Under the cold, pallid blue of LED flashlights, the muddied red of blood shone blackish. It was everywhere. Spattered in fine mists, slung in erratic slashes, and lathered across the floor in long streams that tapered like the tails of comets. It strung across grey metal lockers and wooden benches bolted to the floor between rows. It climbed walls of white tile that yielded halfway up to more concrete blocking. The paint of the latter, though dimmed to dingier hues by age and grime, shone brighter by grisly contrast. It was almost radiant. Almost aglow, as if clinging to some latent charge imbued by the carnage.
The shower section was accessed by a wide opening in the locker room's north wall. It was unmistakable as being the start and end for most of the violence. Desperate last flights were still perceptible where they occurred between the two areas.
Crime scenes she worked typically lent themselves to a narrative. That didn't guarantee logic or sense, but it at least implied the existence of such. Obscene implications of motive were often present. Beckett had never encountered its match. The kill room was impersonal chaos unleashed.
She wasn't even aware of the minute trembling which jiggled her vest-mounted light.
"Stay with me, Beckett."
Baritonal depth was unnervingly compounded by subterranean acoustics. By that and the unfamiliarity of the accent it bore, the voice of her companion struck the detective as belonging to a disembodied presence, as though the room itself had spoken. Stay with me, Beckett. Forever.
A more violent shiver rippled outward from her core.
With an effort, Kate forced herself a mental half-step past the surroundings and, after mustering enough saliva to manage it, asked, "You're the ballistics expert, right? What do you see?"
Logan took his time before answering, continuing a slowly walked curve at the fringes of concentrated gore until he occupied a position at her far left. At some point he'd detached the torch from his vest to direct its beam more selectively. "Devastation. Hysteria. Mercilessness." Each intonation struck clearly for being isolated by individual consideration. "Medium caliber bores," he continued while leaning closer to study one of the bullet holes punched in the tile. "Ah'd guess Luger-nines."
"Huh?"
"Nine-by-nineteen parabellums. Notice the scarcity of impact points? Whadda we 'ave here? A couple full clips worth by mah count. Nowhere near 'nough tah account fah the carnage in the pool, not even if ya assume some rounds remained lodged in the victims."
Beckett turned to direct her light across the area again. "Hmm. Got some possible congruence to that. Once you get past the shock of its spread, there doesn't seem to be as much blood as there ought to either."
"Not the kill room aft'ah all."
"It was for plenty of those people," the detective pointed out. "There's also the locker room Bielsa and Hoffman are checking. Maybe they split their victims into separate groups." She paused after saying so. They. It seemed like a safe assumption for the time being, but a simple change of pluralization brokered a whole slew of questions she wasn't accustomed to asking in her cases.
"Ah dun think so."
Beckett frowned. "Why not? That's a lot of bodies. You wouldn't be able to fit them all in here at once. Well, maybe you could, but you wouldn't be able to maintain control. No one who was marched into a room like this would have any illusions about what was happening to them." She forced the words past her lips and out of her mind before they could conjure much accompanying imagery. "Look at the castoff patterns. Some of the victims tried to flee. Maybe some even fought back. If that were the case with all of them, someone would have gotten away."
"How do we know they didn't?" The other shook his head before she could reply, adding, "Ah think we need a clos'ah look at the bodies. Let the dead speak for 'emselves. Wager they'll tell us plenty. Ain't nothin' else tah see in 'ere." The mercenary didn't wait for her to agree or fail to before making his way to the entrance leading back to the main pool area.
As gruesome of a scene as the locker room proved to be, it was harder to leave than it had been to enter. The absence of any meaningful answers made it feel like Kate was ducking out for her own benefit as she accompanied her fellow. It felt like they were abandoning the place prematurely.
Castle would have perceived more if he were with them.
I owe you big time, Kirkland. Keeping him far from here was the right call. Part of her relief was for the author's sake but she was grateful on her own behalf too. She wasn't prepared to hear whatever story he'd tell on behalf of a room like that.
