The darkness in the waste tunnel was absolute, thick, and suffocating. It pressed in like wet velvet, heavy with the stench of decay – a nauseating cocktail of formaldehyde, chlorine bleach, rotting organic matter, and the metallic tang of old blood. The air hung cold and damp, tasting of chemicals and despair.
The only sounds were our ragged, echoing breaths, the frantic drumming of my heart, the incessant drip of water from unseen pipes, and the steady, rhythmic blink… blink… blink of the tiny red LED on Anya Petrova's recorder. Its weak light, reflected in the oily puddle at our feet, was our sole anchor in the void.
Cruz slumped against the slime-coated tunnel wall, his breathing shallow and pained. The adrenaline that had propelled him through the alley fight and the lock-smashing was fading fast, leaving him pale and shivering despite the tunnel's chill. The dark stain on his scrubs over the gunshot graze had spread.
"Let me see," I said, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the confined space. My fingers, numb with cold and fear, found the soaked pad of fabric he held against his side. Peeling it back carefully in the dim red glow, the wound looked angry. The ragged edges were already coated with a film of the alley's grime and now the tunnel's foul residue. Infection wasn't a risk; it was a guarantee. "It needs cleaning. Proper cleaning."
"Later," he gritted out, pushing my hand away weakly. "Focus on… the prize." His eyes, wide and reflecting the LED's pulse, locked onto the recorder in my hand. "Play it."
His urgency mirrored my own. Anya Petrova's voice, captured in her final moments, could be the detonator that blew this whole nightmare apart. But the casing was scorched, cracked, and dripping filthy water. I wiped it frantically on the least soiled part of my scrubs, my fingers trembling as I fumbled for the play button. It was partially melted, resistant. I pressed harder. Nothing. Blink… blink… blink. The light mocked us.
Panic clawed at my throat. Had the fire, the water, destroyed it? Had we risked everything for a dead piece of plastic? Cruz groaned, slumping further, his energy visibly draining with each passing second.
I jammed my thumb against the button again, desperation lending me strength. With a gritty, reluctant click, the device finally activated. The red light stopped blinking, glowing steadily. A hiss of static filled the tunnel, loud and jarring. Then, cutting through the white noise, a voice – thin, terrified, speaking rapid Russian:
"…не понимаю… доктор Арчер… он сказал, это поможет… от болезни Вильсона…"
("…don't understand… Doctor Archer… he said it would help… with Wilson's disease…")
Anya's voice. Filled with confusion and a dawning horror. Static crackled, swallowing a few words.
"…синий флакон… так холодно… внутри горит…"
("…blue vial… so cold… burning inside…")
Her words dissolved into a whimper, then a sharp gasp. A clatter, as if something dropped. Then, the distinct, chillingly professional voice of Dr. Archer, calm and utterly detached:
*"Subject Petrova, Anya. Prometheus trial cohort 114-P. Administering second infusion. Note increased agitation and reports of cephalic thermogenesis. Likely psychosomatic. Proceed."*
Another voice, male, orderly: "She's fighting, Doc. Says it burns."
Archer, dismissive: "Restraints. Standard protocol. Record vital spike for efficacy metrics."
A muffled cry from Anya, the sound of struggle, a sharp slap. Then her voice again, ragged, pleading directly, as if speaking into the hidden recorder:
"Пожалуйста… если кто-нибудь найдет это… скажите моей сестре в Бруклине… не верьте им… это ложь… это яд… они вставляют дыры в мой…"
("Please… if anyone finds this… tell my sister in Brooklyn… don't believe them… it's a lie… it's poison… they are putting holes in my…")
Her voice cut off abruptly with a wet, choking gurgle. The sound was horrifyingly familiar – the onset of a neurological seizure, the body betraying itself. The recording ended with Archer's voice, cool and clinical:
"Seizure activity consistent with Stage 2 neural degradation. Terminate recording. Prep for tissue harvest post-mortem. Liver samples prioritized for Project Lazarus cross-analysis."
Click. Silence. The red light blinked once more, then died. The recorder was spent.
The silence that followed was heavier than the darkness. The confirmation of Archer's cold-blooded experimentation, the direct link to Project Lazarus (Vivian's lifeline), and Anya's desperate, damning testimony hung in the putrid air. Proof. Scorched, waterlogged, but undeniable.
Cruz let out a shaky breath that was half-sob, half-growl. "Holes in her brain," he whispered, his voice thick with rage and grief. "Just like Anna. He used the same lines. Wilson's. Compassionate trial. Bastards." He slammed his fist weakly against the tunnel wall, a dull thud in the gloom. "We have it, Doc. We have the nail for their coffin."
"But we need to get it out," I said, the urgency crashing back. Cruz was deteriorating. His skin felt clammy under my touch, his pulse rapid and thready. The beginnings of fever. Sepsis was setting in, accelerated by the filth and the tunnel's miasma. "And you need antibiotics. Now. Can you walk?"
"Walk? Yeah." He pushed himself upright with a grimace, using the wall for support. "Run? Jury's out." He nodded down the seemingly endless tunnel. "This has to go somewhere. Follow the flow." He gestured at the shallow stream of foul sludge trickling down the center of the concrete floor.
We moved slowly, Cruz leaning heavily on me. Every shuffle, every stumble echoed. The darkness pressed in, playing tricks on the mind. Rats skittered just beyond the weak beam of Cruz's dying burner phone flashlight. The stench was a physical presence. Minutes bled into what felt like hours. Cruz's weight increased, his steps more unsteady. His breathing grew labored, punctuated by sharp intakes of breath when he jarred his wound.
"Talk to me, Cruz," I urged, trying to keep him focused, fighting the cold dread seeping into my own bones. "Anna. Tell me about her."