Part Two
"What are we going to do? What are we going to do? What are we going to do?" Abby had resumed her pacing and her frantic muttering. Her heeled boots clicked against the tilted floor and her belt chain jangled.
"I don't suppose those drawers are large enough to hide all of us?" Harry joked as Ducky tried his best to stem the blood flow and wrap the wound. Harry was trying not to wince violently, but was having a bit of trouble with that.
"I'm sure Petty Officer Banks would be grateful for the company," Ducky replied jovially, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "I admit I don't often have live patients, but that should be okay for now." He frowned. "We do really need to get you to a hospital, Mr Layne."
"Tell me about it," Harry muttered. "You don't have any resistance from me. The terrorists on the other hand . . ."
Abby cut Harry off as she stopped pacing and shook her head. "Nuhuh, you can't say terrorist in here," she told him. "Ducky's rule." She paused. "I like it. Rule One: Don't mention terrorists in Autopsy. You should start a collection, Duckman! Rule Two could be: Just because he doesn't talk back doesn't mean he's not a good conversationalist. Number Three . . ."
"Abigail, please," Ducky scolded mildly, patting Harry fondly on the shoulder. He moved away and pulled off his protective scrubs; he'd swapped into a clean pair after they had pulled Harry onto a table.
"I'm sorry, Ducky," Abby sighed as Ducky helped Harry to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the autopsy table. "I'm just worried and when I'm worried I talk too much and say nonsense things and . . . I'm doing it now, aren't I?"
"We need to concentrate on what's important here," Ducky said finally, after a moment's pause. "One: we need to find a way to contact someone outside the building. Unless you can hack into the Navy Yard cameras, Abby, then we have no idea what is going on outside. Two: Mr Layne needs medical attention and I can't give it to him here. Three: we need to make sure that we do not become hostages ourselves."
"Easy for you to say, Doctor," Palmer pointed out. "But how exactly do we do those things? Phones are down, we can't get Harry out unless we risk running into the te– bad guys, and in saying that, they're probably on their way down here as we speak!"
"No need to be overdramatic, Mister Palmer." Ducky nodded. "But you are correct. We need a way to defend ourselves if we must. I cannot guarantee the contamination lockdown will hold."
"They disarmed me," Harry croaked out, clutching his stomach and looking rather pale. "Sorry. But I guess one gun wouldn't be much help with many."
"What if . . ." Abby started slowly. "What if we had more than one gun? Think about it for a minute. Even if we can't fight them, we can at least try and defend ourselves."
"And where, pray tell, do you expect to find some guns lying around?" Ducky asked.
Abby raised her hand timidly. "I've been backlogging and cataloguing old evidence from the late nineties, digitalising it and all that." She paused. "There are a few guns and some ammunition in with that lot, I think." Abby paused again. "I'd have to get to my lab, though."
Ducky shook his head. "We cannot be sure that they're not already on their way down here. We cannot risk getting caught off guard. It . . ."
"Well it beats sitting down here and doing nothing!" Abby burst out. "Don't you get it! There are terrorists, actual real-life breathing terrorists, taking NCIS hostage and you just want to sit here and do nothing! At least this way we'd at least have a chance!"
"Of getting killed," Ducky snapped. "We cannot risk it."
"No . . ." Abby said slowly. "We cannot risk it, but I can. I'll go to my lab and get the guns."
"Absolutely not!" Ducky roared. "I am not letting you put yourself in harm's way! What would Jethro think?"
"Well, Jethro is stuck being a hostage," Abby spat. "It's obvious that they can't do anything. And do you really think I'm going to sit around and let my friends be killed without trying to do something to stop it?" Abby shook her head determinedly. "I'm getting the guns."
"Abigail . . ."
"No. No. You don't get to Abigail me, Ducky." Abby shook her head again. "I've made up my mind." She stuck her nose in the air. "I'm going to get those guns."
"I'll go with you," Palmer volunteered before he even really knew what he was saying. He paused and blushed. "I mean, uh . . . um, erm . . ." He sighed. "Yeah, I'll go with you."
"That's not necessary," Abby told him quickly.
"Yeah, I think it is." Palmer was surprised that his wave of calm had returned just as he was about to embark on what could be a suicide mission. "You cannot go by yourself, Abby, and Doctor Mallard is the only qualified doctor. He needs to stay here. That leaves me . . . Jimmy Palmer."
