Page 38 of Glass Rose
John’s eyes narrow. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it. Preparation.”
“So what’s the plan here?” Alex asks. “We just?—”
“First,” John interrupts, “I show you the rest. Then we eat, then talk plans. Nobody thinks straight on an empty stomach. Over there’s the armory.” He points to a corner section enclosed by metal bars. “Weapons stay locked up. I keep the key.”
Gavin’s eyes linger. I can practically see him plotting on how to get in if needed.
“You all know how to shoot?” John asks.
Alex nods a bit too eagerly. “Sure, totally.”
Dr. Cho shakes her head. “I have no firearms training.”
“I can teach you,” John offers, then looks at me. “You?”
“No.”
John studies my face, then nods toward Gavin. “I don’t have to ask you.”
“Want to see what we’re running from?” Alex asks. “Might help you understand why we needed somewhere safe.”
John guides us through the shelves. “Is it better than what they showed on TV?”
“Way better.”
We follow him to the center of the warehouse, where three small camper trailers are arranged in a semicircle around what appears to be a communal living area with folding tables,chairs, a generator-powered television, and a makeshift kitchen.
So that could be our new home?
It feels almost cozy. A small oasis of domesticity in this industrial fortress.
Alex connects his camera to the television. “This was at Green Research.”
The footage flickers to life, showing sterile hallways splattered with blood, bodies twitching on the floor, and scientists and security guards transformed into monsters. My stomach churns as I recognize faces—colleagues I’d passed in hallways, nodded to in cafeterias. All dead or worse now.
Gavin squeezes my hand, and I’m grateful for the comfort, despite the lingering tension between us. Though honestly, he has more right to be angry than I do.
“I knew it,” John mutters. “It’s really happening.”
“You called it. They bite, they infect.” Alex’s voice takes on that practiced documentary tone he uses for his channel. “Incubation period seems to be short depending on the person.”
“Depends on viral load and infection site,” I correct. All eyes turn to me. “I’m—I was a virologist at Green. I know how it works.”
John’s eyes narrow. “You helped make this?”
“She tried to stop it,” Gavin says.
I want to correct him, want to confess that I was complicit through inaction, through turning a blind eye to the warning signs. But I don’t. Self-preservation keeps my mouth shut.
A door slams somewhere in the back of the warehouse.
“Marcus!” John calls out. “Come here and meet our guests!”
Footsteps approach from behind a tall shelf, and a man emerges—younger than John, maybe mid-thirties, with short brown hair showing early gray at the temples. He’s clean-shaven, wearing medical scrubs under a tactical vest, with a distinctive tattoo of a caduceus on his forearm.
“Didn’t know we were expecting company,” he says.
“Neither did I.” John gestures toward us. “Urban explorer and his friends. They brought footage of the outbreak.”