In the interim of the others' detour, the M.E. and CSU technician had discarded their helmets and tac vests and laid out some of their gear. Two tripod-mounted crime-scene lights were erected near the swimming area. The spill of yellow-white luminescence over the mound of corpses brought Kate to a rigid halt.
Forewarning counted for almost nothing.
The mass grave was surreal. Isolated limbs protruded here and there, hands and feet frozen in what looked like static attempts to wave for assistance or kick towards freedom. The cadavers were in poor condition. Most still bore a version of mummified flesh. It clung, splotched and discolored, like brownish leather pulled taut across the jut and curve of bone. The influence of the storm was already becoming apparent. It was rendering bodies near the waterline into pallid, rubbery-looking mockeries of humanity. The worst affected were sloughing off their skin as if it were an ill-fitting costume. It looked like they were melting off the bone and into one another, fusing into a single pitiful entity.
The horror blurred beneath a sudden gush of scalding tears.
Bielsa and Hoffman returned from their exploration across the way. The ranking ESU agent hissed at the sight to greet them. "Who the hell gave you two the all-clear to set up shop?! Dios mio."
Lanie and Joseph paused in their respective tasks and looked at each other.
"Aren't we on the clock?" the latter asked.
"More than we knew," the M.E. answered. She looked up at where the ceiling was caved in. Hazy light shone centrally from the foyer above, but it's influence was meager. Dimness forbade clarity beyond occasional glimpses of splintered beams, broken pipes, and squashed sections of ventilation. Several streams of water poured in through the gap and were spattering against the pool bottom. "I don't think there's going to be much left here after the storm passes."
"This thing is huge," Hoffman stated dubiously with a turning glance over the cavity. His gaze and the play of his flashlight beam studiously avoided the mass at its middle.
The medical examiner looked at Joseph.
"Uh. It depends," the younger doctor hedged. "Our region isn't typically subject to high levels of rainfall, comparatively speaking. There have been instances of forty to fifty inches of rain in the southern states from a single hurricane, which is enough to fill, say, ten million or so pools of this size."
"Whoa," Beckett spouted.
"Yes, well, that isn't what we tend to be subjected to. Far from it. Combine that with the fact that Harbinger is technically a nor'easter, a storm of mid-latitude origin—"
"Just give us a number," Bielsa interjected with an impatient sigh.
"An approximation is all I could hope to offer. But," he added hurriedly when the woman scowled, "if we compare it to similar storms in the past… Actually, that's a bit tricky. Nor'easters typically produce snow rather than rain, and while the conversion between the two is rather simple, there are variables dependent upon the type of snowfall. It's moisture content, for example." He stopped upon noticing that the group as a whole had taken to frowning at him. "We might expect anywhere between three and eight inches of rain from Harbinger."
"That's not so bad," Hoffman said. He looked around at the others. "Is it?"
Dr. Hawkins arched an eyebrow. "One inch of rainfall within the dimensions of a single acre produces upwards of one hundred tons of water. That's a little under thirty-thousand gallons. If the total precipitation in this immediate area doesn't exceed six inches, you're still looking at enough to fill this pool to almost the one-quarter mark of its six-foot depth."
"It's underground though," Hoffman pointed out.
"Mm," Hawkins hummed ponderously. "A fair point, yes. I was being irresponsibly optimistic. This island's surface area has been graded by three separate pre-construction phases. It's nearly flat. Low points like this sub-level could potentially accrue several other surrounding acres worth of runoff. Gravity works against us."
"I-I thought underground would be better," Hoffman corrected apologetically.
"Ah. Er…"
"That's not even taking into account Hurricane Dell," Lanie said with a look at Bielsa. "The last storm analysis I saw placed it only twenty-six hours behind Harbinger."
"It also doesn't factor in storm surge," Hawkins tacked on. "We're sitting squarely in the middle of a full moon. If the last-known timeline holds, both Harbinger and Dell will be making their respective landfalls at or around high tide. Quite unfortunate. Waves are likely to exceed NoBro's seawall. It's not unrealistic to imagine that some of them, the worst, might prove capable of striking the west edge of the island and making significant headway inland across its breadth."
