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doubled over and cradling his stomach with folded arms.
    I pushed through the door, pulled it closed.
    Bradley-Phillips, right behind me, was stopped by the steel enforced barrier. He struggled with the door handle. If he turned it, and pushed—I’d be unable to stop him.
    Instead, he gave up on the knob and just banged giant fists on the door’s bullet proof glass.
    It was in his eyes. They’d gone from brown to milky-white. Brown, to fucking milky white. Did I just see that happen? Did I just witness life spill out of his eyeballs?
    No, had the scientist said they weren’t dead. That they were alive? I couldn’t remember.
    Bradley-Phillips looked dead. It seemed like he’d forgotten how to use a door handle. In the time it took his eyes to lose color, he’d forgotten how to use a door handle. I’d seen it happen, and I still couldn’t believe it.
    The others—those who hadn’t received the shot—made their way toward the west end primary operations exit.
    Allison had jumped onto a desk and over the cubicle as Taylor swept a hapless arm toward her, and missed.
    Maar, Nolan , and Cortese, were right behind her, the four of them scrambled in the direction of the only other not yet blocked possible escape route.
    Winger, one of the other supervisors with Milzy, tackled Cortese, had him by the arm. Without pause, Winger bit off Cortese’s ear, chewed it like a pit-bull with a rubber wad of rawhide.
    I draped an arm across my stomach and hoped to steady the sudden flip-flopping going on inside there. I braced myself, an arm on the wall, knees wobbling.
    I pulled my hands away from the wall. The floor blurred. My shoulder slammed into the closed door. . .off balance, but still on my feet.
    Secondary Ops. It’s around the corner. I pushed off the door with my shoulder, and ran.
    Allison’s at Secondary. Stopped at the pass-protected door. “They’re in there!”
    Faces were pressed against the thick, break-proof glass. Blood and saliva smeared in shapes of noses, mouths and handprints. “Milzy said the first sick people were in the bunker.”
    Didn’t matter what Milzy said. Bunker. Secondary.
    The sick weren’t in the bunker, resting. They were in Secondary. Locked up. Locked away.
    “So now what?” Nolan panted, used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his forehead. “What’s going on? I mean, where do we go?”
    Where do we go?
    “I took a few calls—I think what’s going on here, is happening out there, too,” Maar said. “I have to get home. My wife and kids, you know? I have to get to them.”
    “It can’t be safe out there,” I said. I thought the same thing. My kids. I needed to find them. Protect them.
    Allison looked from one operations floor to the other. They’re literally twenty feet apart. Identical rooms. Both housing flesh-eating monsters that were all staring at us through blood-streaked glass, as if we were animals at a zoo. Or, more like we were food on display and they were waiting to place their order, to pick up their plate and get in line at the buffet.
    Now serving number twenty-seven? I think.
    “Jimmy has guns,” I said , “in his locker.”
    I didn’t want us to separate. Safety in numbers and all of that. “We can get the guns; make a dash for the parking lot. We’ll follow each other. Nolan lives closest. We’ll hit his house first.”
    Nolan smiled. He liked the plan.
    “My wife’s home alone,” Maar said.
    “I’m worried about my kids, too. We shouldn’t split up,” I said.
    “My wife is closer,” Maar said.
    I just stared at him. “We’re staying together. Nolan’s house first. Right now, Jimmy’s locker, all right?”
    We ran for the men’s room, through the door, past the urinals and stalls, and finally through rows of lockers. “It’s this one,” I pointed.
    “So how do we get in?” Nolan set fists on his hips.
    “Break into it,” Maar said.
    Way easier said than done. After ten minutes of pulling, banging, and pounding, we realized the truth.