EIGHT #2
Sure enough, there’s a whole load of nothing inside the lockers.
Well, unless you can count a moldy cardigan, a packet of cookies that have turned into a gross-looking science experiment, a mysterious blob in the corner that looks like it used to be an apple, and a curled photo of a baby taped to the inside of the door.
I close that locker with more caution and gentleness than the others, whispering lowly to no one in particular, “I’m sorry.”
A groan of a tired building answers me, and when dust sifts from somewhere in the ceiling, I consider leaving. For a moment, I imagine walking away with only the gauze, scissors, and small scraps of luck I’ve already found.
Then I notice the sign screwed into the wall right next to the stairwell.
Basement Storage.
But of course.
For a full ten seconds, I do nothing but stare at it, a tremulous barrage of thoughts and feelings rolling through me as I trace the words with my lip tucked between my teeth. Then I sigh and whisper, “I actually hate you.”
The sign doesn’t give a shit, not that I expected it to, and so I pluck up my nerves and courage before taking the stairs carefully.
I test each step with a caution that impresses me, making sure each one can take my weight before continuing down.
The further down I go, the worse the smell gets, stale dampness blending with a chemical sharpness that itches the back of my throat despite the bandana that still covers my nose and mouth.
As soon as I reach the last step, I pause as I look around.
The basement is bigger than I anticipated, with storage shelves lining the walls.
Some have fallen, some remain standing. Cardboard boxes sag miserably with water damage, a dead refrigerator unit is pressed against the back wall with its doors hanging slightly open, and metal cabinets stand near the far side with several still locked.
Oh, shit.
My heart thumps again, and I internally curse, hating the way hope does its best to niggle its way through my barricades.
I’m slow crossing the room, checking corners as I go. My pulse skitters when the floor above creaks and, somewhere upstairs, glass tinkles delicately in a frame. The whole building feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting to finally sneeze itself into shitting itself before falling apart.
Fighting back hope, I check the first cabinet, which happens to be empty.
The second holds records swollen with musty water that have fused together to make one super folder.
The third cabinet has a busted lock and, when I try to pry it open with my knife, I find three packets of suppressants jammed behind a tray of expired syringes.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper, my breath catching in my lungs at the sight of them.
Two packets are ruined, the foil ballooned a little, tablets crumbling into powder. The third is expired, but it’s actually sealed and the foil is fully intact. Could be useless, but maybe not. In my world, maybe-nots are basically an attempt at seduction.
I tuck the sealed packet into the hidden pocket on the inside of my jacket before moving on to the next cabinet that gifts me ruined blockers, heat-damaged and cracked.
The capsules have split open, leaking powder that has now clumped from moisture.
My throat tightens, useless anger burning hot under my skin. “Fucking great. Love that for me.”
Still, I take the least damaged strip, because desperation hasn’t ever given a shit about dignity or pride before. Why start now, right?
Continuing my search, I find a half-full bottle of iodine, a roll of medical tape, surgical gloves, and three sealed packets of suture thread that instantly make me think of Kaito’s side and the small floral kit I have tucked in my backpack.
That thought is shoved away with the force of a tidal wave.
He’s not my problem. He’s likely awake by now, already aware that I’ve slipped away while he was sleeping.
He’s probably annoyed, probably following me, because apparently the guy interprets the words ‘don’t follow me’ as an actual challenge.
A stupid, warm-smelling, worn-flannel challenge.
Tightening my jaw, I reach for a plastic container on the highest shelf. Just as my fingers wrap around it, another groan sounds through the floorboards. Not the usual kind this time. Oh, no. This one has some weight to it.
My body turns to stone in an instant and I watch as dust falls in a speckled curtain from the ceiling. It’s quickly followed by a thump from upstairs, and I swallow hard.
A Zed.
And then another.
My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach. They must have heard me trying to wrangle the cabinet into submission, or maybe caught my trail. Hell, maybe the building simply got bored of the silence and decided to have a dinner party with unfavorable guests.
Whatever the reason, I can’t ignore the dragging of feet that scrape across the floor above. A low groan follows, then several more, and I close my eyes for a long moment in a funny little prayer for patience. Then I breathe almost silently, “Fuck my life.”
Shoving the container into my bag without checking it, I turn toward the stairs just as the ceiling cracks.
Not above me, but beside me. The sound tears through the basement like snapping bones, and I move before I can even think, diving toward the nearest metal shelf as the floor gives way.
Wood explodes downward. Plaster, tiles, furniture, and one very confused Zed come crashing through the ceiling in a storm of dust and rot.
The impact knocks me off my feet, and pain bursts through my shoulder as I hit the ground hard, my bad knee twisting under me. My breath is knocked out of me, the air puffing right out of my lungs, and for one long second, everything around me turns white, and loud, and fucking impossible.
Then the Zed that fell through the floor twitches a mere three feet away from my face.
“Shit.”
I scramble backward, my hand slamming against something sharp.
Pain bursts across my palm, but I ignore it, grabbing my knife as the Zed starts to drag itself toward me.
Half of its ribcage has caved in from the fall, and one of its arms has twisted at an angle that turns my stomach, but its white, cloudy eyes are fixed on my movement.
It snaps its jaw at me, and I kick it in the face with the heel of my boot. Pain screams through my knee, but the Zed’s head cracks sideways, long enough for me to roll onto my hip and drive my knife through its temple in one swift movement.
The body drops, and dust chokes the air as the Zeds above me groan.
The hole in the ceiling gapes open to the clinic floor above, busted beams now jutting out at questionable angles.
Dead hands reach through, fingers clawing at empty air.
One Zed leans too far and almost topples after the first, catching itself on a splintered board with a wet, garbled snarl.
I shove to my feet… or, I try to. My knee buckles and the world tilts around me.
I have no idea how I manage it, but I catch myself on a shelf before I go down again, gritting back the kind of sound that would inevitably get me killed in a room full of snapping teeth.
The stairs are half-buried under beams and shelving, and getting up is going to take time, a whole lot of noise, and a miracle I won’t be betting my life on.