The hallway is dim as he makes his way down the stairwell, down into the bowels of the hospital.
There it is, a neat little door, painted red and black with the word 'Maintenance' emblazoned across the front. He pries open the locks, pitifully thin for how important this room is. Inside there are boxes and wires, so many marvelous toys to play with. He knows the one he wants, the first, and pries that open as well. There are many little wires inside and he switches one here, one there. He is scrambling the phone lines, making the outward lines inward, the inward outward. He doesn't want anyone getting out, no, not tonight.
The next box is much easier. He takes his knife and slices through the wires, hears the entire hospital powering down. The alarm goes off then, the backup generators taking over. There are life support systems to keep running after all. The light outside of the room is thin and yellow, flashing in its emergency pattern, and he uses the neat little kit he found within the room to weld the door shut. He does not wear a mask (the sparks are really quite pretty).
No one will be in there to fix the damage tonight.
He knows which floor they will be coming to, and takes his place in the shadows to wait. A man in a blue jumpsuit makes his way down first, bee lining for the door, and he is on him before he knows what is happening. The knife slashes quick through his throat, outward, tearing through larynx before carotid and jugular. The man goes down without a noise.
He drags the body into the dark. Soon, the man's radio begins to whir with static.
"Maurice, what in the hell is going on down there?"
He unhooks the radio from the man's belt loop, presses the button with glee.
"Maurice isn't here right now. He's a little incapacitated, mainly because I slit his throat." He laughs and ends the transmission, turning the radio off. He knows who they will send next. He is on the night shift tonight, he checked the schedule in his wanderings.
It takes barely minutes, he must have been close, before he hears footsteps on the stairwell. His gun is drawn, but he has cover to his advantage. He slips behind him in the shadows, falls on him with all his weight, sending him headfirst into the concrete wall. He is stunned, but not out, he wouldn't want that.
He forces Knauer on his belly, pins him with a knee in his lower back. The man groans, bewildered, unable to gain his bearings. He takes a handful of hair and brings his head back, throat taut.
"You thought she wanted you. But she's mine, Captain, she's always been mine," he whispers into his ear. "You thought you were her knight in shining armor. You thought you could save her. You were wrong."
He slices thin along the throat, not enough to sever the arteries fully: he wants this to be slow, as slow as he can make it. The man whimpers, clasps uselessly at his throat, curled into a ball and spasming.
He snatches the man's gun from his hand, his keys and cell phone from his pockets. He grabs his bag of tricks, welds the next door shut, the one at the top of the stairs.
He knows where he will go next.
OOO
She cannot sleep. Pamela flips listlessly through the channels. A dozen forms covered in sheets laid out on concrete catches her attention, and she flips back.
"This is breaking news, Channel 13, first on the scene. What you are seeing here is only half of over two dozen bodies discovered in Hines VA. Patients, security guards, nurses, doctors, administrators. Most have been met their end by knives, throats slit and some stabbed to death. Three, the hospital administrator, his secretary, and a currently unidentified Major, were found shot to death in the office of the first. The carnage is unbelievable. Ten patients on life support have already died, their intubation tubes cut. The hospital continues to run on back up power. The power lines leading into the hospital have been cut, the phone lines scrambled. One security guard, managed to make a 911 call on his cell phone."
The woman paused, her hand pressed over the microphone in her ear.
"There is a new development. The police have released security camera footage of who they think is the man responsible."
Grainy footage flashes across the screen, a long lanky figure in hospital pajamas, with a face that she recognizes.
"This man is believed to have fled the scene in a red pickup truck, last seen driving north. He is believed to be a patient here. No name has yet been released, but if you see this man, the police advise you not to approach. He is considered to be armed and dangerous. Keep your distance, and call the police. He is believed to have killed over twenty-six people, with the death toll still rising. He has killed before, and the police believe he will kill again."
She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think. She rushed from her bedroom to the spare one.
"Harley, Harley, wake up, something's happened."
She spoke to an empty room. Inside, the light on the answering machine was flashing. One message.
She reached out slowly, pressed the button.
"Hello?" Harley's voice.
"Ms. Harleen Quinzel?".
"That would be me: Doctor, however, Quinzel."
"Well, Miss However, seems like we've got a problem here at your apartment building."
"What?"
"You really haven't heard, huh? About the fire?"
"Fire?"
"Yesterday. There was a fire on your floor, building's been evacuated due to structural damage; it's safe, just unliveable... Weird how it happened really, the fire was so damned efficient, you'd think it knew what it was doing." A quiet snicker.
Pamela frowned, deeply.
"My things?"
"Oh, they're mostly safe, most likely problem is water damage, some smoke. The building's insurance is footing the bill, you know, you might as well get in on the bargain. It's a little late, I know, but we've been processing claims all day. You're one of the last people we could manage to find. One of your neighbor's saw you leaving with um… well, whoever's got this number, a redhead, right?"
"Look, uh, it's fine. I'll head on out, and I'll see what's been damaged."
She'd gone to her apartment building, and Pamela thought she knew exactly who had called. The time matched up perfectly.
She threw on a jacket, grabbed her keys, and rushed for the door.