Atlanta, Grady Memorial Hospital
The Puma helicopter hovered over the roof, the gale stirred up by its rotors sending gravel rolling everywhere.
Andrea crouched by the cabin door, her hand gripping the door frame, her knuckles turning white.
She glanced down—a huge "H" was painted on the helipad, its white edges chipped and faded, with withered yellow grass growing out of the cracks.
"Stop looking, get down!"
Shane shouted from behind her.
Andrea let go and slid down the rope.
When her boots hit the concrete, her knees buckled slightly, but she straightened up immediately.
She looked back at the people above—fifteen of them, sliding down the rope one after another, moving much more nimbly than she did.
Shane landed last, the rope ladder was pulled up, and the helicopter climbed, banked, and quickly became a small black dot on the horizon.
The wind on the roof was fierce, making it hard to keep one's eyes open.
Shane walked to the stairwell door and kicked the iron door—it was tightly shut.
He turned to look at the sixteen people in front of him, his gaze lingering on each face for a second.
"The mission is to clear this building to use as a landing base."
He screwed the silencer onto the muzzle, tightened it, and checked it again: "Everyone, suppressors on your weapons."
Andrea was the first to move.
She pulled the suppressor from her tactical vest, screwed it on in a few quick motions, raised her weapon to aim, and nodded with satisfaction.
She walked up to Shane, chin slightly raised.
"I'll take out all those squatters."
Shane glanced at her and said nothing.
When the iron door was pushed open, a wave of mustiness hit them.
The hallway was very dark; the emergency lights had long since gone out, with only a little light filtering in from the stairwell window.
Seventeenth floor.
This floor was the administrative office area, and the signs on the doors were still there—Director's Office, Finance Department, Human Resources.
Most of the doors were open, the rooms empty, documents scattered across the floor, chairs overturned, like a battlefield abandoned in haste.
"Everything above the seventeenth floor is secure."
Shane stood at the stairwell entrance and looked down.
The lights in the stairwell were all out, and it was pitch black below, like a gaping mouth.
"Below the seventeenth floor, it's not so certain."
Debris was piled up at the stairwell corner between the sixteenth and seventeenth floors.
Tables, chairs, filing cabinets, and a few hospital beds were jammed haphazardly onto the stairs, piled up like a barricade.
Dust had settled thickly, and when the flashlight beam hit it, one could see tiny particles floating in the air.
Shane directed the men to start moving it.
A few people went up, dragged the chairs out to pass to those behind them, and then lifted the tables to move them aside.
Andrea stood at the seventeenth-floor elevator lobby.
The elevator doors were open, a dark void, like an open eye.
She leaned over to look down—the elevator shaft was deep, bottomless, and she could smell a mixture of rust and rot.
There was a ladder on the shaft wall, rusty but looking sturdy enough.
She looked back; Shane was moving a table, his back to her.
"Can't we just go down through the elevator shaft?"
Her voice echoed in the empty hallway: "It would save time and effort."
Shane put down the table and turned around.
There was no expression on his face, but Andrea saw the vertical line between his brows deepen.
"I am the one making the decisions here."
His voice wasn't loud, but it was hard: "Listen, when I tell you to move things, you move them. Don't give me any backtalk. That method you suggested might work for one or two people acting alone, but we have sixteen people. If we climb down one by one, what happens if we need to evacuate in an emergency?"
Andrea's mouth opened, then closed.
She stood where she was, her fingers gripping the rifle stock tightly.
The people moving debris nearby stopped their work and looked over.
Someone's mouth twitched, but they quickly suppressed it.
Andrea's face burned.
She just stood there, not knowing what to say or where to look.
She wanted to retort, but couldn't find a reason.
He was right; she knew he was right.
But she hated that he had said it in front of so many people.
"Stop looking!"
Shane clapped his hands: "Get back to work!"
The sounds of moving debris resumed.
Tables were lifted away, chairs were dragged off, and filing cabinets were pushed against the wall by several people working together.
Five or six minutes later, the stairs were cleared.
Sixteenth floor.
The hallway was narrower than the seventeenth floor, the ceiling lower, the lights all out, with only flashlight beams flickering across the walls.
Most of the ward doors on both sides were closed; some had seals on them that had dried up, curling at the corners and glowing yellow in the flashlight beams.
"Three-person teams, sweep."
Shane stood in the middle of the hallway: "One room at a time."
Andrea was assigned to a team in the middle of the hallway.
She walked in front with her weapon raised, her flashlight beam sweeping across the walls.
The fifteenth floor, the fourteenth floor, the thirteenth floor—every floor was the same: dim hallways, closed doors, the smell of disinfectant mixed with mustiness.
No Walkers, no living people, nothing.
Twelfth floor.
Andrea leaned against the hallway wall, her weapon pointed down, her flashlight off.
Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could see a sliver of light filtering in from the window at the end of the hallway.
It was too quiet, quiet enough to make one sleepy.
She yawned, forcing tears to her eyes.
Then she felt the urge to urinate.
The bathroom door was ajar; she pushed it open and went in, turning her flashlight back on.
Women's restroom, four stalls, all doors closed.
She walked to the farthest one and pushed the door; it wouldn't budge.
Locked? She tucked the flashlight under her arm and was about to shove it hard when the door suddenly burst open from the inside.
A gray-white face, empty eye sockets, an open mouth—as it lunged out, Andrea only had time to take half a step back.
The gun went off, the sound exploding in the confined bathroom, making her ears ring.
A hole blew open in the Walker's stomach, black blood spraying onto her chest, but it didn't stop; the force of its lunge slammed her into the sink, her back striking the cold marble edge, the pain making her vision go black.
Its mouth bit onto her wrist guard, teeth grinding against the hard plastic with a screeching sound, then it let go and turned toward her neck.
Andrea braced her arm against its chin, her other hand gripping the gun, the barrel pressed against its shoulder, but she couldn't pull the trigger—that position wouldn't kill it.
Her arms were shaking, she was about to lose her grip, and that mouth was getting closer and closer to her neck; she smelled the stench of rotting flesh and saw the black blood clots remaining in its mouth.
"Help!"
Her voice was shrill, not like her own.
Tears welled up in her eyes, she didn't know if it was from the pain or the fear.
A hand reached out from behind, over her shoulder, the blade of a knife flashing in the flashlight beam, stabbing into the Walker's temple and piercing through its entire skull.
The Walker's body stiffened for a moment, then went limp, sliding off her and collapsing face-down on the floor, the knife still stuck in its head.
Andrea leaned against the sink, gasping for air.
Shane crouched down, pulled out the knife, and wiped the blood clean on the Walker's clothes.
"Learn your lesson."
He sheathed the knife on his leg and stood up, looking at her: "Next time, it won't just be a matter of wetting your pants out of fear."
Andrea hurriedly looked down at her pants—they were dry.
Shane watched her action, his mouth twitching slightly.
Andrea looked up and punched him in the shoulder.
Shane didn't dodge, and laughed out loud.
"From now on, check the bathroom first before taking care of your own business, understand?"
Andrea glared at him, wanting to curse, but her mouth curled up first.
She punched him a second time, much lighter this time.
"Understood."
She said.
At the end of the twelfth-floor hallway, a window let in a grayish-white light.
Andrea followed him out, her weapon raised, flashlight on, the beam sweeping across every closed door.
When she passed the bathroom door, she paused for a second, turned, poked her gun inside, and shone the flashlight through the gaps under every stall door.
Then she continued walking forward.
Shane didn't look back, but his pace slowed slightly, ensuring he could observe everyone's level of vigilance.