Page 59 of One Adult, Please

"Use the door."

Grace bolts sideways, nearly trips over an overturned mister hose, recovers by grabbing a fake educational sign about metamorphosis, and yanks the staff door open with one hand. "Grant, I'm holding a door."

"Good."

"I don't know the next part."

"Get behind it."

She gets behind it.

I loosen the catch pole just enough to let the infected surge toward her. Grace makes a noise that isn't a scream so much as a formal objection filed at volume.

The infected reaches the doorway.

"Now," I say.

Grace slams the door. The edge catches the infected between shoulder and frame. Enough to pin it.

The infected snaps its teeth at the gap.

Grace shrieks through her teeth and shoves the door harder with her whole body. "I hate this butterfly jail."

"Hold it."

"I'm holding it with my entire ancestry."

The dart is starting to work. The infected's movements become uneven. Its jaw still works, but the body begins losing coordination, one system after another going offline in the wrong order.

Sedation in infected physiology isn't something I ever wanted to study.

Its arm comes through the gap, fingers clawing at Grace's sleeve.

She jerks back, then lifts the friendship paddle and brings it down on the wrist.

The sound is sharp. The hand drops.

Grace freezes for half a second, staring at what she did.

"Again," I say.

She looks at me.

"Grace. Again."

She hits it again.

This time the arm goes slack.

I step in, tighten the catch pole, and pull the infected backward at the exact moment Grace throws her weight against the door. The body folds wrong. The shoulder gives. The sedation finally takes enough hold that the legs buckle.

It drops to its knees.

Grace doesn't wait. She jams the flat blade of the paddle under its chin and shoves upward, pinning its head back against the doorframe.

"I'm extremely sorry about this," she says, breathless and shaking. "But you were about to ruin the plan and also my sleeve."

The infected's teeth click inches from the paddle.