At least the elevator was bigger than he'd anticipated. The kid pressed the button for the third floor, and the elevator shook and juddered, wheezing worse than Murphy's lungs as it carried the three of them upward. He stared at the ceiling, at the dirty light, the blackened bodies of flies caught in the glass.

What a shit-hole. It almost made prison feel luxurious.

The elevator reached the third floor, the doors opened, and he found himself looking straight into the muzzle of a gun, held by a wolfish man, lean and tough in a leather jacket, with shaggy black hair and a straggly beard. "Who the fuck are you?" he asked. His accent was British. London, Murphy thought. Hammond went for his weapon, and the man jerked the gun towards him. "Yeah. Wouldn't do that, mate." Then he glanced at Murphy. "Jesus, what happened to you? Something bite you?"

"No," Murphy managed. Something weird was happening to his vision. The man seemed to be stretching away from him, vanishing down the corridor. "I—"

"They're okay, Jon," the kid said. "They saved my life. Kinda."

"This man needs medical attention," Hammond said. "I was told there was a clinic here."

"Oh. Were you?" Jon scowled at the kid. "I don't need three guesses to know what twat told you that. Well, you were told wrong. There's no clinic here. So you can get back in that lift and toddle off to wherever the hell it is you came from."

"Oh, for God's sake." An angry female voice came from down the corridor. "If you're going to stand around comparing your cocks can you do it a bit quieter please?"

"Jesus." Jon clenched his jaw. "You'd better have found that bitch some cigarettes, Mickey," he hissed to the kid. "She's been getting on my tits all day."

Murphy's vision blurred. The sound of blood roared in his ears, and his legs crumpled beneath him. He collapsed, distantly heard Hammond swearing and the man called Jon demanding to know what was wrong.

And then a woman was kneeling over him, peeling back his eyelids none too gently. She stared at him, her gaze hard and angry. "What the hell happened to you?" she said, flatly.

"I..."

"Rhetorical question. I don't give a shit."

Jon stared over her shoulder, his eyes widening. "Jesus. He has been bitten. You lying bastard."

"Wait!" Hammond interrupted. "You're right. But it's not how it seems. This man volunteered to test an experimental vaccine for the ZN1 virus. I've been tasked with delivering him to the CDC, so that the antibodies in his blood can be harvested in order to create a vaccine. He's immune to zombie bites. Probably the only human being alive who is."

"Not being funny, mate," Jon said, "but he doesn't look all that immune to me."

"Some kind of... reaction to the vaccine. He needs medical attention. Which is why we're here."

"And I told you," Jon said. "There is no clinic."

The woman rolled her eyes. "Okay, that's enough!" She turned to Hammond. "You. Help me get him into the bedroom."

"No, no, no." Jon was shaking his head as Hammond bent to help her lift Murphy up. "We're not doing this any more, Claire."

"Oh?" She pulled her lips back in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Well, in that case you won't be needing me, will you? So shall I just 'toddle along' too then?"

Jon relented, holstering the gun. He ushered them down the corridor with a sarcastic flourish of his hands.

Murphy heard her grunt, "Dick," under her breath, and then she was turning her head over her shoulder. "Mickey, did you get me any cigarettes?"

"Um... yeah. Well, kinda. I could only find half a pack. And they're menthols. Sorry."

"Frigging menthols," she muttered under her breath. "Frigging end of the world." Then to the kid, "They'll have to do, I suppose."

They carried Murphy into one of the bedrooms, laid him on a cheap double bed with squeaky springs. His vision clearing, he stared up at a water mark on the ceiling that resembled a map of Africa, and then he turned his head, surveyed the rest of the room. A dusty TV, stained carpet, ugly tartan curtains hanging from a pole that had been pulled away from the wall. Murphy's gaze glanced off his reflection in the mirror, and down to towards the battered mini bar beneath the dresser.

Maybe. If he's lucky...

Then the woman passed by the bed and he looked at her instead. Not that she was much to look at. Flat-chested. Dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt, her black hair ragged and choppy, caught back in a severe ponytail. She glanced at him, her gaze sweeping over him in turn, taking in his prison jumpsuit, torn and bloodstained. Her lips pressed together and she reached into the drawer, pulled out a large kitchen knife which she set on the bedside table. "In case he turns."

"He won't turn," Hammond said.

She gave him a hard look, then crossed to the door. "Mickey, where's my cigarettes?"