Abby gave him a long, searching look but then nodded. "Okay." She rubbed her temples. "Okay. Jimmy will come with me and the Duckman will stay here with my favourite security guard. Yes, that's what we'll do."
"And I can't talk you out of it?" Ducky implored.
She shook her head firmly. "We're going to my lab."
Ducky sighed, resigned. "But be careful," he warned.
"We will." Abby nodded as she picked up the second flashlight; Ducky had dropped it in his haste to get to Harry. "I promise." She turned to Palmer. "So, Black Lung, you ready to go?"
Palmer gulped . . . and nodded.
"It's so quiet," Palmer whispered as he and Abby inched their way along the darkened stairwell. Thankfully, they'd soon be back where there were windows and the eerie darkness that only seemed to intensify the severity of their situation would be banished.
"Well yeah, Palmer," Abby replied sarcastically, swinging the flashlight she was carrying into his face. "We don't want to go spooking the terrorists, now do we?"
Palmer winced and shielded his eyes from the light with his arm. "You don't think they . . ." Palmer started, but Abby held up a hand and stopped abruptly which effectively cut Palmer off.
He all but ran into Abby's back as she stopped. "Wha . . .?"
"Did you hear that?" Abby cut him off again.
"Hear what? I don't hear anything." Palmer glanced around nervously as if a bullet would suddenly materialise from thin air.
"Shhh," Abby shushed in annoyance. She was straining her ears; she was sure she'd heard something above them.
"Abby, I don't think . . ."
There was a loud thud and a clatter. Abby gasped audibly and Palmer yelped, grabbing onto the back of Abby's black and white t-shirt in fear. He wondered for a moment how he could swing from being calm and confident to terrified in zero to sixty, but then Abby jerked him from his thoughts.
"Palmer!" Abby hissed, twisting her head around to glare at the medical assistant. "Get your hands off me."
"Wha . . . what do you think that was?" Palmer gulped, ignoring Abby altogether.
"I'm sure it's nothing," Abby replied slowly, though her voice wavered.
"But . . ."
Abby shook her head. "We need to keep moving."
"What if they're waiting for us up there?" Palmer asked quietly as Abby pulled his hands from her top.
"What if they're waiting for us down there?" Abby echoed, taking a tentative step forward.
Palmer stumbled as he lost his grip on Abby. Abby sighed and reached out to steady him before he could tumble back down the stairs. They glanced at each other for a moment before Abby finally said,
"We need to go." She took another step forward, more confidently this time, and motioned for Palmer to follow.
Palmer took a deep breath and nodded. Abby was right; they needed to keep going. And the sooner they reached Abby's lab, the sooner they could get back to Doctor Mallard and Harry.
"Right." Palmer wrung his hands nervously. "Off we go."
Slowly and carefully, Abby and Palmer inched along one step at a time. Although they were only going up one level, in the shadowy darkness and with the threat hanging over their heads, it felt as though they were walking to the very top of the tallest building in D.C.
"We must be almost there?" Palmer whispered, breathing heavily. He was so on guard, so tense, that he was certain any small movement would either send him careening into Abby or back down the stairs.
"I hope so," Abby muttered and to her great relief, they stepped into the corridor that led to her lab.
It was still dark, the lights were still completely useless, but the promise of light from the little half windows she had in her lab were enough to slowly push the pair forwards. Tentatively, they made their way around the corridors, feeling as though they were inside a labyrinth instead of an easily navigable government building.
But then they heard the voices.
This time it wasn't a figment of Abby's imagination or something high above, the voices were here, right now, nearly on top of them. Abby's head started to pound and she froze. She couldn't think, she couldn't move, and she wondered if she was about to die in a darkened corridor.
But Palmer thankfully, though he was shaking with fear, had managed to keep his head and muttered to Abby, "We have to hide."
Abby shook her head mutely.
"Abby, come on." Palmer tugged her arm, finally freeing his companion from her self-induced stupor. "We have to get out of here."
"Where?" Abby finally found her voice as the pair pressed themselves against the darkened orange walls as flatly as possible. "I don't exactly see very many hiding places, Palmer."
The voices grew louder and by the minute amount of lighting coming from two sets of flashlights, Abby could see shadows outlined on the wall in front of them. With an audible gulp, Abby clicked off the flashlight and plunged them into near darkness; the only light came from the high-powered beam of the terrorists' flashlight.
"What are we . . ." Abby started but never got to finish her sentence as Palmer yanked forcefully on her arm and threw open a door to some unknown room.
