Level 13, they had to cross the corridor and enter a new stairwell. He pulled the plastic map out of his pocket and looked at the levels he was allowed access; this was not one of them.
He understood it from a safety perspective. Zig zagging the stairs was an effective security method. However, in the case of having to cross floors saturated with enemies intent on eating you, he thought it was the dumbest idea ever.
“Dr. Covington, did you hear me?” Smith asked.
“No, sorry, I was thinking. What did you say?”
“I don’t know exactly what the testing rooms were for, but about two weeks before you arrived, they were put into use. Only those with the highest security clearance went in, but some people never came out.”
“Thanks, and please call me Arthur. I think we can do without formality.” He smiled.
“I think it’s irrelevant. I’m more comfortable with Covington.”
“Whatever you want, just trying to make this more bearable.” Arthur smiled, but was unhappy the woman was dead set against getting to know her fellow teammates, especially when their lives depended on trusting one another. God knows what they would face once the door to the next level opened.
“All of you get your butts up here,” Dixon hissed at them.
Frank twisted the handle, still unsure what to think about finding it unlocked. Level 2 was the first of many trials, and even though he knew what to expect, it didn’t make it easier. He’d designed the security measures to not only deter, but also eliminate enemy threats.
Certain things would trigger them on each floor. Sometimes it was a pressure sensitive, or opening a door. Others you didn’t have to do anything, the mechanism kicked in automatically when the alarm triggered.
Those were the floors he dreaded the most, and Level 2 was one of them. He peered over his shoulder at his team and sensed the tension. No one spoke about what happened in the reception area and he hoped it stayed that way. The thought of the place being full of dead cannibals terrified him, and he did not intend to let the others know.
“Have your guns at the ready. We have canines on this level. I don’t know the safe word, if they’re too riled up, we’ll have to put ‘em down.”
As the others chambered their weapons, Frank opened the door. The lights flickered on and off and people moved about everywhere. For a moment, he thought everything was going to be fine, the guards here weren’t affected, and then one of them turned toward him. His scalp slid to one side exposing his skull. He walked with a limp and Frank noticed the man was missing his left foot. The flickering lights made the pallor to their skin a strange, a greenish blue, which he associated with corpses long dead.
From behind, a shot was fired and the man went down, his brow imploding from the force of what could only be Carson’s Desert Eagle. All hope slipped away from Frank at that moment as a horde of undead soldiers headed his way with their arms raised and moaning for their dinner.
A growl from the shadow of a desk made Franks skin crawl. A moment later, a dog…correction, what was once a dog, ambled toward him. The animal frothed at the mouth, a reddish pink substance no one needed to ponder.
“Carson, put your weapon away and use something with a hell of a lot more bullets, and a lot less noise, if you plan on making it out of here.”
Frank moved his men out so they weren’t trapped. Even though the stairway was an escape route, there was no going back. He raised his SCAR-Light and squeezed off short bursts aimed at the heads. One of the dogs went for Newell, but Lightfoot took care of it.
“Monroe, how many of these damn dogs do we have to worry about? The guards boxing us in are hellish enough,” Newell said.
“There are a dozen dogs and their handlers, as well as about fifteen guards, maybe more. Make the shots count. This piss poor excuse for emergency lighting is going to make it easy for them to sneak up on us,” Frank warned.
The team took a V formation and fired at anything that moved. The guards didn’t seem to be going down. Frank noticed the spark when a bullet hit one of their heads as well as the tink sound.
Then he saw what would be a problem. Some of the guards must have had time after the alarm sounded to get into gear. Over thirty men approached them – in helmets.
“Crap, they have head gear on,” Frank said.
Lightfoot walked up next to him. “Face shots, no big deal, but we need someone to take out the mutts. They might not be moving fast, but I have a feeling we don’t want to get cornered.”
Frank nodded. “Right, you take care of the dogs with Newell. Carson and Grimwood, you’re with me.”
The two men took flanking positions a few feet behind Frank. In the rear, he heard the occasional low growl before a shot silenced it.
Frank thought they might actually make it out of this mess alive. The things were slow and they didn’t use weapons, other than their teeth. How much of a threat were they?
Seventy feet separated them from the cadaverous guards heading toward them. An additional twenty men were scattered around coming at them from various positions. Overhead emergency lights continued to flicker on and off, staying dark longer and longer.
Frank squeezed the trigger and heard it click. Ejecting the magazine with one hand, he reached into his backpack, felt around for the proper one, and slid it in. He glanced up and determined they had about sixty feet left. He set his weapon to three round bursts and aimed at necks. As his bullets ripped through them and tore the flesh open, thick dark fluid oozed out slowly. Frank caught a whiff of some of it and he almost lost his lunch.
Death and decay were smells he was familiar with, but not to this degree. It was as if everyone in the silo had died weeks ago, not less than an hour. But how the hell were they moving about, nothing made sense.
One of the things stood five feet away and got his attention with a low moan. This new tactic was not as effective as a headshot and he realized killing the things had to do with destroying their brains somehow. Here he was fighting for his life in some B-movie from his childhood. He lifted the SCAR and aimed at the roamer that had somehow escaped their notice.
Frank knew the thing was dead, but it still didn’t register. What the hell kept it on its feet? He took careful aim and put a round in its ear. Brain matter, then chunks of bone erupted out of the side of its head and it dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
“We need to destroy their brains,” Frank yelled to the others as he targeted the eye of another. The helmet flew in the air and bounced off the wall.
The horde moved as one, step after step, and Frank knew if they didn’t get the situation under control, they were as good as dead.
Newell and Lightfoot were making good progress with the
Nothing was right, everything was wrong, and Frank didn’t have an answer for any of the million questions floating in his head. If he found out Hooks knew about this, he’d kill him.
Arthur scurried up the stairs. The tone of Dixon’s voice alerted him that something was wrong. The door was cracked open and what lay beyond disgusted Frank. According to the map, this was some sort of Med Lab. He’d naively assumed it was for the people who lived in the silo; a place to go if you got the flu or needed something for a migraine. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
The area closest to him was a large room eight feet wide and at least forty feet deep. The lights flashed red in this room and he saw small cots lining the walls, sheets that covered them on the floor or dragging behind naked
