Chapter Text
The first buzz didn’t wake him fully. It was the second—short and sharp, rattling against the side of the couch—that pulled Ethan from sleep. He opened his eyes without moving, blinking at the stretch of sun across the exposed ceiling beams above him. For a moment, his brain lagged behind his body, unsure of where he was in time, only that the light had shifted and something had changed. The third vibration coaxed him upright.
He sat up slowly, dragging a hand over his face, and fumbled around the couch cushions until his fingers curled around the cord of his phone. The screen lit up as he brought it closer. Not a text. Not a call.
A push alert.
LAFD Dispatch – 07:53
Structure Fire: SoCal Tech Biomedical – Active Response, 118 on scene
He stared at it.
The name meant little to him—just another lab in a city full of them—but the “118” caught hard in his throat. LAFD stations weren’t usually listed by number in public alerts. Not unless the response was notable. Or already escalating. He tapped the alert and read the header again, this time slower.
SoCal Tech Biomedical.
His mind began cycling through half-remembered addresses. Wasn’t that near Olympic and Sawtelle? Near the Whole Foods, maybe a block past the UCLA medical overflow campus? It wasn’t far. Ten, fifteen minutes tops if he caught the Metro in time. He swallowed and looked around the loft. Quiet. Still. The same way it always was in the morning. No clatter of someone else making coffee. No overhead TV. Just the faint hum of traffic four stories down and the orange glow of LA already heating up.
The sunlight felt wrong today. Too harsh. Too early. He swiped to his messages and tapped open Maddie’s contact. The last thing she’d sent was a forwarded voicemail from her supervisor, some scheduling reshuffle from earlier in the week.
Ethan: You at dispatch yet?
He hit send, then waited. Nothing. No typing bubbles. He set the phone down on the arm of the couch, staring at it for another beat longer than necessary. It wasn’t that Maddie didn’t answer sometimes. She had one of the most chaotic jobs in the city—he understood that better than anyone. But something about the quiet this morning, the way that sunlight crept too slowly across the floorboards, made his nerves flicker.
He reached for his CERT gear out of habit. The black pack sat where he’d left it two days ago, zipped but not latched, with the ID badge still clipped near the front pouch. His shirt was balled on the back of the chair by the kitchen counter. He tugged it on and caught his reflection briefly in the narrow mirror above the coat rack. Hair sticking up at odd angles. Eyes a little too tired. He didn’t fix it. Didn’t care.
Instead, he pulled up another contact and stared at the name: Buck. They hadn’t spoken much directly in the last few days. Nothing meaningful. Mostly logistical back-and-forth about Jacob’s paperwork for UCLA. Ethan had almost forgotten the last message Buck had sent was a TikTok link about campus parking. He tapped out a new message, then paused.
Ethan: Hey—are you on the SoCal Tech call?
It didn’t feel like enough, but he hit send anyway. The message stayed delivered. Not read. His thumb hovered for a second longer. The air in the loft felt thicker now, like the morning had shifted into something more brittle, more fragile. He glanced back at the push alert still sitting on his lock screen.
Developing: Hazmat Crews Dispatched.
His breath caught.
He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it until the exhale came out slow, quiet. Hazmat meant chemicals. This wasn’t just a fire.
This wasn’t routine.
Ethan grabbed the pack, adjusted the strap, and swung open the front door. The metal hinges creaked just slightly as they always did, but today the sound felt sharper—like something final. The hallway was empty. The morning sun was too bright. The city, already awake, buzzed beneath him, unaware that something terrible had just begun. He locked the door behind him without looking back.
The elevator was sluggish that morning, stopping at every other floor on the way down. Ethan stood rigid against the wall, fingers drumming absently against the strap of his CERT bag. He checked his phone again—still no read receipts. Still no texts back.
Outside, the city hummed beneath the early heat. The sky was too blue. The sidewalks too clean. The kind of ordinary that made you feel like the world was about to break open. He didn’t head for the Metro station—not right away.
The fire was close, but not close enough to go in blind. He didn’t want to show up at a barricade just to be told to wait, or worse, turned away. He needed context. A briefing. A path forward that wasn’t just instinct and dread. So instead of veering toward the Gold Line, he cut left—toward the station.
Firehouse 118 was less than 15 minutes away, tucked between a half-renovated laundromat and a local bakery that always smelled better than it actually was. Ethan had been there a few times for ride-alongs, CERT coordination drills, and holiday meals when Buck insisted. But this morning, it felt unfamiliar.
Too quiet.
The main bay door was partially open, the lights low inside. There was no sign of the full team. No trucks rolling out. Just one engine parked and idling low, like it had been left behind. Ethan stepped inside, adjusting the strap of his bag.
The overhead lights flickered on one side of the bay. A few voices carried from the back—soft, tired. One belonged to Riley, a paramedic he recognized from A-Shift. The other belonged to Byrd, one of the more seasoned firefighters who floated between shifts and picked up coverage when the department was stretched. They looked up as Ethan entered.
“CERT,” Byrd said, lifting a brow. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Morning,” Ethan said. “Got the alert on SoCal Tech. Thought I’d check in before heading that way.”
Riley lifted her chin slightly in greeting but didn’t smile. “You here for a briefing?” she asked.
“If you’ve got one.”
Byrd rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Initial call came in around 7:30. Reports of a fire in one of the research wings—west building, I think. Multiple injured, internal evac started before fire crews arrived. Cap took the team in. Hazmat was flagged immediately.” Ethan’s brow furrowed. “Why Hazmat?”
Riley nodded toward a clipboard on the table. “The lab handles viral research. Not your standard blood samples either—CCHF is confirmed, along with a dozen others. The whole place is under federal scrutiny already. Nobody’s saying what burned, just that it’s bad enough to trigger protocol.” Ethan felt his pulse skip a beat. “CCHF as in Crimean-Congo?”
“Yeah,” Byrd said. “It’s not airborne… unless someone fucked with it. Nobody’s using the word outbreak yet, but the suits are already showing up. Feds, military advisors, private contractors. It’s tense.”
That explained the lockdown alerts. And the sudden mobilization of CERT.
“Dispatch sent out a call for all available CERT volunteers a few minutes ago,” Riley added. “They’re setting up triage in the lab parking lot.”
Ethan nodded, already shifting his weight toward the bay door again. “I’ll head there now.”
“You taking the Metro?” Byrd asked, squinting toward the street.
“Was going to,” Ethan said.
“Don’t. I’ve got the utility truck out back. I was just grabbing gloves and running caffeine. I’ll drop you.”
Ethan blinked, surprised. “You sure?”
“Yeah, kid. You’re not going to want to wait for a transfer when half the lines are getting diverted. Come on.”
Ethan followed him without another word. Riley gave him a short, sympathetic look as he passed.
“You see them,” she said, quieter now, “tell Cap to hold the line.”
He nodded. “I will.”
The utility truck wove through detours and barricades at a crawl. Even with the flashers cutting traffic and the badge hanging visibly from Ethan’s collar, it still took them thirty-five minutes to reach the edge of the quarantine zone. LAPD had cordoned off six square blocks. Civilian foot traffic was already being pushed back to Olympic, and aerial units circled overhead like vultures tracing heat. Inside the cab, nobody spoke. Riley leaned forward from the backseat, squinting at the perimeter. “It’s tighter than I expected.”
