Desperation fueled her actions, and she pulled back from the surging mass of bodies before she could be crushed or trampled underfoot. Using her shopping cart as a battering ram, Dylan forged a path to the back of the store where a familiar door awaited.
Staff Only.
It led toward the storage room and loading bay at the back of the store, as well as the manager’s office, staff quarters, and bathrooms. She’d spent a few months during the last year working at the supermarket as a bagger. It was the reason she chose this place above all the others that were closer to home. The reason she carried her old keycard in her pocket, praying she wouldn’t need it, but hoping it would still work if she did.
Dylan reached her destination and pulled up to the heavy iron door, usually locked to prevent easy access. With fumbling fingers, she pulled out her card and ran it through the slot. A negative beep sounded, and the red light shined. “No!”
Behind her, the screams were growing louder, and she frantically tried again, but to no avail. The store had become a deathtrap. The crush of panicking people grew worse, and she was pushed up against the door with her loaded cart pressed painfully into her midriff.
Gasping for breath, Dylan scanned the walls and ceiling for an escape. Any escape. Abandoning her supplies was better than dying for them. A few windows set high in the walls beckoned, as did the fire escape on the far side. Could she make it to any of them?
A shoulder rammed into her side, and Dylan hissed as her ribs exploded in red-hot agony. She almost lost her grip on the cart, but managed to hold on as she fell to the floor.
She looked up in time to see the nearest rack topple over with a ponderous groan. It crashed on top of her, and only the shopping cart prevented her from being crushed. Bottles of bleach and disinfectant burst on impact, and harsh fumes burned her nostrils.
Through tear-filled eyes, she gazed around in horror. Many had not been as lucky as her, and several people were trapped or injured. The rest of the store continued its rampage of terror, the crowd killing itself as it tried to escape the dead.
Even as she stared, jerky figures entered the store and sprinted toward the nearest victims. With guttural growls, they pounced on their prey, digging their teeth and nails into any open flesh they could reach. The coppery scent of blood filled the air, and the masses were whipped into a frenzy as death approached.
Pinned between the wall and her cart, Dylan was trapped. No amount of wriggling or pushing could get the rack to shift even an inch. Sitting in a puddle of bleach, she closed her eyes and tried to regain a semblance of calm. “There has to be a way out. There has to.”
A low snarl caused her eyes to pop open, and she found herself looking at one of the infected. He was perched on top of the debris like a hungry wolf, his teeth bared in a threatening grimace. Black veins crisscrossed his pale skin. There was something primal about him, something so wild she knew there could be no reasoning with such a creature. He was no longer human.
With her heart pounding in her chest, she watched him sniff at the crushed bottles of cleaning supplies, wrinkling his nose at the sharp smell. An injured woman groaned, and he honed in on her with deadly intensity. Pouncing like a tiger, he tore into the helpless woman’s throat, and her screams were lost in a gurgling fountain of blood.
Dylan pressed her hands to her lips to contain her screams, but the horror was too overwhelming. Not caring who or what heard her, she twisted around and slammed her fists against the door behind her. “Somebody help me! Please!”
Undiluted fear coursed through her veins like acid, and she kept yelling and banging until her throat grew raw. A snarl caused her to look back. The infected man prowled toward her on all fours, blood dripping from his chin.
Dylan twisted to the side, reaching for her gun. Her hand closed on the pistol grip, and she pulled it free from its holster. Breathing hard, she sought to still her trembling hands. Remember your training. You didn’t spend all those afternoons at the range for nothing.
The infected paused, and his thigh muscles bunched, ready to leap. She took careful aim. He was so close. Too close. It has to be the head. That’s what the CDC said in their last broadcast.
As she pulled the trigger, a silly thought occurred to her. Why was it always the damn head?
The bullet drilled a hole between the man’s eyes, and he collapsed with half of his skull missing. The next moment, Dylan fell backward as the door behind her opened without warning. A set of familiar blue eyes gazed down into hers, and she gasped with surprise. “Ben? Ben Randall?”
“Dylan? Is that you?” he asked.
She nodded, pathetically grateful to see her old manager. He’d always been good to her, and she prayed he still liked her enough to help her. “It’s me.”
He grabbed her by the arms and hauled her to her feet. “Hurry. They’re coming!”
Dylan glanced at the inside of the supermarket and blanched. Every infected inside the space was running toward them, drawn by the gunshot. Her eyes fell on her cart, and her lips compressed. “I’m not leaving my stuff.”
Jamming the gun back into its holster, she grabbed the cart’s handles and yanked it toward her. It rolled inside, and she slammed the door shut with a yell of defiance. An avalanche of crap had followed the cart, however, and the door caught on a bottle of laundry
