24991120 | 0542

  Sublevel Access I | Shanghai Er Lang Sheng Medical Institute | United China

  31°18′37″ N

  121°31′27″ E

  The sterile scent of disinfectant.

  The distinct tinge of humanity.

  The centralised climate unit in the ICU roared.

  Deafening.

  Rhythmic filtration system.

  Dumping fresh air.

  Flooding the ward.

  Vents displacing stale volume in entirety.

  But somehow, the scent lingered.

  Clinging to the walls.

  Memory.

  The chill crept up through his soles and into his bones.

  He felt it immediately.

  The cold that did not belong to the room but to him.

  Residual death.

  The touch of the grave lingering still.

  A remnant of the resuscitation.

  Temperature was held at a precise 16 degrees Celsius.

  A compromise engineered to offend nothing and comfort no one.

  Even at the dead of night.

  “Keeps the infection chance low.” Vicki explained, “also soothes the pain.”

  She led Adam and the Harbingers through the Intensive Care Ward.

  Adam strode silently.

  Zora cracked her joints.

  Gideon silent, observant.

  Harbinger 03 strode casually.

  The ward was quiet.

  The clicking of vital monitors.

  The labored breathing of the wounded.

  The stirring of the restless sleep.

  Illumination was kept to a minimum.

  Lights recessed into the ceiling cast a diffuse white glow.

  Softened deliberately to avoid shadows.

  Curtains hung half-drawn between beds.

  A gesture of privacy more symbolic than effective.

  The corridor they were strolling along was deliberately dark.

  They can peer in, the patients cannot peer out.

  Zora and Gideon strove to keep their iron greaves from resounding in the corridor.

  Adam proved more successful, trained as he was in the art of stealth.

  But his brother.

  Adam cast a sidelong glance.

  Harbinger 03 glided effortlessly as a ghost across a haunt.

  His stride sure.

  His footfall silent.

  Dr Shi walked beside him; her hands folded neatly at her waist.

  She wore no jewellery or ornaments.

  No visible iconography.

  Her coat was white, immaculate, pressed to surgical severity.

  Her hair tied up in a bun.

  A badge rested against her chest, text small and unadorned.

  Director of Virology.

  “This ward is for stabilization,” she said quietly, mindful of her charges.

  “For reintroduction. For assessment.”

  She gestured inward.

  Beds lined both sides of the long hall, evenly spaced.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Each one identical.

  Stainless steel frames.

  Adjustable rails.

  Soft restraints looped loosely at wrists and ankles.

  Ever present, but not used.

  Monitors hovered beside every patient.

  Their screens projecting translucent readouts that pulsed gently in time with heartbeats.

  Adam’s eyes moved instinctively.

  Counting.

  Measuring distance.

  Exits.

  His eyes swept the room the way he always had.

  Reflectively.

  Instinct burned into him by doctrine and repetition.

  No guards.

  Only staff.

  Caregivers, nurses, attendants.

  Nurses moved between beds with practiced economy.

  Their steps were soundless.

  Their voices low.

  Orders were passed in murmurs and nods rather than raised tones.

  Everything about the ward spoke of restraint.

  Of control exercised without urgency.

  “They are well cared for,” Zora offered.

  “They are sedated,” Vicki corrected. “Only partially. Enough to reduce stress responses. Motor agitation is… counterproductive at this stage.”

  Counterproductive.

  Zora knitted her eyebrow.

  A look from Adam stopped her.

  “They seem comfortable enough.” Gideon spoke up, catching the cue.

  “Yes,” Vicki replied, “we try.”

  Adam noticed that none of them was fully-restrained.

  Straps lay ready, but unused.

  Their hands were free.

  Faces slack with chemically induced sleep.

  Chests rose and fell rhythmically.

  “This is an ICU, why the restraints?” Adam said at length.

  Vicki did not look at him.

  “Because in our experience, restraint was interpreted by the body as threat. We have found that threat responses complicate stabilization.”

  “Enlighten me,” Adam said softly, “of this stabilization.”

  She led them on, they followed.

  As they moved down the aisle, the staffers turned to watch them.

  Adam signed out.

  Temple Church battle language.

  A gesture.

  A posture.

  A flick of his fingers.

  No provocations.

  Zora and Gideon gave the slightest of nods.

  The staffers looked at them.

  Their eyes followed them.

  Unblinking.

  He scanned faces as they passed.

  Men.

  Women.

  Different ages.

  Different builds.

  All uniformed in a pall of death.

  Their pigmentation slightly discolored.

  Too long within, not enough sun.

  None of them bore visible wounds.

  None of them bore signs of illness.

  Their bare elbows bore track marks.

  The patients they were administering to, garbed in white.

  “Vaccination.” Vicki offered, “against the most virulent pathogen known to men.”

  “For your people.” Adam said, understanding.

  “For the subjects too,” she continued.

  “Seems a little… repetitive?” Adam pressed.

  The climate units howled.

  A pressure shift.

  “We do not speak of pathogens here,” Vicki replied at length, almost conversationally. “At this stage, the language is unhelpful. We speak of conditions. Of compatibility. Of readiness.”

  She stopped beside one bed.

  The patient was a young man.

  Barely more than a boy.

