by Morgan Rice
I frantically scan our surroundings, and I spot the façade of what was once a Whole Foods. It is abandoned, like everything else, completely gutted. But unlike the other stores, it appears the doors are still intact. I wonder if maybe we can get in and lock them behind us.
“This way!” I scream to Logan, who stands there, frozen in indecision.
We run to the entrance of the Whole Foods, the crazies just 30 yards behind us. I expect them to be yelling, but they are dead silent. With all the snow, they don’t even make a sound, and that somehow is even more eerie than if they were screaming.
We reach the doors and I try the handle and am relieved it’s open. I run in, Logan behind me, then turn and slam it behind us. Logan removes the heavy machinegun from his shoulder and shoves it between the door handles, barring the doors. He wedges it in there, and it is a perfect fit. I test the doors, and they don’t budge.
We turn and run deeper into the store. It is cold in here, empty, gutted. There aren’t any remnants of food, just torn and empty packaging, all over the floor. There are no weapons, no supplies. No hiding places. Nothing. Whatever was once here was looted long ago. I scan for exits, but see none.
“Now what?” Logan asks.
There’s a sudden crash against the metal door, and I see dozens of crazies slam into it. I can already tell our lock won’t last long. I search the store again, frantic for an idea. And then, in the distance, I spot something: a stairwell.
“There!” I yell, pointing.
We both run across the store, burst open the door, and find ourselves in a stairwell. Logan looks at me.
“Up or down?” he asks.
It’s a good question. If we go down, maybe there’s a basement. Maybe there are some sort of supplies, and maybe we can barricade ourselves in down there. Then again, it could be a death trap. And judging from the look of this place, I doubt there are any supplies. If we go up, maybe there’s something on a higher floor. Maybe an exit through the roof.
My claustrophobic side gets the better of me.
“UP!” I say, despite the pain in my leg.
We start ascending the metal steps. Logan climbs so fast, it is a struggle for me to catch up. He stops and turns, realizing, then runs back, wraps an arm around me, holds me tight, and pulls me up the steps faster than I can manage on my own. Each step is torture, feels like a knife entering my calf. I curse the day that snake was born.
We run up flight after flight. When we cross the fourth flight I have to stop, gasping for breath. My breath is raspy, and sounds scary even to me: I sound like a 90 year old woman. I think my body has endured too much in the last 48 hours.
Suddenly, there is a horrific crash. We both look at each other, then look down the stairwell. We realize at the same time that the crazies have broken in.
“COME ON!” he screams.
He grabs me, and I feel a surge of adrenaline as we run twice as fast up the steps. We clear the sixth flight, then the seventh. I hear the sound of the crazies barging into the stairwell, and look down and see them starting to sprint up the steps. They know exactly where we are.
I look up and see there is only one more flight to go. I force myself, gasping for breath, up the last flight of steps. We reach the landing and race for the metal door to the roof. Logan puts a shoulder into it, but it won’t open. It’s locked. Apparently, from the outside. I can’t believe it.
The mob of crazies is getting closer, the sound of them on the metal stairwell deafening. In moments, we will be torn to bits.
“STAND BACK!” I scream to Logan, getting an idea.
This is as good a place as any to use my last round. I pull out my gun, take aim, and with the last round I have left, I fire at the knob. I know it’s risky to fire in such close quarters—but I don’t see what choice we have.
The bullet ricochets off the metal, missing us by an inch, and the lock opens.
We run through the door, out into daylight. I survey the roof, wondering where we can go, if there’s any possible escape. But I see nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Logan suddenly takes my hand and runs with me to the far corner of the roof. As we reach the edge I look over and see, below us, a huge stone wall. It spans University Place, running across 14th Street and blocking off everything south of it.
“The 14th Street wall!” Logan screams. “It separates the wasteland from the desert.”
“The desert?” I ask.
“It’s where the bomb went off. It’s all radiated—everything south of 14th street. No one goes there. Not even the Crazies. It’s too dangerous.”
There’s a sudden crash of metal, and the door to the roof slams open. The mob pours out, running right for us.
Far below I see a snow bank, about eight feet high. The snow is thick, and if we land just right, maybe, just maybe, it can cushion our fall. But it is a far jump, about fifty feet. And it would put us on the Desert side of the wall.
But I don’t see what choice we have.
“That snow bank!” I yell, pointing. “We can jump for it!”
Logan looks down and shakes his head, looking scared.
I check over our shoulder: the crazies are 30 yards away.
“We have no choice!” I yell.
“I’m scared of heights,” he finally admits, looking very pale.
I reach over and take his hand, and step up on the ledge. He pauses for a second, fear his eyes, but then comes.
“Close your eyes!” I yell. “Trust me!”
And then, with the crazies only a few feet away, we jump.
T W E N T Y E I G H T