He dragged Abby into the room, it was a tight squeeze, and shoved her into the corner of their little room, having to press up against her in order to pull the door shut. It closed with an ominous click, encasing them in pure, fear-inducing darkness.
That was until Abby clicked on the flashlight and shined it in Palmer's face.
"Palmer!" she yelped. "Get off me. I don't like being groped in the dark."
"What . . . huh?" Palmer had a bent arm across his face to shield it from Abby's light. "Could you get that thing out of my eyes?
Abby frowned and waggled the flashlight in front of him. "Not until you tell me what's going on."
"I just saved our lives." Palmer tried to push the light away, but Abby remained determined.
"Abby, please."
"Okay, okay." Abby swung the beam of light away from Palmer's face and pointed it towards the floor.
Palmer sighed in relief and said, "Thank you."
"What is this place anyway?" Abby asked, sweeping her flashlight around the room. "It's so small and . . ." Her flashlight fell upon a long-handled object propped up against one of the room's small walls.
Abby glared and punched Palmer in the arm.
"Hey!" he exclaimed, indignant. "What was that for?"
"You locked us in a broom closet," Abby hissed. "A broom closet."
"It was the first door I saw!" Palmer protested.
"What if it had had a terrorist behind it?" Abby scowled.
"Um . . . we would have been unlucky?" Palmer replied awkwardly.
"Shhh," Abby hushed suddenly, pressing a finger to her lips. She flicked off the flashlight again, plunging the room into total darkness. "I think I hear something."
Palmer snapped his mouth shut and concentrated on his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. If that door was pulled open and them found, there was absolutely no way the two could defend themselves.
"Could you breathe a little quieter?" Abby murmured as the voices outside reached a crescendo.
"Am trying," Palmer muttered.
They were still tightly pressed together and each could feel the other shake. Abby was wringing her hands nervously and Palmer just wanted to reach out and make them stop; her hands were making him even more nervous.
After a brief yet scarily tense moment, the voices faded from earshot. Both Abby and Palmer breathed a sigh of relief and Abby clicked the flashlight back on.
"Thank God," she breathed, leaning heavily against one of the walls. She glanced at Palmer. "That was close."
"Tell me about it," Palmer muttered. He looked at the door and asked nervously, "Do you think they've gone?"
Abby shrugged. "I don't know."
"Should we . . . should we risk it?"
Abby shrugged again. "I don't know, Palmer. I don't know what to do, what to think. What do you think we should do? Why is it always me making the decisions? I'm sick of it!"
"Whoa, calm down, Abby." Palmer put a hand on Abby's shoulder but she shrugged it off. "Look, I know this is not the most ideal situation . . ."
"But what?" Abby yelled. "There are terrorists in my building, hurting my friends and I'm stuck in a closet!" She choked out a sob. "I can't do this."
"But we have to. Please, Abby. I can't do this without you. Doctor Mallard and Harry are counting on us. We need to do something. We can't just sit around and wait for something to happen. I'm too young to die!"
Abby managed a laugh through her tears. She reached up and scrubbed them away with the back of her hand. She nodded and agreed, "You're right. You're too young to die and I'm too important to die. What would NCIS and my babies without me?"
Palmer nodded eagerly. "Yes, exactly. And . . ." He gave Abby a lopsided grin. ". . . Isn't it just a little bit thrilling?"
Abby laughed and nudged him in the shoulder. "No, it's absolutely terrifying." She shook her head to clear out the negative thoughts. "Let's do it."
Pushing the door open the tiniest little bit, Palmer squinted and peeked through the gap. The corridor, while dark and foreboding, was empty much to their relief. He nodded at Abby and said,
"Coast's clear."
Abby shot him a grin. "And just how long have you wanted to say that?"
Palmer blushed slightly. "Um . . . since I was a kid?"
Abby laughed. "Thought so." She paused and then declared, "Okay, Black Lung, let's move out.
"Abby, hurry up," Palmer hissed, bouncing from one foot to another in the doorway to the inner section of Abby's lab. His eyes kept darting back and forth between the Goth fossicking around in her lab to the very open and very exposed door.
"Just hold on a minute," Abby called as she tossed a black pistol she'd taken out of its evidence bag into a box that used to house reports of some kind. "I'm nearly done."
"Are you sure this a good idea?" Palmer muttered, watching as Abby slid into ballistics and pulled out some ammunition from a draw.
"Do you have a better idea, Palmer?" she asked irritably as she threw the bullets into the cardboard box next to the black pistol.
