Chapter 6 - The Ghost Mill
The rain fell in sheets, blurring the windshield as the old sedan tore down the deserted county highway. The red needles on my dashboard glowed in the dark, the speedometer creeping past eighty miles per hour as the trees along the road morphed into dark, jagged shadows.
"Turn left on Old Mill Road," Sarah said from the backseat, her voice trembling over the sound of the storm. "It’s an unpaved service route that leads to the back gate. The main entrance has a security guard hut."
I cut the headlights, switching to parking lights as I slammed the wheel to the left. The tires lost traction for a fraction of a second on the wet gravel before gripping the road. The car bounced violently over potholes as we drove deeper into the dense pine forest.
Ahead, through the curtain of gray rain, the dark silhouette of the old textile mill rose against the night sky like a giant, rusting beast. It was a massive, three-story brick structure built in the 1920s, surrounded by a ten-foot chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.
"There," Dr. Thorne pointed to a low concrete loading dock at the rear of the building. The black unmarked ambulance was parked near the bay doors, its engine still idling, exhaust rising into the cold air.
I killed the engine, coasting the car into the shadow of an overgrown oak tree fifty yards from the fence.
"Thorne," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Hit the alarm override."
Dr. Thorne tapped the iPad screen.
For three agonising seconds, nothing happened. Then, a faint, high-pitched horn began to blare from deep inside the brick mill. Strobe lights mounted on the exterior brick walls began to flash a harsh, blinding amber.
"It worked," Thorne said. "The magnetic locks on the loading dock doors are disengaged. But we only have a few minutes before their security personnel realize it’s a remote override."
We stepped out of the car into the freezing rain, keeping low as we sprinted across the muddy field toward the fence. Dr. Thorne pulled a heavy pair of wire cutters from his medical bag and cut a jagged opening in the lower section of the chain-link mesh.
We crawled through, mud soaking through my jeans, freezing my skin to the bone.
We reached the steel loading dock door. Dr. Thorne pulled it open. The heavy metal door swung wide with a low creak, revealing a dark, cavernous hallway that smelled of damp concrete, industrial solvent, and ozone.
"Stay close," Dr. Thorne whispered, pulling a heavy flashlight from his coat. "The surgical suite is on the second floor, in the renovated administrative wing."
We moved quickly through the dark, echoing corridors of the old factory. The high-pitched blare of the fire alarm echoed off the concrete walls, making it impossible to hear footsteps.
Suddenly, a flashlight beam cut through the darkness at the end of the hall.
"Hey! Who’s there?!" a rough, deep voice shouted.
A large man wearing a black tactical vest and carrying a heavy security flashlight stepped out from a side office, reaching for the holster at his hip.
Before he could pull his weapon, Dr. Thorne stepped forward, swinging his heavy steel medical case with all his strength.
The heavy case struck the guard square across the temple with a sickening crunch. The guard groaned, his knees buckling as he collapsed heavily onto the concrete floor, his flashlight rolling away into the shadows.
Sarah gasped, pressing her back against the brick wall, her eyes wide with terror.
"Pick up his flashlight," Dr. Thorne ordered, his voice remarkably steady despite his heavy breathing. "And his security keycard."
I dropped to my knees, grabbing the guard's keycard lanyard from his neck and picking up the heavy flashlight.
"Come on," I said, my voice hardening. "Room Lab B is right above us."
We sprinted up a flight of metal stairs, the cold iron handrails slippery under my hands. At the top of the landing, a pair of pristine, modern double doors—a stark contrast to the rusting brick around them—stood slightly ajar, their magnetic locks disengaged by the alarm override.
Printed on the frost-glass window of the door were the words: Bennett Advanced Bio-Genetic Research - Authorized Personnel Only.
I shoved the double doors open.
The air inside was instantly different—warm, sterile, smelling strongly of rubbing alcohol and iodine.
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Standing in the center of the brightly lit room, holding a long, stainless steel bone marrow aspiration needle, was Dr. Marcus Bennett. Beside him, two male surgical techs were struggling to hold down Lily, who was thrashing wildly on the operating table, her tiny, terrified screams piercing through the sound of the alarm.
"Stop!" I screamed, lunging into the room with the heavy security flashlight raised over my head. "Get away from her!"