Byrd grunted in agreement, turning the wheel. “They’re expecting it to get worse.” The closer they got, the more surreal it became. Not in the Hollywood sense—not disaster-movie chaos—but quiet, efficient displacement. Hazmat tents had gone up like a military pop-up camp. Media vans lined the far end of the block. Police officers stood with arms crossed, but their eyes moved too much. No one seemed to know what was coming. Byrd slowed to a stop near the north gate, where CERT volunteers were already assembling.
Riley unbuckled. “You sure you’re cleared for this?” Ethan was already reaching for his bag. “I’m on the roster.” She glanced at him, something tight in her expression—not doubt, exactly. Just the look of someone who knew too well what a biohazard response could become.
“Keep your mask on,” she said. “And don’t linger where you’re not assigned.”
“I won’t.”
Byrd nodded toward the tents. “Stay sharp. We’ll circle back if we hear anything.” Ethan closed the truck door behind him. The rumble of the engine faded as it turned back toward the barricade. Within seconds, he was alone in a crowd.
Not the good kind of crowd.
Everyone around him moved with purpose, but their expressions betrayed something else—confusion underlined with dread. No shouting. No panic. Just that eerie almost quiet that came with structured crisis. He adjusted the strap of his CERT bag, stepped into the flow of responders, and scanned the perimeter.
Then he saw her.
Athena.
She was standing near a mobile command post, flanked by a pair of National Guard officers and a biohazard supervisor in a clean white Tyvek suit. Her arms were folded, but her posture was taut, like she was barely restraining motion. Her head turned sharply at something someone said, and for a split second, Ethan hesitated—then raised his voice.
“Athena!”
She turned. Her eyes landed on him instantly.
“Ethan?” A flicker of surprise crossed her face, then focus. “Come here.”
He moved toward her quickly, weaving through knots of responders. Her gaze flicked over his gear, her brow furrowing.
“You get called in?”
“Station said CERT was being dispatched. I came straight here.”
Athena nodded once. “Good. We need the hands.”
“What’s the sit-rep?” he asked.
“Still active fire response inside. The lab’s mostly evacuated, but some staff are unaccounted for. 118 is in the building now. As of twenty minutes ago, they were still mobile.”
“Biohazard confirmed?”
Athena’s jaw set. “There’s no official word. But they’re acting like it is.” She gestured past the tents toward the far end of the parking lot, where folding tables, cots, and diagnostic stations were being rapidly assembled.
“Triage is west lot. See the green flags? Head that way. Register in with Supervising Medic Mendez. He’ll put you on vitals or evac if they start pulling patients.”
Ethan nodded. “Understood.”
He started toward the west lot, boots crunching gravel, but something on the edge of the lot made him pause. A new wave of vehicles was rolling in—black SUVs, government plates. A pair of matte-gray Humvees peeled off toward the service entrance, their tires skidding slightly as they turned. Men in unmarked tactical gear fanned out from the doors. One of them carried a sealed Pelican case in both hands like it held the crown jewels. It hit Ethan harder than it should’ve. Not the trucks. Not the gear. But the presence.
This wasn’t just a fire. He tightened his grip on the strap and started walking again, faster now. Ethan crossed into the triage zone just as a gust of acrid wind swept through the parking lot, carrying with it the chemical undertone of scorched plastic and sterilized air. Even the shade from the pop-up canopies did little to relieve the weight of the heat—or the pressure thrumming just beneath the surface of everyone’s movements.
There were rows of patients already laid out on emergency cots—most of them wrapped in space blankets, oxygen masks clutched to their faces. Most wore the same thing: white lab coats streaked with soot and ash, their badges half-melted or cracked. Mendez found him before Ethan could even announce himself.
“CERT?” the older medic asked, barely glancing up from a tablet.
“Yessir. Ethan Bennett.”
“Good. You’re on smoke triage. We’ve got a lot of minor cases, but we’re watching for viral symptoms just in case—fever spikes, headaches, disorientation. Vitals every fifteen. If they turn, flag me or Vasquez. Got it?”
Ethan nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Mendez scrolled down on his tablet, then gestured toward the end of the row. “Start with Allen Reid. Found unconscious by the rescue team. Head wound, low O2 sat, might’ve taken in smoke before collapse.”
“Was he in the blast zone?”
“We’re not sure if there was a blast yet,” Mendez said. “But he was in one of the restricted sublabs. He’s been fading in and out since they got him out. You’ll need to keep him awake if you can.”
Ethan turned without another word. Allen Reid wasn’t hard to spot. He was one of the only patients whose cot had both an IV line and an EKG lead set. His arms were streaked with soot. His lab coat had been cut away. There was a white gauze wrap around his head, blood already soaking through the side above his temple. His skin had that clammy look that walked the edge between dehydration and something worse.
Ethan knelt beside him, running quick diagnostics. Pulse thready, shallow breaths. Pupils reactive, but sluggish. He glanced up at the clipboard hooked to the side rail. Allen Reid – Microbiologist – Sublevel 3 clearance.
That deep?
“Hey,” Ethan said, voice low. “Allen. My name’s Ethan. I’m a CERT medic. You’re safe now. Can you hear me?”
There was no response at first. Just the rise and fall of breath. Then—barely—a flutter behind the man’s eyelids.
“Allen,” Ethan repeated, a little louder this time. “I need you to stay with me, alright? Can you squeeze my hand?”
Nothing.
Ethan checked the IV line again, made a quick note on the vitals chart, and looked up to flag one of the nurses. That’s when he heard it.
Barely audible. A whisper rasped out through a mouth that hadn’t moved in nearly a minute. Just one word, slurred and slumping into the quiet between monitors:
“…Moira…”
Ethan froze, then leaned in, close enough to smell the burned fibers clinging to the man’s hair.
“Allen? What was that? Did you say—Moira?”
The man didn’t respond. His eyelids fluttered again, but the light behind them was already receding. Whatever fragment had surfaced, it had already sunk back beneath the haze of injury and smoke. Ethan sat back, pulse ticking faster now.
Moira.
He didn’t know the name. But the way it had scraped out of Allen’s throat—like a warning, or a plea—it landed wrong.
It meant something.
And in a place like this, at a time like this, meaning could be dangerous. Ethan tugged on a fresh pair of gloves, the latex snapping faintly in the low murmur of the tent.
Allen’s laceration wasn’t superficial. Just above his ear, tucked behind the temporal ridge, a ragged split in the skin was still sluggishly weeping blood. The gauze wrap applied earlier had already soaked through; some of it clung where hair and coagulation had started to mat together.
Ethan gently peeled it away, wincing at the extent of the wound now that it was fully visible. It wasn’t clean—no glass or blade would’ve done that. No, this was blunt force. Something heavy. Dense. A fall, maybe. Or someone had hit him.
“Alright, Allen,” Ethan murmured, more for his own grounding than any conscious audience. “I’m gonna clean this up now. You’re doing okay—just hang in there.”
He opened a sterile irrigation kit and began methodically rinsing the area, careful not to let runoff track down toward Allen’s neck or shoulder. The water pooled pink into the absorbent pad beneath the cot. Allen flinched once—barely more than a twitch—but didn’t wake.
The wound itself was jagged at one edge. Not quite deep enough to expose bone, but deep enough to warrant internal sutures when the main ER team had time to get to him.
Ethan dried the area gently, then prepped a clean dressing—padding it with a stack of gauze layers and securing it with adhesive tape that anchored just behind the man's jawline. Throughout the process, he kept half an eye on Allen’s vitals. Pulse still fast but holding. Breathing shallow but rhythmic. Oxygen levels hovered in the low 90s—better than before, but far from stable.