"You guys, I think you've made your point," Beckett intervened. "Do what you have time to do."
"Putrefaction has sealed the bodies together almost like glue," the M.E. reported with a shake of her head. "There isn't much we can do. We'd need scaffolding and a small-scale crane to lift them apart from one another one-by-one while someone else slowly separates the tissues to avoid causing damage."
"Well, we don't have a goddamn crane, Lanie."
Dr. Parrish sent her a sharp look.
Ah, shit. Nice one, Katie.
Her besty's plump lips conformed to a checked line of anger. She took a breath, snapped her attention back to Joseph, and said, "Keep taking samples. DNA might be the only way we end up having to identify them. I'll photograph. Grab a headset. We'll have to notate together as best we can while we work."
"Hoffman, take the east doorway," Bielsa ordered tiredly. "I've got west. Beckett—"
"I stayed behind to help out here," the detective interrupted. She touched lightly at Lanie's right shoulder. An immediate stiffness invaded before the M.E. cast a blank look to the side at her. "That's what I'm gonna do. If you can still use the extra pair of hands?"
"Hands," Lanie stipulated back at her. "I've got no use for that mouth."
Beckett snorted before she could check herself.
The other woman smiled weakly and bent to retrieve a camera that sat atop its hard-plastic carrying case nearby. It was a bulky digital one. She tugged a pair of blue latex gloves out of a box of them and offered those as well. "We don't need scaling. Rather, we don't have time for it. Just keep taking shots. Get me a wide angle of a victim first and then any zoomed captures. It'll help keep track of where to look for closer examination later. I hope," she added with a sigh. "Um, we're looking for wound sites or any other candidates for COD. They might be difficult to discern at this point, so grab a shot of anything that looks hinky. I'm not seeing much at first glance," she mused aloud with a look over the horrible pile-up. "We can't rule out a chemical or biological agent. Don't touch them, okay?"
"Ten-four."
"And leave your helmet on, honey. The wind must be gaining momentum up top. It's been kicking branches and other loose debris down through the hole. Logan, she's gonna need help getting in and out of the pool."
"Thanks a bunch," Beckett muttered privately, and her besty gave an unabashed wink.
Revenge is an ugly thing.
As the M.E. and her CSU counterpart resumed their respective tasks, the detective advanced to where Logan already waited near one of the ladders affixed to the pool's side. Bielsa joined them there to scour the piles of debris below with a distrustful eye. Some of the conical formations were several feet high. Her flashlight beam sent shadows lurching and swooping like massive, startled birds.
"What'd you find in the other locker room?" Beckett asked the ESU agent.
"Nothing. Scattered junk. You?"
Kate exchanged a look with Logan.
"Ah'll explain," the mercenary rumbled and nodded toward the pool. "Go'on ahead."
The detective clambered awkwardly down the rungs and levered herself from its bottom step with her lower half dangling She didn't attempt dipping into full extensions of her arms overhead for a lesser fall distance. Even stopping halfway hurt. With a grunt, the detective dropped to the pool bottom. Ankle-deep water splashed up around her calves and thighs. The chill fluid was murkier than what streamed in from above. It was brownish and soupy with a malignant viscosity. The surface looked oily. It shone under her light with faint whorls of iridescence that shifted amidst ripples of disturbance.
The stench of rot was almost dizzying.
Logan bent to one knee and held the camera and gloves down to her. He rose in the wake of the exchange and gave the area a searching look. "Ah'm gonna see 'bout findin' an extension for the ladder. They oughta have a few stored somewhere in 'ere. Ah won't be far. If you need outta there quickly, you jus' holler an' ah'll be back 'fore ya can spit."
He held her gaze solidly until Kate responded with an acknowledging, "Okay."
Bielsa kept pace as the mercenary stepped away. The low murmur of their conversation was quickly drowned out by the reverberations of waterspouts ushering in rainfall.
