Girls Save the World in This One - Ash Parsons Page 0,82
down. So, it would seem that our reasoning was correct—when the outbreak started, most people were locked into the exhibit hall or were attending the panel session in the ballroom one floor above us.
Which means that there are not currently a lot of zombies on this level, or at least not many we can see right now, between us and the atrium front doors.
A group of eight zombies stands on the opposite side of the escalators from us, facing the whiteout windows, seeming oblivious to our presence.
They start groaning and reaching toward the glass as we rush past on the opposite side of the escalators.
At first I’m confused; then I realize they’re like a cat chasing a shadow.
They’re reaching for our reflection in the whiteout windows.
We run silently past the front of the exhibit hall, past the tiny security booth beyond that, and then we’re almost there, rushing around the back of the volcanic water feature, onto the tiled floor of the three-story atrium.
Where some of our more fashionable shoes start to make noise.
Blair tries to rush quietly, taking shorter steps, trying to keep the back of her boot heels from landing so hard.
Mia runs silently, those amazing, tiny tiptoe steps.
Annie doesn’t bother. She clatters as she runs in her wedge sandals.
She doesn’t let a gap form between herself and Cuellar.
Miraculously, it looks like we have enough of a lead. Even with the noise now drawing their attention, we’re going to make it, all of us.
Behind us, the zombies trying to reach our reflection turn at last in the direction of the noise.
Cuellar reaches the doors, the center set, modern glass and steel with wide crash bars.
The doors are also swathed in white fabric or canvas, no doubt for the same reason the window wall is wrapped in white: to stop zombies from trying to reach the teams of people on the other side.
Cuellar thrusts an arm out, and the crash bar goes in smooth, just like it’s supposed to, like no one’s tampered with it.
Even though I can’t see outside past the white, I know they’re out there.
People who know what to do. The army. The police. Anybody.
Cuellar bumps into the door with a grunt.
“Go!” Annie urges.
As if spurred by her voice, the group of zombies behind us makes a sort of roar, a guttural cry as they stumble forward, flailing toward the atrium.
They’re not zoombies, at least. All moving more slowly, more jerkily, lurching as if from injuries or other damage.
Cuellar throws his shoulder into the door, jumping at it. There’s an echoing bang that bounces up the atrium.
He falls back, rubbing his shoulder and cursing.
“No!” Annie yelps. “It has to open!”
Simon runs up the semicircle to the next set of doors and pushes. The door doesn’t budge.
I run past Cuellar, down to the last set of doors on the side closest to the exhibit hall.
Behind me there’s a tremendous echoing crash as Cuellar swings the metal stool legs at the glass door.
I push at the bar and it goes in, but the door doesn’t budge.
Cuellar swings again, and again. Imani runs next to him and hefts the heavy disc end of her mic stand. She swings it like a sledgehammer.
The glass cracks. Cuellar slams his stool into the same spot. He and Imani swing and draw back in rhythm, as the glass fractures into spiderwebbing, peeling away from the metal frame, crumpling but not falling outward.
Something’s wrong.
The glass should be falling outward.
The guttural noises of the zombies have changed, becoming amplified.
Which means I know without looking that they’ve reached the atrium.
“It won’t work!” I yell, turning to look back where I came, up the semicircle of the atrium entry. “The doors are blocked!”
Simon stands at the opposite edge of doors, my mirror image.