As he pressed the last strip of tape into place, he glanced again at the older man’s face. There was a flicker there. Nothing dramatic—just the tightening of the brow, the way a dreamer winces before waking.
“…Moira…”
The name surfaced again—this time just loud enough that Ethan didn’t have to imagine it. Allen’s lips barely moved, but his voice carried something sharper than before: fear. Ethan sat back on his heels, staring for a moment. He looked around the tent, searching for someone he could flag, but everyone was busy—Mendez halfway across the aisle checking a lab tech who’d begun coughing up blood, Vasquez elbow-deep in splints. He looked back at Allen.
“Moira who?” he asked, low and steady, trying to reach through the fog.
No answer. Allen’s eyes fluttered beneath closed lids, but the voice was gone. Ethan sat there for a moment longer, gauze still in hand. Something about the wound, the whisper, the fact that no one else had even mentioned a Moira—it set his gut off.
He made a quiet note on the clipboard beside the cot, logging the name in shorthand beneath the vitals. Just in case. And then he moved on, aware for the first time that this wasn’t just a medical response. Something was wrong inside that lab.
By 9:20, the triage tent had developed a heartbeat. Not steady. Not calm. But organized. Rows of evacuees lay across folding cots and padded mats, each tagged with basic triage tape—green for stable, yellow for monitoring, red for immediate. Most of them were technicians or lab support personnel—coughing, disoriented, but lucid. A few were curled into themselves, bloodied sleeves clutched against their sides or paper masks damp from coughing fits. Scorched ID badges and singed scrub tops identified some of them as deeper-lab personnel.
Ethan moved cot to cot, checking vitals and updating tags. He slipped easily into muscle memory—cuff, pulse ox, oxygen rate, pupil response—each action grounding him more than the last. The med tent was chaos, but it was familiar chaos. Structured. Predictable. It had rules.
Still, something was off.
Too many of the patients couldn’t say where they’d come from in the lab. Too many couldn’t remember whether they’d passed through containment checkpoints. And more than a few were showing early symptoms not entirely consistent with smoke inhalation.
Ethan bent beside a patient in yellow-tag condition—a woman in her fifties with graying hair and cracked glasses, who clutched a tissue in one hand like it was a lifeline.
“Ma’am, can you tell me your name?”
“Dr. Essien,” she croaked. “Aminat Essien.”
He nodded. “Dr. Essien, can you tell me what part of the lab you were in when the evacuation started?”
“Hall B… viral compound staging. I think—I think it reached the fridges. They weren’t supposed to be powered during the drills.”
Ethan blinked. “What kind of fridges?”
“Cryogenic. Strain vaults.”
That hit harder than he wanted to show. He gave her a small nod, tapped the corner of her ID tag, and flagged Mendez over without a word. Elsewhere in the tent, someone started coughing violently—a gut-deep sound that rasped against the silence like it was wrong. Two medics moved toward the sound immediately. Mendez appeared at Ethan’s side. “What’ve you got?”
“She was in the staging corridor. Claims the freezers were compromised.”
“Shit.” Mendez didn’t even pause. “Add a heat flag to her tag. Pull her to the isolation row.”
Ethan gave a short nod and helped move the cot. They were halfway across the aisle when something shifted in the air outside. Not visibly. Not audibly. But perceptibly.
A pause in conversation.
A tremble in the metal scaffolding of the tent.
Then—
A low boom. Muffled. Distant, but deep. Not like a gas line.
Not like a backdraft.
A shockwave of compressed air rolled under the canvas flooring.
The triage tent shuddered.
Ethan turned toward the sound just in time to see a plume of gray-white smoke rise from the west wing of the lab building, curling unnaturally as if something inside had ignited wrong. Radios crackled across the lot—static-laced shouts in clipped code. Medical staff froze mid-step. The noise wasn’t violent, but final. Like a door slamming shut between them and whatever was inside. Mendez’s voice snapped out a moment later, grim and immediate.
“That was an internal detonation.”
Across the lot, Athena was already moving toward the cordon. And Ethan’s first thought—stupid, ridiculous—was of Buck. Because if the 118 was inside… they were in it now. The triage tent erupted into motion the moment the plume crested the building. Ethan didn’t wait for orders. He dropped the clipboard mid-step and sprinted out into the open air.
The sound was sharper now—sirens stacking, radios blaring. A sharp ozone bite had crept into the wind, mingling with the smoke that curled upward in ghostly tendrils from the lab’s west wing. Somewhere off to the side, someone was yelling for a respirator. Another responder fumbled with a hazmat case, knocking over a collapsible gurney in the process. Ethan shoved through the line of onlookers gathering near the security fence, scanning the upper levels of the lab’s exterior.
“Athena!” he called out, voice sharp with panic.
He spotted her near the forward perimeter—already arguing with someone in a suit. Tall, graying, in a gray suit that told Ethan he was of importance. Athena turned at the sound of her name, her expression flashing from grim focus to alarmed recognition.
“Ethan—stay back.”
He didn’t.
“Is it the 118?” he asked, closing the distance. “Buck—he’s in there, isn’t he?”
The man in the suit scowled. “And who the hell is this?” Athena snapped, “A CERT responder. And you still haven’t answered my question, Banting.” Francis Banting, Director of Operations, lifted his chin with the sort of practiced superiority that made Ethan’s stomach twist.
“There’s been a security-triggered lockdown,” Banting said, calm but clipped. “A containment breach triggered Level Four protocols.”
Athena squared her shoulders. “Containment of what, exactly?”
“Crimean-Congo. Possibly more. We don’t know yet.”
“You don’t know?”
“We’ve lost remote access to the sublevel systems. It’s locked from the inside. Standard protocol requires a ten-hour external quarantine in the event of a biological breach. The virus could've aersolized.”
Ethan stared at him. “Ten hours?”
“They might not have ten minutes,” Athena growled.
That’s when the door to the second-story bridge swung open. A cluster of hazmat personnel spilled out, guiding a staggered figure between them. Behind them, a woman in a soot-streaked lab coat—eyes wide, breath ragged. And in the middle of it—
“Hey! Hey!”
Ethan’s chest nearly caved in.
It was Buck.
Pale, drenched in sweat, face streaked with soot and panic, waving his arms from behind the hazmat escorts.
“Athena!” Buck’s voice cracked as he lurched to the rail. “They—they’re trapped inside! Bobby, Hen, Chim, Ravi—I—I can’t get inside!”
Ethan moved to step forward, but Athena held out a hand, stopping him cold. The hazmat team immediately crowded Buck, pushing him toward the mobile decontamination unit.
“You need to be decontaminated before further contact,” one of them barked.
“We need to get them out!” Buck shouted, twisting in their grip.
Athena’s voice broke—low but firm. “We can’t!”
Buck blinked, stunned. “What?”
Her voice cracked a second time. “Just—do what they say.” There was nothing else to say. The hazmat team pulled Buck back toward the decon corridor, shouting instructions in curt, clinical tones. The woman beside him stumbled along after them.
Ethan stood frozen.
Heart racing. Breath shallow. The world had tilted—from procedural emergency to personal nightmare in less than ten seconds.
They were in there.
Trapped.
Bobby. Hen. Chim. Ravi.
And this time… there wasn’t a damn thing they could do to reach them.