"You're breaking the chain of evidence, you know," Palmer pointed out as sun shone through the small semi-circle windows of Abby's lab. They had both been grateful for the little bit of real light they found after stumbling into the lab only moments ago.
"I know that," Abby said through gritted teeth, slinging a revolver into the box. "But desperate times call for desperate measures, Jimmy. Evidence or my life, I think I know which one I'll choose. What about you?"
"Point taken," Palmer sighed, glancing around nervously. "Are you done yet?"
"I'll be done a lot quicker if you stop asking me that," Abby growled, plucking another gun from its evidence case.
"Right, sorry." Palmer fell silent, jiggling warily on the spot. Any minute a terrorist could burst through that door and . . .
"Done!" Abby announced, dropping one final thing into the cardboard box. She grinned at Palmer. "Let's get out of here." She tucked the box under her arm.
"Finally." Palmer breathed a sigh of relief.
He followed Abby into the outer part of her lab. They paused just outside the door, listening for any sounds of danger. Thankfully it was deathly silent beyond the lab, so Abby and Palmer slipped out cautiously, their senses hyperaware.
Abby closed and locked her lab manually; she'd had to do the same thing for them to get inside in the first place. For once, Abby was glad for the fiddly manual lock override that was normally more trouble than it was worth. However, as soon as the lab was closed off and the pair had started down the corridor, Abby and Palmer were plunged back into darkness.
"I hate the dark," Palmer grumbled as they slowly moved their way along the blackened corridor, sweeping the flashlights across so they could see where they were going.
"Agreed," Abby replied softly. "And I like the dark! Just not dark infested with terrorists with big scary guns."
"Well," Palmer laughed nervously, "at least it's not an axe murderer."
"I guess, though I might like my chances better with one axe murderer rather than with many terrorists." Abby shrugged, but then stopped abruptly.
Again, Palmer ran into her back with a muffled thud. "What-what is it?"
Abby spun around, flashing the light onto her face. "Palmer!" she exclaimed. "You stepped on the back of my foot!"
"Oh, right. Sorry." Palmer blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry."
"Never mind," Abby huffed. "Just . . . just keep your distance, okay. We don't need to be on top of each other."
"Got it." Palmer nodded. "Keeping my distance."
Once Abby and Palmer were a suitable, yet practical, distance away from each other, they finished their slow crawl to the top of the stairwell leading back down to Autopsy. If it were possible, the stairs looked even darker than the corridor.
"Um." Abby bit her bottom lip. "Men first?"
They stumbled into the little alcove outside Autopsy.
"Watch it, Palmer," Abby grumbled as she tried to steady herself; they'd been tripping and almost tumbling over each other all the way down the stairwell.
"Sorry," he apologised, looking sheepish. "I'm just not used to the stairs in the dark."
"And you think I am?" Abby pushed past Palmer and pressed the button that would manually open the doors to Autopsy.
Palmer sighed and followed Abby, glancing at Harry's trail of blood in the dull sheen of the flashlight glow. It was a poor parody of the Yellow Brick Road leading towards Oz . . . or in this case Autopsy.
Abby screamed.
Palmer's heart stopped for just a second. He froze on the spot. He couldn't think, he couldn't feel . . . but then Abby was yelling something.
"Ducky?" she shrieked. "Harry?"
That was enough to snap Palmer from his frozen moment and he raced into Autopsy, a tangle of limbs and panic. He held his breath and tried to brace himself for what he could possibly see inside.
Autopsy was completely empty.
"Where-where . . ." Palmer stuttered incomprehensibly.
But then he saw the shell casings and that cold feeling crept back under his skin. Sprinkled under his feet, the casings were an ominous sign that things were seriously wrong.
"Oh God," Abby whispered, the flashlight and the weapons in messed heap on the floor.
Palmer was speechless. They couldn't be . . . could they? No. No. Palmer did not want to entertain that idea, not even for a second. Then he noticed it . . . or perhaps the lack of it.
"Abby," Palmer whispered frantically. "Abby, there's no blood. If they were shot then why isn't there any blood?"
"You're . . . you're right." Abby's eyes grew wide and she turned to face Palmer. "There's no blood!" she exclaimed. "No blood means that maybe they're okay! Maybe they were just taken." She grinned with relief and threw her arms around Palmer's neck.
Palmer couldn't help but grin as well. As long as Doctor Mallard and Harry the security guard weren't dead, then things were okay.
There was a bang.
And another.
