Nguyen was moved quickly.
Not gently—but carefully.
Her body lay slack on the gurney, sedation heavy in her veins, her right hand wrapped thickly in gauze where a finger no longer existed. The stump was clean. Cauterized. Controlled. Sharon had done that part herself.
Now they pushed her down the hallway, wheels whispering over tile that felt too loud in the sudden hush.
People watched.
They always did.
Troy Barlow stepped forward before anyone could stop him.
"What the hell is going on now?" he demanded, eyes darting between Nguyen's covered hand and Sharon's blood-streaked sleeves. "You gonna tell us why people are getting dragged around like prisoners?"
Sharon didn't slow.
"She was injured," she said. "We're relocating her."
"Injured how?" Troy pressed. "Because I heard screaming. And then I heard you locked that kid in a room. And now this—"
Daniels stepped in front of him, palm out.
"That's enough."
Troy scoffed. "Or what?"
"Or you make this worse," Daniels said flatly. "And we're already sitting on a powder keg."
The hallway had gone quiet again.
Too many people were listening.
Too many people had stopped breathing normally.
Nguyen was rolled into a former family consultation room and the door shut behind her. A nurse stayed inside. Another stationed herself outside.
Containment within containment.
Sharon turned back to the wing.
And saw it clearly now.
The floor wasn't one group anymore.
It was factions.
Parents with children.Couples pressed together.Single men standing apart.Eyes tracking hands. Sleeves. Necks.
Fear had stopped being abstract.
Daniels followed Sharon's gaze and swore under his breath.
"We don't keep this together," he murmured, "we lose it."
He turned, raising his voice—not shouting, but firm enough to cut through the murmur.
"Everyone listen up."
They did.
Not because they trusted him.
Because he had a gun, and because order was the last familiar thing left.
"There are fifty-one people on this wing," Daniels said. "That includes patients, families, staff, and sixteen infants in the nursery."
The number landed hard.
"Fourteen nurses. Three doctors. One security officer," he continued. "Fifteen postpartum patients. Three women in active labor. Two scheduled surgeries postponed."
A pause.
"And a whole lot of scared people with nothing to do but imagine the worst."
Troy crossed his arms. "So what? We just sit here and wait our turn?"
"No," Daniels said. "We work."
That got attention.
"We assign tasks," Daniels continued. "You give people something to do, they stop tearing each other apart."
Sharon nodded once. "Agreed."
Daniels pointed down the hall. "Mothers who can walk—nursery rotation. Two at a time. You help feed, rock, change. Keep it calm."
Several women hesitated—then one stepped forward, jaw tight. "I'll help."
Another followed.
"Men who are able-bodied," Daniels said, "we secure doors. Reinforce what we can. Find anything usable as a weapon—not to play hero, but to defend if something gets through."
A few men nodded. One swallowed hard and asked, "Like what?"
Daniels didn't sugarcoat it. "Fire extinguishers. Poles. Metal stands. Anything that puts distance between you and teeth."
That quieted them.
"You," Daniels pointed to a cluster near the windows, "start making signs. Big ones. 'SURVIVORS HERE.' 'INFANTS PRESENT.' Whatever you can think of."
Someone scoffed. "Like help's coming."
"Like hope matters," Daniels shot back.
He turned again.
"Phones. Radios. Computers. Anything with a signal—you try. You don't stop just because it fails once."
A woman lifted her phone. "There's nothing."
"Then you keep checking," Daniels said. "Because the moment you stop trying is the moment this place dies."
Movement began.
Slow. Reluctant.
But movement.
People peeled off into roles—not because they believed it would save them, but because standing still had become unbearable.
Sharon watched it happen, heart heavy.
Control wasn't about force.
It was about distraction.
About preventing the spiral.
Then a sound cut through the controlled movement.
Low.
Wet.
Rhythmic.
Not shouting.
Not screaming.
Just the persistent scrape of something straining against fabric and plastic.
From down the hall.
From that room.
Sharon stiffened.
So did Daniels.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
They both turned at the same time.
The sound grew sharper as they approached.
A creak.
A pull.
Restraints under tension.
Not breaking.
Yet.
Daniels slowed his steps near the door, hand hovering near his weapon but not drawing it. He leaned slightly, listening.
The noise wasn't frantic.
That was worse.
It was steady.
Endless.
Like something that didn't get tired.
Sharon stepped beside him.
She could feel it now—vibration through the door, faint but unmistakable. The soft thud of movement restrained by straps never meant to hold something that didn't feel pain.
Down the hall, somewhere beyond the stairwell, a distant moan answered.
Closer than before.
Daniels exhaled slowly.
"If he keeps making noise like this," he said quietly, "we're going to have company."
Sharon's jaw set.
She placed her hand on the door handle.
Not opening it.
Just grounding herself.
"We can't leave him like this," she said.
Daniels nodded. "And we can't risk anyone else."
They stood there together—doctor and officer—listening to the restrained dead thing inside remind them that time was no longer on their side.
And that every decision from this point forward would cost something.
One way.
Or another.