The minutes dragged.
Decontamination took time—more than it should have, Ethan thought bitterly. He stood near the cordon, fingers flexing restlessly against his vest, barely noticing the medics rushing past behind him or the security personnel shouting into radios. Finally, the decon tent flap opened.
Buck emerged first—hair soaked, face pale and raw-looking, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and chest heaving like he’d run a mile uphill. His eyes scanned the scene blindly, shellshocked and searching.
Ethan didn’t hesitate.
He pushed through the yellow tape and closed the space between them in three quick strides. Before Buck could even react, Ethan threw his arms around him and held tight. Buck tensed at first, startled—but then sagged into it, shoulders collapsing like scaffolding under pressure.
“Jesus,” Ethan breathed. “You’re okay. You’re okay—you’re okay.”
Buck didn’t answer. His breaths were short. Quick. Gasping.
“Hey, look at me,” Ethan said, pulling back just enough to see his face. “Buck—are you hurt? What happened in there? Where are they?”
Buck’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. His eyes were glassy. Hands trembling.
Shit.
Ethan steadied him by the shoulders. “Okay. No problem. You’re panicking. It’s alright. Just do what I say, alright?” Buck nodded, but barely seemed to register it. “Four-four-four,” Ethan said gently. “You've done this before. Ready?” Another nod. Fragile. Ethan raised one hand, voice calm and quiet beneath the noise of the triage tent and military shuffle.
“Inhale—one, two, three, four…”
Buck followed. Unsteady, but trying.
“Hold—two, three, four…”
The air seemed to thicken around them, like the moment was wrapped in gauze.
“Exhale—two, three, four…”
Buck’s chest dropped with the breath. Still fast. But not wild.
“Again.”
One more round. Then another. And by the third cycle, Buck’s eyes had focused again—still wide, still wet—but present. Ethan let his hand fall back down. “You good?” Buck nodded slowly. Swallowed. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, I… I think so.”
“You’re out. You’re safe now.”
“Yeah,” Buck echoed, barely above a whisper. “But they’re not.”
His eyes lifted again, back toward the building—toward the sterile, windowless shell that had swallowed the rest of the 118 whole.
Ethan said nothing.
Because he didn’t feel safe either.
Ethan guided Buck along the outer triage line until they reached the western end—just beyond the noise and medical chaos—where a mobile isolation bubble had been assembled. The isolation enclosure buzzed faintly with filtered air. Inside sat Roz McLeod—alert, if visibly rattled. A blanket was draped over her shoulders, and a field monitor at her elbow blinked steadily. She wasn’t infected, but no one was taking chances.
Athena stood outside the clear vinyl wall, arms crossed tightly. Director Francis Banting hovered just behind her, fidgeting with a tablet he wasn’t really using.
“She was scheduled,” Roz was saying. “Moira always took the overnight shifts. Said she liked working without distractions.”
“She was still there when you left?” Athena asked.
Roz nodded. “Just past ten. I saw her in the corridor near the vaults. She was focused—too focused.”
“She came to my office this morning,” Banting interjected, voice clipped. “Around 7:10. Said she’d finalized the antiviral protocol for the Crimean-Congo strain.”
Athena’s expression didn’t shift. “That should’ve been a breakthrough.”
“It should’ve been,” Banting said bitterly. “But she admitted that she modified the pathogen to speed up its incubation. Claimed it was the only way to ‘properly assess field response timing.’”
Roz’s face twisted in disgust. “She engineered a faster virus.”
“She called it a real-world simulation,” Banting muttered. “Said it was the future of virology. I terminated her on the spot. Had her badge revoked immediately.”
Athena’s gaze hardened. “And twenty minutes later, there’s a fire in the same lab.”
“We don’t have direct evidence—”
“But Allen was found unconscious,” Roz cut in. “Near the vault corridor. With blunt-force trauma.”
Athena looked between them. “You think she assaulted him?”
“I don’t know,” Roz admitted. “But it wouldn’t be the first time she bypassed protocol. She hated Allen. Blamed him for the oversight complaints.”
Ethan felt his throat go dry. Allen—the man he’d stabilized just over an hour ago—was still in and out of lucidity. He hadn’t been able to say much. Just one word.
Moira.
“She was erratic,” Banting added. “And reckless. I let it slide for too long.”
Roz nodded grimly. “And now there’s a modified hemorrhagic fever virus potentially aerosolized in a locked-down facility, with four first responders still trapped inside.” The silence that followed felt heavier than any explosion.
No one spoke the next thought aloud, but it hovered between them like static:
What if this wasn’t just an accident?
Ethan lingered just outside the isolation bubble, the sharp antiseptic tang of the triage tent still biting at the back of his throat. The buzz of voices and distant sirens barely registered—his focus had narrowed to the edge of the parking lot, where Athena was approaching a freshly arrived convoy of federal vehicles.
Buck stood beside her, still visibly shaken from decontamination. His shoulders stiffened as a tall, uniformed figure stepped out of the lead Humvee—Colonel Hartman, by the insignia. Even from a distance, Ethan could see Athena’s posture shift from strained calm to sharp defense. The conversation started civil. But it didn’t stay that way.
Athena gestured firmly toward the lab. Hartman shook his head. Buck said something—too quiet to catch—but the Colonel’s response made him flinch like he’d been slapped. Athena stepped forward, tone raised now. Hartman’s face hardened. Buck’s arms flew up in frustration before Athena placed a hand on his shoulder, steering him back toward the tents.
Ethan met him halfway.
Buck’s jaw was tight, mouth pulled into a grim line. “They’re not lifting the lockdown.” Ethan blinked. “What? But—Hen’s in there. Bobby. Chim. Ravi—”
“I know,” Buck snapped, then immediately winced. “Sorry. I just—” He dragged a hand through his damp curls. “Hartman says it’s too risky. ‘A pandemic in a bottle,’ that’s what he called it. If they open those doors and there’s even a trace of aerosolized virus left…”
He didn’t finish.
Ethan didn’t need him to. A moment passed in taut silence. Then Vasquez came jogging up from the east side of the lot, breathless, an open radio in her hand. “Update from inside—we just got word. Wilson collapsed. They think it’s her lung. Nash is trying to stabilize her.”
Buck went sheet white.
Ethan’s stomach dropped.
“They don’t have many surgical supplies,” Vasquez added. “They’re doing what they can with field gear.”
Buck turned away, bracing his hands on his knees, trying to breathe. Ethan hovered, not knowing whether to comfort or to get out of the way. Then another voice cut through—the radio on Mendez’s belt flaring to life.
“Confirmed report—Han is febrile. Symptoms progressing.”
Buck didn’t crumple. He just… went still. Like a man trying to hold up a crumbling wall with his bare hands. Ethan stepped up, quietly, placing a hand between Buck’s shoulder blades. They stood like that for several moments—neither speaking—until the sun broke through the haze, sharp and blinding. Too bright for a day so dark.
Ethan stood at the edge of the command tent, heart pounding in sync with the flickering surveillance feed. He’d stopped checking his phone after the fifth unanswered message to Maddie. Still nothing. The silence made his chest feel tighter than any mask. From her isolation enclosure, Roz McLeod spoke with steady clarity. “She finished it. Moira. Around six-thirty this morning.” Buck turned sharply. “The antiviral?”
Roz nodded. “Yes. She was alone—pushed everyone out of the clean room. Wouldn’t let Allen near it. When I came in just after seven, she was sealing the vial into the centrifuge in Room 14B. I watched her do it.”
