Both men were bleeding from a half-dozen minor wounds, and the captain’s right arm was hanging limply at his side, the bone broken cleanly in two by the bullet that had passed through it. No sooner were the two men inside than they turned and threw their weight against the door, trying to force it closed against the hands coming through the opening from the other side. Shredder hands. For a moment Burke thought they would not succeed, that the pressure from the undead on the opposite side would prove too great, but the two men rallied and the door slammed shut. Intent on helping them keep it closed, Burke rushed forward, Jones at his side, but at the sound of their footfalls, Morrison looked up and waved frantically for them to stop. “Go back!” he cried. “There are too many! We’ll never be able to . . .” Burke never heard the rest, for it was lost in a thundering explosion that filled that end of the room with smoke and flame and threw him to the ground with concussive force.
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