I look around for something. Anything. I don’t even know what.
In the garage there are three huge lawn mowers. They’re the kind the landscapers here stand on to mow the acres of grass that surround this place. Next to them is a small tractor, with belt treads instead of tires. I look at it longingly, but I know I can’t take it. Where would I go, especially in this weather? And it would draw a lot of attention. If I’m going to escape, I’ll need to do it quietly. I have a feeling no one is going to let me leave if they can possibly help it.
A row of lockers lines one wall. Maybe there’s something in one of them that can help me. I find a hammer in a nearby toolbox and give one of the keypad locks a couple hard whacks. The first locker springs open; it’s full of nothing. The next one is more helpful. There’s a set of blue coveralls and a big overcoat; it’s green canvas on the outside and flannel on the inside. I strip off my wet clothes and put the coveralls on. I’ve got to roll the sleeves and pant legs up about six inches. I put the overcoat on, and it’s so warm and soft I momentarily hug myself in grateful relief. In the next locker I find a lunch box with a sandwich and an apple inside. I stuff them into my pockets. Then I remember the passcard and the pills. I need to get them out of my wet clothes.
I put my hand in the pocket of the hoodie and come away with the plastic bag. One of the two remaining gel capsules has popped, and the baggy is leaking whatever was inside. It probably happened when I slid out the window and landed on my chest. I put the baggy in the coat pocket.
I smash another few lockers before I come up with a stretchy black cap. I put that on and instantly feel a thousand times warmer. I find a pair of leather work gloves lying on a nearby bench and put those on, too.
This garage is full of landscaping tools, but what am I going to do? Carry a rake with me to defend myself? I need something smaller.
I go back to the tool closet where I got the hammer and have another look around. At first I think I see a gun, but then I realize it’s a nailer. It’s about two feet long—the kind you use to fire nails into concrete with a shotgun shell. I have no idea how I know what it is and how it works, but I do. I put it in the inside pocket of the huge overcoat, holding the handle of it with my armpit. I take a handful each of shells and nails and put them in the pocket, too. Improvising seems familiar. Like it’s my style.
I notice an interior door in the corner of the garage. There’s probably a hallway on the other side. It might lead toward a basement, but I can’t chance it. Since this place is built into the side of a hill, I can’t be sure what level the garage connects to, and I don’t want to end up anywhere near the lobby. Run? Don’t run? I do nothing. I can’t do nothing. I hear footsteps on the other side of the door. Heavy and urgent. These guys are fast.
I can hear them shouting to each other in their weird, digitized voices. I run to the other side of the garage, where the big lawn mowers are parked, and squat down behind one of them.
I hear the chirp of a magnetized card reader and see the light near the door turn from red to green. The door opens an inch.
I wait. They wait. They’re testing me.
“Sarah Ramos. Walk to the center of the room and lie face down on the floor with your arms and legs fully extended.”
I say nothing. Still the door doesn’t open. What are they waiting for?
I jump up from behind the mower and pull the engine cord. It springs to life, coughing black smoke. I squeeze one handle, but nothing happens. Then I try both at the same time and the lawn mower jumps forward, but as soon as I let go of both handles, it stalls.
Behind me on a workbench is a roll of duct tape. I tear a piece off with my teeth and wrap it around each handle of the mower.
Just as the door springs open, I pop the brake and the mower takes off toward the door. I don’t care how many guns you have—when a huge lawn mower is coming at you, you get out of the way. They reflexively shoot and then retreat back to the hallway as it smashes into the door. The screeching of metal echoes through the garage.
I hit the button to lower the garage door, waiting until it’s almost all the way down before slipping out underneath.
I’m alive. But I need to keep moving if I want to stay that way.
Keeping close to the building, I hope the outcroppings and contours will provide me some cover. After a hundred feet or so, I come to the edge of my known world: a huge metal trellis mounted to the side of the building. It runs almost all the way to the roof and has thousands of pieces of copper foil attached to the lattice. When the wind blows, the foil strips spin around, making patterns in the shifting breezes. Pretty, yes, but it’s also capturing the wind’s energy to help supply power to the building. Somebody once told me it’s called “functional sculpture.”
As I try to decide what my next move should be, I see a figure ahead of me in the snow. It isn’t one of the guys with guns. It isn’t someone on staff. Another patient? It can’t be. For one thing, he isn’t bald. I can see dark hair sticking out from underneath his ski hat. Also, he’s wearing a big white puffy ski jacket and goggles, and carrying what looks like a computer bag. As he skulks along, I skulk behind him. Something in the way he moves tells me he’s young. I follow as he picks his way around the edge of the building. In his left hand, he’s carrying a walkie-talkie, and when he disappears around the next corner, I run faster to gain ground.
I chance a look around the corner and stop in my tracks. There’s a work site. It’s huge. The hole they’ve dug for this construction project runs as deep as the main hospital building is tall. Excavated dirt is piled in every direction. There are dump trucks, cement mixers, backhoes, and, looming above it all, a tower crane. I see the trunk of it, but the top has disappeared into the veil of snow. Obviously, they wouldn’t be working in this weather, but there’s something about the site that’s not quite right. Maybe it’s the tall weeds around the tires of the cement mixer, the sheets of plastic that have torn loose and blown into the fence, the way the piles of dirt look hardened. No one’s been here for a while.
The kid is making his way toward the small outbuilding that’s connected to the main facility by a glass walkway. He’s crouched low, definitely trying to stay hidden. It makes me feel better about him. Plus, he doesn’t have a gun. Right now, my favorite people on earth are those without guns.
When the kid gets to the building, he squats down near the door at the side and pulls out a passcard. It’s just like mine: white. He seems unsure about whether he wants to use it. He waits, then finally scans the card and opens the door.
As soon as he goes in, I make my move. I sprint for the opening like I’m trying to steal home, catching the door with my boot just before it closes all the way. I wait a minute before looking inside, just in case the guy is still there. He isn’t.
I’ve clearly come in a back door or a side door. It’s kind of odd, the way this place is separate from the main building, but I’m sure there must be a reason. There always is.
The stairs go one direction: down. I move as quietly as I can. This might be a good place to lie low for a while. I come to a set of doors, each with a magnetized card reader next to it. Judging by the unmelted snow on the floor, the kid went to the right, which means I’ll go left.
I use my passcard and pull the door open. The air’s so cold I wonder if I’ve walked back outside. As I enter the room, the lights come on. I take two steps back, and the security camera in the upper corner of the room adjusts itself to capture my movement.
No! No! No!
Turning back, I hear a strange sound, like something deflating. Someone has just turned off the lights, along with every machine in the place—all that white noise you don’t notice until it’s gone. A moment later, a series of greenish emergency lights come on.
I hear the beep of the card reader. Someone is coming. I press myself against the wall. It must be the kid I saw outside. Maybe he saw my snow tracks in the hall. I need to think fast.
The door swings open all the way, letting in just enough light so I can aim.
Apparently I know how to throw a pretty good punch.