"Here." The kid handed her a packet, and a bag. "Got some drugs too."

"Antibiotics?"

"Yeah. And some painkillers."

"Strong ones?"

The kid shook his head. "Sorry."

"Don't worry. We'll do what we can. Go on, get lost." As the kid vanished, she turned to Hammond and jerked her head to the door. "You too. Out."

"I'm not leaving him."

"You are if you want me to treat him."

When Hammond shook his head, she shrugged, dumped the bag of drugs on the dresser. "Okey dokey." And dropped into the easy chair, raising a cloud of dust. She shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, took a long, lazy drag, and blew out a series of smoke rings as if she had all the time in the world. Then she stretched out her legs with a lazy catlike yawn.

Hammond stared at her. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Um..." She stared at the cigarette in her hand. "I think it's called smoking a cigarette. Yeah, pretty sure that's what I'm doing."

"Help him. Please."

She seemed to think about it for a moment, then shrugged. "No."

"What the hell do you mean, 'no'?"

She sighed. "Yeah, I'm at a loss. I could try to break it down into words of one syllable for you, but I got nothin'." Murphy chuckled, and Hammond glowered at him. The woman took another drag. "So. Let me repeat myself. No. You want me to treat him, then you get the hell out of this room. Your choice, soldier."

"Hammond." Murphy lifted himself up onto his elbows, dropped back down as something spasmed in his chest. "Do as she says. She's not bluffing."

Her gaze flicked towards him, then away, as if she genuinely didn't give a damn whether he lived or died.

Hammond swore, pointed his finger at the woman. "If he dies—" He broke off, shaking his head. "Just... It is imperative that he doesn't die."

"Close the door on your way out," she called after him. He slammed it. She stayed on the chair for a few moments, smoking her cigarette and staring at Murphy. "You smoke?"

"Occasionally."

She grunted, and stood up, blowing out a long plume of smoke. "Want one? I wouldn't usually share, but I frigging hate menthols."

He nodded and she shook out a cigarette, placed it between his lips. Lit it. He took a drag, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. Then he hacked, coughing up sputum. She watched him until he recovered, ribs aching.

"It true what army boy was saying? About the bites?"

He took another drag, this one a little smoother. "Actually, it is." He spread his hands. "You're looking at the saviour of the human race."

"Do you really think the human race is worth saving?"

He paused, staring at her. "What kind of a goddamned nurse are you, anyway?"

"A really shitty one. Truth is, I don't give a damn if you live or die. Just so's you know."

"Thanks for the warning, sweetheart. You always such a bitch?"

"Since the turn? Yes." She took a last drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out in an overflowing ashtray. Then she fiddled with the box, flipping it open to study the remaining cigarettes inside. "I didn't used to be. Just so's you know."

"Yeah right."

"You always such a dick?"

"Yes. And I've been a dick since before the turn. Just so's you know."

The ghost of a smile – a real smile – flitted across her lips. Then she turned away, throwing the packet of cigarettes onto the dresser. Murphy watched her face as she rummaged through the bag of drugs, then shoved it aside. When she swung back towards him her face was hard again. Almost angry. "Finished?"

He nodded, stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray she held out for him. She knelt on the bed beside him, her hair falling over her face. She unbuttoned the jumpsuit, peeling it away from the ragged skin around the bites, her gaze darting towards his face as he drew in a sharp breath at the sharp stabbing sting as the fabric tore from his skin. "That hurt?"

"No," he said, through gritted teeth. "It feels like the pitter patter of raindrops on a summer's day."

She didn't react, only stared at the t-shirt underneath, the white cotton ragged and stained with seeping blood and pus. "Hold on." She slipped off the bed and pulled a pair of scissors from the dresser. She cut up through the fabric at the side, avoiding the worst of the wounds, and then she swivelled the scissors, cutting up towards his neck. She touched his chin gently, moved his head aside, but he still felt the cold kiss of metal against his neck.

She could pike me now, he thought, staring up at her impassive face. If she wanted to.

She drew in a breath, set the scissors aside. "Okay," she said. "I'm not going to lie to you. This is gonna hurt like a son-of-a-bitch."

He closed his eyes. "It already hurts like a son-of-a-bitch."

"Yeah? Well, it's about to get a whole lot worse."

"Nice bedside manner you got there, sweetheart"

"Told you I was a shitty nurse."

