I walk past the elevators and to the stairwell but I pause when I get to the door. I hate stairs. Ever since the outbreak, stairs have been my biggest fear. It’s the worst part of any building. First of all, when there are greyskins above you, it’s nearly impossible to get a good head stab in without getting too close. Then, when multiple greyskins are after you, running up makes you exhausted while the dead feel no tiredness. Running down, the greyskins just fall over each other without regard to their own safety, whereas you must take every step with caution, for a sprained ankle in a stairwell means becoming a greyskin’s dinner.
I hold my breath and try to listen beyond the door. I hear two, maybe three greyskins walking down the stairs toward the basement level and at least four greyskins on the landing just above me. I need to go to a different stairwell. Going up four flights just might prove too much. I turn my ear toward the hallway beyond, but I can’t even count the number of feet I hear walking slowly. It won’t do. Going down the hall will only bring more than I can handle while I’m fairly certain I can handle the four above me.
I open the door and step into the stairwell. I’m lucky because the greyskins seem to be walking up which means I should be able to take out at least two of them from behind before the others turn on me. I pause before going up. I can feel the jitters creeping into my limbs, but I know I can’t let it get to me.
I take each step as quietly as I can. The greyskins don’t even see me until I’ve got my blade stuck inside the skull of the first one. I pull it out and swipe at the next, clipping it at the jaw. The other two are screaming toward me. I slide the machete up under the chin of the one in front, but I’m forced to let go of the handle as the next greyskin grabs at my coat. I try not to let out a scream, but it’s almost impossible. The greyskins are not known for their sure footing so I reach out and grab it by the shoulders, and at the same time kick my foot at its ankles. It starts to fall down the flight of stairs but hangs upright only because of its death grip on my coat. I try to hit its grubby hands away from me, but it feels no pain. Its jaws chomp at me as it pulls itself back toward me to take a chunk of my flesh. Finally, I pull my arms from the sleeves and slip out of the coat and the greyskin tumbles down the stairs. Bones crack all the way down, its fingers still clutching my coat and taking my backpack and rifle with it. As I reach down and pull out the machete, I notice the greyskin that had been moving toward the basement must have sensed the commotion. Now it is running up the stairs toward me. It stumbles over the crumpled form of the greyskin clutching my coat and falls to its knees, crawling like an injured animal desperate to catch its dinner. I take one or two steps down and swing my machete into what’s left of its brain and it stops moving.
Despite the cold, I have to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I try not to let my hands shake, but there is no way to calm my nerves. My fingers tremble as I grip the machete and my knees quiver as I take the steps back down to the first floor. I can leave my coat, I can leave my backpack full of supplies, but I can’t leave my rifle even though the pistol is attached to my hip. I lean down and pry open the fingers of the greyskin, releasing my coat from its grip. I pull it on and sling the backpack over my shoulders. I then sling my rifle over my head where the strap crosses over my chest. Machete in hand, I tiptoe up the stairs quietly.
My ears tell me there’s nothing else between me and the fourth floor so I hurry my steps until I reach the door. When I put my ear up to the door, I don’t hear anything. I open it and step into the hallway. My heart pounds in my ears and I’m afraid it might keep me from hearing what’s ahead. One after the other my feet carry me forward. A glance at a sign hanging from the ceiling tells me that the maternity ward is on the other side of the wing. It’s probably only a few hundred feet away, but it looks like miles. The walk there is quiet enough, however. I try to listen for any movement ahead, but there is still nothing. I feel a sense of relief once I stand in front of the door of the maternity ward because I can see the registration desk only a few feet in front of me, a wall of filing cabinets lined behind the desk chair.
I open the door and sneak through quietly and search the filing cabinets. P…P…I can’t see a thing. I pull off my backpack and unzip the top. Maybe Gabe provided me with a flashlight. I sort through the bag, a can of beans… tuna… Swiss Army Knife…flashlight! I pull it out and switch it on, scanning the filing cabinets for P. Once I find it, I open it as slowly as possible and I see about a million files. It’s a good thing Elkhorn University Hospital’s Maternity Ward still used a paper system. When I had come to the ER, I found it annoying to fill out all that paperwork, but I’m glad now.
I flip through the first ones until I finally come to the name Paxton. Paxton… Paxton… Paxton… There are eight Paxtons, total. I thumb through the first file and I hear a noise down the hall. I let a curse pass my lips in a whisper and I switch off the light. I listen for more movement, but it sounds like it’s just one greyskin at the other end moving about aimlessly. I flip on the flashlight again and pick up the next file. Not her. The next file isn’t her. Then the next. On the fifth file, I start to lose hope that Jessi had her baby at Elkhorn University Hospital. Maybe she didn’t have the baby at all.
But then I get to the sixth file. My heart bangs against my chest when I see the name. Jessi M. Paxton. It’s her! I look for a birthdate and she’s as old as I am. The baby was born three years ago. It’s her! Apparently her baby was named Evelyn. Poor Evelyn and Jessi are probably dead now.
I hear another noise, this time a crash from the other side of the ward. I flick off the flashlight and stuff it and the file into my backpack and sling it over my shoulders. I pick up the machete from the floor and creep back to the registration desk. I try as hard as I can to listen for the source of the crash, but I can’t hear anything except for a tiny groan behind me. My stomach leaps into my throat as I turn. All I can see is a shadow as a greyskin wearing the scrubs of a nurse stumbles forward. I accidentally let out a yelp as a fall backwards onto the chair next to me. As I pull myself up, I swing for the greyskin’s head but I miss.
I never miss!
The blade slams into the side of the filling cabinet and the handle breaks off in my hand. The greyskin is on top of me now and it’s all I can do to roll away as it grabs onto my foot. I pull the pistol from my belt, knowing that if I don’t I’ll be dead, even though the noise will bring every greyskin in the hospital to me. I let off a single shot into the nurses’ (greyskin’s) head and it slumps to the floor. I can still hear the ringing in my ears a moment later as I drag myself into the hallway. On my belly, gun in hand, I look both ways: once toward the door and then toward the rest of the maternity ward. I can’t help but freeze when I see what comes out of the room beyond. Doctors…nurses…patients. My stomach wrenches when I see a greyskin walking out in a large gown, her stomach protruding.
I pull myself up to my feet and charge out through the doors but I stop in my tracks when at least eight greyskins make their way toward me, walking as though they have all the time in the world. But I don’t. Either I go the familiar way I came and face more greyskins, or I go back through the maternity ward and hope I don’t run into more than three. I shake my head. It’s always better to know where you’re going.