We continued to move down the stairwell as Daniel’s torch created an island of light in an otherwise dark tunnel.

For a while there I thought the stairwell would never end, that we would keep descending, deeper and deeper until we eventually stumbled into hell.

I could just imagine it.

We’d be standing right in the middle of hell. Completely lost and confused, scratching our heads like Bugs Bunny when he tunnels underground and takes a wrong turn. ‘Should’ve taken that left turn at Albuquerque’. And then Satan would be there, sizing us up, tilting his head to the side as if to say, ‘What are you doing here? Are you nuts?’

At one point it was so dark it felt like we were inside a cave, or a mountain, or hundreds of miles below the Earth’s surface. I mean, our torch only lit up a small section of the stairwell. And all we could hear were our own footsteps and our own ragged, almost whispered breathing. I don’t know about Daniel but I was trying my hardest to breathe as quietly as possible.

It felt like we were the only people left on the planet. And I was the only girl in the world. I wondered if I would procreate with Daniel for the survival of the human race.

“Shh.”

“What? I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re breathing too loudly,” Daniel said.

“Oh. Sorry.”

I needed to stop thinking about that kind of stuff. I needed to focus on not falling down the stairs. I think it must’ve been a side effect of the adrenalin and the near death experiences.

I noticed that my mind had started to wander a bit lately, like I was having these intense day dreaming episodes about absolute nonsense. Especially when I really should’ve been concentrating on what was going on. Apparently it was a side effect of post-traumatic stress disorder, or so I had been told by various doctors.

I had to keep reminding myself that I couldn’t afford to day dream. Not here. Not when I could be shot or killed or eaten at any second. It would only take one of the infected to sneak up on us and that would be the end.

We arrived at the basement levels. According to the map on the back of the door, there were six sub-basement levels of parking. Surely we’d be able to find a car to use. I just hoped the basement levels were deserted. This was the last place we wanted to meet any of the infected. Trapped underground with only one way out. I was feeling claustrophobic enough already.

“Remember,” Daniel said. “We want a bigger vehicle, like an SUV, something that can take a pounding if necessary.”

“Got it.”

“But it can’t be a new car. It’s gotta be old enough so I can hot wire it. Can’t hot-wire new cars.”

“Right.”

After only a few minutes of searching, we settled on a black Range Rover. Apparently it was a late nineties model. It was big and had a bull bar. Daniel seemed confident that he could hot-wire it and get the motor to tick over.

He lifted the hood and started tinkering around near the engine.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Disarming the airbags and the emergency fuel cut off.”

“Don’t we need those?”

“No. The airbags will just get in the way. If we ram something, or if something hits us, especially if it’s something big like...”

He was about to say ‘like whatever the hell is out there on the street.’ But he stopped himself.

“But yeah,” he continued. “If we get hit, or whatever, we need to keep driving. If the airbags go off they’ll just blind us. That’s no good.”

“Damn. I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“And I’ll need to disarm the emergency engine shut off as well. Again, if we get hit, the engine will cut off the fuel supply. Which means the engine will stop. If the engine stops we’re screwed. This thing basically needs to be ready for a crash derby. I’m no psychic but I’m predicting this is going to be a rough ride.”

Lucky for us, Daniel seemed to be regaining his composure. His rational thinking was coming back to him. And thank God for that. I would never have thought to have disarmed the airbags. It seemed counter intuitive. But I guess he had a good point. Especially about the fuel cut off. I did not want to get hit and have the engine die on us.

When Daniel had finished tinkering with the engine and had it hot-wired, we hopped in the car and buckled up. We were ready to go.

“Here, hold my rifle,” Daniel said as he handed his weapon to me. “Do you know why they call the front seat, riding shotgun?”

“Ah, no.”

“Because back in the Wild West days, a person armed with a shotgun would sit up the front of the wagon or stagecoach, next to the driver, just in case they were ambushed by bandits or Indians or whatever. Hence the term, ‘riding shotgun’.

That useless bit of trivia actually distracted me momentarily from the demolition derby we were about to embark on.

“We only have the one rifle,” Daniel added. “And only two magazines. That’s only sixty bullets. So if you do need to provide covering fire, short controlled bursts, OK? And if you don’t have a clear shot on something or if it’s out of range, save the ammo.”

“Right,” I said.

I held the rifle getting used to the weight of it, trying to convince myself that I had spent extra hours at the shooting range preparing myself for a moment like this.

“Are you ready?” Daniel asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I answered.

He revved the engine and put the Range Rover into gear. The tires screeched for a split second before the four-wheel drive kicked in and gripped the smooth concrete. We took off, accelerating towards the exit gate.