Now it was his turn to almost smile. And then she was peeling back the t-shirt fabric from his chest, and he wasn't smiling any more; he was screaming, at the worst pain he'd felt since the zombies swarmed him. A ripping, tearing, stinging sensation, and he was sobbing, screaming with an agony so intense he thought he was going to pass out.

And then it ebbed, leaving him weeping in its wake. When he opened his eyes, she was the first thing he saw. Staring down at the open wounds in his chest. She met his gaze, her eyes softening for the first time. "What the hell did they do to you?"

"Bit me eight times."

"I wasn't talking about the Zs."

"Don't." He dropped his head back on the pillow. "Don't look at me like I'm something to be pitied. I don't want your pity. Clean me up and let me get the hell out of this flea pit so I never have to see your face again."

She drew back, her eyes hardening again. "All right," she said coldly. "That's the way you want it?"

"That's the way I want it."

"You really are a dick."

"Right back atcha, sweetheart."

"What's the matter? Didn't your mommy—" She broke off at a hammering on the door. Eyes narrowed, she crossed over, peered through the peep-hole. "Wonderful. It's your friend."

"He's not my friend."

"No kidding." She half-turned towards him, pointing at her face. "This is my surprised face."

"Funny," he growled. "Because it looks a lot like your resting bitch face."

And again, he thought he saw that half-smile cross her face again before she turned back to the door and jerked it open. "What do you want?"

"What the hell's going on in there?" Hammond demanded.

She waved a hand towards the bed. "Take a look. He's still alive. I haven't piked him yet, although I've been tempted, believe me. He's in a bad way. The bites are infected, and I can feel the heat of his fever from here."

"The man's immune to zombie bites."

"To the ZN1 virus? Maybe, but do you know how many other pathogens are present in a human bite mark? What the hell were you thinking leaving it this long to get him cleaned up? Now get out and let me do my frigging job." She slammed the door in his face, turned away from the door, breathing hard. "Goddamn soldiers."

"You don't like men in uniform?"

She turned an angry look on him, her eyes glittering and dark. "I don't like men with guns."

He fell silent, staring at the reflection of himself in the mirror. Stretched out on top of the bed, his chest a patchwork bloodbath. "Were you telling the truth? Could I still die?"

"I've no frigging clue. Probably. How do you feel?"

"Like I got bit eight times. How do you think I feel?"

She shrugged, crossed to the window. "It's getting dark. We'd better get started." She drew the curtains, then felt her way back to the light switch. When she turned it on, the room filled with a sickly orange light, courtesy of the dirty bulb. It gave her a sallow cast, made her eyes look sunken.

Murphy coughed wheezily, fighting to clear his airways. Too much dust in the air.

"Want some water?"

He shrugged, sat up a little as she opened the mini bar. He strained to see what else was inside, caught sight of a couple of bottles, and then she was closing it again, pouring him a glass of water. She knelt on the bed, brought it to his lips and he sucked at it, greedily. "Slowly, slowly," she murmured.

"I know how to drink." He snatched the glass from her, managed to slop it over his chin. "Damn it."

"Here." She passed him a handful of pills. "Some painkillers should help."

"You got nothin' stronger?"

She shook her head. "You're lucky we've got this much. Believe me if I had anything like morphine or oxy left I'd be dosing you up. You're a real asshole sober."

He grunted, knocked the pills back with a gulp of water. They threatened to stick in his throat rather than slip down, and he almost retched, forced them down with another mouthful of water.

She placed her hand on his shoulder, and took the glass from him. "Good. You ready to get started?"

"You're not my type, princess."

She didn't reply, only rolled her eyes. And in the dirty light of the room, she started to clean his wounds. Murphy laid back, gritted his teeth against the pain. At first, he tried closing his eyes, but that only meant he was back there, in the prison, laid out on the table like a sacrifice in a ceremonial orange jumpsuit. Zombies at the door. So instead, he watched her impassive face, searching for any crack, any sign of disgust at the ragged wounds in his chest. Her touch was neither rough nor gentle as she worked, and she didn't look at him, didn't meet his eyes. It was the first time a living woman had touched him since his incarceration, and he felt the first stirrings of a hard-on pressing against his jumpsuit. If she noticed, she didn't let on.

