Who cares about Mark’s souvenir? You can always tell him you didn’t find anything. Saving your own skin is more important.
You push one of the glass doors open and slip back outside. When you try to close the door, however, it gets stuck, and remains a few centimetres ajar. You push at it a little harder, but it won’t budge.
There’s nothing you can do about it. You turn around and glance across the open space to the barely visible dark smudge that is the tunnel entrance.
You squint, trying to detect any movements in the shadows. There are none. Mark must have gone.
Feeling a little braver, you move away from the door, marvelling at the distance you covered. You made it into the theatre; that’s something to be proud of. No one else you know has been this far out onto open soil.
As you walk towards the tunnel entrance, the back of your neck begins to prickle uncomfortably, as if someone was watching you. The door! Whoever was in that hallway must have noticed the open door!
You don’t dare glance back. You pick up the pace, not quite running but close. The tunnel entrance looms closer, beckoning you towards safety.
You hear movement behind you and break into a flat-out run.
Then—an explosion!—a burst of noise so loud it makes your ears ring. You stumble forward and fall down on to your knees. Your chest is on fire, and something wet is trickling down the inside of your top.
You manage to look up. The tunnel entrance is so close, only meters away, and from here you can see that there is someone moving in the shadows, two someones, in fact.
The flashing lights on their belts makes you realize what they are. Policemen.
They both have their guns aimed right at you.
“I told you they’d try to sneak in,” you hear one of them say. “Fucking infected freaks.”
You open your mouth to explain who you are, but all that comes out is a pained grunt.
Then they both shoot you again. You fall backwards on to the ground, and the last thing you see is the moon, hanging ominously over your head.
THE END. (Try again?)