  Tubes ran into his arm.

  Electrodes dotted his chest.

  His face was peaceful.

  Too peaceful.

  “His condition has stabilized,” Vicki said. “Viral functions are within acceptable parameters. Neurological response is… promising.”

  Adam watched the slow rise of the man’s chest.

  The steady pulse on the monitor.

  “You mean vital functions?” he said.

  Vicki glanced up from her dark-rimmed glasses.

  A smile.

  Professional.

  Cold.

  She moved on.

  24991119 | 2347

  Interior Deck I | UNHCR Salvation of the Sea | Eastern Mediterranean Sea

  34°58′12″ N

  25°06′45″ E

  “Jesus,” Python said softly, “what happened here?”

  They came upon the ICU Ward.

  The ICU was desolate.

  Decayed.

  An imprint of suffering.

  Loud.

  Painful.

  Cobra raised a fist.

  The squad tensed up instinctively.

  “Weapons free,” Cobra said.

  The Snakes snapped their guns up.

  They filed through the door.

  They fanned out.

  “Clear,” Viper said.

  “Clear,” Python echoed.

  “Clear,” Boa said, holstering her rifle.

  They placed their safeties back on.

  They turned on their flashlights.

  The shrill electronic chirp of alarms looping endlessly into the empty corridors.

  Red indicators flashed on dead monitors.

  Green lights pulsed pointlessly beside beds that no longer held bodies.

  The ward opened before them in a long, narrow hall.

  Beds lay overturned.

  Frames twisted, wrenched free by desperate strength.

  Restraints dangled from rails.

  Some cut cleanly, others torn apart with raw force.

  IV lines trailed across the floor, crystallized residue glinting faintly.

  “Jesus…” Boa breathed.

  Python crouched beside one bed, righting the monitor.

  The screen still displayed vital signs, looping data from a body that no longer existed.

  Heart rate.

  Oxygen saturation.

  Blood pressure.

  All frozen in a moment that refused to pass.

  “They’re still powered,” he said. “Emergency batteries must’ve kicked in.”

  “How long?” Viper asked.

  “With today’s tech?” Python shrugged. “Could be years.”

  Cobra stepped forward, flashlight sweeping methodically.

  He took in the curtains — half-drawn, just like any ICU.

  He brushed one aside with the barrel of his rifle.

  The mattress beneath was stained dark.

  Old. Dry.

  Too much blood for a patient.

  No body.

  “Beds are missing patients,” Python said slowly. “Not… corpses. Just gone.”

  “Someone took pains to liquidate them.” Cobra said.

  Liquidate.

  “Think they still here?” Python asked.

  “No,” Viper replied, “did a sweep the Mamba, sensors came back negative.”

  “They were long gone.”

  Boa moved to a chart clipped to a rail.

  She flipped it open.

  No names.

  Only numbers.

  SUBJECT 714-A

  CONDITION: NON-VIABLE

  STATUS: FAILURE TO STABILIZE

  She swallowed.

  Another chart.

  SUBJECT 822-C

  CONDITION: INCOMPATIBLE

  STATUS: TERMINATED

  “You are right, chief,” she murmured. “They were liquidated.”

  Python stood; slate already active.

  “Charts reference vital tolerance. Thermal response. Neurological compliance.”

  He frowned. “This wasn’t a hospital.”

  “No, it’s not.” Cobra said, holstering his weapon.

  Python did not answer.

  They moved deeper into the ward.

  The smell hit them gradually.

  Not rot.

  Not blood.

  Chemical.

  Sweet and acrid at once.

  Old antiseptic layered over something burned.

  Viper paused beside a bed where the restraints had been ripped clean out of the frame.

  “Someone woke up,” he said quietly. “And didn’t like what they saw.”

  Boa’s eyes tracked the floor.

  Scuff marks.

  Scratches.

  A trail leading toward a sealed door at the far end.

  “They tried to leave,” she said.

  “They always do,” Cobra replied grimly.

  “Let’s get what we came here for.”

  The team spread out.

  Python’s slate chimed softly.

  “Chief,” Boa murmured, slurring her words.

  Cobra came over.

  She was gripping her flashing with her teeth.

  Her hands flipping through a folio.

  “I’m finding references to a stabilization phase,” she said, taking the flashlight from between her teeth. “Repeated failures. Adjustments to protocols.”

  Cobra leaned over her shoulder. “What kind of adjustments?”

  “Dampening resistance. Increasing tolerance. Reducing sedation.”

  Cobra looked at her.

  “Why reduce sedation?” Viper asked, coming over.

  Boa hesitated.

  “Because… because sedation interferes with measuring response under stress.”

  “This is not a ward,” Viper concluded, “it’s a lab.”

  Silence settled over the squad.

  “Yeah, but for what?” Boa said as she closed the folio.

  “How many?” Cobra asked.

  “Hundreds.” Boa said, looking up.

  “They are burning bodies,” Viper spat, “cooking.”

  “Incubating,” Python supplied helpfully.

  “This was about seeing who held together,” she said. “Not about healing.”

  “This is not a hospital.” Viper continued, “it’s a charnel house.”

  Cobra nodded.

  “Transmit that, find more.”

  “Transmitting.” Python said.