She only paused when the light flickered, threatening to plunge them into darkness. She rolled her eyes at it, glared at the bulb, and it recovered. She carried on, rubbed antiseptic cream into the bites, dressed his wounds with sterile bandages.

Finally she sat back, still not meeting his gaze. "That's the best I can do for now," she said, quietly. "When's the last time you ate something?"

He shook his head. "Not since I was bit. Can't keep anything down."

"You need to eat."

"Thanks, Mom."

She stood up abruptly and left the room without a word, kicking a wedge under the door to stop it closing behind her. Murphy lay still for a long few minutes, watching the corridor, wondering if she was going to come back. Finally, he levered his body off the bed, bracing himself for a wave of pain, but the painkillers seemed to be kicking in. Either that, or the bitch had actually done him some good.

He limped to the mini-fridge and opened it, swept his gaze over the unpromising contents. A plastic bottle of what looked like water had been pushed to the back, half-hidden behind everything else. He pulled it out and sniffed the contests.

Vodka. He knew it; she was just the sort to have a secret stash.

He took a swig, then another.

"Seriously?" She was standing in the doorway, a bundle of clothes in her arms. "I'm away for five minutes and already you're stealing my booze? Jesus."

He took another swig. "Hey, that's the kind of guy I am. I like to share." Then he hesitated, offered her the bottle.

"You could just have asked, you know."

Footsteps in the corridor, and Hammond appeared in the doorway, staring at Murphy. "He's up then. When can we move on?"

"Not for a few days at least," she said, wearily, and when Hammond started to protest she held up her hand to forestall him. "His dressings will need changing—"

"I can do that."

"Right," she snapped. "Because you were doing such a sterling job of taking care of him before you got here."

"Hey, we were out in the field, lady. Not easy changing bandages when there's a horde of Zs on your ass. Safe here in your luxury hotel. When was the last time you were out there?"

"Oh, it's been a while. But you met Mickey at the school, right? Did you go in? See the gym? Well, I was there when it happened. When that man turned. I woke up right in the middle of the room, watching as everyone went Z around me. Everyone. And I wasn't lucky enough to have a gun. So yeah. I do know what it's like out there. A bit." She pointed at Murphy. "If that vodka-stealing asshole ready is the saviour of humanity, are you really going to risk him surviving the ZN1 virus only to die of sepsis? Or MRSA? Or necrotising fascitis?"

"All right, all right. You got two days."

She smiled, a hard angry smile. "I got as long as it takes, soldier. I don't care if he lives or dies, remember. But I thought you did."

Hammond left, muttering something under his breath. She kicked the wedge free, closing the door. As she turned away, Murphy thought he saw something glinting in her eyes, and then she was turning back towards him, her eyes hard and dangerous. "Give me that." She snatched the vodka from him and threw the bundle of clothes at him. "Get dressed."

"You throwing me out?"

"No, I'm giving you clean clothes. Unless you want to go on wearing that filthy jumpsuit."

He stared hard at her, eyes narrowed, then started to undress. She turned away as the jumpsuit puddled around his ankles. "I meant in the bathroom. Jesus."

"You're a nurse, aren't you? Nothing you haven't seen before."

"Nothing I particularly want to see, either." But in the mirror he saw her eyes dart towards his reflection, and he flashed her a cold grin, before pulling on the new clothes – a pair of boxers, some dark jeans and a black sweater. Ill-fitting but still a damn sight more comfortable than the jumpsuit.

She poured two glasses of vodka and passed him one, shaking her head. "Drinking from the bottle like some kind of animal." He wadded up the jumpsuit and flung it in the corner. He wished he could burn it.

"Nowhere for you to go anyway," she said. "All the other rooms are full. I'm lucky to have a room to myself. Most of the time."

"Must be your charming personality."

She shot him a humourless smile, then jerked her head at the crumpled jumpsuit. "So what did you do?"

He sat down, drank some vodka, leaned his head against the wall. "I'm a mass murderer."

"You're also a terrible liar," she said, sitting down on the other bed.

"Well, go on then, sweetheart. You tell me what I did."

She tilted her head. "I'd have you pegged for some sort of white collar crime. Grifting, maybe. Or tax fraud."

"Close. It was postal fraud."

She spread her hands in an elegant gesture. "What can I say? It's a gift." She sipped her vodka, then glanced at him again. "You really volunteer to test the vaccine?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you're very civic-minded for a criminal."

