Bent over, coughing and wheezing, barely able to see, Schneider ran into the hall and kept going.
Still in the kitchen, Hanlon was not in much better shape than the three others. She couldn’t believe how much the stuff hurt. She had the rifle, she felt along it until she located the safety and checked it was off. The gun felt heavy and reassuring, but she doubted she could hit anything except a wall. Her eyes were on fire. Coughing and crying, bent double, tears streaming from her eyes, she staggered into the hall after Schneider.
Practically blind, Schneider tripped over Kellner’s medical bag that he had left in the hall. As he stood up after his stumble, Hanlon was on him. She dropped the rifle. She wanted him in her hands, she wanted to tear him limb from limb. All rational thought had disappeared in a wave of bloodlust.
She slammed a straight right into his face and as he fell back from the force of the punch, hit him with a flawless left hook. Schneider staggered back in the direction of the steep stairs leading down to the treatment room and Hanlon pushed him hard so he fell backwards step after step after step in a whirl of arms and legs.
Now Hanlon grabbed the .22 and ran down after Schneider. He moved backwards into the treatment room. He cowered away from her as Hanlon stared at Huss, like a body on a morgue table, covered in a blood-sodden sheet, her eyes open.
For a second, Hanlon thought that she was dead, then she noticed a slight movement of the crimson fabric. Huss was still breathing.
‘Shit,’ said Hanlon. Ignoring Schneider, she ran over to where Huss was lying and pulled the sheet back. She grabbed a towel and pressed it to Huss’s side, trying to make a pressure bandage to stop the bleeding.
‘Get up off your ass, you piece of shit, and hold this bandage,’ barked Hanlon.
Schneider did so while Hanlon dialled emergency services on the landline, then the hotel reception to get a medical team down.