Chapter 79 - The Gavel of Flesh
When I burst through the doors of Isolation Suite 402, the smell of sterile medical gas was already clearing.
Ethan was standing near the door, his rifle slung, holding a warm emergency blanket. Becker was tied to an IV stand in the corner, silenced with duct tape.
And there, sitting up on the hospital bed, was my son.
Leo's dark curly hair was matted with sweat. His brown eyes—David’s eyes—blinked against the harsh fluorescent light, looking around the strange, terrifying room. Beside him, Maya was sitting cross-legged, clutching her worn grey rabbit, her lower lip quivering as silent tears rolled down her chubby cheeks.
"Mama?" Leo’s voice was barely a squeak, cracked from months of a breathing tube.
The rifle slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly against the linoleum.
I dropped to my knees beside the bed. I didn't care about the blood on my tactical vest, the dirt on my hands, or the war echoing through the mountain above us. I wrapped my arms around both of them, pulling them into my chest so tightly I could feel the wild, frantic beating of their tiny hearts against my ribs.
"Mama’s here," I sobbed, burying my face in Maya’s soft hair, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent of my babies that had survived the nightmare. "Mama’s here. I’m sorry... I’m so sorry it took me so long. I’m right here."
Maya buried her face in my neck, her small hands gripping the collar of my vest with terrifying strength. "Mama... the bad men wouldn't let us wake up. Daddy said to wait for you."
My entire body went completely still.
The warmth that had rushed through my veins turned to ice water.
I slowly pulled back, looking into Maya’s tear-stained face. "What did you say, baby?"
"Daddy," Maya whimpered, pointing her small finger toward the heavy steel blast door at the very back of the pediatric recovery room—a door reinforced with hydraulic locking bars and a glowing bio-hazard symbol. "Daddy was in the other room. He sang my song through the wall every time the lights went off."
I looked up at Ethan.
Ethan’s face was completely drained of color. He stepped past the beds, raising his tactical flashlight toward the heavy steel door Maya had pointed to.
A digital brass plaque was bolted to the cold steel: *SUBJECT ZERO — RETENTION & NEURAL EXTRACTION.*
The crash six months ago.
The three coffins.
May you like
Arthur hadn't just stolen my children.
***
