Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,59

protein therapy studies, and biological tissue analysis; and the last wing, opposite the entrance, that looks to be more administrative services—executive offices, a kitchen, a quartet of conferences rooms, and a break room. The elevator in the central hub has a large set of doors—freight-sized doors. There is only one button on the pad next to the doors, and it isn't marked.

“Only one way to go,” Mere says. “Down.” She pushes the button, and nothing happens.

She's sweating. The ambient temperature inside the lab is higher than outside, and not just because the central air handling system has failed.

It hasn't been that long since the fire snuffed itself out.

“There has to be another access,” I point out. “Where's all the heat exchanges, the air control infrastructure? It's not up on the roof, which means it's all below ground. That has to vent somewhere.”

She nods. “And the server room. I see computer workstations, but where does the network collapse back to?”

It's odd there's only one door into the building. No windows. No emergency exits. A good design criteria if you are building something that can be hermetically sealed, but, well, Mere and I are looking at what happens when good designs become deathtraps.

There's an unmarked door near the end of the right-hand lab wing that is thicker than the others. The seal hisses when I pull it open, and colder air wafts out. Stairs, going down. We prop this door open too, and descend, feeling our way in the dark.

We reach a landing and find—by feel—another heavy door. I force it open, and weak light streams out into the stairwell. Emergency lighting, a track of tiny lights that runs along the ceiling of the hallway beyond. The hallway is nondescript and I spot a few generalized signs. Maintenance and HVAC systems. Separate from the lab upstairs, and unaffected by the fire. They're in low power mode, but they're still functional.

“We should find flashlights,” Mere says, squeezing past me.

I hesitate, looking back at the stairs that continue going down. The walls of the stairwell aren't the same prefab material of the lab. They're actually stone. We're in the bedrock of the island.

“This stairwell predates the lab,” I point out. “I know what's down there.”

The old temple.

“Silas,” Mere says, “wait a second, will you?” She's found a panel in the wall, a recessed locker of some kind. She rummages through its contents and produces a heavy flashlight. Shining its beam around, she does a quick visual check of the hall and then comes back to me. “Okay,” she says, “let's go.”

I let her lead and we descend one more floor. She shines the light down the next flight, and the stairs go down a few more metals and then end. A heavy metal grate lies across the floor. She moves the flashlight around too quickly for me to make out any details of what lies beneath the grate. I almost reach out and grab the light from her, but she steps out of reach. Trying to get my attention, she raps the handle against another security door. “One more door,” she says.

I drag myself away from the grate and pull open the door. The same dull glow of emergency lighting greets us, as well as the distinct odor of blood.

The short hall beyond the door leads to three rooms: two tiny observation lounges and an operating theater. The last has been recently used—dramatically so—and the last person out hadn't bothered to clean up. There's a dried crust of blood on the tile floor, some of it built up around the drain not far from the metal table. Several trays of used equipment sit nearby, and there are tracks in the blood as if a large cart was parked nearby for a while and then moved once the patient had been… emptied.

There's power too. Mere spots a workstation nearby with a laptop still attached to the network. She investigates it, and I hear her make a noise somewhere between surprise and alarm. “What is it?” I ask, still looking at the blood stains on the table.

I used to read the future this way, in the spatter of blood from an animal sacrifice.

Something's not right. I recognize the scent, though I can't place it. There's panic rising in my chest, a flight response brought on by the scent of the blood. I should know what is causing it. I should—

“Silas.” Mere gets my attention. A second later, she's got her hand to her mouth and she's