Pauline adjusts her blanket—a small, habitual, useless act—and notes the swelling in Patient 12's upper arm from the latest blood draw. Worrying. But not a primary concern in the grand scheme of things. Pauline makes a mental note to watch it as the day progresses.
For now, she needs to isolate a new sample once the centrifuge finishes.
The door opens with the hydraulic sigh she’s come to recognize.
Dr. Nathan Calder steps in and tucks the badge he used to grant himself access to the room into his white lab coat. He nods to her in greeting. No smile, but not unfriendly. He’s quiet, kind, and doesn’t treat sedated patients like objects. That alone sets him apart down here.
“Morning,” Pauline says, out of habit more than anything. The concept of morning means nothing in a facility buried this far underground.
He nods once and pulls on gloves.
They work in silence for several minutes. He checks charts, verifies monitor logs, and uses the portable scanner on a patient. Pauline occasionally glances up at him—noticing the way he speaks softly to each patient under his care, even though they are unconscious. She smiles softly at the way he tugs up the blanket for one of them until it rests just under the young man’s chin.
Supposedly, he’s a certified genius. In the little time he’s worked in the field outside of college, he’s achieved more than most hope to after years of study and research. Since his arrival, he’s already identified a genomic irregularity in those who are immune. Something that was previously missed. Not a miracle, but something promising that has led to further research and has given their team a direction to focus on.
He stops beside Pauline a while later and holds out his tablet. “Look at this,” he says quietly. “The IGG levels for Patient 18 are well outside previous parameters.”
Pauline double-checks and blinks. “Is this right?”
“Ran the test twice.”
A slow thrum goes through her chest. Hope is dangerous down here, but this is the closest thing they’ve had to progress in days. “This might be significant,” she says. “What did you do differently?”
Before he can voice his reply, a faint vibration shakes the ceiling. Not enough to knock equipment, just a subtle tremor.
Calder looks up. “Did you feel that?”
“Could be nothing. Are they doing work on Sublevel 6 today?”
“No, not that I know of.”
The intercom on a guard standing by the door crackles, and a man speaks. “All medical personnel remain in place. Security issue on Sublevel 2. This is a lockdown. Repeat, lockdown in effect.”
Pauline’s pulse spikes hard.
Lockdowns themselves aren’t unusual. False alarms happen. Training drills happen.
But security issues—real ones—are rare. Almost unheard of.
Three armed guards rush into the ward moments later, closing the door behind them. Their boots strike the floor sharply, nothing like the measured steps Pauline is used to hearing.
“Doctors, stay away from the entrance,” the lead guard says. His voice is tight, controlled, but strained. “Move toward the interior wall. Keep low. Do not approach the patients unless directed.”
Pauline steps back automatically. Calder does the same, though he casts a glance toward the sedated patients, apprehension flickering across his face.
Then another sound rolls through the ceiling. A deep, blunt concussion—like something massive hit the reinforced barrier.
Calder murmurs, “That sounded like an explosion.”
Before Pauline can respond, the emergency system triggers. Red lights near the ceiling begin spinning, casting long red-tinted shadows across the beds and medical carts. A harsher tone replaces the intercom’s routine alerts: “Breach on Sublevel 5. Available units respond.”
The guards stiffen. Two lift their rifles and position themselves on either side of the door.
The third switches channels on his radio, voice low but shaking. “Alpha-7, this is Medical Ward. We need status. Repeat, status.”
The only reply is static.
A short, sharp burst of gunfire rings through the ventilation system—muffled but unmistakable. Pauline flinches and ducks down. Calder is slow to follow, and when she meets his gaze, his jaw pulses as though he’s clenching his teeth.
