The Great Rumbling #4
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.
They wait in silence for what feels like an eternity. The guard continues to try to check in, but no one is responding.
Outside the reinforced window, a shape flashes past. The guards all raise their weapons and aim them at the door. The guard nearest the door leans in close and places his ear to it. He instantly backs away and says to the others, “There’s movement outside the door. Prepare yourselves.”
Calder pulls Pauline to him and then moves them both closer to the interior wall, his touch steady but firm. She can feel his heartbeat as much as her own. Before anyone can react, a controlled detonation hits the door from the outside. The door jolts violently in its frame and buckles.
The lead guard steadies his rifle while shouting at his partners, “They’re trying to bring down the door!”
On the third impact, the entire door collapses inward with a grinding shriek, sending debris and smoke spilling into the ward.
The guards fire immediately, shouting commands drowned out by the echoing gunshots.
Through the smoke, figures in black tactical gear push forward—disciplined, silent, and frighteningly coordinated.
No identifiers. No insignia. Just men covered in black from head to toe with helmets on and automatic rifles, methodical movement, and precision.
The guards are down in seconds.
Pauline’s hands are shaking so violently that she can barely keep them pressed to the floor. Calder crouches beside her, bracing his back against the counter and pulling her in tighter, shielding her with his body.
The intruders sweep the ward with cold purpose, scanning beds, monitors, and IV lines.
Not a raid. Not a random assault. An operation. They’re here for the immune. The only question is, will they kill those caring for them or take them hostage? Will she live to see tomorrow?