Clarence’s left hand grabbed the zip strips and grenade, shoved them into his pocket even as his right drew his Glock. The door rattled once from someone hitting it, then bounced open.
He fired three times at the first movement. Bodies ducked away, leaving the door to automatically swing shut.
Her weapon … her magazine.
Clarence grabbed the ruined pistol and shoved it into his empty thigh holster. He reached behind Margaret’s back, lifted her and tossed her over his shoulder even as his feet carried him up the concrete steps.
His legs drove him to the next landing. Behind him, he heard the first-floor stairwell door slammed open, this time from something bigger than just a man.
A roar, an inhuman sound that echoed through the enclosed stairwell.
Clarence bounded up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time despite Margaret’s extra weight.
He heard footsteps behind him. Footsteps and a deep, giggling growl.
Careful to keep Margaret on his shoulder, Clarence shoved his pistol into his webbing belt, then pulled the grenade Klimas had given him. He squeezed the handle, lifted the grenade to his mouth, bit down on the pin and twisted his head to yank it free.
He tossed the grenade behind him, heard the handle flip away and bounce off the wall with a hollow, metallic ting.
Four seconds …
He kept driving upward, two steps at a time.
Two seconds …
He made it up a flight and a half before the bang rattled the stairwell, shaking the air and the concrete alike. Farther back, he heard a scream of pain, a scream just as inhuman as the roar had been.
Push, push, push … don’t think about how your legs burn, and don’t you dare think about Margaret …
Chest heaving, he reached the eighth floor. He heard yells from farther down the stairwell, but they weren’t as close as before. He opened the door and carried Margaret into the hallway.
He turned the first corner he saw, getting out of sight of the stairwell door. Chest heaving, he set Margaret down. The right side of her jaw was already swelling. Blood ribbons coated her hand. She blinked slowly, tried to sit up. He gently pushed her back to the floor, needing only a tiny amount of pressure to do so.
“Margo, hold on. Just hold on.”
He had to check her weapon, see if Klimas was right.
Margaret clutched weakly at his forearm. “Get … off … me.” She looked at him with nothing but hate in her eyes.
This isn’t my wife … this isn’t Margaret …
Clarence drew her ruined pistol from his thigh holster, looked at it.
She couldn’t be infected. Couldn’t be.
He pushed the release and slid the magazine free. There wasn’t time for it, but he couldn’t help himself. He counted off the rounds. Eleven.
The weapon held twelve.
Just one round missing.
Margaret pushed at him, pushed hard. “Get off me! Give me the gun, honey, they’re coming to get us! Save the baby!”
The baby.
Was she pregnant? Or was that another lie, created to manipulate him? She had played him for a fool.
He pocketed her magazine, then pulled out the zip strips.
She saw them and started to scream — not a scream of fear, but the guttural, throat-ripping sound of an enraged, trapped animal.
“Don’t you tie me up you needle-d.i.c.k motherf.u.c.ker! Get your f.u.c.king hands off me!”
Clarence grabbed her arms, flipped her onto her stomach.
“I’ll cut off your b.a.l.l.s and feed them to you, you stupid n.i.g.g.e.r! Let me go, let me go!”
She squirmed, but she wasn’t strong enough to fight him. He wrenched her wrists back. Her still-bleeding stump flicked blood across the hallway carpet.
With one hand, Clarence held her wrists together. With his other, he looped the zip strip around them, then yanked it tight.
“I hate you f.u.c.king insects we’re going to kill you all kill you all!”
Clarence stood, lifted her and again threw her over his shoulder. His exhausted legs burned instantly. He ignored his body’s complaints, thumbed the “talk” b.u.t.ton.
“Klimas! I’m on the eighth floor, where the f.u.c.k are you?”
A WAY OUT
Clarence stumbled toward Room 829. He recognized the two SEALs crouched by the door: Bosh and Ramierez. Inside, he saw the big one, Roth, using a combat knife to saw through the drywall.
Farther in, Klimas was peeking through heavy curtains. Tim Feely and Cooper Mitch.e.l.l sat in the middle of a king-size bed, trying to stay out of the way. Two more SEALs stood near Klimas. Their name patches read HARRISON and KATANSKI.
Clarence smelled smoke … the fire from the first floor, spreading. The room felt hot.
Klimas turned, saw Clarence and Margaret. His gun came up fast. Harrison and Katanski also brought up their rifles. Roth remained focused on the wall.
Margaret kicked and thrashed. “Please don’t shoot me! I didn’t do anything, please!”
Her hatred and anger had vanished. Now she sounded like a normal woman, a terrified woman. There had to be a way to save her, save the baby. Feely could do something, he could beat the infection. He just needed the right equipment and time to do the research, that was all.
“I’ve got her,” Clarence said. “She’s my responsibility.”
Klimas took a step closer. “You tied her up. You checked the magazine, didn’t you.”
Clarence said nothing.
Klimas nodded. “She shot Bogdana. Put her down, Otto.”
Clarence knew that Margaret had to die. His brain told him that, but his heart shouted a different message.