Elena Rostova climbed the final three risers of the west fire stairwell, stepping back onto the third-floor landing with quiet, measured strides.
Her Littmann stethoscope hung securely around her neck, and her combat boots were dry.
“All twelve survivors are locked inside the dispensary,” Elena reported, keeping her voice low. “Leo Park barred the Dutch door from the inside with two two-by-fours. The heat is running, and each student has eight ounces of warm glucose broth.”
Julian Vance adjusted the leather strap of the Detex Newman Watchman’s Clock against his ribs.
“Did Caldwell and Hayes give you any trouble?” Julian asked.
“None at all,” Elena answered, wiping a speck of lime dust from her cheek. “Their pupils have fully normalized. Hayes broke down crying when he drank the broth, and Caldwell is standing guard at the dispensary lower hatch with a steel mop handle.
They dragged two heavy oak autopsy tables across the vestibule door. The first floor is locked down tight until seven in the morning.”
In Julian’s breast pocket, the Casio PCR-T280 Pocket-Register whirred softly against Clara’s notebook, printing a crisp two-inch update:
