The overhead fluorescents in Sector Four buzzed with a broken, mosquito-thin whine, flickering just enough to make the smears across the linoleum look wet again.
The air tasted like industrial bleach and rot—a harsh chemical burn failing to hide the stench of whatever had been dragged down the hall.
Brian hit the reinforced steel of the blast door hard, sliding down until his tailbone met the floor. His chest heaved in jagged, uneven pulls. Sweat cut tracks through the grime on his face, chilling instantly in the unnaturally cold air.
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“I think,” he rasped, spitting red onto the tiles, “my lungs are actually bleeding.”
Brice dropped the magazine from his scavenged rifle. The sharp metallic clack snapped through the hollow corridor, entirely too loud. He checked the brass through the witness holes, his face pale under the dying light.
“Look on the bright side. If we run into whatever left those claw marks on the security glass, you won’t have to worry about cardio anymore. Or your mortgage. Really, it’s a solid financial strategy.”
Brian let out a sound that was half laugh, half cough.
“You always know exactly what to say to make me want to shatter your jaw.”
Brice didn’t fire back a comeback.
He stared at a jagged crack in the tile, watching a loose drop of blood crawl into the groove. He reached to slap the magazine back into the well, but his fingers trembled, rattling the metal casing against the receiver.
He stopped.
Squeezed the grip until his knuckles flushed stark white.
Forced his hands still.
Three empty bunks waiting for them back at camp.
Three floors left between them and freedom.
Brice dragged in a sharp, unsteady breath.