It seemed as though the same forces of chance working so diligently against them had initially favored an attempt at justice. The most recent cave-in had yielded plenty of impediments to Kate's footing but most of it had fallen beyond the bodies. The result was a little bewildering. A first-glance flight of fancy sealed in the image of a pair of massive hands sheltering the victims beneath cupped clasps of protectiveness while the upstairs had crashed down around them.
You're looking for an act of mercy where there was none.
The flash of the camera was powerful. It whined softly amidst each quick recharge. The stark whiteness it lent each body was gut-wrenching. Being there to help didn't lessen the sense of intruding upon the sanctity of the grave. I'm sorry. Gaping, empty eye sockets drilled against at the flimsy veneer of her composure. I'm sorry. Skeletal mouths hung wide in an unending chorus of agony. Soundlessness didn't stop her skin from prickling. The detective could almost feel what wasn't audible. I—I'm so sorry.
Beckett made her way haltingly around the larger base of the pile, snapping images as she went. It was difficult to tell what parts belonged to which corpse, or what might be injury or the result of decay. She stated as much to the pair working above, but Lanie's reply was to just keep capturing what she could.
The observations being recorded above were terse and littered with medical jargon that the detective couldn't decipher. Most of it seemed to concern establishing times of death. One instance she overheard in which the two swapped to plainer language was enough to make Kate wish they hadn't.
"I'm feeling a bit out of my depth here," Joseph stated in low tones. "I've never actually seen this level of premortem damage. Look at them. Their toes are curled. Their hands are fisted." He stopped, stripped off one of his gloves and glasses, and wiped a palm down sweaty and rain-slicked features. "Few wound sites I've found would pose immediate lethality. These injuries weren't about causing damage. They maximized pain. These people were tortured. To death in some cases. I bet if we opened them up we'd find vascular and circulatory collapse from prolonged exposures to autonomic chemicals. COD in most cases would be stress-induced ventricular arrhythmias that led to cardiac arrest."
"I'm not interested in betting or guessing. You're in my world today, Hawkins, and it's built on facts. Keep working. And keep your voice down." Beckett spared an upward glance at Lanie's face, only half apparent in the gloom, which revealed the same unease in the CSU technician's tone.
What the hell have we stumbled upon down here?
"Detective, may I have your assistance?" She lowered the camera and stepped around the base of bodies to see Joseph leaning outward from the pool edge, tentatively grasping the shoulders of one of the corpses. "Can you reach from below? Push between the shoulder blades if you can. I'm," he paused with a grunt of effort, "I'm trying to turn her a little to your left."
Grimacing, Beckett allowed the digital camera to drape by the cord about her neck. By stretching onto the tips of her toes she managed to provide some added pressure.
She almost tumbled forward into the pile of rotted flesh when the body tore loose with a sickening sound and a sudden plume of dark particles. A windmilling of the detective's arms arrested the momentum. Steadiness had barely been reclaimed when an ear-splitting alarm sounded to life and filled the area by single-second bursts. It was so jarring she nearly fell over backward instead.
"What the fuck is that?!" she heard Bielsa shouting.
"I don't know!" Lanie called back. "Joseph—
"Shit!" the CSU tech interrupted shrilly. "VOC alarm! Get out!"
The high-pitched command for evacuation overrode any and all confusion. The painful shrieking hardly registered over the pounding of Beckett's heart as she churned out a sluggish retreat from the pile and back through labyrinthine heaps of ruin. Amidst her urgency, they appeared far less steady constructs. She flinched inwardly while passing them by, expecting at every turn for something to fall through the hole above and send the ungainly towers careening down upon her. Each awkward lunge forward was stymied and sucked at by the diseased-looking water. Impediments beneath the surface rolled underfoot. Beckett swore aloud when one of them sent her tripping forward. She heard the panic in her voice. A secondary flash of the same sensation pitched and rolled in her stomach like a hunk of solid ice upon seeing the pool edge above unoccupied.
"Logan, go!" she heard Hoffman bellow. But the mercenary appeared into view instead. Dimly lit, unholy in all black and a compliment of deadly weaponry, he nonetheless shone to Beckett like a winged godsend. He dropped onto his stomach with his arms lowered just as she reached the wall and used her remaining speed to kick off and up.
