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W
ithout thinking, I throw my
full weight against Jordan. My assault surprises him and he teeters off balance just long enough for me to push past him out of the elevator. I run at full speed, darting back and forth between two-by-fours and pipes. Two shots ring out, but I don’t stop until I’ve buried myself deep in the maze of half-built walls and unfinished plumbing. Reaching the far wall of the vast space, I slide down to the floor, gasping for air. I need a moment to breathe, to think, to get my bearings.

What have I gotten myself into? How could I have been so wrong about Jordan? I berate myself for being so naïve and for thinking all along that Papa was to blame. If I get out of this, I tell myself, I swear I’ll make it up to him—somehow.

I try to slow my breathing a little, forcing my desperation and panic to subside. I need to think clearly. All I have to do is find some other way down. The stairwell must be around here somewhere.

Behind me, from the direction of the elevator, Jordan’s voice taunts me. “Mira! Come out, come out wherever you are!”

I squat on the concrete floor with my back braced against a two-by-four, hoping I’ve put enough space, enough wall frames behind me to block Jordan’s view. I just need some time to figure this out, but time is the one thing I don’t have.

I listen for his approach but hear nothing. Where the hell is he?

Scattered all around me is an array of small discarded objects: bent nails, stripped screws, fragments of wire and metal tape. I gingerly pick up a handful of the ones I can reach and weigh them in my palm. I glance to my right, to the vast vertical forest of lumber growing in this cavernous fifth floor. Maybe I’ll take another shot at the elevator. No, I’ll never have enough time to get in before he reaches it. It’s the stairwell or nothing. I peer through the wooden maze and spot a door in the far left corner about twenty yards away. That’s got to be it.

The absence of sound is maddening. For all I know he might be standing right behind me. He’s near; I can feel it. Any second he’ll see me, if he hasn’t already. I chuck
the scrap metal toward the far right wall. The items land with a light clatter. Then there’s the faint scraping sound of footsteps abruptly changing directions, rubbing against the grit on the floor, heading to the right.

Scrambling on all fours and staying low to the ground, I scurry through the skeletal walls toward the door.  Behind me, I hear an angry grunt and a loud clang. He’s thrown something to the floor, a box of tools maybe.

“I’ve had enough of your games, Mira!” Jordan’s voice is taut with frustration. A moment later, the air all around me comes alive with the music of hundreds of nails colliding with the concrete, the wood, the pipes. Several land on me before dropping to the floor. Next, a white plastic bucket flies past me and hits the wall. It drops with a loud thud and rolls to a stop at my feet.

“Where are you, Mira?”

His voice is closer now. I’m on my knees, crawling through the mess of nails around me, not caring how they cut into my hands. Ten yards away, the door beckons to me.

And then, close enough to hear his breath, I hear—

“Peek-a-boo! I see you!”

I spring for the door like a sprinter at the start of a race, but then suddenly, I hit the floor. The impact knocks the wind right out of me. Jordan’s got me by the ankle.

I look down and see his black-gloved hand wrapped around my leg. His expression is rabid.

“Where do you think you’re going, Sunshine?” he says, leering at me.

I don’t think. I just kick as hard as I can with my free foot and hit him square in the nose. I hear the sickening sound of cartilage breaking and feel his grip on me loosen. Lurching forward, I slam my body against the door’s metal bar and throw myself into the stairwell. Getting to my feet, I leap over the first few steps. Then I stumble, half-tripping, half-sliding down the rest.

On the very last step I feel a sharp stabbing pain as my left ankle twists beneath me. I scream out, but I remain standing. Getting down the next four flights of stairs like this will be impossible. So instead, I pull open the door on this landing, the fourth floor of the Rawley Wing, and slip inside.

A
s I step through the
door, lights flicker on in succession overhead illuminating a massive warehouse-sized laboratory. Stacks of crates and wooden pallets occupy the wall beside the door. Also nearby are several large cardboard boxes marked with colored labels and words that are foreign to me. Certain that Jordan will come looking for me, I push my weight against the pallets and slowly slide them in front of the door, effectively blocking the entrance. Jordan will have to either move them out of the way one at a time, or climb over them to get in. If I’m lucky, he’ll assume I continued down to the first floor and skip the lab altogether. Either way, I’ve bought myself a few extra seconds.

