8/4 p3

11:40pm- continued.

For a moment, the right side of ladder twisted up dangerously, rung rising one, then two, then three inches into the air. I threw my body onto that side as James did the same, setting our three hundred pounds against inertia and momentum. The right side, after a moment of breathless worry and straining, slowly came back down.

Bad as it was on the building, I don’t want to think how Dave must have felt. He hung on with his good arm, whimpering - honestly, whimpering- and clenching his teeth even harder against the movement.

Face to the rungs, staring at fifty feet of nothing between you and the concrete, no one would’ve blamed him for freezing. I remember going on roller coasters and vicing down so hard to the holds my hands turned white. So, if Dave froze, who would blame him? It’d be condemning me to a screaming death in the mouths of moaners, but honestly, who could’ve blamed him? Sure as hell not me.

Which is why Dave has my respect. After only a few seconds of hard breathing, staring into that empty, huge nothing between himself and the ground, he released his death grip on the rungs. Slowly, unsteadily, he got back up to a crawler’s stance. And he moved forward.

Damn. That man is a man.

I wanted to wipe the sweat from my forehead, but was too afaid to let go of the bottom rung. So I let the stinging stuff drip into my eyes. Agonizing second by second, he kept on pushing, kept on moving. At last, he made it to the other building, and rolled onto the building, drenched in sweat and groaning in pain.

That left me, and not a moment too soon. The crashing, moaning racket from the stairs kept getting louder and louder. Swallowing back my worry, I crawled onto the ladder. The pack I wore, bulging with all of my supplies and much of Dave’s, swung back and forth dangerously as I moved. Fifty pounds of gear is a lot to keep in control. A hell of a lot.

As I neared two thirds of the way across, James called out.

“Bloody hell! Get a move on! Mike! They’re coming out the stairwell!”

Shit. I glanced behind me, and realized that the lead goner had indeed made it to the roof. The rotting body raised it’s arms, showcasing disgusting, rotten slashes on either side of it’s torso. Something, dog or other beast, had made their best attempt to chow down the corpse before it had risen again. I think I saw an intestine, half mangled, hanging out it’s browning, disgusting button up shirt.

I looked back to my hands and prayed that the sweat coating them didn’t kill me as sure as a goner’s crushing bite. One hand in front of the other, I crawled up the ladder.

I was only feet away from the top edge when the moaner got to the ladder. And decided to keep going, stepping onto the bottom rungs itself.

The goner shambled another step onto the ladder. It tilted crazily, suddenly completely off balance. As it twisted I felt the huge weight of my backpack working against me, undeniably called by gravity toward the ground.

I was going over.