A supercharged rush of exultation greeted his gloved hands snapping closed around hers.
Gotcha!
Then all the world flashed white and agony blasted outward across her sternum and chest. The sharp resistance and sensitivity imposed by scarring and freshly mended tendons and bone felt like being shot for a second time. Kate tried to scream as she was pulled aloft and couldn't. There wasn't enough breath in her lungs and no fresh supply was manageable. A tight and fierce ache crackled through her jaw, shot wide in the attempt of uncooperative sound.
Without pause after the terrible hoist, she was dragged bodily, lifted—ushered. Through a storm of fiery specks exploding before her field of vision, Beckett glimpsed her legs moving clumsily beneath her. All sense of computation or direction was lost.
The blackness of the double-door entrance startled her when it appeared, but recognition of the choked confines of the west hallway spurred her to action. She instinctively threw herself toward it and tore free from the unprepared grasp of the mercenary. The rough landing dazed her, but Kate sucked in a sob of relief to feel its unyielding solidity under her. Dry land at last.
Mercifully, awareness returned by swift leaps and bounds from there. Looming, shifting blurs of darkness around her resolved into the shape of her companions.
"—the fuck was that?" Bielsa was shouting again.
"VOC alarm," Joseph replied gaspingly, bent to one knee close by.
"Volatile organic compounds," Lanie clarified. "It's one of the warnings from the air quality meter we brought in with us. Something triggered it."
"Shit," Hoffman ejected in a strangled voice. "What's that mean? A biological agent after all?"
"No," Joseph grunted.
"Something like that would've pinged sooner," the M.E. explained.
Gradually, the hallway quieted from urgent gasps for breath to more controlled rhythms. The outcry of the alarm was deactivated by then. Beckett had no clear recollection of the moment it ceased. Most of the path between the pool bottom and the door was a painful haze.
Lanie turned from the hall confines to the second sub-level doorway while sweeping several strands of wild hair back from her brow. She gazed aside at Dr. Hawkins. "What was it? Did you see?"
"I saw it," the other answered grimly. "Spores. Mold, I think. Some of it was kicked up into the air when Beckett and I pulled two of the bodies apart from one another. I've never seen that kind of concentrated growth before. It was like a carpet of pitch black."
"Oh man," Lanie said and backed another step away from the room's entry. "Black mold? Stachybotrys? That's not good. If there's black mold, there's going to be a host of others, probably at higher concentrations. What levels did it record?"
Joseph stood and unclipped a device from his waist that resembled a small walkie-talkie. Soft red light filled its little screen along with black digital numbers. He turned it upright for study, frowned with his gaze drifting to one side in calculation. His eyebrows arose. "Whoa. Ten million per cubic meter."
Lanie put a hand to her brow. "Holy shit."
"Dense, but that isn't inherently dangerous."
"Hey, how about you lay it out for the rest of us," Bielsa demanded. "What's the situation?" Ulan and Eamon's flashlight beams played over them from the stairwell. The glow and contrasting etch of shadow carved ferocity deeply into the ESU agent's face. "Are we in trouble or aren't we?"
"I...I can't say for certain. We probably aren't."
Dr. Parrish shook her head and faced Bielsa. "It's a problem in damp and decaying buildings like this. Sometimes there's mold. In rare cases, like this one, you'll find a species called stachybotrys chartarum, or black mold, which can be dangerous."
"Its growing on the bodies?"
"It likely grew elsewhere and settled on them after the more recent collapse," Joseph suggested.
"And now it's growing on them too," the M.E. concluded with a swift look at the other. "Listen, we might be fine. Not all colonies of black mold produce mycotoxins that make them dangerous, and some that do stop for reasons we don't fully understand."
"The problem is: we have no way of discerning which we're dealing with," her companion said.
"The problem," Lanie took over again firmly, "is that we've been disturbing the area simply by walking through it. The fungi's conidia and any toxins that might have settled after their initial release are getting kicked up into the air again. Worse than that is all of this rain. Satratoxin-H isn't soluble in water."
