“Let’s see what we can see,” Tyrel said. He went to the door and peered out the window. I stacked up on the wall behind him, rifle at the ready. Almost a full minute passed before Tyrel held up a hand, counted down three, two, one, and then opened the door.
In the hallway outside, he broke left and I followed with my back to him, weapon up. There was very little light. The walls, floor, and ceiling all looked a uniform gray, the monotony broken by doorways and dark blue lockers. We moved to the end of the hall to a door marked: STAIRWELL. Ty tried the door and found it locked.
“Shit. Hand me the crowbar.”
“Come on, Ty,” I said, breaking a smile. “Remember what you taught me about not using a battle axe for a job that requires a tack hammer?”
He looked at me quizzically, then nodded when I removed my picks from my vest. “Right.”
I went to work on the door and said, “Where are your picks? You’re the one who taught me how to do this, after all.”
“Lost them somewhere along the way. Haven’t found new ones.”
“Now I know what to get you for Christmas.”
“Just get the door open.”
A few seconds later, the lock clicked and I turned the handle. “Done.”
“Nice work.”
I opened door and came face to face with a gray-skinned teenage boy with pale white eyes. I had half a second to register surprise before its hands shot out and gripped my arms, mouth open in a savage snarl, a guttural hiss pouring out of its throat. I scrambled backward, cursing in terror, pushing against its chest with my rifle.
The strength of the thing was enormous. Its hands dug painfully into my arms like steel talons. The ghoul lunged and I reared back, a set of snapping teeth missing my nose by less than an inch.
“Ty, help!”
An arm snaked around the dead boy’s throat and pulled it fiercely, drawing its head back, but the hands held on relentlessly. Remembering my training, I let go of my rifle, grabbed one of the boy’s wrists, and levered my arms against the weak point of his grip: the thumb. It took far more effort than would have been necessary with a living person, but the hand broke loose. Not wanting it to get another grip, I pivoted on one foot, used my shoulder as a fulcrum, and broke the arm at the elbow. If it hurt the creature at all, it gave no indication. The other hand continued to hold the fabric of my jacket, ripping and straining to pull me closer to the gnashing mouth.
“Ty, let it go.”
Without hesitation, he took his arm from around the ghoul’s neck. It immediately surged forward, teeth bared. I gripped the hand still holding me, held out one foot, and twisted. The infected boy tripped over my leg and hit the floor, still holding on. I followed it down and put a knee on its chest.
Now I had the mechanical advantage. The ghoul’s grip was strong, but not stronger than my entire body. With my free hand, I drew my knife, lined the tip up with the ghoul’s eye, and plunged the blade sharply down. When I felt it hit the back of the skull, I gave the handle a twist. The ghoul shuddered, let out a groaning gurgle, and went still.
“Son of a bitch.”
My breathing was ragged and fast, echoing in the still air. The ghoul’s hand loosened and tumbled from my arm. I stood up and backed away, checking myself for injuries. Tyrel’s hands landed on my shoulders to steady me. “Easy now,” he said.
A thought hit me and I spun to look back at the stairwell. The door stood open, the interior lit by a window higher up on another floor. I saw no other infected. Stepping closer, I looked up, then down, ears straining. Nothing.
“How in the hell did that thing get in there?”
Tyrel stepped up behind me. “Must have got bit, then crawled in here and locked the door. Turned later on.”
The explanation made sense. I put my back to the wall and slid down to the floor. “That was too close, Ty.”
“Take a minute. Get yourself together. We still have work to do.”
I nodded, heaving a deep breath. Ty stood patiently, eyes watching the dead walker. It lay on its back, my knife protruding from its face, the arm I broke lying at an awkward angle beside it. There was no sound in the hallway.
Standing up, I retrieved my knife, cleaned it on the ghoul’s shirt, wiped it down with a homemade alcohol-soaked sanitizing cloth, and returned it to its sheath. The dead boy was maybe sixteen or seventeen, probably a junior in high school, not much younger than I was. There was a patch of denim missing from his jeans low on his right calf muscle, and beneath, a mouth-shaped circle of ragged, bloody flesh. I dropped the bloody cloth on its chest.
“Poor kid. Probably got bit by a crawler.”
“Don’t,” Tyrel said. “You’ll drive yourself nuts. Come on, let’s get moving.”
His footsteps echoed up the stairs behind me. I looked at the boy for another moment, wondering what kind of man he might have turned out to be if given the chance. But that would never happen, now. Such a waste, and so many others out there just like him.
I bid him a silent farewell and left.
*****
On the third floor, we watched in alarm as a column of a dozen men, all dressed for the weather and carrying M-4s, marched on snowshoes toward the schoolhouse.
“This is not good,” I said.
Tyrel stared out the window and said nothing.
“We should radio Rojas.”
He stepped away and checked his rifle. “Do it, then meet me in the hallway.”
I turned on my handheld and keyed the mike. “Rojas, Hicks. How copy?”
“Loud and clear, Hicks. Over.”
“You see what’s going on out front? Over.”
“Yep. I got my scope on them, but I think they’re out of range. Over.”
“Probably so. Keep your eyes on them and let us know if anyone else shows up. Over.”
“Wilco. Make sure you switch to your earpiece. Over.”
“Acknowledged. Hicks out.”
I fished a wireless transmitter/receiver from my vest, stuck it in my ear, flipped a switch on the radio, and went outside to find Tyrel. He had taken cover behind a doorway twenty feet from the stairwell. When he saw me, he said, “Go cover the other stairwell.”
I moved down the hall double-time, boots squeaking on the dusty floor, picked a doorway thirty or so feet from the stairwell entrance, opened it, and took cover. Anyone coming out of the stairwell would see only the barrel of my rifle and a small fraction of my face. They, on the other hand, would have no cover once in the hallway. I did not plan to let them get that far.
My father had taught me the Fatal Funnel of Fire concept. The most dangerous thing a person can do in close quarters combat is go through a door. Doors are chokepoints, and anyone with a weapon capable of a high rate of fire and sufficient ammo can devastate large numbers of people pouring through them. Essentially the same concept the Spartans used in the battle of Thermopylae: force your enemy to concentrate their numbers at a single, defensible point, thus eliminating their numerical advantage.
The sound of boots clomping up stairs reverberated in the hallway. I keyed my radio. “Ty, you think they know we’re in here?”
“I’d say it’s a possibility. If they’re smart, they have someone on overwatch. There’s a chance they spotted us coming in the building.”
Just as he finished his sentence, a voice called up to us from the stairwell on my side, “We know you’re up there. Put down your weapons and come out with your hands in the air.”
I turned and looked down the hallway at Ty. He shook his head and held a finger over his lips, then pointed two fingers at his eyes and turned them toward the doorway. Stay focused.
The voice spoke again. It was deep and rough, older sounding, resonant with the confidence of a man used to being obeyed. “This doesn’t need to turn ugly, gentlemen. You’re trespassing here. All we want is to escort you out of town. Don’t resist, and nothing will happen to you.”