Chapter 7
The metallic click of the intercom switching off reverberated through the hallway like a gunshot. Three minutes. One hundred and eighty seconds to find a way out of a sealed, gas-filled corridor with an injured woman and two locked exits. Julian’s heart hammered against his ribs with frantic intensity.
"Julian... the floor drain," Clara wheezed, her voice weak as she pointed a trembling finger toward the base of the grand staircase.
Julian followed her gaze through the hazy green fog. Partially obscured by the expanding puddle of yellow oil was a heavy industrial floor drain, its cast-iron grate bolted down with four large hex-head screws.
"It's a drainage chute," Julian said, hope flaring momentarily in his chest. "Where does it lead?"
"The emergency stormwater runoff," Clara replied, coughing softly into her lab-coat filter. "It drops straight down into the sub-basement drainage tunnels. It’s tight, but... but it's an exit."
Without hesitating, Julian crawled through the stinging mist toward the drain, his eyes burning fiercely. He grabbed the overturned medical tray, using the heavy metal edge as an improvised wrench. He jammed the corner into the slot of the first hex screw and threw his body weight against it. The screw groaned, resisted, and then finally broke loose with a sharp, metallic snap.
"Come on," Julian muttered under his breath, sweating profusely despite the chill in the room.
He moved to the second screw, applying torque until his muscles strained and his knuckles scraped raw against the marble floor. The second screw gave way easier than the first. Behind him, the rhythmic ticking of a digital timer began to project from the overhead fire suppression system—a mechanical countdown echoing off the walls.
Two minutes, forty seconds.
"Julian, hurry!" Clara called out, her voice straining as she dragged herself across the floor toward him, leaving a faint smear of dust in her wake. The green mist was beginning to settle heavily on her shoulders, burning through the fabric of her blue scrubs.
Julian wrenched the third screw free, tossing it aside. Only one remained, but the head was stripped, spinning uselessly within the housing. He cursed under his breath, jammed the tray edge deeper into the groove, and kicked the metal with the heel of his shoe. The grate warped, the final screw shearing off with a loud metallic screech.
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He grabbed the heavy cast-iron grate and yanked it upward. It came free, clattering violently against the marble floor and releasing a rush of damp, earthy air from the dark chasm below.
Julian looked down into the pitch-black opening. From the darkness, a pair of glowing red indicator lights blinked rhythmically, signaling that someone—or something—was already down there waiting for them.
