How can I exit the building? I stumble at the first hurdle. The lifts are out, and the stairwells are overrun with Rabids. Even if I had the equipment, I wouldn’t have the strength to abseil down the outside of the building from the roof. My mind works, but I can’t see a way out.
Then I have a thought. I know for sure that the stairwell off the lounge has Rabids blocking it, but I can’t say that about the back stairwell. We just assumed they were coming up both stairs when the power failed and the shit hit the fan, so we blocked it and left it, without checking it, though. Since then, the battle on the roof happened and so if they were in the back, the noise of the battle may have caused them to move? A glimmer of hope rises in me as well as impatience to get out of here. I finish eating and go about checking my gear on the table.
Opening the towel containing my soiled phone, I don’t hold out much hope that it will work again. I clean it off with some kitchen wipes from under the sink as best I can and push it into my pocket, next to Sir Malcolm’s. My main task, however, is emptying the magazines for the M4, drying them out, checking the spring mechanism and reloading them. I do the same with the Sig and the Glock ammo, as well as checking over all three weapons. I can’t afford any misfires.
A new lease of life seems to be gradually growing inside me. Whether it is the energy from the food, the thought of getting out of this building or my body rejecting the virus, I don’t know. I don’t ask too many questions, but I just go with it and keep my fingers crossed that I don’t relapse.
The gear checked, I am eager to move. I load everything into where it should be and stand up. Firstly, the holster for the Glock goes around my waist, then taking off my shoulder holster, I pick up the body armour. The quick-drying material is still a little damp but it will do, and my arms go through it and I pull it on, adjusting the fastenings so that it fits tightly, but not too tight. I adjust the shoulder holster to allow for the body armour and that goes on. Finally, I pick up the M4, slip its silencer from my body armour and screw it to the M4’s muzzle before attaching the rifle to my front. All three weapons are exactly where they need to be, with my knife to hand completing the set. My confidence grows again when I’m fully kitted out and my determination is undiminished.
I decide to leave the helmet behind. The radio is dead in it and I am going to need every sense unobstructed; it’s a risk but one that is worth taking.
Ready to move out, I take a second to think if there is anything I’ve missed. There isn’t anything I can think of, so I exit the kitchen and head for the back stairwell, and don’t look back.
Furniture is still piled up between the door and the wall opposite. The door is still closed, and it doesn’t look like anything has tried to get through it, which is a good sign. Before I touch anything, I put my ear as close to the door as I can to listen for any tell-tale signs of Rabid activity. I don’t hear anything, so very carefully and quietly, I start to deconstruct the barrier. The process takes time, not only because I don’t want to make any noise. My strength may be returning but I am by no means back to full strength yet. I keep having to stop to get my breath back and rest my arms. I also take the opportunities to listen again for activity, I hear nothing new.
I keep the door blocked with the last couple of chairs while I take a seat and wait to recover from the excursion. As keen as I am to get on, there is no overextending myself and finding I have no energy when I need it most.
Recovered, I get up and dig out the torch from my pocket, turning it on. The new batteries make the torch shine bright, too bright. My first look through the glass panel on the door is without the aid of the torch, and I see only darkness. I bring the torch up and shine only the edge of the beam through the glass. It brightens the top of the stairwell up nicely and the area is clear. I could be in business.
After I move the last couple of chairs away from the door, I attach the torch to the right underside of my M4. Slowly and gently, the door handle turns down until it comes to a stop and I go to pull the door.
The bloody door is locked. I’d completely forgotten, Stan has locked it; shit, where are my keys? I can’t remember. They must be either in the kitchen, in my office or Sir Malcolm’s office, but I didn’t have them when I got to Heathrow. They could be in the lounge area somewhere—I just can’t remember.
I haven’t got the time or the inclination to go and hunt for them, so I decide to take a gamble. I replace the two chairs to block the door, move back and aim the M4 at the door frame where the lock will be embedded. The silencer does its job as the M4 spits a bullet out. The wooden frame disintegrates where it hits. Chippings and splinters fly into the air like confetti, the cracking sound short-lived. I check the damage without moving, waiting to see if there is a reaction from beyond the door. There is no reaction and metal glints at me from within the door frame. Lowering the M4, I move forward
