Page 62 of Faith Among Monsters

I shove the doors shut behind us, and slide the bolt into place, the soft click too damn loud in the silence. “Locking us in.”

Trip doesn’t question it. He knows. We’re sitting ducks if too many of those things swarm in behind us. Best to take the fight to the ones already inside. Neither of us wants to find out if these things can think enough to unlock doors.

We move fast, clearing the space as we go. If it doesn’t have a hole in its head, it gets one. Knife, boot, bullet, whatever it takes. No hesitation. No second chances. Trip works like I do, quiet, efficient. No wasted movement.

Gunfire snaps through the air, deeper in the building.

I freeze, blood like ice. That wasn’t outside. That was here.

Trip’s head tilts, listening.

Not Faith.

If it had been the roof, we’d already have heard Zachs running his mouth over the radio.

Another shot. Then another.

There are men here. Armed ones. No telling who’s shooting, or what the hell they’re aiming at.

“Trip.” I say it low, just enough to pull his attention.

He exhales, a short, quiet sound of acknowledgment.

We don’t separate. We’re not idiots.

Still, my gut is clawing at me. Faith is waiting. Faith is up there.

I shove it down.

“Let’s check it out.”

Trip nods once.

We turn from the stairs and move toward the gunfire.

As we move through the halls, everything is eerily still. Too still. Every step feels like we’re walking deeper into something we won’t come back from. I tighten my grip on my gun, moving on instinct, and take out anything that twitches. The last thing we need is one of these fuckers getting back up behind us while we’re busy dealing with whatever fresh hell is waiting ahead.

The gunfire grows louder, echoing through the corridors, drawing us forward. Then we see it, a bottleneck of zombies swarming a door.

Shit.

Whoever’s inside better have the damn sense to back up when they hear the shots. I lift a hand, signaling to Trip. We’re close enough. The gunfire inside isn’t stopping, but we don’t have time to wait. I draw my pistol, glancing at Trip.

His jaw clenches. He nods.

We fire. Silent. Precise. Headshots only.

The silenced rounds cut through them, but the horde doesn’t turn toward us. Whatever is inside that room is holding their attention, and that works to our advantage. We move fast, taking them down one by one. The bodies pile up, forming a blockade of the dead. When the numbers dwindle, I take the chance.

“Who we got?” I shout.

One of the remaining zombies turns toward the sound of my voice. A shot rings out, and it drops.

“That you, Dax?” A familiar, gravel-rough voice carries from the other side of the door.

“Yeah,” I answer, eyes still scanning for movement. “Who we got?”

Trip fires at a straggler lumbering toward us.

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