Chapter 26: No Sanctuary
The operating suite was their last bastion, a sterile white room that felt more like a tomb than a sanctuary. The rhythmic pounding of the infected on the heavy steel doors was a constant, maddening reminder of their predicament. They had been trapped for nearly a full day. The initial adrenaline had worn off, replaced by a gnawing, weary dread.
There were thirty-two of them left, crammed into the suites and the adjoining recovery rooms. The air was thick with the smell of fear and antiseptic. Lena moved among the wounded, her face a stoic mask that did little to hide the exhaustion in her eyes. The last of the IV bags were empty. The morphine was gone. All she had left were bandages and her own two hands.
Marcus, the burly man with the stop-sign shield, had been the de facto leader of the clinic’s defenders before Quinn and Hex had arrived. He was a rock, a steady presence who had organized the barricades and kept morale from collapsing. He was a retired firefighter, a man used to running into burning buildings, not away from them.
It was Marcus who suggested they try to retake the infirmary.
"The main communications room is just past there," he argued, his voice low but firm. "If we can get to Hex’s radio, we can send out a distress call. Find out if any other pockets of survivors exist."
It was a long shot, a desperate gamble, but doing nothing was a slower, more certain death. Quinn and Hex agreed. A small team of six, led by Marcus and Quinn, prepared to open the doors and make a push.
They opened the door a crack, peering into the dark hallway. It was quiet. Too quiet. The pounding had stopped.
"They’ve pulled back," Hex whispered from behind them. "It’s a feint. They’re trying to draw us out."
"Or they’ve moved on," Marcus countered, his desperation overriding his caution. "We have to try."