"Oh damn," Hawkins murmured. "That's true. I didn't think of—
"What the hell does that mean?" the Segreant demanded.
"It means," Lanie continued patiently, "we've been getting dripped on by potentially contaminated water ever since we entered the hospital. We could be lathered in it at this point."
"Wha-what does this shit do? Are we gonna get sick?"
The medical examiner chewed one edge of her lower lip. "I can't answer that. I'm no mycologist, and to my limited knowledge of the subject the science itself is somewhat hit-and-miss. Infection varies depending on factors that aren't entirely clear. There have been clinical studies done with rats that were exposed to high concentrations of black mold over a much longer timespan and they didn't show any negative symptoms. But there are other cases where—
"Mierde," the ESU agent snarled. "The short version, por favor. Assuming the worst."
"There's no reason to assume the worst," Joseph interjected, and this time Lanie nodded in agreement. "Your body can mimic becoming symptomatic simply by allowing yourself to dwell on the matter from that kind of extreme mindset. We don't even know for certain what species of mold it really is. It does appear to be stachybotrys chartarum, but that's still only a guess. There's no cause for alarm."
"Someone needs to answer my question right fucking now," Bielsa seethed with her jaw clenched. The demand was made all the more concerning from the way she clenched the grip of her weapon. Hoffman rose away into a wary, straighter stance at her side. "What does it do?"
Logan looked at Beckett and arched an eyebrow.
Yeah, I see it. Hard not to.
Their civilian counterparts exchanged glances as well.
Lanie hesitantly replied, "Symptoms run a pretty extensive list of candidacy. It could be as innocuous as epidermal disturbances like rashes or sores. Our eyes might redden and itch. Or we might experience headaches, nosebleeds, or nausea. It could be all of the above and more, like excessive weariness and soreness. Respiratory and circulatory issues have been documented. It can cause hyperthermia, chest pain, and even pulmonary hemorrhaging—uh, bleeding in the lungs. Satratoxin-H is also neurotoxic. That introduces elements of psychological distress like sudden onset depression and erratic changes in mood or cognitive processing. In extreme cases, people have experienced hallucinations. It can wreak havoc on the immune system, thereby inviting a wide host of other illnesses."
"Holy fucking hell," Hoffman expelled softly. He took the words right out of Beckett's mouth.
Neither of the doctors had used the specific word, but death was firmly implied as a possibility. For a moment, Beckett was back in the Nurse's dormitory with the stench of rot seeping out from behind its walls. Was it there too? Was Castle exposed? It wasn't the same as squaring off against an enemy she could outwit or outgun. The thought of getting sick and losing more time, perhaps all of what remained to her, evoked a unique chill of helplessness and apprehension.
Logan asked, "Y'all don't think we're actually in for that kinda trouble, do ya?"
"There is absolutely no reason to assume so," Joseph stated firmly. "Even assuming the mold here is toxic, the team's occupancy has been brief and we've disturbed little of the environment. Our cautious advance in the interest of stealth has served us well in this additional respect. Bear in mind: the listed symptoms occur over time and in the absence of treatment, the latter of which is readily available as soon as we get back to the mainland. We're going to be fine."
A quick glance at Lanie's neutral features didn't add much support for his optimism.
"However," Dr. Hawkins continued with a nod, "in light of the rain and its potential complications by way of exposure risks, I agree with Dr. Parrish. It would be wise to leave. We'll have to return after the storm has passed with the appropriate safeguards."
Hoffman grunted. "That's music to my ears. Whaddaya say, Sarge?"
Sergeant Bielsa was noticeably pale. Her dark eyes were still fastened to the doctors before her but the woman's actual focus seemed to have outpaced their presences. By miles.
"Sarge," Hoffman reiterated with a nudge of his elbow into her right side.
The female ESU agent startled back to awareness. Her wild eyes swept from Lanie and Joseph to Hoffman and back again. She swallowed thickly, wiped the back of one hand across her brow. "Y-yeah. Si. Let's...let's go." She took a fortifying breath. "Hell yes, let's go. Fuck this isla de corrupción."
