The heavy steel service door didn't just groan; it screamed.
It was a rhythmic, industrial battering ram sound. THUD. SCRAPE. THUD.
Thomas Hayes was leaning his entire back against the door, his boots sliding on the polished concrete floor with every impact. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. He looked at Jax, who was bracing his shoulder against the metal.
"They're not using the handle," Thomas grunted, his voice strained. "They're using their bodies."
"They're not bodies anymore," Jax said, his face pale in the emergency lighting. "They're projectiles."
On the other side of the door, the screams had stopped. The only sound was the wet slap of flesh on metal and the high-pitched, chattering shrieks that the infected made—a sound like a thousand rats trapped in a tin can.
Lucas stood behind them, the tactical knife gripped in his hand. He looked at Maggie, who was crouched near a large industrial washer, her hands over her ears. She was muttering a prayer, but it was disjointed, fragments of Hail Marys mixed with begging for Thomas to hold on.
"Dad, move left," Lucas said suddenly.
"What?"
"Move left! Now!"
Lucas lunged forward, not to help brace the door, but to kick a heavy metal mop bucket into the path of the door just as a section of the lock gave way.
The door flew inward three inches. A hand—pale, streaked with black, and ending in fingernails that looked like broken glass—snaked through the gap. It clawed at the empty air, inches from Thomas's face.
Then the door hit the bucket. The metal handle jammed into the frame, buying them a precious second of friction.
"Back!" Thomas roared.
He grabbed Maggie's arm. Jax grabbed Lucas. They scrambled backward down the hallway just as the door gave way completely.
Three figures tumbled into the corridor. They were tangled together, a mass of limbs and torn clothing. One of them was wearing the tattered remains of a white bridal gown.
Sarah Caldwell.
She looked up. Her face was a ruin of black veins and raw skin. Her eyes were two pools of obsidian. She didn't register recognition. She didn't register pain, even though her arm was bent backward at a sickening angle.
She opened her mouth. A sound like a steam whistle tore out of her throat.
"Run," Jax whispered.