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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.