And another.
Abby screamed and instinctively, Palmer put himself between Abby and the perceived threat. But no bullets came, no terrorists jumped out from the shadows, nothing happened except for another . . .
Bang.
"The drawers!" Abby shrieked after a moment of stunned silence. "The banging! It's the drawers!"
"Huh?" Palmer couldn't quite get his head around anything at the moment.
"The drawers!" Abby exclaimed and dashed over to the wall of refrigerated drawers that were used to keep bodies in. "There's someone in the drawers!"
"And we would very much like to get out, Abigail," drawer 107 told her, "if you please."
"Ducky!"
"Yes, Abby, thank you," Ducky's muffled voice came. "Now if you wouldn't mind. I believe Mr Layne is in drawer one hundred."
"Palmer," Abby ordered, gesturing Palmer over. "Drawer one hundred."
She didn't wait to see if Palmer followed her instructions. Abby leant over and pulled on the handle of drawer 107. It slid open easily, revealing the face of their beloved medical examiner. Abby helped Ducky up before embracing him in a patented Abby hug.
Then she hit him on the shoulder and scolded, "Don't you ever do that again! You gave me a heart attack coming in here and finding you gone with casings in your place!"
"I am sorry, Abby," Ducky apologised, patting her affectionately on the arm. "But I am afraid we had no choice."
"Exactly." Harry emerged from drawer 100. "We heard the ter-er-bad guys approaching, not very silent for skilled killers, which gave us enough time to hide."
"And unfortunately the only place we could think of where they might not look were the drawers," Ducky finished, shaking out the kinks he'd got from his short time holed up in one of his own autopsy drawers.
"Didn't you see them on your way up?" Harry asked, clutching his side awkwardly.
Abby and Palmer shared a look before chiming, "We saw them alright."
"Ok-ay?" Harry glanced back and forth between the pair before giving up and shrugging, which was a bad move because it jolted his gunshot wound.
"Ugh." He stumbled and nearly sank to his knees; if it hadn't been for Palmer's good reflexes, he would have.
"Easy," Palmer said as he helped Harry across the room and onto the swivel desk chair. He glanced at the wound. "It's bleeding again."
"Damnit," Harry cursed as Palmer grabbed a fresh roll of bandages and started to press them against Harry's side.
"Just hold them there for a moment," Palmer suggested. "Doctor?" He looked over at Ducky.
Ducky nodded and made his way over to the two men. He eyed Harry critically and agreed with Palmer. "You're bleeding again." He sighed. "We really should get you to a hospital."
"We could shoot our way out," Abby suggested, holding up one of the guns. She was on her knees and was gathering the fallen weapons. The flashlight was propped up on one of the autopsy tables, casting shadows across the room.
"There will not be any shooting unless absolutely necessary," Ducky replied tersely. "First we try and contact someone on the outside."
Abby stood, put the box of guns next to the flashlight and pulled out her cell phone. She shook her head. "Still haven't got any bars. And the power's still down so the landline won't work either. But surely they've figured out something is wrong by now and are trying to get in."
"I hope so," Ducky agreed. "But we have no way of knowing what's happening until the power is restored."
"Darn it," Abby sighed, glancing at the flashlight sadly. The lights should have come back on by now; the back-up generator should have come on at least.
But then, as though someone was listening, the lights flickered back on.
"Oh thank God," Ducky mumbled, but paused. He frowned. "Hang on, it's only . . ."
"Auxiliary lighting," Abby sighed, finishing Ducky's sentence. "The back-up generators have come on finally." She managed a small smile. "At least your bodies should be back on ice now. We won't have to worry about dying from the smell."
"But at least we have some power," Palmer spoke up brightly, trying to look at the computer screen to see what was happening on level two. It was dark. "Oh, right. I guess the computers aren't working."
"Nor the phones." Ducky had picked up his landline.
"At least we have light?" Abby tried to find the silver lining. Then she had an idea. "Hold on, the back-up generator has enough energy to power MTAC. If I could divert some of its power down here, then I could have the computer back up. I probably won't be able to get the cameras back, but at least it's something."
"It sounds good, Abby, but how are you going to divert the power?" Ducky questioned. "Unless someone goes down to the boiler . . . oh."
Abby and Palmer exchanged looks. Palmer sighed and nodded, resigned. Might as well, he thought. Apparently he hadn't had his quota of danger for the day.
Abby gave him a smile that said I'm sorry. "So, Black Lung, fancy another adventure?"