“Then there’s still a chance,” Ethan said, voice barely above a whisper.
Roz didn’t answer. Her silence said enough. On-screen, Ravi crept into view—suited head to toe in hazmat, navigating the lower corridor through banks of soot and debris. His movements were cautious, deliberate, like someone threading through a minefield. He reached the heavy vault door and entered the code Roz had given.
The mechanism clicked.
Ravi stepped forward—
—and collapsed hard against the frame.
“He’s out of oxygen,” Roz said immediately.
In the next instant, Bobby was there. No hesitation. He crossed the scorched lab floor and yanked one of the lab’s emergency oxygen lines from a wall unit. The regulator hissed to life as he connected it to Ravi’s suit. Moments later, Ravi’s shoulders sagged with relief, and he offered a weak thumbs-up. Then came the voice over the comm line. Sharp. Unyielding.
“Captain Nash, this is Colonel Hartman, of the United States Military. You are hereby ordered to cease operations at Vault 14B. That unit is classified and must remain sealed. This is not a suggestion.”
Buck muttered something under his breath. Ethan stepped closer to the screen, breath shallow.
“Any attempt to open that centrifuge will be considered a breach of federal containment protocol. You and your teammate will face prosecution.”
On-screen, Ravi hesitated.
Bobby looked at him. Just nodded.
Ravi opened the centrifuge.
The camera feed focused on the unit.
Empty.
The containment slot was there—lined, ready—but the vial?
Gone.
Roz’s voice broke. “No. No, no—she put it in there.” Buck’s jaw clenched. Ethan’s pulse roared in his ears.
“I saw her,” Roz whispered. “Moira. She placed the vial herself. Just before she left for Banting’s office. It was there.”
Now, it wasn’t.
The realization settled over them like a shroud. Not only had she modified the virus.
She’d taken the cure.
The report came in over triage comms like a frayed thread of hope.
“Hen’s stable,” Mendez said, stepping out of the tent. “Collapsed lung was touch-and-go, but Bobby managed to decompress it with an angiocath and suction line. She's conscious now.”
The relief that moved through the gathered responders was nearly palpable. Roz exhaled behind her isolation barrier, eyes closing briefly. But Mendez didn’t stop there.
“Howard’s deteriorating. Fever’s rising. Cardiac rhythms are irregular. If we don’t get that antiviral soon…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. Buck looked away, hands knotted in his sleeves. Athena stormed up from the perimeter, jaw locked. “Hartman just barred me from looking for Moira. Told me I’m a liability. Said I’d ‘compromise containment protocols’ if I so much as made a phone call outside the chain of command.” Roz muttered something about political cowardice. No one disagreed. Buck edged closer to Athena, voice hushed. “So what now?” Athena glanced sidelong at him. “Now? We stop asking permission.”
They moved subtly—Buck tilting his body to block their retreat as they slipped into the operations tent, then out the far side, away from the direct line of sight. Ethan watched them go, heart thudding. It wasn’t hard to guess what they were planning. And it wasn’t waiting. He took a breath, grounding himself. And that’s when his gaze dropped to his phone. No new notifications. No messages. He opened the chat with Maddie again, hoping to see something—anything.
Still nothing.
The last message he’d sent sat unanswered, timestamped nearly three hours ago. His thumb hovered, then dropped.
You good? Dispatch said you were working today.
Still no response. Not even delivered. Something twisted in his chest.
This wasn’t like her.
Not even during her worst shifts. And suddenly, just standing here—watching Buck and Athena disappear into the city—felt wrong. Ethan turned away from the monitors, away from the tents, away from the spinning dread of everyone still trapped inside. He flagged down Mendez, gave her a tight nod.
“I'm heading to Metro Center.”
She blinked. “You sure?”
Ethan just said, “Yeah,” and turned toward the road without waiting for backup. He had to find her.
Now.
The Metro Center lobby was too quiet for a building working overtime. The sterile lighting and polished tile only made Ethan feel more out of place, pacing in front of the downstairs security desk.
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” he said, keeping his tone even. “I just need to know she’s okay.”
The receptionist gave him a neutral smile. “And you said your name was…?”
“Ethan. Bennett.” He hesitated, awkwardly adjusting the strap of his CERT bag. “I’m… I’m family. She’s—”
He cut himself off, brow tightening. Saying she’s my mom still felt strange. Unpracticed. He hadn’t even said it aloud to her yet.
“She’s important to me,” he finished instead. “Maddie Buckley. I know she’s working today. I’ve been trying to get in touch.”
The woman behind the counter gave a small, tired sigh. “Dispatch is locked down. You know the situation.”
“I do. I was at the triage site earlier,” he said, pulling out his ID and CERT credentials. “Please. I just need to know she’s okay.”
A pause. Then, with a little more empathy, the receptionist picked up the phone and dialed upstairs.
A minute passed.
Then the elevator pinged open, and out stepped a red-haired woman in business-casual layers, headset slung around her neck and a Bluetooth still clipped to her collar. She gave off an air of calm command—someone who’d stood in the eye of every storm and kept breathing. She scanned the lobby once, then nodded when her eyes landed on Ethan.
“Sue Blevins,” she said simply. “You’re Ethan?”
“Yeah,” he said, surprised she knew. “That’s me.”
“I’m Maddie’s boss,” she added, motioning for him to follow. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs. It’s secure, but you’ll be with me.”
The elevator ride was short, but the silence inside it carried a current. Sue didn’t ask many questions. Frankly, she didn’t need to. She seemed to know exactly who he was—and why he was here.
“She’s alright,” Sue said as the doors opened. “Been glued to her desk since the minute they made contact with the team inside. Probably hasn’t even looked at her phone.”
They stepped onto the quiet dispatch floor. A soft hum filled the space—operators on headsets, screens glowing like windows into crisis. The coordination was seamless, intense. Sue gestured toward the front row.
And there she was.
Maddie sat hunched forward, headset in place, eyes locked on her terminal. Her voice—low and steady—carried softly across the floor.
“Copy that, Captain Nash. Sending the vitals to Dr. Ramirez now… just hang in there, okay?”
Ethan felt the breath catch in his throat.
She was here.
He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been bracing until that moment. Sue leaned in beside him. “She’s been their lifeline all day. Even when things got bad.” Ethan didn’t respond. Just watched. And for now, that was enough.
Ethan lingered at the glass rail, watching his mother’s profile—the taut set of her jaw, the calm cadence of her voice as it traveled across wires and airwaves. Maddie looked composed, focused, the weight of the crisis threaded through every word she spoke. But Ethan could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her free hand clenched slightly beneath the desk between transmissions. He drew a breath, then turned to Sue. “Would it be okay… if I went down there?”
Sue studied him. The request was rare. Normally, she wouldn’t have even entertained the idea. But this wasn’t a normal day. And Ethan wasn’t a stranger to the voices echoing through this floor.
Sue’s voice dropped, quiet and understanding. “Technically, no. But technically,” she added, with a faint twist of a smile, “Chimney is your stepdad. And your mom’s down there, trying to keep him alive.” Ethan looked away briefly, eyes stinging.
“She’s also carrying your baby brother,” Sue finished gently. “So if you need to be here—for her, for them—I’ll look the other way.”
A beat passed. Then Ethan gave a slow, grateful nod.
“Thank you.”
