The feeling of curtailed fear hangs over the hall like a thin shroud. The scuff of boots, the whispers, even and crackling electronics stop. It's like an echo. A remnant. Around them but not from them.

There are at least two fire teams. They're posed like toys. It's too early for rigour mortis, but they remain in their positions. Wren looks closer at the nearest soldier: a man with the nameplate GILL. He's crouched awkwardly against the sandbags so his helmet peeks overtop. It's only then that she sees the twine wrapped around his arms and legs to keep them at certain angles. Each one is then tied around a sandbag to keep Gill in position. His eyes are half-open and unfocused, almost sedate, if not for the dramatic grimace frozen on his face.

"Jesus," Harkes chokes out.

This is meticulous work. It demands a lot of patience and forethought. The Bowler doesn't seem the type. Which means there may very well be another mature vampire in this hospital. One with the necessary strength and speed to take this many soldiers by surprise and the sadism to play with them afterwards.

But is it the same one who made the tunnel? The one who made her?

Wren wrenches her eyes away from Specialist Gill's face. A gurney is against the far wall by the nursing station. She carries Harkes to it and gently lays him down. He gulps mouthfuls of air, sweat visible around his eyes, and turns his head back towards the scene. From behind, it almost looks like a movie set. Lights and crew face the tunnel entrance like movie stars are about to emerge. She looks behind the nursing desk for any surprises, but nothing and no one is there. It's good enough for now. She pushes the gurney into a small space between the desk and the leftmost sandbags. Harkes' eyes flick up to her, little more than glints of moisture in the shadows. She doesn't need to be psychic to see his fear.

The UV lights make it difficult for Wren's vision to adjust so she turns them off. The hallway falls back into darkness, then reemerges in uncanny detail. Harkes gasps a softly behind her and she pats his shoulder to reassure him. If their situations were reversed, she wouldn't want to be laying prone in the middle of this graveyard, either. She goes through each person's gear, careful not to look too closely at their faces, but their expressions all seem to be the same. Fear, rage, astonishment. They saw what killed them.

Another smell emerges into the overpowering mix. An odd combination of sweat, musky perfume, bad meat, and dirty underwear. Decomposition. Every minute that ticks by, her senses become more and more acute. Wren tries to shake it off, but her nose stings. Her eyes prick with involuntary tears. Her heightening senses give her an intimate insight into every facet of their deaths whether she likes it or not.

Who ate and drank before they died. What they ate and drank. Who showered. Who didn't. What kind of perfume or cologne they preferred and when they last applied it. Who died first. Who died last. Who bled out, who bled in. Who died the most afraid.

The only positive is that Wren's appetite shrivels. She walks among the dead, good people who came here to keep their promise, and focuses on their kit. Human cruoris immune globulin needs to be refrigerated in the long term. In the field, it keeps at room temperature for 24 hours. Hospitals like this one once had HCIG, but the pandemic quickly exhausted their stores. Now it's strictly rationed. She needs to find an IV kit.

She spots the medic. A body slumped over another body like they're tending a patient. No strings on this one. When Wren pulls the medic back, she sees it's a woman, face purpling with blood, the whites of her eyes turning brown. Jesus Christ. She lays her back down gently and detaches the more comprehensive trauma kit. When she opens it up, a standard IV kit is tucked into one of the pockets with three doses of HCIG. The liquid is clear, deceptively inert, and could easily be mistaken for water. But it's their one and only defence against the cruoris virus. One little concoction is what keeps the human race human.

Wren doesn't pray. Not once in 27 years. She has no patience for religion, but she sends the medic her gratitude as a substitute. There's no harm in being grateful. A chance of balancing the scales. Seeing justice done is what allows her to gather ammo, a suppressed M4, two flash bangs, and a throat mic. Much of the gear is crushed and battered. Despite a lack of blood, most of the soldiers bear telltale lumps. Broken bones, internal bleeding, head trauma. A lot of it is in the eyes. Uneven pupils. Blood gathering in dark circles like they just spent an all-nighter at the bar. Or—just knowing. Knowing you're dying. She sees that, too.

Harkes watches her return. His stare pleads for something, but she's not sure what and this isn't the place for deep conversation. He taps one of his pockets. When she opens it, she finds a badly creased layout of the hospital. Wren wheels him away from the staged scene. It's better than carrying him, frees up her hands, but every click and rattle has her squinting into shadows. The silence is profound. You could call it eerie if the hospital was abandoned. But it's not abandoned. The silence is coiled tight. It's occupied. Something is still here out of sight. Watching and aware.

They approach a corner. Wren moves out in front and listens. Nothing. She takes a big step to clear the corner and raises her M4. More nothing. Everything is dark and quiet. This place feels like it's holding its breath. So is she. The hairs on her neck are still on end. A constant overload of scent doesn't help, either. But sounds are starting to join the cacophony. Faint groans, creaks, a sigh of wind, and a distant drip. It's getting harder to parse relevant and irrelevant information. She scans the hallway twice before drawing back against the gurney. Harkes' breaths are more rapid. They diffuse heat in the air and release a fresh umami note. He keeps staring at her with that stricken boy in the rearview mirror look.

And even then, even after what they just saw, her hunger slowly creeps back in.