He laughed, saw that shadow of a faint smile cross her face again. "Not me, sweetheart. I was volunteered by the president herself. And I sincerely hope that bitch is rotting in hell. So... that civic-minded enough for ya?" She shrugged. And then it was his turn to ask a question. "Was that true what you told Hammond? About being in the gym?"

She took a breath, turned her gaze away from him. "Yeah."

"You lose anybody?"

"Only everyone. You got kids?"

He shook his head. "You?"

"I did." She knocked back the rest of the vodka in one gulp. He watched her throat flex as she swallowed, watched the way she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth afterwards, like she was either going to vomit or cry and didn't know which. "They were in the gym as well."

"Ah." He grimaced, not knowing what to say. "Sorry." She shrugged, standing up. He held his glass out for another vodka. More generous this time. "What about a husband?"

"Why do you want to know?" She fixed her bitter gaze on him. "What, you think we're having a moment here? You think this is our meet-cute and we'll laugh about it later? Something to tell the grandchildren about after you've saved the world?"

"Hey, I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Yeah, and it's a fricking delight. Nothing I love more than telling some zombie chew toy all about how my family died."

"Screw you, princess."

"Right back atcha, dickwad."

At least she isn't crying, he thought.

She swore under her breath as the lights cut out without warning, plunging them into darkness. "That generator is getting worse by the day," she muttered, her voice taut and strained.

"What's the matter? Don't like the dark?"

"I know. I should be grateful, right? At least I can't see your face."

"Ouch." He grinned. "Somebody's got their claws out."

He heard her fumbling about for something, the click of a lighter. The flame flared into life, illuminating her face as she lit another cigarette.

"Can I get one?" he asked. She gave him a hard stare and he rolled his eyes. "Please."

"Since you asked so nicely." She handed him one and he put it between his lips, leaned forward to touch it to the flame, his gaze lingering on hers. Twin sparks of fire burned in her eyes.

He took a drag, not leaning back. Not yet. "So you're not afraid to be alone with me?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "I am a convict, after all." The ember of her cigarette flared and she exhaled smoke in a long, lazy sigh.

"Should I be?"

"You tell me, sweetheart. Since you know me so well. Why aren't you afraid of me?"

"You really want to know?" She drew closer, so close he could smell sweat on her skin. "You're my patient. You're weak and injured." Closer still. He felt her breath hot against his ear, and then the sharp prick of the blade at his throat. "And I'm the one with the knife."

"You're forgetting something. You can't kill me. I'm humanity's last hope."

"And you're forgetting something too. I. Don't. Care. Maybe this is our extinction event. Maybe we should just stop fighting it and let it happen."

He closed his hand around her wrist, felt the knife prick just a fraction deeper. "You mean let humanity die?"

"Oh, come on. A misanthrope like you? You can't tell me you're not just the slightest bit tempted."

The lights came back on. They both froze, staring at each other, and then she drew away, jerking her wrist free from his grip. Her cheeks were flushed, and Murphy grinned, took a drag on his cigarette."Good to know I've still got it."

"Oh please. Not if you were the last man alive." But she looked away, hiding a smile.

"Maybe I will be."

She darted a startled, frightened look at him. There, he thought, meeting her gaze. Not so happy to let humanity die out as you'd like to pretend, are you, sweetheart?

She looked away again, took several drags on the cigarette in silence, her hand trembling. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. "Did you lose anyone?"

He shook his head. "Not since the world went Z. Unless you count my flawless physique." He jerked the sweater up and gestured at the bandages.

"Chicks dig scars," she said, and he laughed.

"Christ, I hope so," he said, flicking ash onto the carpet. She shot him a look and he rolled his eyes. "What? It's already filthy in here."

"Yeah, and it can always get filthier. I have to live in this shit-hole. Were you raised in a barn? Use the frigging ashtray."

"Whatever you say, princess." He took another drag. "But in answer to your question, no. I haven't lost anyone. Not yet. No one to lose. Guess I was lucky."

"That what you call it?"

"Yes, actually." He met her gaze. "Or do you think that you were the lucky one, getting to watch your kids die?" She flinched and Murphy closed his eyes. "Sorry."

"No. You're right." Her voice was hollow. "I didn't even have the chance to—" There was a thump from the room above. She scowled up at the ceiling. "What the hell are those idiots doing up there?" she muttered to herself.

"You didn't give them mercy," he guessed.

