Wednesday, December 10, 2025, 5:12 PM
Countdown to Extraction: 57 Hours, 29 Minutes Remaining
Ethan didn't wake all at once.
It wasn't a sudden, gasping return to consciousness. It was a slow, agonizing crawl out of a suffocating black hole.
At first, it was just a microscopic shift in his breathing—deeper, uneven, his lungs hitching as his body aggressively fought its way back from somewhere incredibly heavy. The darkness behind his eyelids began to thin out, replaced by a dull, throbbing pressure at the base of his skull. Then, his thick fingers twitched against the worn velvet cushion.
A low, wet groan slipped from the back of his throat before his eyes finally fluttered open.
The heavy, saturated red glow of the club lights hit his dilated pupils like a physical strike.
He blinked rapidly, completely disoriented, his combat-hardened brain struggling to piece together exactly where he was and why absolutely every single nerve ending in his body was screaming in protest. His mouth tasted like old copper and bile. The air was sticky and warm, smelling of cheap tequila and vanilla perfume.
He turned his head slowly, the muscles in his thick neck protesting the movement.
Mari was sitting on a low leather ottoman pulled close to the VIP couches. She was resting her elbows heavily on her knees, her hands clasped together, just watching him without saying a word.
She looked absolutely hollowed out.
Her dark eyes were rimmed a deep, exhausted red. Her heavy winter jacket was stiff and dark with his dried arterial blood. Her ash-smeared face was completely numb, the expression stripped down to the bare, ugly mechanics of survival. But her gaze was steady. She was still holding the line.
"You're awake," she said quietly, her voice hoarse from the smoke and the shouting.
He swallowed hard. His throat felt like it was coated in ground glass. His voice came out as a rough, broken rasp. "Dot?"
Mari didn't answer right away.
She just stared at him.
The silence between them stretched thin and incredibly fragile across the few feet of sticky floor. The commercial music still hummed faintly through the damaged speakers somewhere overhead, a warped, distorted bassline looping endlessly like a mechanical heartbeat that simply refused to die. Beyond the tinted front windows of the club, dark silhouettes moved in slow, crooked, dragging paths through the falling ash—heavy reminders that the nightmare hadn't paused just because Ethan's body had shut down.
Maya stepped into Ethan's field of vision from the side. The nursing student had been sitting at the bar but had moved the second she heard him groan. She reached down, her cool fingers pressing firmly against his wrist, finding his radial pulse.
"You lost a massive amount of blood out there," Maya said, her tone clinical but gentle. Her dark eyes evaluated his pale, sweat-slicked face. "Your blood pressure tanked. You went deep into hypovolemic shock. Try not to move too fast. Your brain isn't getting enough oxygen yet to handle sudden elevation."
Ethan's eyes darted down to his massive chest, taking in the thick, blood-stained layers of white gauze wrapped tightly around his ribs. The memory of Darius's serrated hunting knife tearing through his tactical shirt flashed violently in his mind.
"Pharmacy," Ethan muttered, his jaw locking.
He ignored Maya's explicit warning and planted his hands on the velvet cushions, pushing himself up anyway.
The absolute second he tried to sit, white-hot agony ripped completely through his right side.
It wasn't a dull ache. It was a sharp, blinding tearing sensation that stole the oxygen directly out of his lungs. His breath hitched violently. The world tilted on its axis, the red neon lights smearing into long, blurry streaks. He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth audibly ground together, forcing himself fully upright by sheer, unadulterated operator willpower, one hand gripping the edge of the couch like a vise.
Mari reached out automatically, her hands grabbing his heavy forearm, steadying his massive frame when his balance immediately slipped sideways.
He grunted, shaking his head to clear the creeping black edges from his vision, and swung his heavy combat boots over the side of the cushions. They hit the sticky floor with a dull thud.
For one stubborn, completely delusional second, he stayed upright.
Then his knees folded entirely.
The strength simply wasn't there. His muscles had nothing left to burn. He dropped backward, hitting the velvet couch cushions hard, his chest heaving with shallow, shaking breaths. He squeezed his eyes shut, his massive hands trembling where they gripped his own thighs.
