Nakhimov. Afraid, dazed and confused, but alive, thank Mother.
Everyone was assembled on the first floor, save Tobias, who was still downstairs. Nakhimov had been found sitting in a nurses uniform at the Nurse Station, which was right around the corner from the elevators that Mikhail had expertly repaired. No sign of the gristle man, though it seemed pretty clear that the nurse he'd been pinning to the floor had been Nakhimov. At least she was safe though. As quick as that thing had been, she was unharmed.
But now they had to find Rukov, it seemed. That rookie bastard. It's one thing to be off on your own, but it's another thing to be as green as the day is long, and needlessly endangering the lives of a rescue party because of it.
With a polite ding, the elevator arrived at their floor, and Tobias stepped out, somewhat cranky. He'd been left downstairs without a torch, and had to feel his way to the elevators, which he'd then discovered didn't so much have a control panel as a mass of wires. Izmael gave him a look and shrugged. He'd helped out, guided him there. And he'd gotten there okay, so where was the harm? Now all they needed to do was find Rukov, and they could get the hell out of this pla -
Suddenly, Freya was sprinting away from the group, around the hole in the middle of the floor where the staircase used to be. She reached the other side of the lobby, dove for the barricade...and headed through a hole in it that Izmael hadn't noticed before. She'd been very afraid. This wasn't good.
Izmael gave chase, and he could hear Raziel and Tobias following close behind. Each of them called out her name, diving through the gap, turning left, and following her into an operating theatre. She'd already passed through the glass doors partitioning the room, and was on the other side. And she wasn't alone. Pawing at her, grappling her, drooling blood from every facial orifice, three doctors mindlessly clawed at her body, savage and ravenous. Izmael drew his weapons and entered the room.
The fire axe in his right hand swung hard and fast into the first assailant, followed by a second blow from the sword in his right. Mercilessly cutting him down, he turned his attention to the next. He brought his his blades to bear without pause, dancing death across the flesh of his enemy with sharpened steel. He carved his way through the second, and managed to land a single blow on the third before Raziel and Tobias entered the fray, finishing him off just as swiftly. Their blood hung thick from Izmael's weapons, and clung together in viscous, ropey strands, refusing to seperate, even between their severed limbs. He shook loose what he could, and revelled in the moment after a battle won. His enemy lay in pieces around him, and the thrill of a bloody victory sang in his veins. And, of course, they probably saved Freya's life.
Izmael could not help but smile. There were enemies here who could be fought, and who he could beat. Things weren't so bad after all.