Turning, I quickly take in the room. In the center are a dozen wide, flat tables decorated with microscopes, computers, and other complicated looking apparatus. The lab’s walls are smooth and white with dark gray tiles on the floor and ceiling. At the far end of the room, near the elevator, are eight or nine blue cylinders reaching from floor to ceiling, each about a foot in diameter. Metal pipes run from each cylinder across the ceiling to the workstations. More pipes extend from the bottoms of the cylinders
through the wall behind them. I wonder if these are gas tanks of some kind.

This is the floor I noticed that day with Jordan, the one with covered windows. From in here I can see that all the windows have been blocked with dark plates to prevent sunlight from entering.

The light isn’t good for the specimens
.

The one thing I don’t see in here, however, is specimens, but I don’t really care about that. The only thing that concerns me now is whether or not I can reach the elevator. I lift up my pant leg to inspect my ankle, which is already starting to swell. Suddenly the distance between me and the elevator seems as wide as the Grand Canyon. I could try to hide or look for some way to call for help. Once again I berate myself for leaving my phone at home.

I decide to search for somewhere to hide, though I know it’s futile. If Jordan does get into the lab he’s sure to find me, unless—

Maybe I could fool him into thinking I’ve taken the elevator.

I tear open one of the cardboard boxes. Inside are dozens of smaller white ones. I don’t care what’s inside. I remove two of the boxes, open them, and fling their contents in the direction of the elevator. Dozens of Petri dishes smash against the floor, glass shards scattering everywhere. At the very least, Jordan will have to go to that end of the room to inspect the mess.

Next…a place to hide.

There’s a narrow closet door at the back of the lab. I try to open it, but it’s secured by a coded key pad. Time is short, I know, but I punch in something anyway—
Rawley
. Nothing. I try
Gaudium
next, and
Jordan
. . .

Jordan.

A thought surfaces from the mess of Jordan’s memories swirling in my brain. My muscles tighten and my jaw clenches. I punch in
Sunshine
.

The lock clicks open.

When I slip inside, a fluorescent light automatically switches on overhead. Surprised, I spin around, searching for a button to turn off the damn light—but then I freeze.

I’m not in a closet but another room, much smaller than the lab, maybe twenty-feet square. I realize I’ve seen it before in Jordan’s psyche. Glass cabinet fronts line the three walls opposite the door. Above each cabinet is a computer screen with a black background, numbers, and green peaked lines racing across them. And there are sounds—faint beeping sounds coming from the screens.

I’ve seen computers like these before in the hospital. I think they’re heart rate monitors. But if so, what or who are they monitoring?

Curious, I step up to the first cabinet; its interior is dark behind the glass. I narrow my eyes, just making out the silhouettes of something on the shelves inside, cylinders the size of mayonnaise jars. There is something familiar about them—something not right. It comes to me just as I reach for the metal cabinet handle. The moment my hand comes in contact, a deep red light begins to glow, illuminating the inside of the cabinet. I step back, horrified.

Each of several dozen clear glass cylinders contains a fetus only four or five inches long. Tiny legs are folded up to their chests, little arms and hands held near their over-sized faces. A bundle of wires protrude out of each cylinder with one wire inside it attached to the back of the fetus’s head.

Jars of dead babies.

Jordan’s comment made in jest comes back to me with a wave of nausea. I spot a printed label on the upper corner of the cabinet door:
20 weeks
. Each cabinet has a similar label:
10 weeks, 30, 38
. I touch each handle and the lights come on. I am surrounded by a room full of human babies at differing stages of development. So this is what Jordan meant about eradicating mental illness once and for all. But where did they all come from? Are they post-abortive babies? Were they conceived in the lab for research?

I approach the cabinet with the
38 weeks
fetuses. These are the largest specimens, fully grown babies in larger jars. If they weren’t on display suspended in fluid they would look like any other babies. I peer closely at one, its little cheeks plump and pink. Suddenly its leg twitches. And then its tiny fist unfurls to reveal five perfectly formed fingers.

“My god,” I gasp. “They’re alive!”