Sue gestured toward the stairs. “Go.” Ethan descended quietly, weaving through desks and terminals until he reached her console. For a moment, he stood a few paces behind her, reluctant to interrupt—but Maddie must’ve sensed something. She turned, eyes widening slightly in surprise when she saw him. “Ethan?” He gave her a sheepish, apologetic smile. “Hey.”
“You’re supposed to be at triage,” she said, a little breathlessly.
“I was.” He stepped closer. “I needed to see you.”
She stared at him for a moment—then let out a breath she’d clearly been holding for hours. Her hand found his without hesitation, squeezing hard. It wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t a breakdown. It was just grounding—solid and real in a moment that felt anything but.
She didn’t cry. Neither did he. But when she turned back to her headset, her voice was a little stronger. Her spine a little straighter. Ethan stayed beside her, silent and still, letting her anchor herself to his presence while she kept holding the line for the people still inside.
And that was enough.
For now.
Maddie didn’t let go of his hand for a long moment. Then, wordlessly, she reached into her drawer, grabbed an extra earpiece, and slid it toward him.
“You want to listen in?” she asked quietly.
Ethan nodded, already fitting it over his ear. A soft click, and then—
“…you still with me, Chim?” Maddie’s voice, now live in both his headset and hers.
There was a delay, then a weak reply: “Barely.” His voice was rough, every word labored—wet with fever and effort—but alive. Maddie’s fingers hovered over her keyboard, poised to signal vitals to the medical team. Then, after a beat, she glanced sideways at Ethan.
“I’m putting someone on the line. Just… trust me.”
There was no confirmation from Chim, but she toggled the mic anyway and tilted it toward Ethan. He hesitated only a second.
“Hey,” Ethan said softly, leaning close. “Heard you caught a pretty nasty bug in there.”
There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end. Then Chimney’s voice, hoarse and faint, broke through with a laugh-cough. “Well… Bennett, huh? That you?” Ethan smiled—relieved at even that small flicker of recognition.
“Yeah, it’s me. Saw the headlines, figured I’d stop by triage. Didn’t know you were throwing a biohazard party without me.”
Chim wheezed out something approximating a groan. “Next time, I’ll save you a seat in the hot zone.” Maddie’s shoulders relaxed beside him, if only slightly. Ethan kept going, gentle but engaged. “How’s everyone holding up in there? Hen’s lung still cooperating?”
“She’s breathing,” Chim said. “Mad at me for bleeding near her, though.”
“That tracks.”
“What about Ravi?” Ethan asked, tone lighter than his concern.
“Had a little nap mid-recon,” Chimney muttered. “But Bobby got him oxygen. He’s back up, looking guilty.”
Ethan caught Maddie’s micro-expression—half-pained, half-relieved.
“And Bobby?” Ethan asked. “Did he get knocked around in the explosion?”
“Scrapes,” Chim said, quieter now. “Won’t sit still. Keeps wiping Hen’s forehead like she’s his kid.”
Ethan’s breath caught—at the image, at the ache behind it—but he pushed forward.
“Sounds like you’ve got a whole team of stubborn idiots,” he said gently.
“Yeah,” Chim murmured. “My team.”
He sounded proud, even now. Even like this. Ethan glanced at Maddie. Her eyes shimmered, but she didn’t blink. Didn’t break. She just gave Ethan a tiny nod.
Keep him talking.
So he did.
“Let me guess,” Ethan said. “You still haven’t let anyone give you an IV?”
“Needles are for cowards,” Chimney slurred.
“Spoken like a man running a 103-degree fever,” Ethan shot back, tone somewhere between playful and painfully worried.
The laugh that came through was shallow—but real. And for a few more minutes, that was all they needed. Ethan kept Chim grounded, minute by minute, joke by joke, until the line started to crackle again with the chaos of the search beyond. And Maddie—through all of it—held the lifeline tight. The next few hours unfolded in a haze of urgency and stillness, a strange tension that wound tighter with every update.
Maddie stayed anchored to her headset, voice steady as she checked in with Bobby, Hen, and Ravi—her words softening whenever she spoke to Chimney, who was fading, but still holding on. Ethan remained at her side, ear tuned to the line, hand occasionally tightening on the desk when the signal cracked or the room’s energy dipped. Sue passed them periodic updates on folded slips of paper, like dispatch missives from some invisible war room.
Moira tracked to pharma building.
Athena and Buck have Moira.
Each one passed between Ethan and Maddie like a lifeline. Then came a moment when no paper was needed. The television mounted on the far wall, muted all afternoon, suddenly captured the attention of the entire dispatch floor. Ethan’s eyes snapped up at the motion—news footage, shaky and grainy, but unmistakable. A red LAFD helicopter cutting through the sky.
Behind it, federal choppers.
It wasn’t just a report—it was a live chase. He stepped closer to the screen as the chopper slowed and descended, spotlighted against the open sprawl of Los Angeles Memorial Stadium. The camera zoomed in as the helicopter doors opened. Three figures stepped out—flanked immediately by uniformed officers. One was Buck, disheveled and flushed with adrenaline. The second was a woman with sharp features and red hair twisted into a messy bun—Moira, Ethan guessed. The third made Ethan’s heart stutter briefly.
A man with dark, cropped hair and a guarded posture—Tommy Kinard. Ethan had seen him only in pictures, the ones Buck hadn’t deleted from his phone just yet. Maddie stood next to him, lips parted in disbelief as the footage rolled on.
The camera followed the trio as they were marched into custody, surrounded by FBI agents and military escorts. Moira looked furious. Buck looked tired. Tommy looked unreadable. Then Ethan’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
Karen: Got the antiviral. Athena’s with me. En route to the lab now.
The timing wasn’t just lucky—it was orchestrated. Ethan stared at the message, the pieces slotting into place like a puzzle snapping shut. The stadium landing, the televised chase—it had been a diversion. All smoke and spectacle to pull eyes and feds away from the real extraction. Athena had slipped out with the cure while the cameras chased Buck and Moira. He turned his phone to show Maddie, who blinked fast at the message, jaw tightening with sudden hope.
Ethan leaned down, kissed the side of her head, and whispered, “I’ll meet them at the lab.” Maddie didn’t argue. She just nodded, gave his hand a squeeze, and turned back to her console. Ethan was already halfway to the stairs before the second news anchor even started narrating the footage.
The second the bus doors hissed open, Ethan hit the pavement running. He kept his head down and shoulders tight as he maneuvered through the crowded sidewalk, slowing only when the military checkpoint came into view—a makeshift barrier of barricades, Humvees, and grim-faced soldiers in full gear. He pulled his CERT badge from his pocket and flashed it without breaking stride.
“Bennett, Los Angeles CERT!” he called, breath already short from the sprint. “I’m on file!”
A soldier stepped forward to intercept, clearly skeptical—until another one, stationed at the security desk nearby, confirmed his clearance. The first soldier gave a curt nod. “You’re clear. Stay west of the hot zone and don’t get in the way.” Ethan didn’t wait for a second warning.
He was through the checkpoint, boots pounding pavement again as the inner perimeter swallowed him up. The outer chaos thinned the closer he got to the parking lot triage zone, replaced by a quieter, heavier stillness—like the air itself had learned to brace. He arrived just in time to see the Humvees pulling in, tires crunching slowly across the broken asphalt. Three doors opened in near-synchronized motion.
