The Rains (Untitled #1)(60)

No oxygen tanks.

“I don’t see any,” Patrick said, his voice distorted through the mask. “Where are they?”

I jogged over to the directory by the elevator, passing a big window looking out at the square. A dozen or so Hosts encircled the smashed ambulance, a pride of lions zeroing in on their wounded prey. Even from here I could make out the quick puffs of air as they breathed.

I ran my finger down the directory, stopping at RESPIRATORY CARE—FLOOR TWO. I felt my stomach sink.

“We have to go upstairs,” I said.

“Then let’s go.” Patrick hoisted the tank in one hand and followed me to the wide stairs, being careful not to let the tube tug the mask away from his face. Any snag in the line could mean death.

We took each corner slowly, pausing at the landing. I risked a glance at Patrick’s tank—the dial even further in the red.

He shook his head again hard, as if trying to jar something loose inside it. In the distance I could hear the siren wailing away. I wondered how long it would hold the Hosts’ attention.

When we stepped out onto the second floor, it looked dark and still. Blue and red flickered in the window at the corridor’s end, the ambulance’s lights still flashing through the darkness. An overhead sign directed us down a corridor. Side by side, we eased past one doorway, then another.

The squeak of a wheel broke the silence.

We froze.

A crash cart rolled slowly out from one of the patient rooms.

It stopped in the middle of the corridor.

We stared at it there, about ten feet away, blocking our path. Patrick’s breath fogged the mask quicker and quicker, burning oxygen.

From deep in the room came the tick-tock of shoes against the floor. Then that awful shallow panting.

A Host dressed in ripped nurse’s scrubs emerged calmly, her gaze forward, her head twitching. Psychiatric restraints—thick leather cuffs lined with padding—swung from her drawstring. Seemingly she hadn’t heard us; she’d just bumped the cart as she’d moved around in the room. She wore clogs with slim heels that flexed her calves. From the side she looked almost normal.

When Patrick set the portable tank down, it gave the faintest clank.

Her head pivoted to face us.

I didn’t recognize her. Much of the hospital staff came in from Lawrenceville or Stark Peak for two-day shifts. Fluffy blond hair floated around her defined cheekbones. In another life she might have been attractive. But the holes bored through her eyes caught the shadows, giving her face a skull-like appearance in the low light.

Patrick raised the shotgun.

“Wait,” I said. “The noise’ll draw the—”

She leapt at us, swatting me to the floor, one hand reaching for the restraints at her drawstring. Patrick jabbed the shotgun butt at her, putting a dent in her forehead, the swinging motion straining the plastic tubing to the breaking point. As if it were happening in slow motion, I saw the mask start to pull away from his face. He leaned forward, trying to give the tubing some slack. Then the Chaser sprang onto my chest, her knees pinning my arms to the sides. The back of my hand knocked the tank, and it toppled and started rolling on the tile. As it spun away from us, I saw the dial rotating around, the needle well into the red zone.

Patrick lunged toward the rolling tank, leading with his mask. If that tank rolled too far from his face, the tube would rip off.

I bucked violently and wrestled with the Host. She stank of sour sweat and grime. I smacked her head to the floor, but she only bounced back stronger on top of me.

Over the frayed shoulder of her scrub top, I saw Patrick on all fours, still scrambling after the tank, keeping the faintest dip in the tubing. He dove for it, but before I could see if he reached it, the nurse’s hand slapped down over my eyes. Nails dug into my forearm, and I felt a restraint start to encircle my wrist.

I flailed, freeing my hand and trying to claw at her face, but her grip was too powerful. Her hand slid from my eyes and covered my mouth and nose. I tried to breathe around the reek of her sweaty palm, but my air was cut off, my vision starting to go spotty. It had just begun to haze over when I heard a clank, and her head snapped to the side, bent at an impossible angle on her neck.

She fell away, revealing Patrick behind her, mask intact, gripping the portable tank he’d just used to nearly unseat her skull from her shoulders. At my side she jerked on the floor, dots of static fizzling across her eye membranes.

Patrick took a knee, exhausted from the exertion, the oxygen intake messing with his stamina. Groaning, I turned on my side to face the tank, squinting at the dial.

Nearly on empty.

“Patrick, we gotta go.” I stood, picked up his tank, and hoisted him to his feet. He grabbed his shotgun from the floor and stumbled along beside me, his arm around my shoulders.

The Respiratory Care Department turned out to be a glorified suite at the back of the second floor. Three beds, various equipment piled on carts, a hanging privacy curtain in the rear.

I scanned the suite—no tanks.

Patrick looked at me, his eyes wide above the mask. “Chance. You need to get ready.” He spun the shotgun around and held it out to me.

We’d come all this way to find nothing.

But I wasn’t ready to give up. A last hope flickered as I charged forward and raked aside the privacy curtain.

Behind it a dozen oxygen tanks, gloriously lined up like missiles.