B
ile rises in my throat
, and my stomach churns. I have to get out of here. I have to tell someone. I will have to take my chances with the elevator. I stumble backward out of the storage room, my eyes locked on the horrendous collection of human lives. Stepping through the doorway, I collide with something behind me. I start to scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth. Instinctively I bite down on a finger. My captor shouts, releasing me. Despite my injured ankle, I make a break for the elevator not daring to look back.

“Mira, wait! It’s me!”

I skid to a stop and spin around. “David!”

Holding his injured hand to his chest, he hobbles toward me on his crutches. I’m so astonished and happy to see him that I throw my arms around him.

“Thank God I found you,” he says, clutching me to his body.

I’m nearly giddy with relief. “How did you get here?”

“When you didn’t come back to the conference room I came looking for you. I saw Jordan and some woman force you into the elevator.”

“But how did you know I was here on the fourth floor?”

“I didn’t, actually. I watched the numbers light up above the elevator and they stopped at the fifth floor. I found a security guard and we went up together.”

David’s gaze drops and his voice gets quiet. “We found the woman.”

“Jordan killed her,” I explain.

“The guard went back for help. You can imagine what went through my head when I saw her. I’d have searched every floor until I found you. Where’s Jordan now?”

“I’m not sure—”

Crash
!
Crunch
! The sounds of snapping and splintering wood resound through the lab. “I know you’re in there, Mira!” Jordan shouts, kicking and pushing at the pallets blocking the stairwell door.

I grab David and shove him back in the direction of the elevator. He doesn’t even bother with his crutches, limping as fast as he can beside me, but neither of us is fast
enough. I glance back to see Jordan squeeze through a narrow opening in the door and climb over the stack of broken pallets. He takes aim with his pistol.

“Get down!” I pull David to the floor as a shot rings out. The bullet pierces one of the tanks near the elevator. A stream of high pressure gas hisses out of it, the white haze obscuring the path in front of us.

Another shot ricochets off the tile floor just inches from where David and I lay. We’re not far from the elevator, just a few yards, but if we try to make it now the chances of getting shot are all but certain. Instead we dive for cover behind the nearest work station.

I hear the sound of Jordan’s slow, methodical steps approaching. My heart palpitates wildly as I listen to him come closer and closer. The hiss of the gas and the sound of my own rapid breathing only heighten my fear. I wait until his steps are right beside us, then I motion to David to slide around to the side of the workstation.

“There’s no use hiding, Sunshine,” Jordan’s foul voice makes the air toxic. “Why don’t you come out and—PLAY!”

Jordan leaps forward, expecting to catch us by surprise, only we’re not there anymore. We’ve already crawled past several workstations and left him behind. All that’s left is a quick dash across empty space to the stairwell door.

I look at David, his crutches lying beside him on the floor. How will he make it, I wonder? How will I make it? There is no way for David to get on his feet, make it to the door and down the stairwell fast enough to outrun Jordan and his gun. But if I can draw Jordan away from him, get him to chase after me, maybe David could make it to the elevator and get help.

I dare a peek around the corner of the workstation and see Jordan peering through the haze of gas, searching for us. I use the moment of distraction and sprint for the door.

“Mira!” David whispers after me, but there isn’t time to explain. I just have to hope he figures out what I’m up to.

Pain stabs at my ankle, but I reach the door and heave several pieces of the broken crates out of the way. Hearing the commotion, Jordan turns and fires. I feel it the same moment I hear it. A scream claws its way out of my throat as a searing pain tears into in my right thigh. And then, I hear David.

“Mira!”

Jordan spins and fires again, this time at the far corner of the room. The bullet strikes a light bulb, sending a shower of sparks into the air. In that single sliver of a second, Jordan realizes what he’s done and lunges head-first behind a workstation.  The sparks ignite the gas that’s been filling the room. A red hot streak of flame zips through the air toward the white cloud hovering near the elevator. With a tremendous ‘BOOM’ the gas,
tank and pipes explode. A massive ball of fire inflates like a balloon, briefly engulfing everything in the lab.

I jump through the stairwell door just in time to avoid the deadly assault. Seconds later I dare a glimpse into the lab. The fiery sphere has already retreated, though the ceiling of the lab is blackened, and much of the apparatus and computers are melted or otherwise destroyed. The wall near the elevator is engulfed in flame, and where the lower pipes once were is now nothing but a gaping, jagged hole of fire.