Chapter 6: Into the Subterranean Labyrinth
The muffled curses of the mercenaries outside the linen room echoed through the thick metal door as they realized their path was blocked by tons of commercial laundry and steel shelving. Marcus didn't wait for them to fetch breaching tools. He swept the beam of his tactical flashlight across the back wall of the cramped storage space, locating the small, square access panel marked Air Intake 4B.
“Here,” Marcus said, holstering his sidearm for a precious few seconds to unclip the four industrial butterfly screws holding the metal grate in place. The rusted screws fought back against his bare hands, but with a sharp twist and a low grunt, the top fasteners gave way. He kicked the bottom of the grate inward, and it clattered loudly into the dark ventilation shaft beyond.
Clara shifted Toby in her arms, wincing as a sharp cramp shot through her right shoulder. “He can’t crawl through a vent, Marcus. The dust and restricted airflow will trigger a severe asthma attack even with the cannula.”
“He won't have to crawl,” Marcus replied, pulling a heavy-duty tactical harness from his vest and wrapping the sturdy nylon straps securely around his torso. “I’m going to carry him strapped to my chest. You take the rear guard with your broken broom handle and my spare sidearm.”
He held out a compact polymer pistol, the grip warm from his holster. Clara stared at the firearm for a second, her hands shaking. She had never fired a gun in her life, her world consisting of scalpels, gauze, and bedside charts. But looking back at the blocked door, where heavy thuds signaled the mercenaries were beginning to hack through the shelving units with a fire axe, she took the weapon. The cold steel felt terrifyingly heavy.
“Keep the safety on until you’re ready to pull the trigger,” Marcus instructed calmly, sliding Toby gently against his chest and securing the boy with three overlapping safety buckles. Toby murmured softly in his sleep, his small head resting against his father’s uniform collar right above a row of polished campaign medals. “Stick close to my heels. The shaft drops down about ten feet before leveling out into the old utility tunnels.”
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Marcus climbed into the dark opening first, disappearing headfirst into the metallic void. Clara took a deep, steadying breath, gripped the polymer pistol in her right hand while keeping the oxygen tank slung securely over her left shoulder, and scrambled into the vent after them.
The metal tube was narrow, smelling of stale air, decades of accumulated dust, and the metallic tang of ozone. Behind them, the muffled sound of the door finally giving way was punctuated by the sharp crack of a shotgun blast echoing inside the linen room.
