32

Staropramenná 2, Prague, Czech Republic

November 29

Eva and Pyotr walked down the final stretch of road, the stately old building off to their left casting a weak shadow over the snow. There were tire tracks in the street, but no other hint of life for as far as they could see. The lights in the building were all off, the pale facade ominous in the dim wintry afternoon.

They stopped in front, looking up.

"You sure about this?" Pyotr asked, weary.

"We're close," Eva said, shivering but calm. "I can feel it."

They climbed the four steps up to the entrance, a simple set of doors framed in weathered ochre paint. They were covered by heavy planks, hammered in tight. A series of warning stickers were plastered across black paint, announcing the facility was closed until further notice. Another paper, half-ripped away, warned the premises was quarantined due to an outbreak of Battinger's.

"This way," Pyotr called from the right of the doors, where one of the tall windows had been smashed in, giving them access.

Inside, it was as if the foyer had been spun upside-down somehow. Large, heavy desks were upturned, chunks of plaster and rock were smashed on the coarse wood floor. The walls were thick with black mould; most of the old yellow paint was chipped or simply dissolved. A window somewhere at the back was letting in sunlight, but it wasn't nearly enough. The air had the texture of rotting vegetables, even through their masks.

"You know where his office was?" Pyotr asked.

"No," admitted Eva. "I didn't see a building directory either. How should we look?"

Pyotr pulled open a door off to the right, nudging some debris out of the way.

"Door by door?" he offered, then lead the way in.

The room was empty. What furniture had been there was stacked in a messy pile in the far corner, away from the windows. The floor was spotless, despite the dusty atmosphere, but for that pile. Eva could make out a faintness in the wood floor around it, like an entire layer of finish had been worn off by something.

"Look at this," Pyotr said, rubbing a gloved finger down the wall. It was stripped down to a thin layer of plaster, ripped apart by raw streaks, like thick claws had worked it away. It was only up near the ceiling that the thickness returned, and with it, the black mould.

"Somebody hates mould," Eva said quietly, adjusting her mask. "Let's keep moving."

Down a quiet hallway, past a bulletin board that still had notices about flats for rent in town, they found a large auditorium, its modern desks ripped and beaten from their bases, up and to the back of the room. To their right, a drinking fountain lay on the ceramic floor, a small trickle of water pouring into a neat pool. Again, no sign of life.

"This is going to take a while," said Pyotr, surveying the wreckage.

Just then, a shuffle, and some wood fell over, far at the back of the room. Pyotr moved closer to Eva, shielding her.

"Who's there?" he called.

Eva's heart beat loudly in her ears. She reached down to her left, grabbed up the arm of a destroyed overhead projector, felt its weight. Her sprained wrist screamed out at her, but she grit her teeth and kept a careful eye on the room.

"Hello?" Pyotr yelled, stood ready.

Then, near the middle of the room, up and away from them, came a waifish girl, no more than twenty, her eyes dark with exhaustion, hair in filthy streaks down her face. Her bare arms looked almost blue in the frigid air, and she hugged herself, twitching.

"Are you okay?" Eva asked, starting forward before Pyotr caught her.

The girl didn't seem to see them, started climbing and sliding down and across desks. She ducked her head underneath one, then reached her arms under, lowered herself down, out of sight. They heard shifting debris, broken glass.

"What's going on?" Pyotr called, moving himself and Eva further away from where the girl had disappeared. "Are you the only one here?"