Julian took the steep concrete ramp two stairs at a time.
The thirty-pound 1996 Master Admissions Ledger was tucked hard against his ribs, its brass clasps biting through his scrub shirt. In his breast pocket, Clara’s blue carbon custody stub and the Underwood typewriter ribbon spool rested safe beneath the cotton.
Beside him, Elena kept pace, her rubber-soled clogs slapping rhythmically against the wet concrete.
Every four seconds, the bio-containment klaxon let out a shattering horn blast:
HOOOOOOOOOOONK.
Red emergency light washed across the peeling green walls. The beacons spun in cast-iron cages along the ceiling, throwing sweeping bloody circles across the wet overhead steam pipes.
High on the concrete beam above the first switchback, a digital LED readout pulsed in bright crimson numerals:
[ MUNICIPAL BIO-CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL ACTIVE ]
