Page 3 of Unchained

She wet her lips, inserted the circular key into the slot below the numbers and turned it, then pressed the button with 7 on it. The doors whooshed shut and she caught the railing as the cart whizzed down.

Beep, beep, beep

Red numbers at the top, just below a security camera, illuminated her descent. The elevator stopped and the doors opened.

Go home now.

The voice of warning pounded in her skull. No, no, no. She needed a job and she needed money. This one paid damn good—better than the others she’d found, and that was why she’d stuck around for the longer hiring process rather than find something else overnight. She stepped onto the polished concrete floor and swept her gaze around the room. The center buzzed like that of a hospital’s triage station, only it held cubicles and examination beds. Along the perimeter were individual rooms.

“You must be Camryn Royse?” A shorter woman who appeared to be in her late thirties approached. Her curly dark brown hair spilled from a ponytail on the crown of her head.

Camryn strived for a passive expression. What the hell kind of care facility was this? “Yes. I’m scheduled for 7:00 p.m.”

“I’m Jen, the head nurse on this floor. It’s nice to meet you.” She jutted out her hand, slid her fingers over Camryn’s, and gestured to one of the hallways that boxed in the triage station—or whatever it was. “I’ll go over your patients. Hope you have a good memory.” They passed each relevant room and Jen rattled off her duties. “Don’t worry, each room will have a clipboard outlining their meds and care.”

Camryn listened with half an ear as they strolled. In the lack of natural light, Camryn’s senses spiraled. A person could go days without knowing whether it was night or day. Surely the nurses took the patients upstairs for fresh air. The alternative was inconceivable. A light overhead flickered, sending shadows across the floor. An ominous energy gripped her throat. Maybe once she’d asked some questions and talked to patients, she’d find some peace about the basement conditions.

“Any questions?”

Camryn pulled back her shoulders. “What about feeding schedules?”

“Not for you to worry about. We have the meal staff to take care of that.”

Of course. She’d never been assigned to give meals before, but she’d also never been in such a facility. She glanced around the ward. “I’m sorry. I must have missed some key points in the interview. What kind of facility is this?”

Jen’s eyes sharpened. She smiled, but the stretch of her lips made a shiver run down Camryn’s spine. “Rehabilitation.” She nudged Camryn to the side as a stretcher rolled past. A man lay withering on a bed, no sheet covering him. Only black briefs shielded him below his waist. Bruises and burns dotted his body. “Everyone who’s sent here has experienced some form of trauma. Either physically or mentally. In some cases, we use experimental treatments. Often, you’ll see a lot of patients sedated, or you’ll need to sedate them, so don’t be alarmed.”

Camryn nodded slowly and curled her fingers into her palms. Rehab. Okay. “What about an outside schedule? I assume each patient needs to get outdoors at some point during the day.”

Jen’s eye twitched. “Again, not for you to worry about.” She nodded behind Camryn.

Camryn turned to a door marked thirty-six.

“This is our newest patient. He’s experienced severe mental trauma, delusions, insomnia, hallucinations. He doesn’t do well awake—at least not yet. Dr. Leonetti works with him one-on-one several times a week, and he has two hours of awake time in the morning and again in the afternoon to eat. Outside of that, he’s sedated.”

“Is Dr. Leonetti here? I haven’t met him yet.”

“No. You won’t see much of him. Why don’t you take some time to familiarize yourself with the patients’ charts? Thirty-six will need his shot in”—she looked at her watch—“ten minutes. Might as well start there.”

“Okay.” Camryn turned for the door.

Jen caught her arm. “One important thing. Thirty-six’s injection needs to be given at exactly 7:30 p.m. Not a minute sooner or later.”

She scrunched her brow. “Why?”

Jen waved her hand. “It’s the meds. They’re finnicky and we’re still trying to regulate him.”

The PA system crackled. “Code blue, room 13. I repeat, code blue, room 13.”

Jen jerked her head toward the triage station. “I have to go. Don’t hesitate to ask someone if you have questions.” She bustled down the hall.

Once again, Camryn turned to the door marked thirty-six. A clipboard sat in a plastic folder on the door. She pulled it out, grabbed the door’s cool steel handle, and stepped into the room. She shifted her gaze to the patient in the bed and the air whooshed from her lungs so quickly pain shot through her chest.

She shut the door. A man in his mid-thirties with a blanket tucked around his hips lay there, unmoving. Tattoos adorned his chest and arms. She inched closer and ran her fingers over the leather straps binding his wrists. Goodness. Dirt marred his fingers, his abdomen, and even his face. Never in her life had she seen a patient in such a dirty state. His light-brown hair was thick and greasy, his beard overgrown and scruffy. Scratches littered his dirt-smeared cheeks as if he’d been whipped with sticks. She studied his chest and abdomen—sharp cuts, much bloodier than the ones on his face, covered his flesh.

Anger burned inside her. She lifted the clipboard and browsed the first page.

Brooks Ivanov, age 35, 215 pounds.

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