Chapter 3 - The Underground Clinic
The heavy truck hurdled down the slick, rain-soaked road at terrifying speeds.
I grabbed the emergency brake lever and ripped it upward with every ounce of strength I had.
The rear tires locked up, sending the truck into a violent, screeching spin across the empty intersection.
We crashed hard into a stack of wooden construction barrels, shattering them into pieces before the vehicle finally slammed to a halt.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and checked on Clara, who was terrified but miraculously unhurt by the impact.
I knew we could not go to the city hospital because Helena owned half of the medical board.
I grabbed my phone and called Elias, a former military combat medic who ran an off-the-books clinic in the industrial district.
He told me to bring her to the basement of the old meatpacking plant immediately.
I carried my wife through the dark, flooded streets for over a mile until we reached the rusted metal door of the safehouse.
Elias ushered us inside, his medical bay glowing brightly under harsh fluorescent lights.
He quickly transferred Clara to a sterile table and connected her to a massive heart monitor.
He drew a vial of her blood and placed it into a rapid centrifuge machine to figure out what was wrong with her.
I paced the concrete floor, holding Clara's trembling hand and promising her that I would never let them hurt her again.
Elias walked back to the table holding a printed medical report, his face entirely drained of color.
He pointed a surgical flashlight at Clara's left arm, carefully examining a small, bruised bump near her shoulder.
He grabbed a scalpel and made a tiny incision, pulling out a microscopic, metallic capsule.
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Elias explained that this was a military-grade timed pump designed to slowly release a paralytic neurotoxin.
He looked at me with absolute dread and revealed that there was still enough toxin in her bloodstream to stop her heart permanently within the next two hours.
