They rushed back toward the lobby and when they arrived, the wall had automatically shut behind them.
“Where's the keypad to open it?” John asked frantically.
“I don't know, I never left here in the greatest shape.”
They both spun around, scouring visually for anything that resembled a keypad.
It clued in to John when he saw the crescent desk. “Is that a security desk?”
“Has to be.”
John ran to it, jumping and sliding over the counter top. He rifled through yellowed papers and disintegrating books. “Here. Come here.”
Michael rushed over and saw the keypad. He entered Andrea's birthday and nothing happened “You've got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Calm down, we need to think.”
Michael looked around, and found the skeletal corpse of a security guard curled in the corner at the back of the room. He ran over, sliding on his knees as he got to it, his hands pilfering through the pockets of the musky clothes. For a second he felt it, the hard shape of a plastic card. He traveled back with his hands and felt it again. For a few seconds he tried to find the pocket, but got frustrated and pulled on the shirt. The bones scattered, resonating dryly on the tiled floor as Michael ripped apart the weak threads.
John was still at the keypad, trying any series of four numbers that popped in to his mind. “Fuck,” he muttered as another attempt failed.
“Move,” Michael ordered, sliding to a stop at the desk and slipping the card into a small recess at the bottom of the keypad.
They both looked over the desk as the wall shuttered to life, revealing behind it the elevator and the muffled sounds of a gunfight raging on the surface.
Both of them vaulted over the counter and ran as quickly as they could to the doorway of the elevator.
John slammed his hand on the elevator panel and it shook violently, the gears squealing as it raised them up.
Both Michael and John could barely stand still as they waited, worry permeating every portion of their bodies, their hands grasping the weapons with white knuckled grip.