Chapter 9
Clara sat in the darkness, the cold air biting through the thin fabric of her yellow floral dress as she stared across the ruined study toward the east wall. Leaving the safety of the wheelchair meant crawling across a floor littered with shattered glass, splintered wood, and the gaping hole where Dr. Harrison was still thrashing around in the crawlspace. Her head throbbed violently beneath the thick white bandages, each heartbeat sending a sharp wave of nausea through her stomach. But she knew there was no other way; the backup generator outside was beginning to sputter, its steady diesel hum dying down to an intermittent cough that signaled it was about to run out of fuel.
"You can't do it, Clara," Dr. Harrison sneered from the darkness of the hole, his voice dripping with malice and desperation.
"You can't even stand up on your own two feet without passing out from the concussion. Stay right where you are, and maybe when the investors arrive, I'll convince them to let you live in a nice, quiet facility upstate."
Clara didn't answer him. Instead, she unbuckled the safety strap across her lap, took a deep, steadying breath, and let herself slide out of the wheelchair onto the dusty, debris-strewn carpet. The impact sent a jolt of agonizing pain through her bruised ribs, but she gritted her teeth, refusing to let out a sound. She began to crawl forward on her hands and knees, using her elbows to drag herself past the jagged edges of the broken floorboards where Dr. Harrison reached out a desperate, grasping hand in the dark.
"Don't touch me!" Clara hissed, striking out with her small fist and catching him squarely on the wrist, making him yank his arm back with a curse.
She kept moving, her knees scraping against sharp fragments of glass that cut through her stockings, leaving small trails of blood on the Persian rug. The eastern bookcase loomed larger in front of her, its heavy glass doors reflecting the faint moonlight like cold, unblinking eyes. Reaching out with a trembling hand, she felt along the baseboard for the hidden floor latch that Leo had described over the intercom. Her fingers brushed against a cold metal ring, and with a sharp tug, the entire bookshelf clicked and swung outward on hidden hinges, revealing a dark, narrow utility alcove behind it.
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Inside the alcove, a heavy metal control panel hummed quietly, its surface covered in a complex array of toggle switches and flashing indicator lights. But right in the center of the panel, glowing with a bright, steady red LED, was the master jamming switch that Leo had warned her about.
Clara reached out her hand to flip the switch, but as her fingers touched the metal toggle, the red light suddenly blinked out, and a cold mechanical voice echoed from the ceiling speakers: SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE INITIATED.