She shook her head slowly. "I barely got out alive. It was—" She broke off at the sound of someone knocking on the door, loud and angry. Her face contorted in rage. "Christ. If that's your bloody friend again—" She jumped up and started towards the door.

"Wait!" A cold fist of terror had clenched around his throat, so tight he could hardly breath. Sweat ran down his spine. "Don't open it."

She looked through the peep-hole, glanced at him. "It's just Mickey."

"Is it?"

She looked at him, a contemptuous smile curling her lips, but then she saw the stark fear on his face, and her smile faltered. She took a step back from the door—

And it crashed open. The kid burst inside, a grey tinge to his skin, a bite mark savaged into his neck. Murphy heard the first of the screams from up the corridor, and the woman fell backwards as the kid lurched at her, pushing her up against the dresser. Murphy scrambled backwards, his back pressing against the headboard.

"Help me!" she screamed, but he couldn't make himself move. In his mind, he was there again, unable to fight, unable to do anything other than scream.

He darted a helpless terrified glance at the shattered doorway, then scrambled up, running towards it.

"Please!" she cried out, and he hesitated in the doorway, staring back. He swept his gaze around, spotted the knife on her bed. He groaned, a soft little noise of terror, and then he climbed over the bed, grabbed the knife and all but threw it at her, unwilling to get too close. It clattered onto the dresser, and she grabbed it, forced the blade up under the kid's chin, driving it into his brain. She jerked it free, shoved the kid away.

"He bite you?" he asked.

She shook her head and he grabbed her arm, dragging her out into the corridor. She wrenched herself free and darted back into the bedroom. Murphy ground his teeth. "We don't have time to—"

"Do you want to live or not? You need the antibiotics." She grabbed the bag of medication and followed him to the elevator. "What about your soldier friend?"

"Screw him." He glanced at her, eyes narrowed. "What about your friends?"

"They weren't my friends. Except maybe Mickey." But still she winced at the sound of screaming from down the corridor, someone begging for help. The crash of a Z against a flimsy wooden door. It wouldn't hold for long. The elevator door opened, and Murphy drew back momentarily, just in case there was something inside. There wasn't. He went inside, glancing at her. She was staring back along the corridor, listening to the cries for help, her eyes wide and frightened.

Not as tough as she'd been pretending. He wasn't surprised. She'd been faking it all along, but he hadn't been, and he could be bastard enough for the both of them.

"Come on." He grabbed her, dragged her inside.

"Let go of me!"

He pressed her up against the wall, jabbed the button for the first floor while she struggled against him. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

"Then what the hell are you doing?"

"Saving your life."

The doors slid closed. "That's a joke," she spat. "You were gonna leave me to die back there."

"Well, what did you expect? And I'm still here, aren't I? You go back to help them, you die. Want to die, princess?"

"Yes," she whispered.

He lowered his head, felt her tense up. "I don't believe you," he said into her ear. When he drew back she'd closed her eyes. "Do you want to die?"

"No." She sagged against him.

"See?" He grinned. "I knew we had a moment back there."

"God, you are such an asshole." She placed her hands on his chest and pushed him away, no longer gentle. He winced at the throbbing surge of pain in his ribs, and she grimaced. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"Like you care." But he hesitated, because something was wrong. Something about the way the elevator was juddering, wheezing to a stop. "Wait..." He stared at her. "Is this elevator going up?" Panic flared through him as the doors slid open. "Get away from the—"

A Z lurched through the gap. She spun around, jerking up the knife, but it was freshly turned and he could already see she was moving too slowly. She didn't have a chance. The zombie flung its arms around her, sinking its teeth into the exposed flesh of her throat, worrying at it like a terrier with a rat. They spun around with the force of it, the Z driving her back against the wall like he had moments earlier, and her eyes met his over the zombie's shoulder. They were filled with nothing but terror and pain, and then she was bringing the knife up, driving it at an angle into the zombie's skull from beneath.

And the doors were sliding shut again. Too late to shove her out into the corridor to meet the oncoming Zs. If he opened the door again on this floor they'd swarm the elevator. He jabbed at the button for the first floor, then tried to make a grab for the knife as the Z crumpled to the ground. She clawed at her throat, her eyes still on him, coughing up blood.

As the elevator juddered to a halt, the lights went out, plunging him into total darkness.

The generator, he thought. Oh shit.