From the first, Buck stepped down, his shoulders squared with that familiar, bone-deep weariness Ethan recognized from too many disaster scenes. He looked scraped, flushed, and stiff in the joints—like he’d wrestled a hurricane in a suit of armor. From the second vehicle, Moira Blake was led out.
Gone was the brash, calculating fire from earlier reports. Her hands were cuffed, her hair unbound and tangled. But more than that—her entire expression had shifted. Wide, glassy eyes scanned the compound. She didn’t look angry. She looked shocked. Like she hadn’t expected this many people. This level of response. This degree of devastation.
She turned, slowly, taking it all in—the smoking wreckage of the lab’s upper level, the endless line of stretchers, the military presence that had overtaken the site. Her lips moved silently. All this…?
It wasn’t triumph in her face. It was awe. And regret. Like she had only ever meant to set a fire. Not… all this. From the third Humvee, Tommy Kinard stepped out. His hands weren’t bound, but his posture was tight and unreadable. He didn’t look around, didn’t speak. Ethan caught only a quick glimpse of his profile before agents guided all three toward the large federal staging tent pitched just beyond the hot zone line.
Ethan stood frozen for a moment, hand still gripping the strap of his CERT vest, watching as Buck was steered inside. They were back. Moira was in custody. Buck was safe. But something was still missing.
The antiviral.
His eyes swept across the triage zone, then the staging area—no sign of Athena, no indication that the SUV carrying the only vial of hope had arrived before the convoy. Maybe they didn’t make it in time. Maybe the feds had beaten them to the punch.
Maybe—
A flicker of movement caught his eye at the edge of the crowd.
Karen.
She stood at the outer perimeter, her stance tight, shoulders set in that familiar I-just-drove-like-hell posture. No one was speaking to her. No one was stopping her. She wasn’t trying to get through. She had already done what she came to do. Ethan turned, pulse skipping, and looked up—past the staging area, to the high bridge that overlooked the upper level of the lab.
And there she was.
Athena.
Dressed head to toe in hazmat, stepping out of the building with a posture that radiated grim, quiet determination. She paused near the guardrail, speaking into her comms, her body framed by the scorched facade behind her. Ethan let out a long breath.
They made it.
The antiviral was inside.
Ethan didn’t linger.
The moment he saw Athena on the bridge—alive, upright, there—he turned on his heel and slipped back through the lanes of barricades, winding past staging and back toward the triage tent. The air still hung thick with tension, but something in it had changed. There was a current of motion now. A shift beneath the surface. The stillness had cracked.
He ducked into the tent’s threshold, scanning for familiar faces, and spotted Mendez across the divider wall. She looked up the moment he approached. There was no smile, no greeting—just a quick, professional tilt of her head that said come here. Ethan stepped in beside her.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“They nearly lost Han,” Mendez told him, low and fast, eyes flicking to the clipboard in her hands. “He crashed hard. Vitals bottomed out. For a minute, we thought—” She shook her head. “But Sergeant Grant got the antiviral inside. It was administered less than ten minutes ago.”
Ethan exhaled, his fingers tightening briefly at his sides.
“Chimney?”
“Stabilizing. His BP’s up, respiration’s stronger. Stats are improving across the board.”
He leaned against the wall, just for a second—just to let the news sink in.
“They’re prepping to lift the lockdown,” Mendez added. “Command says they’ll extract the rest of the 118 once the cleanroom is confirmed clear and pressure-stable. Should be soon.”
Ethan nodded, swallowing against the rush of something that hit hard and fast in his chest. Not quite relief. Not yet.
But it was something.
He glanced toward the direction of the lab building—still ringed in containment, but no longer sealed in the same ominous silence as before.
“They’re coming out,” he said under his breath.
And this time, he believed it.
The triage tent was already in motion behind him, murmurs rising in tempo as medics prepared for the incoming stretchers, but Ethan moved in the opposite direction—toward the epicenter of it all.
The federal command tent stood like a bunker at the edge of the site, flanked by armored vehicles and ringed with portable barriers. Soldiers, agents, and lab personnel filtered in and out, their faces tight with urgency. Ethan kept his head down and his stride purposeful. No one stopped him.
As he rounded the final barricade, he saw them—Athena and Colonel Hartman—locked in a heated exchange near the tent entrance. She stood with her hands planted firmly on her hips, still clad in hazmat but with the hood peeled back, her expression thunderous. Hartman’s mouth moved fast, voice sharp and clipped, gesturing toward the chaos behind them.
Whatever he was saying, she wasn’t having it. Ethan couldn’t hear the words from this distance, but the look on Athena’s face said everything. Don’t you dare try to spin this on me.
She rolled her eyes mid-sentence, muttered something low and searing, and if Ethan had to guess—really guess—he’d wager she was suggesting precisely where the Colonel could stick his entire operation. A commotion pulled his attention back toward the building. The containment door hissed open.
A wave of personnel moved forward, clearing space as three figures emerged from the lab—two stretchers flanked by a group of medics, with a third figure walking unsteadily between them. Hen, pale but conscious, was strapped to the first gurney. Ravi followed next, upright but clearly running on fumes, his oxygen mask askew. Chimney was last, semi-lucid, his lips moving as though he were still talking—to himself, or to the people who got him out, Ethan couldn’t be sure. None of them looked good. But they were alive.
Athena turned at the sound of the procession and stepped toward them. Ethan followed, watching as the three were taken quickly toward decontamination and medical staging. Still no sign of Buck. Still no sign of Bobby.
Athena slowed as the gurneys passed, her posture dipping slightly for the first time all day. She rubbed a hand over her face and exhaled.
“I didn’t think we’d even get this far,” she muttered.
Ethan moved up beside her.
“They’re okay,” he said. “For now.”
“Yeah.” A beat. “But not all of them are out.”
She didn’t need to say his name. The thought lingered between them like smoke.
Then—
“Athena, you need to get in here. Quickly.”
Buck’s voice crackled over the comms—strained, tight. Urgent. Athena’s whole posture snapped back to attention. Her hand flew to the earpiece, eyes already narrowing toward the building.
Something was wrong.
And it was happening now. Athena was already moving—fast. Ethan didn’t hesitate. He chased after her, boots pounding over the concrete until they reached the staging platform by the bridge. A decon unit was in place, hazmat gear already prepped for re-entry. She reached for the suit, snapping into motion like muscle memory.
“I’ve got it,” Ethan said, stepping in to help.
She didn’t protest. Not this time. He moved quickly—mask, hood, seals—checking every clasp and strap with sharp, practiced hands. There wasn’t time for hesitation. They both knew it. Athena adjusted the mouthpiece as he finished. Her eyes flicked to him through the shield—tight with focus, but not fear. Not yet. Ethan gave her a nod. Just one.
“Go.”
She didn’t say a word. She turned and stepped through the first seal, the plastic doorway folding behind her like a curtain of glass. Then the second door. Then she was gone—disappearing into the belly of the building. Ethan stood there for a heartbeat, chest still rising and falling faster than he wanted to admit. Then he pivoted hard and headed back toward the federal command tent.
If something had gone wrong—if something happened to Buck or Bobby—someone inside that tent would know. They’d have eyes. They’d have cameras. He ducked under the tape, cut around the last vehicle, and stepped back into the ring of officials and monitors that made up the brainstem of this entire operation. And this time, no one stopped him.
He scanned for the feeds. For Buck. For any sign of what was happening on the other side of those sealed lab doors.
He needed to see.
