Some answers

The stairways are blocked, but you're able to move some of the debris aside and get a door open. The stairwell itself is clear, and the two of you make good time toward the top floor.

Just as you're rounding the ninth floor, a shot rings out! You grab Amanda and pull her back against the wall. The shot didn't seem to hit either of you, and for a moment you wonder if that was really what it was.

"That was a warning shot!" calls a voice from above you. "We have rifles aimed at both of you now. We will kill you if you make a hostile move."

Poor Amanda is shaking too much to stand. You gently lower her to the floor and turn to look up the stairs. You see no one, but adress the general direction of the voice. "My name is Alex, this is Amanda. We didn't come here to fight. We came to find shelter."

"Is there anyone else with you?"

"No."

"Throw down any weapons you have and come up the stairs quietly."

You turn to look at Amanda, who is huddled up against the wall. "My friend is very ill. She can't walk."

"She was well enough to come this far."

"That was before you took a shot at us!" you yell angrily. "In case you hadn't noticed, this is a rather stressful situation! She's having a little trouble coping at the moment!"

There's a long silence.

"Well?" you call. "Do we have your permission to move?"

"We're going to send someone down to you," the voice calls. "You will put all your weapons on the floor on the opposite side of the stairwell. You will then remove your shirt and trousers so we know you are carrying o other weapons. Your friend will need to lie down on her back with her arms spread out so we can see that she will not pull a weapon of any kind."

"Fuck you!" you reply.

"Take it or leave it," the voice responds. "You have ten seconds to either comply, leave, or be shot."

Angrily, you throw the only weapon you have - a length of pipe - onto the floor and let it roll away. You toss your shirt after it and kick your pants off as well. Then, gently, you coax Amanda out of the corner and help her to lie down. She's shivering and sweating profusely. Then you turn to look back up the stairs.

"Happy?" you call.

In response, you hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Two people step into the light, a woman and a man. Both are dressed in hospital scrubs. The woman carries a medical bag - the man, a .38 revolver.

"I'm a doctor," the woman says. "What's wrong with her?"

"She's in heroin withdrawl," you reply, not taking your eyes off the man with the gun. "She tried to OD after the disaster."

"Are you an addict?" the doctor asks.

"No. Can I put my fucking clothes back on now?"

The doctor nods at the man with the gun, and he goes to fetch your shirt and pants. You notice that he had the decency not to leer at you while you were in a state of undress, and count that as a point in his favor.

Several minutes later, you're both up at the top floor. Amanda lies in a hospital bed, strapped down for her own safety, while you sit with a mug of soup.

"There's not much we can do beyond keeping her comfortable while she sweats it out," the doctor tells you (her name is Emily). "Most of the drugs were either used up during the crisis or destroyed in the riots afterward. All we have left is the samples from the doctor's offices on this floor."

"How many of you are there?" you ask.

"Sixteen. Eleven women, five men. Unfortunately, I'm the only doctor."

"More women than men? That doesn't match what I've seen on the street."

"There were more male survivors, but they went crazy. Some kind of subtle effect of the plague, most likely. Most of them killed each other, the rest died at our hands." Emily says this matter-of-factly, but you can tell it hurts her deeply to remember it.

You change the subject. "Do you have any idea why we survived the plague?"

Emily pauses for thought. "I do have one idea, though it's by no means a certainty. Before everything went crazy, the working theory was that there was some kind of genetic predisposition toward immunity. Things happened to quickly for anyone to narrow down which gene, but I've noticed something unusual about the survivors. All but one of the women here at the hospital who survived have pronounced lesbian tendencies."

You choke momentarily on a sip of soup. "What?"

"I think it has to do with the so-called 'gay gene'. Those who have it are also immune to this condition."

"How the hell did you come up with this crackbrained idea?" you ask.

Emily frowns at you. "It just so happens that there was an informal club here at the hospital of lesbian women, of which I was a member. And we all seem to have survived the plague. Some of us, regrettably, did not survive the aftermath."

"What about the men?"

"All heterosexual, according to them. But the genes for sexuality are different in men and women - if they exist at all. I have to admit that before this happened, I didn't believe in the theory. Now, I'm not so sure there isn't something to it. Of course, it's a little outside my specialty."

"What kind of doctor are you, then?"

"I'm an opthamologist."

You roll your eyes, and put down your empty mug. "So, there are sixteen of you here, holed up against the outside world. What's your plan?"

"For the moment, survival. For the future... we don't know. We have about two weeks worth of food and drinking water. After that, we'll be forced to leave." Emily leans toward you. "You seem to be an intelligent and resourceful woman. We could probably use you with us. When the time comes to leave, it'll be very difficult."

You both stand up. "Let's find you a bed," Emily suggests. "Tomorrow, you can decide whether you'll be staying with us."