Chapter 72: Lessons
Grady Memorial Hospital, Atlanta
A Cougar helicopter hovered over the rooftop, its rotors whipping up a strong wind that sent rubble flying everywhere. Andrea squatted by the hatch, her hands gripping the frame, her knuckles white. She glanced down—a huge "H" was painted on the tarmac, with peeling white paint around the edges and withered weeds growing through the cracks.
"Stop looking, get off!" Sean called out behind her.
Andrea let go and slid down the rope. Her knees buckled slightly when her boots hit the concrete, but she quickly straightened up. She looked back at the people above her—fifteen of them, sliding down the rope one after another, their movements far more agile than hers.
Sean was the last to land. The rope ladder was retracted, the helicopter pulled up, turned around, and quickly became a small black dot on the horizon.
The wind on the rooftop was so strong that it made it hard to keep her eyes open. Sean walked to the stairwell door and kicked it—tightly shut. He turned to look at the sixteen people in front of him, his gaze lingering on each face for a second.
"The mission is to clear this building and use it as a landing site." He screwed the silencer onto the muzzle, tightened it, and checked it again. "Everyone, put silencers on your guns."
Andrea was the first to get up. She pulled the silencer out of her tactical vest, screwed it on quickly, held it up for a look, and nodded in satisfaction. She walked up to Sean, chin slightly raised.
"I will eliminate all those holdout residents."
Sean glanced at her but didn't say anything. When the iron gate was pushed open, a musty smell wafted out. The corridor was dark; the emergency lights had long been off, and only a little light shone through the stairwell window.
Seventeenth floor.
This was the administrative office area, with signs on the doors—Dean's Office, Finance Department, Personnel Department. Most of the doors were open; the interior was empty, documents scattered all over the floor, chairs overturned—like a battlefield hastily abandoned.
"The floors above the seventeenth are safe," Sean stood at the top of the stairs and glanced down.
The stairwell lights were all off, pitch black below, like an open mouth. **"Below the seventeenth floor, it's not necessarily the same."** The clutter was piled up at the corner of the staircase between the sixteenth and seventeenth floors. Tables, chairs, filing cabinets, and several hospital beds were haphazardly stacked, forming a makeshift roadblock.
The dust was thick; when shone with a flashlight, tiny particles floated in the air. Sean directed the team to start moving the items. Several people went up, dragged out chairs, handed them back, then lifted tables to move them aside.
Andrea stood at the elevator entrance on the seventeenth floor. The elevator doors were open, dark and gaping—like an open eye. She peered down into the shaft—it was very deep; she couldn't see the bottom, and she could smell a mix of rust and decay. A rusty ladder was on the well wall, still looking sturdy despite its age.
She glanced back and saw Sean moving a table, his back to her.
"Can't we just go down the elevator shaft?" Her voice echoed in the empty corridor. "It saves time and effort."
Sean put down the table and turned around. His face was expressionless, but Andrea noticed the deepening vertical line between his eyebrows.
"I am the decision-maker here," his tone was calm but firm. "Listen, I told you to move, so move. Stop with the nonsense. Your method might work for one or two people, but what if we, sixteen, have to descend one by one? What if we encounter danger and need to evacuate?"
Andrea opened her mouth slightly, then closed it again. She stood still, her fingers gripping her gun tightly. Nearby, the team carrying supplies stopped what they were doing and looked over. Someone's lips twitched, but they quickly suppressed it.
Andrea's face flushed. She wanted to argue but knew he was right. He was right.
"Get to work!" Sean clapped his hands.
The team resumed moving things. The table was carried away, chairs dragged out, and the filing cabinet pushed against the wall by several people working together.
Sixteenth floor.
The corridor was narrower than the seventeenth, with a lower ceiling. All the lights were off, only the flickering beam of a flashlight illuminating the walls. Most ward doors on both sides were closed; some had dried seals with one corner peeling and turning yellow in the beam.
"Three people per group. Clear each room one by one," Sean ordered. "Come to each room and check."
Andrea was assigned to a group in the middle of the corridor. She took the lead, gun in hand, flashlight sweeping the walls. Floors fifteen, fourteen, thirteen—each was the same: dim corridors, tightly shut doors, and a mixture of disinfectant and musty smells.
No Walkers, no living people—nothing.
Twelfth floor.
Andrea leaned against the corridor wall, her gun pointed downward, flashlight off. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she saw a faint light coming from the window at the corridor's end.
It's so quiet, so quiet it makes me sleepy. She yawned, tears welling up in her eyes. Then she felt the urge to urinate.
The toilet door was ajar. She pushed it open and entered, turning her flashlight back on. The women's restroom had four stalls, all with closed doors. She walked to the innermost stall, pushed the door—locked.
Suddenly, the door burst open from inside. With a grayish-white face, empty eye sockets, and an open mouth, Andrea only had time to step back as it pounced. The gunshot rang out, exploding in the enclosed toilet, making ears ring.
Walker's stomach exploded open, black blood spraying onto her chest, but it didn't stop. The force slammed her against the sink, her back hitting the cold marble, pain blurring her vision.
Its mouth bit into her wristband, teeth grinding against the plastic with a harsh crunch. It released and turned to her neck. Andrea braced its arm against its chin, while her other hand gripped her gun, muzzle pressed against its head—yet it couldn't be killed from that position.
Her arms trembled; she could barely hold on. The mouth drew closer to her neck, the stench of rotting flesh filling her nostrils, black blood clots remaining in its mouth.
"Help!" Her voice shrieked—so shrill it didn't sound like her own.
Tears welled up, pain and fear mixing. A hand reached from behind, across her shoulder, and a dagger flashed in the flashlight beam before piercing Walker's temple, penetrating its entire skull.
The corpse stiffened briefly, then went limp, sliding off her and lying face down on the ground, dagger still lodged in its head. Andrea leaned against the sink, panting heavily.
Sean crouched, pulled out his dagger, and wiped the blood on Walker's clothes.
"Learn from this," he said, sheathing the dagger. "Next time, it won't be as simple as just being scared into wetting your pants."
Andrea quickly looked down at her pants—still dry. Sean's lips twitched slightly as he watched her.
Andrea looked up and punched him in the shoulder.
He didn't dodge, instead laughing loudly.
"From now on, check the toilet before you do your business, understand?"
Andrea glared, wanting to curse, but a grin spread across her face first. She punched him again, lighter this time.
"Knew it."
She said.
At the end of the corridor on the twelfth floor, a window let in a grayish-white light. Andrea followed Sean out, gun in hand, flashlight sweeping every closed door.
Passing the restroom again, she paused briefly, turned sideways, and peered inside, muzzle protruding. The flashlight beam shone through the gaps under each stall door.
Then she continued walking, alert.
Sean didn't turn but slowed his pace slightly.
"Make sure you all stay alert and aware," he muttered.