The inside of the command tent was lit in a wash of cold fluorescents, buzzing quietly beneath the low hum of overlapping radio chatter. Military personnel and emergency operations staff hovered around the long table of monitors, speaking in clipped tones, pointing at grainy screens.
Ethan stepped in—his presence barely registering—eyes sweeping the spread of live feeds until his gaze snagged on a small monitor toward the left.
A hallway cam.
A firefighter lay collapsed in the middle of the corridor, curled onto one side, his entire frame trembling. Even through the distortion, Ethan knew that shape. That gear. That posture.
Buck.
A spike of panic surged up Ethan’s spine. His throat tightened. Jaw locked. He could hear his own pulse in his ears, loud and unforgiving.
Come on. Come on, Buck. Move.
But Buck didn’t rise.
Ethan blinked hard, dragging his eyes to the larger screen mounted in the center. A secondary angle. The lab itself. And there—Athena, suited up, stood at the interior edge of the lockdown chamber. Just inside the lowered wall. The rest of the room was sealed off. On the other side: Bobby.
No mask. Pale. Unsteady.
A thin smear of blood traced from his nose to his upper lip.
Ethan stopped breathing.
He didn't need a medical degree to understand what he was seeing. No protective gear. No backup antiviral. Blood at the nostrils.
Bobby was infected.
There was only one dose.
And it was gone.
No one said anything in the tent. No one had to. The footage played out in silence, and Ethan watched, helpless, as Athena stepped forward—to the glass. As she raised her hand, fingers splayed. Bobby mirrored her on the other side. His hand larger. Slower. They were speaking—he could tell—but the feed had no audio. Athena’s mask moved quickly. Desperately. Bobby, steadier. Then Bobby took a step back. Turned away. Moved to the heavy steel table at the center of the chamber.
And knelt.
Ethan felt the breath leave his body. He watched as Bobby folded his hands, lips moving in silent prayer. He bowed his head to the table—rested it there, pressed between his arms.
And didn’t move again.
Not even once.
Athena crumpled on the other side, falling to her knees, her whole body trembling beneath the hazmat suit. She stayed there, just beyond the glass, unable to reach him. Her sobs—unheard on the monitor—spoke louder than anything Ethan had heard all day.
He stood there in the tent, unmoving, as it sank in:
Bobby was gone.
And there was nothing left to save. Ethan turned from the monitors and pushed out of the command tent with a force that nearly tore the flap from its tether. The air outside hit him like a wall—too hot, too heavy. His vision swam, lungs fighting for rhythm. His boots found the scrub grass just off the sidewalk, and he didn’t stop until he’d stumbled to the edge of the perimeter, past a row of stanchions and temporary fencing. Then he doubled over a low bush and vomited.
There wasn’t much—his stomach was mostly empty—but it felt like everything inside him was trying to claw its way out. Heat prickled up his spine. His hands shook as they braced against his knees. He could still see Bobby’s body, still and reverent on the metal table.
Still feel the soundless collapse of Athena on the other side of the glass. Tears blurred his vision before he could blink them back. He heard footsteps before he saw them—felt their presence more than anything.
Ravi. Karen.
The way Ravi sank down next to him made it clear he’d already heard the news. Karen said nothing, but her hand found Ethan’s back, fingers steadying. And that was when Ethan cried.
Not in sharp sobs or choking grief—but the kind of tears that built and built until they spilled over without permission. Silent. Constant. Raw. Then Ethan took a long, shaky breath.
“There’s one more still inside,” he said. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Buck. I saw him. On the monitors. He’s collapsed in a hallway just outside the lab.”
Ravi blinked. “What?”
“He’s still in there. And no one’s going in for him.”
Karen looked to Ravi, startled. “You didn’t know?” Ravi shook his head, slowly. “Last I saw him, he was being led to decon. I didn’t realize—” He cut off, then immediately began shrugging out of his turnout coat. “Take mine.”
Ethan blinked.
“You’re serious?” he asked.
Ravi held the coat out, jaw clenched. “Yeah. You said he’s in the hallway, right? That’s not far past the main stairwell. You might be able to reach him.”
“He won’t be able to walk alone,” Ethan murmured.
“Then you carry him.”
Ravi grabbed his own oxygen mask and pushed it into Ethan’s hands. “Use it. People still think I’m the only one who’d go back in. You might be able to slip through.” Karen gently placed her hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “Just get him home.” Ethan nodded, eyes stinging. “Thanks.”
He pulled on the coat, adjusted the straps, and fixed the mask into place. No one stopped him as he crossed back through the staging zone and stepped into the skeletal remains of the lab building. If anything, a few soldiers waved him through, assuming he was Ravi on follow-up.
Down the stairwell—two flights, then three. His boots echoed on the cracked tile, the lights flickering overhead like ghosts. He turned the last corner—
—and there was Buck.
Slumped against the wall. One leg stretched out, the other bent. His mask had slipped off entirely. Ethan dropped to his knees. “Buck.” Buck stirred, eyes glassy. “Ethan?”
“Yeah. I got you.”
Ethan adjusted the mask. Hooked Buck’s arm around his shoulder. Hoisted him up, muscle and memory driving every motion. Together, they staggered toward the exit. Ethan didn’t look back down the hallway. Not toward the lab. Not toward the sealed room holding the reason for everything.
He couldn’t—not yet.
All that mattered now was getting Buck out.
Ethan led Buck out through the last set of doors and into the open night. The floodlights in the parking lot threw everything into harsh, artificial daylight, but the world still felt dim. Distant. Too quiet, considering what they’d just left behind.
They found a patch of concrete along the western edge of the lot, where the triage tents were thinning out and the press hadn’t reached. Buck sank down heavily against the wall, pulling his knees up, arms draped loosely over them. His breath rattled slightly—exhaustion, grief, shock—but it was steady. Ethan slid down beside him. Neither of them spoke.
They didn’t need to.
Minutes passed. A breeze stirred the air, and the faint smell of smoke still lingered, just enough to sting.
Then Ethan caught movement.
He looked up.
Athena was emerging from the building. Her gait was steady, but only just. Her shoulders tight. Her eyes red. She walked like someone who hadn’t quite decided whether to scream or crumble. She crossed the lot without looking at anyone. Not yet. Ethan watched her disappear behind the next line of tents. Buck turned his head slowly, eyes following her until she was gone. More figures followed—hazmat suits. A second team.
They went in.
Ethan’s stomach twisted. He already knew. They came out ten minutes later. The body bag was clean, sealed, reverent. But it didn’t matter. The shape inside was unmistakable. He felt Buck shift beside him—heard the shudder of breath that wasn't fully a sob, but wasn’t not one either. Ethan reached over, steadying him again, arm around his shoulders. Buck leaned into it, just slightly. It was all either of them could manage.
Eventually, Ethan blinked, and the haze around the moment began to lift. Just enough to let one thought cut through:
Someone has to tell them.
He stood slowly, nudging Buck’s knee. “I’ll be right back.” Buck didn’t say anything, but he nodded. Ethan walked across the lot, finding a quieter spot where the lights dimmed toward the end of the perimeter fence. He fished his phone from his pocket with hands that weren’t quite steady, and pressed the screen. The phone rang once. Twice. A groggy voice picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Eddie,” Ethan said, and his voice cracked on the name. “I—It’s Ethan.”
A pause.
“…What’s wrong?”
Ethan swallowed hard, trying to find the words.
“Something happened.”