A chorused rumbling arose in unanimous agreement. No translation needed.
"Hoffman, uh, take point. Beckett—
"Already on it," Kate assured while tuning her radio to the second team's frequency. It might only be the hospital that was rotten within, but the site the other team was headed toward—the tuberculosis pavillon Rick had called it—was just as old and neglected. A word of warning now ought to safely precede their arrival. She followed after Lanie and Joseph with Logan bringing up the rear. "Kirkland, call back on," she paused to check the frequency lights for availability and stopped in her tracks.
"Whoa," Logan issued, pausing after a near collision against her back.
A small green light identified open channels. Blinking designated those that were occupied and receiving traffic. All of the indicators on her radio were showing solid red lights.
"I'm offline. What gives?" She started to announce as much to their agent in charge, but Bielsa was already frowning and slapping her radio against an open palm. The admittedly inane attempt of repair didn't furbish a positive result, evident by the fact that the woman marched determinedly ahead to where Ulan and Eamon were waiting. The others hustled along in her wake.
"Are you up on coms?" she snapped without preamble.
"Negative," Eamon answered for the twins. "They've been down for ten minutes or so."
Bielsa scowled and gestured sharply back the way they'd come. "You didn't see fit to share that information when it happened?"
"Thought you knew," the emerald-eyed giant returned evenly. It was a fair assumption, but it didn't take into account the terrible authority the pool and locker rooms imposed by way of distraction. "It's—" Eamon paused when the group was bathed by two quick flashes of light shone down from what looked to be the hospital's ground floor. The signal was echoed afterward by a pair of flashes from the team on the level directly above. The pattern was blinked back upward by Ulan even as his brother reported, "No contact. We're still clear, just dark."
"Shit," Bielsa muttered.
"Is the storm already that bad?" Lanie asked.
The question brought on a spell of silence rather than an answer. Within the lack, the pounding rain was audible above. Insistent gusts whistled through narrow gaps and moaned its way through larger architectural weak spots. Loose debris was being scattered around, even tumbling down with occasional clatters into the room they had recently exited. It sounded busy up top but not ferocious as yet.
"What's the procedure in the event of communication loss?" Dr. Hawkins asked at length. "Is Kirkland going to stop and backtrack to us?"
"Maybe. Maybe not given the time crunch," Bielsa answered, her expression uncertain. "We were expecting to be here for an hour or more. He might assume he has time to continue on and make it back before we'd be ready to leave."
"We sure as hell don't want to go and risk missing them in this storm," Hoffman assessed worriedly. "It sounds worse than when we came inside at the very least. By the time Kirkland comes here, realizes we left, and continues on to the ferry landing, we could be facing trouble on the river. That big bitch of a boat has power, but it isn't nimble. We're close to the hellmouth and surrounded by shallows."
Lanie looked at Kate with a flash of concern. Yeah. Their prior conversation about taking an unsought dip in near-freezing water was intruding at the forefront of the detective's mind, too.
"No," Bielsa decided firmly. "If their radios also went down, Kirkland would come back. He'd do it if only to avoid a fuck-up."
"That sounds right to me, too," Beckett agreed. "He'd put safety first."
"Alright. Docs, what kind of exposure are we risking if we maintain a position in the foyer near the front doors while we wait for the other team to come back?"
"We can take another reading once we're there," Lanie suggested. "But it'll be a lot better. There's very little ventilation down here. That's why the number is so high."
"Fine. Let's move it," Bielsa said grimly.
A/N: Surprise.
Yeah, I goddamn refuse to give up on this. It just can't be allowed. I wanna send out a quick thank you to readers who've intermittently prodded at me. I do savor these moments of answering you guys with a little showing versus telling. A grander round of appreciation is owed to our peer on the site, Stratan, who is capably and generously braving a stormy sea of typos and grammatical errors (and maybe a couple of spoilers) as my beta. Thank you again. Simply discussing things together brings the fire beneath this tale back to life. I hope time and opportunity lets us see this through the rest of the way together. It would be a better story for it.