they start moving. As they get closer you can make your run.”
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“Pete told you the tales.” I grit my teeth. “Once or twice.” I shove the towel rail down my jacket, and use a dispenser for antibacterial hand cleaner as a foothold to hoist myself up and plant my butt on top of the door. I wobble there, not exactly limber in this fleece-jacket combo, but I cling on to the pipes on the ceiling for balance.
The mini-monsters are homing in on us now, smacking their little chops, excited as zoms can ever get, the fish-sick smell emanating from their foul breathy moans.
“There!” I point up to the nurses’ station. It’s practically deserted. Just what the doctor ordered. “Do it!”
Russ lets out a roar and pushes the gurney, using it as both a weapon and a shield, legs powering it from behind and straight through the little zoms. It’s moving fast — he throws himself down onto it like it’s a greased lightning sled and barrels along the corridor, knocking bodies left and right. I cheer him on, distracting some of the zombinos to my perch.
Russ’s gurney hits the nurses’ station with a KerPlunk , and he goes flying headfirst over the desk. Lucky he didn’t give me that helmet after all. It’s kind of funny, and it does more to endear him to me than all the brave stuff. You can’t knock a piece of comedy gold. My laughter makes the door shake, and I grip tighter to the pipes above to keep from falling.
“I’m OK!” He stands up and shouts at me, his helmet wonky. This is even funnier, but I don’t think it will do his morale much good to see me in hysterics, and I can’t give him the big thumbs-up without falling, so I don’t do anything. He’s not looking, anyway — immediately he’s searching for the charger, ducking down behind the desk, using every second like it’s a matter of life or death. Which, of course, it is.
Below me, the mob is pressing at the door, reaching their little arms up to try and snatch a foot. I keep my legs out in front of me; it’s quite an ab workout, and the edge of the door bites into my rear end. But they can’t reach me, and they’re not going to shake me loose. There are six or seven of them now, jostling for space, bumping each other against the wall, against the antibac holder thingy, against a big button that says OPEN/CLOSE on it … Shit!
My door starts to move from under me. The little rascals have had a lucky accident and hit the button. The door is closing. I can’t go with it, so I have to jump or hang. Jumping down among the dead men is not an option, so I hang, my legs dangling, arms burning, grip slippy on the dusty pipes. Heat moves over me, a rush of adrenaline and danger-sweats. I feel my stomach muscles crying out as I try to raise my feet in front of me and hook them over the pipes, but the stupid towel rail shoved down my jacket keeps me from bending my body. Dammit! Ihang, legs kicking, and the kiddies reaching up to bash at me like I’m the fattest piñata at the zombie birthday party.
“Russ!” It’s hard to scream when you’re dangling, but I manage it. “Have you got it?” He’s still out of sight, somewhere behind the desk.
“Not yet!” A muffled cry comes back at me.
“Wanna speed it up for me?” My shoulders feel like they’re dislocating. I shuffle a nervous hand forward, knees bent, feet only just out of reach. Can I monkey-bar hand over hand along these pipes? At least to get clear of the zoms below? Sweat dribbles down into my eyes. I have no choice, my grip can only hold out for so long. I’ve got to go for it. Right hand, left hand, right hand. My legs swing, giving me a rhythm. I’m doing it! Left hand, right hand, left hand … the towel rail slipping down my front every time I swing. A girl with lips bitten away in a permanent smile looks up at me and makes a lucky grab. I kick my foot free, but she’s on me again.
“Russ!” I up the urgency a notch or
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“Pete told you the tales.” I grit my teeth. “Once or twice.” I shove the towel rail down my jacket, and use a dispenser for antibacterial hand cleaner as a foothold to hoist myself up and plant my butt on top of the door. I wobble there, not exactly limber in this fleece-jacket combo, but I cling on to the pipes on the ceiling for balance.
The mini-monsters are homing in on us now, smacking their little chops, excited as zoms can ever get, the fish-sick smell emanating from their foul breathy moans.
“There!” I point up to the nurses’ station. It’s practically deserted. Just what the doctor ordered. “Do it!”
Russ lets out a roar and pushes the gurney, using it as both a weapon and a shield, legs powering it from behind and straight through the little zoms. It’s moving fast — he throws himself down onto it like it’s a greased lightning sled and barrels along the corridor, knocking bodies left and right. I cheer him on, distracting some of the zombinos to my perch.
Russ’s gurney hits the nurses’ station with a KerPlunk , and he goes flying headfirst over the desk. Lucky he didn’t give me that helmet after all. It’s kind of funny, and it does more to endear him to me than all the brave stuff. You can’t knock a piece of comedy gold. My laughter makes the door shake, and I grip tighter to the pipes above to keep from falling.
“I’m OK!” He stands up and shouts at me, his helmet wonky. This is even funnier, but I don’t think it will do his morale much good to see me in hysterics, and I can’t give him the big thumbs-up without falling, so I don’t do anything. He’s not looking, anyway — immediately he’s searching for the charger, ducking down behind the desk, using every second like it’s a matter of life or death. Which, of course, it is.
Below me, the mob is pressing at the door, reaching their little arms up to try and snatch a foot. I keep my legs out in front of me; it’s quite an ab workout, and the edge of the door bites into my rear end. But they can’t reach me, and they’re not going to shake me loose. There are six or seven of them now, jostling for space, bumping each other against the wall, against the antibac holder thingy, against a big button that says OPEN/CLOSE on it … Shit!
My door starts to move from under me. The little rascals have had a lucky accident and hit the button. The door is closing. I can’t go with it, so I have to jump or hang. Jumping down among the dead men is not an option, so I hang, my legs dangling, arms burning, grip slippy on the dusty pipes. Heat moves over me, a rush of adrenaline and danger-sweats. I feel my stomach muscles crying out as I try to raise my feet in front of me and hook them over the pipes, but the stupid towel rail shoved down my jacket keeps me from bending my body. Dammit! Ihang, legs kicking, and the kiddies reaching up to bash at me like I’m the fattest piñata at the zombie birthday party.
“Russ!” It’s hard to scream when you’re dangling, but I manage it. “Have you got it?” He’s still out of sight, somewhere behind the desk.
“Not yet!” A muffled cry comes back at me.
“Wanna speed it up for me?” My shoulders feel like they’re dislocating. I shuffle a nervous hand forward, knees bent, feet only just out of reach. Can I monkey-bar hand over hand along these pipes? At least to get clear of the zoms below? Sweat dribbles down into my eyes. I have no choice, my grip can only hold out for so long. I’ve got to go for it. Right hand, left hand, right hand. My legs swing, giving me a rhythm. I’m doing it! Left hand, right hand, left hand … the towel rail slipping down my front every time I swing. A girl with lips bitten away in a permanent smile looks up at me and makes a lucky grab. I kick my foot free, but she’s on me again.
“Russ!” I up the urgency a notch or
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