three. “I can’t hold out!”
“I’ve got it!” he shouts and pops his helmeted head above the parapet. “But it’s tangled in some other cables —”
“Untangle quickly!” I don’t need an explanation, just get on with it! But I know that no matter how fast he works, I’ve reached the end of my endurance. The mob is all around. No place to jump free or run clear. I try one last, desperate effort to somehow wedge my feet in the pipes and take some of the weight, but I know as I’m doing it that it’s useless. The towel rail finally clatters to the ground, and I’m all set to follow it. My grip gives out on me, and I fall to the floor below with a yelp.
I land on one on them, and it kind of splats and crunches below me — I try to roll free of the crowd but hit a pair of legs. Instantly I curl into a ball, shrinking into my flak jacket like a turtle. Little claws scratch at my back, the bulletproof stuff in the jacket doing its thing and keeping mesafe. But I have to move before they manage to find a fleshy bit or roll me over like a hedgehog. With a shriek I tumble over and over, with as much speed and force as possible, through the gaps in the legs around me until I bash up against the glass of the door leading to the courtyard, and I’ve found my answer. There’s a bar halfway up the door saying PUSH TO OPEN , and I raise both hands to smack it and willingly obey. The door clunks and gives way. I roll out into the courtyard, twist round, and slam it shut behind me with both feet.
I lie there panting, my boots against the glass and my back on the concrete. I raise my head to look at my pursuers. They’re there on the other side of the glass, pressing up against it and clearly quite flummoxed as to why they can’t reach me. I laugh out loud.
“Gotcha!”
The door shudders as one zombie raises its hands and smacks the bar on the door. Others join in. Dammit! They’re copying what I did. They’re going to open it exactly the same way. I brace my legs against the bottom of the glass, unable to move.
Anywhere to run to? I screw round from my prone position, my head wrenching my neck in an effort to see behind me. Gah, it’s hot in here . Wait . . . I spot a ladder, bolted to the wall in the far corner. I follow it up the wall with my eyes. Presumably there’s some kind of hatch in the greenhouse roof, to the outside. It’s hard to tell from here. But they wouldn’t have a ladder leading to nowhere.
Thud .
The door wobbles again, and my knees are jarred. Where is Russ? He’s not going to leave me here, is he? The thought is genuinely worrying. He seems like a straight-up kinda guy, and I think he sorta likes me, but you never can tell.
The faces at the window turn away from me, and then there’s a spray of white goo that spatters across the glass and the zombie mob part. At first I think the white stuff is brains, that Russ has found a pump-action shotgun and is going crazy. But even pus-marinated zom brains are more of a pink-thru-red kinda color. This is something different. Russ is at the door — visor up, battle-drunk face — but his weapon is the fire extinguisher, and the white stuff, foam.
I let my knees relax and roll out of the way just as he bursts through the door.
“Come on!”
I leap to my feet, just as Russ uses the extinguisher’s end to ram a blindly stumbling zom. They all have foam all over their faces, they can’t see, and it’s cramping their style.
“You got the charger?”
“Yep.” He pats a pocket. “Quickly!” He beckons me, and I’m about to follow him, but the lure of that ladder and the mob’s incapacitation is too good to ignore.
“The ladder.” I point. “Might be our way out! Let’s get the others and make a break for it while we can.”
He shakes his head first, then I see his face change as he looks down the corridor. “The adults. They’ve found us. We’ll try it.”
We run back into the corridor, past the feeble, blinded children.
“I’ve got it!” he shouts and pops his helmeted head above the parapet. “But it’s tangled in some other cables —”
“Untangle quickly!” I don’t need an explanation, just get on with it! But I know that no matter how fast he works, I’ve reached the end of my endurance. The mob is all around. No place to jump free or run clear. I try one last, desperate effort to somehow wedge my feet in the pipes and take some of the weight, but I know as I’m doing it that it’s useless. The towel rail finally clatters to the ground, and I’m all set to follow it. My grip gives out on me, and I fall to the floor below with a yelp.
I land on one on them, and it kind of splats and crunches below me — I try to roll free of the crowd but hit a pair of legs. Instantly I curl into a ball, shrinking into my flak jacket like a turtle. Little claws scratch at my back, the bulletproof stuff in the jacket doing its thing and keeping mesafe. But I have to move before they manage to find a fleshy bit or roll me over like a hedgehog. With a shriek I tumble over and over, with as much speed and force as possible, through the gaps in the legs around me until I bash up against the glass of the door leading to the courtyard, and I’ve found my answer. There’s a bar halfway up the door saying PUSH TO OPEN , and I raise both hands to smack it and willingly obey. The door clunks and gives way. I roll out into the courtyard, twist round, and slam it shut behind me with both feet.
I lie there panting, my boots against the glass and my back on the concrete. I raise my head to look at my pursuers. They’re there on the other side of the glass, pressing up against it and clearly quite flummoxed as to why they can’t reach me. I laugh out loud.
“Gotcha!”
The door shudders as one zombie raises its hands and smacks the bar on the door. Others join in. Dammit! They’re copying what I did. They’re going to open it exactly the same way. I brace my legs against the bottom of the glass, unable to move.
Anywhere to run to? I screw round from my prone position, my head wrenching my neck in an effort to see behind me. Gah, it’s hot in here . Wait . . . I spot a ladder, bolted to the wall in the far corner. I follow it up the wall with my eyes. Presumably there’s some kind of hatch in the greenhouse roof, to the outside. It’s hard to tell from here. But they wouldn’t have a ladder leading to nowhere.
Thud .
The door wobbles again, and my knees are jarred. Where is Russ? He’s not going to leave me here, is he? The thought is genuinely worrying. He seems like a straight-up kinda guy, and I think he sorta likes me, but you never can tell.
The faces at the window turn away from me, and then there’s a spray of white goo that spatters across the glass and the zombie mob part. At first I think the white stuff is brains, that Russ has found a pump-action shotgun and is going crazy. But even pus-marinated zom brains are more of a pink-thru-red kinda color. This is something different. Russ is at the door — visor up, battle-drunk face — but his weapon is the fire extinguisher, and the white stuff, foam.
I let my knees relax and roll out of the way just as he bursts through the door.
“Come on!”
I leap to my feet, just as Russ uses the extinguisher’s end to ram a blindly stumbling zom. They all have foam all over their faces, they can’t see, and it’s cramping their style.
“You got the charger?”
“Yep.” He pats a pocket. “Quickly!” He beckons me, and I’m about to follow him, but the lure of that ladder and the mob’s incapacitation is too good to ignore.
“The ladder.” I point. “Might be our way out! Let’s get the others and make a break for it while we can.”
He shakes his head first, then I see his face change as he looks down the corridor. “The adults. They’ve found us. We’ll try it.”
We run back into the corridor, past the feeble, blinded children.
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