It was Fortes. There wasn’t much left. His body looked smeared, like it had been hit and dragged by something huge. Pooling blood glistened under the throb of the emergency lights. Beyond Fortes was another one, or so Wolgast thought. It took him a moment to understand he was looking at more of Fortes, just a different part of him.

Amy’s eyes were closed, but Wolgast did his best to cover them anyway, pressing her face to his chest. Beyond Fortes lay two more bodies, or three, he couldn’t tell. The floor was slick with blood, so much blood that he felt his feet sliding on it, the grease of human remains.

The elevator was blown away, nothing more than a hole, its darkened interior lit by the dancing sparks of broken wiring. Its heavy metal doors had shot across the hallway, caving in the opposite wall. Under the angular light of the emergency beams, Wolgast could see two more dead men, soldiers, crushed by pieces of the door. A third was propped against the wall, seated like a man taking a siesta, except he was resting in a pool of his own blood. His face was drawn and dessicated; his uniform hung limply on his frame, as if it were a size too large.

Wolgast tore his gaze away. “How do we get out of here?”

“This way,” Lear said. The fog had lifted from him; he was pure urgency and purpose now. “Quickly.”

Down another corridor. Doors stood open all up and down its length—heavy metal doors, identical to the one that led to Amy’s chamber. And on the floor of the hallway, more bodies, but Wolgast didn’t—couldn’t—count. The walls were riddled with bullet holes, cartridges lay all over the floor, their brass casings gleaming.

Then a man stepped through one of the doors. Not stepped: stumbled. A big soft man, like the ones who’d delivered Wolgast’s meals to his room, though his face was not familiar. He was holding a hand to a deep gash on his neck, the blood flowing through and around his fingers where they pressed into his flesh. His shirt, a white hospital tunic like Wolgast’s, was a glistening bib of blood.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey.” He looked at the three of them, then up and down the hall. He seemed not to notice the blood or, if he did, not to care. “What happened to the lights?”

Wolgast didn’t know what to say. A wound like that—the man should be dead already. Wolgast couldn’t believe he was even standing.

“Oooo,” the bleeding man said, wobbling on his feet. “I gotta sit down.”

He slid heavily to the floor, his body seeming to cave in on itself, like a tent without poles. He took a long breath and looked up at Wolgast. His body shuddered with a deep twitch.

“Am I … asleep?”