Chapter 17: Cobalt - Part 2
Sunday Night - 1:33 AM
The detention facility squatted in the industrial district like a concrete tumor. Former National Guard armory, converted to holding cells for the "Priority Transfer" cases that the safe zones couldn't handle. Which meant the dying, the difficult, the expendable.
We parked three blocks away. Madison, Daniel, and I approached on foot, weapons concealed, moving through shadows between streetlights that still worked despite the collapse.
"Two guards at main entrance," Daniel whispered. "One at the northeast corner. Service entrance looks clear."
"Adams said the service door's usually unguarded after dark," I confirmed. "That's our entry point."
Madison checked her pistol nervously. "What if Nick's not here? What if they moved him?"
"Then we find out where they moved him and go there next. But Adams said all detainees come here first. Processing before... disposal."
The word hung ugly in the air. We'd all heard Adams's confession—the executions, the cremations, the systematic elimination of people deemed too sick or troublesome to maintain.
[ TIMER: 45:18:44 ]
We circled to the service entrance. Old steel door, peeling paint, lock that looked original to the building. I pulled out the lockpick set I'd assembled from wire and screwdrivers—crude but functional.
The lock surrendered in forty seconds. The door opened with a quiet groan. Inside: fluorescent lights, that institutional smell of disinfectant failing to mask decay, distant voices echoing through corridors.
We moved quickly through the hallways. Daniel took point, shotgun ready. I stayed center, medical knowledge making me the most likely to navigate a facility like this. Madison covered our rear.
The first holding area contained maybe twenty people. Civilians in various states of illness, locked behind chain-link fence converted into makeshift cells. They watched us pass with hollow eyes—no hope, no fear, just exhaustion.
"Nick!" Madison called quietly. "Nick, are you here?"
A voice from the back: "Mom?"
We found him in a cell with three other people. He looked rough—withdrawal symptoms obvious, hands shaking, face pale—but alive. Relief flooded Madison's face.
"We're getting you out," she said, already working on the lock with bolt cutters Daniel had brought.
One of Nick's cellmates spoke up—a man in a tailored suit that somehow remained crisp despite imprisonment. Black, maybe forty, watching us with amusement that seemed wildly inappropriate.
"You're not here for me," the man said. "But you should be."
I recognized him immediately. Victor Strand. The yacht owner, the survivor who'd navigate us through the early apocalypse with cold pragmatism and impeccable style.
"I know who you are," I said. "And you're right. We're getting you out too."
His eyebrow raised. "Smart man. May I ask how you know about me?"
"I know things. That's why we're alive." I grabbed the cell door as the lock broke. "You have a boat. The Abigail. We need it. You need us. We're all leaving together."
Strand's smile sharpened. "I like you. Most people beg or threaten. You negotiate. What's your name?"
"Jax Mercer. We'll discuss payment later. Right now, we run."
[ TIMER: 44:47:09 ]
Nick stumbled coming out of the cell. Madison caught him, held him up. "Can you walk?"
"I can run if I have to. Just get me out of here."
Daniel was already moving toward the medical wing. "Griselda. I need to check the medical wing."
"Daniel, wait—" I started, but he was gone, moving with purpose down a side corridor. We followed, Nick supported between Madison and me.
The medical wing was colder than the rest of the facility. Stainless steel equipment, examination tables, that hospital smell that never quite left a place. And in the back, behind a plastic partition, bodies. Maybe a dozen of them, laid out on gurneys, waiting for cremation.
Daniel pushed through the partition. Moved methodically down the line, checking faces. Found her third from the end.
Griselda Salazar. Still, pale, obviously dead for hours. Her leg infection had spread despite amputation—sepsis probably, or just the overwhelming trauma her system couldn't handle.
Daniel stood over her body. Didn't speak, didn't cry, just stood there holding her rosary. His face went through something—grief, rage, acceptance, all compressed into seconds.
"I need to bring her home," he said finally.
"We can't," I said gently. "Not without drawing attention. Not with this much distance to cover."
"She's my wife."
"And she's gone. Ofelia needs her father alive more than she needs her mother's body."
His jaw clenched. Muscles worked under his skin. Then he nodded once, placed the rosary on Griselda's chest, and walked away.
[ TIMER: 44:33:18 ]
We were halfway back to the main corridor when alarms started blaring. Red lights spinning, klaxons screaming, doors automatically sealing.
"Shit," Madison breathed. "They know we're here."
"Then we fight our way out." I pulled my Glock, checked the magazine. Full. Good.
Soldiers appeared at both ends of the corridor—six of them, rifles raised, professional formations. One shouted: "Hands up! On the ground now!"
Daniel fired first. His shotgun roared in the enclosed space, dropping the nearest soldier. I took the second with two quick shots. Madison got the third.
The remaining soldiers scattered, taking cover, returning fire. Bullets sparked off metal equipment, punched through plastic partitions. A gurney beside me exploded in a spray of blood from one of the bodies.
"Move!" I shouted.
We ran down a side corridor, Nick stumbling but keeping pace. Strand moved with surprising speed for someone in dress shoes, never losing his composure despite bullets flying past.
More soldiers ahead. I activated Pheromone Cloak reflexively—the soldiers' aim went wide, confusion crossing their faces as their targeting instincts failed. The effect only lasted seconds, but seconds were enough.
We burst through a fire exit into the night. The parking lot, abandoned vehicles, freedom thirty yards away.
A soldier emerged from behind a Humvee. Raised his rifle, sighted on Madison's back.
I shot him twice before he could fire. He went down hard. We kept running.
[ TIMER: 44:18:44 ]
We made it to our vehicles. Daniel drove, Madison in passenger seat holding Nick, me in the back with Strand. We peeled out as more soldiers poured from the facility.
Gunfire chased us for three blocks. A bullet starred the rear window. Another took out the side mirror. Then we turned a corner and the shooting stopped—either out of range or they'd given up pursuit.
Nobody spoke for five minutes. Just breathing, processing survival, riding the adrenaline down.
Finally Strand broke the silence. "That was considerably more exciting than I'd anticipated when I woke up this morning."
"Welcome to the apocalypse," I said.
"I've been in the apocalypse for two weeks. This was different. This was you people being aggressively competent despite impossible odds." He adjusted his jacket, somehow maintaining dignity in a stolen vehicle. "I like it. Where are we going?"
"Marina. Your boat. Then away from Los Angeles before Operation Cobalt begins."
"You know about Cobalt?"
"Enough. It happens Monday morning. We're not here when it does."
"Agreed." He looked at me in the rearview mirror. "You're not what you appear to be, Jax Mercer. Medical resident who picks locks, shoots soldiers, and knows classified military operations. What are you really?"
"Someone trying to keep people alive. That's all that matters."
"For now."
[ TIMER: 43:47:09 ]
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