Chapter 13 - The Siege of St. Jude’s and the Quiet Before the Storm
The heavy metal door of the isolation room clicked shut with a definitive, hollow snap.
Clara stood frozen by the side of the bed for three long seconds, listening to the retreating sound of Dominic’s expensive leather shoes striking the linoleum floor until they faded into the general, low-frequency hum of the building’s ventilation system.
Beside her, Dr. Althaus was hyperventilating into a brown paper bag he had scavenged from a medical waste bin, his eyes darting frantically toward the small window as if expecting a rocket-propelled grenade to come crashing through the glass at any second.
“We’re going to die here, Hayes,” Althaus mumbled through the paper bag, his voice muffled and hysterical.
“We’re trapped in a slaughterhouse with a mafia boss and an army of lunatics!”
“Shut up, Althaus,” Clara said, her voice dropping into a tone of ice-cold command that brooked no argument.
“If you don’t stop hyperventilating right now, I’m going to sedate you with a five-milligram dose of ketamine and leave you sleeping under the sink.”
The surgeon immediately froze, lowering the paper bag and pressing his lips together in a tight, terrified line.
Clara turned her attention back to Toby.
The monitor showed a stable, albeit fragile, sinus rhythm.
The boy’s breathing was shallow, but the oxygen saturation levels were holding steady at ninety-four percent.
She reached out, adjusted the blanket over his thin shoulders, and then walked deliberately to the heavy wooden door of the isolation room.
She turned the deadbolt.
She flipped the manual safety latch.
Then she leaned her forehead against the cool, solid wood of the door, closing her eyes as the distant, muffled sound of a single, heavy explosion echoed from the direction of the main lobby.
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The front doors had been breached.
The war had arrived.