Across the elevator, he could hear her dying. The sound of her choking on her own blood. He closed his eyes, pressing himself against the wall of the elevator in terror as she took her last rattling breath. And then there was nothing but silence and his own panting breath.

She's taking a long time to turn, he thought. And then, Maybe she won't turn.

He'd drunk directly from the vodka bottle, hadn't he? Maybe there was something in his saliva, courtesy of the the vaccine, that might stop her turning. God, he hoped so. He wasn't sure he had the strength to pike her. He couldn't even remember her name, but he remembered the way she'd touched him, the quiet confidence of the way her fingers moved across his skin. Not gentle, not rough, but knowing.

She should have turned by now. He squeezed his eyes shut. The only thing he could hear was his own panting breath. She's not going to—

And then a sound from across the elevator. A faint cough. The sound of air being drawn into empty lungs. She'd turned.

He closed his eyes, swallowing a moan of terror as she snarled softly into the darkness. He flinched away, into the farthest corner of the elevator, panic rising inside him.

...helpless and trapped, world shrinking to nothing but teeth and snarls and agony...

The knife. He needed to get the knife.

Trembling, he edged along the wall of the elevator, cringing at every scuff of his boots on the floor. She growled, sniffing the air like a bloodhound, and he pictured her swinging her head towards him in the darkness, her dark, bitter eyes now white and empty of anything but hunger.

His foot bumped against the dead Z. He froze, but she didn't seem to have noticed. Achingly slowly, he crouched down, felt along the zombie's body to where the knife jutted from the base of its skull, certain that at any moment she would sink her teeth into his arm. He tried to pull it free, but the knife was stuck fast.

She hissed.

Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ.

He placed his boot on the Z's shoulder, and jerked. The blade caught briefly on bone, slid away with a scraping snik that sounded deafening in the silent darkness. He fell backwards, and before he could recover she was on him, her body pressing against him, her teeth snapping at his throat. He twisted away, drove an elbow into her face. Something snapped.

He rolled on top of her, pinning her to the ground. She bucked underneath him, snarling in rage and fury, scrabbling at his chest with fingers hooked into claws, ripping and tearing at the bite marks she'd cleaned and dressed so carefully in another life.

He screamed in agony. And then he placed his free hand against her forehead, and with his other hand he brought the knife down again and again and again. Until she stopped writhing beneath him. Until he felt wetness on his face and couldn't tell if it was his tears or her blood. Until all the wounds in his chest felt like they'd reopened. Until she was dead. Truly dead.

He dropped the knife, breathing hard. His other hand trailed down from the cold smoothness of her forehead, and he groaned as he felt what he had done, the ruined mess of her face. For the first time, he was glad of the darkness.

"Sorry," he whispered. He fell to the side, leaning back against the wall, his breath hitching. And then somehow he was slumping down, stretching his body alongside hers, his arm wrapping around her, drawing her close.

It was another couple of hours before Hammond found him, levering the doors open with a crowbar. The elevator had stopped between floors, and Hammond's shoulders were on a level with the floor of the elevator. Hammond looked pissed, but as his gaze swept around the interior of the elevator his expression changed. "What the hell happened here? Why are you snuggling up to a corpse? Is that the nurse?"

"Don't say a goddamn word." Murphy glanced down at her face, and immediately wished he hadn't. He closed his eyes. "Just get me the hell out of here. I'm never riding in an elevator again."

He squeezed out into the corridor, wincing at a sharp stabbing pain in his right shoulder. Where she'd gouged him. His wounds were going to need redressing, but he couldn't bear the thought of Hammond doing it. Not while he could still feel the trace memory of her fingers moving over his skin. "What was her name?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Can you remember?"

"How the hell should I know? Christ, this place. I said it was a death-trap." A Z was dragging itself down the corridor towards them. Hammond shot it, then glanced at Murphy, eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know anyway? You two have a thing?"

Murphy scowled at him, said nothing. He reached inside the elevator for the bag of drugs. He couldn't bear to look at the ruined mess of her face so he looked at her hand instead, at her fingers gently curled as if she were only sleeping. At her fingernails, bitten to the quick.

Hammond shrugged. "Well, at least you gave her mercy."

No, Murphy thought. I didn't. He didn't know what that was, what he had done, but it wasn't what he would describe as 'mercy'.

Not at all.

A/N: Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed it, I would love it if you took the time to leave a comment.