Maya shook her head, adjusting the IV line hanging from the chrome stripper pole above him. "Yeah. That's not happening tonight. You tore muscle, tissue, and nearly clipped a major artery. You aren't walking anywhere, let alone fighting your way down Abercorn Street."
"I'm going," Ethan ground out anyway, his voice tight with pain and a rising, desperate frustration.
Mari let go of his arm and met his eyes. "You can't even stand."
"I'll manage," Ethan shot back, glaring at the floor.
"No," Mari said, her voice dropping the quiet exhaustion, becoming significantly firmer this time. "You won't."
He pushed a trembling hand through his sweat-matted hair, the dark frustration bleeding visibly through every single movement. He hated this. He absolutely, fundamentally hated being trapped in a broken body while everyone else had to carry the weight. He was the shield. He was the one who was supposed to take the hits. The sheer, suffocating helplessness crawled under his skin, itching worse than the actual physical pain of the knife wound.
Outside, something heavy thudded aggressively against the tinted glass of the club.
BANG.
The dull, concussive impact vibrated through the chrome poles and the velvet seating, echoing into the silence like a ticking clock.
Dot's face flickered sharply across Mari's thoughts—pale, entirely too still, her breathing shallow and wrong in that dark apartment. Mari could vividly feel the plastic of that blue medical bracelet digging into her own fingertips as they realized exactly what it meant.
Minutes.
That's all Ethan had said she might have if she dropped completely into a coma. Systemic shock. Organ failure.
"We don't have time to sit here and argue about your pride," Mari said, standing up from the leather ottoman. She adjusted the heavy hunting knife strapped to her thigh. "I'm going."
Ethan's head snapped up, his dark eyes locking onto hers with sudden, furious intensity. "Absolutely not."
"I know where it is," Mari countered coldly. "Renee said it was one block over. Just past the strip mall. I can make it."
"You don't know how to breach a commercial pharmacy!" Ethan argued, his voice rising, tearing at his ruined side. "You don't know how to clear the aisles. The glass will be shattered. The alarms might have tripped before the grid went down. It'll be completely swarming with them, Mari. It's suicide."
Maya spoke up, her calm, measured voice cutting straight through the rising argument before either of them could escalate it further.
"If anyone goes out that door, it needs to be someone who actually knows what to grab," the nursing student said, stepping between them.
Mari looked at her. "What do you mean?"
"Insulin isn't just one universal thing," Maya explained quickly, her medical training taking over completely. "There are different types. Different doses. There's rapid-acting like Humalog, short-acting, intermediate, and long-acting like Lantus. They come in vials that need specific syringes, and they come in pre-filled pens. If you just run in there and grab the wrong box, or you don't know where the pharmacy keeps the refrigerated lock-boxes, you're going to come back with something that might kill her faster than the coma."
Mari froze, the sheer logistical nightmare of the task crashing down on her. She hadn't even thought about refrigeration. She hadn't thought about syringes.
"I'll go with her," Maya said, her voice steady.
Several heads turned across the club. Dancers and bartenders who had been eavesdropping on the argument looked at the young nursing student like she had just volunteered to step into a meat grinder.
Maya ignored them. She wiped her hands meticulously on a clean bar towel, her dark eyes already calculating the logistics. "I know exactly where pharmacies keep their cold storage. I know what an emergency glucose kit looks like. I can get in, identify the right compounds, and get out."
She tossed the towel onto the bar and looked toward the massive, bald owner standing by the taps. "And while we're over there, we should be grabbing supplies for this place. Pads, tampons, soap, basic antibiotics, painkillers—anything we can physically carry back."
Vince frowned, his heavy arms crossed over his chest.
"This place isn't going to run itself, Vince," Maya pointed out, gesturing to the room full of terrified women. "We have thirty girls locked in a building with no running water and no hygiene supplies. That's a biological hazard waiting to happen. We need basics if we're going to survive in this box."
One of the older dancers sitting near the main stage nodded immediately, her expression grim. "Please. We're already running low on toilet paper in the back. We need supplies."
Ethan exhaled slowly, a long, ragged sound. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscles ticked visibly under his skin.
He knew Maya was right. He knew the logic was completely sound.
He just absolutely hated it.
"I'm not sending her out there alone," Ethan said, glaring at the floor, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Two college girls on a blind supply run in a hot zone. It's a death sentence."
"You're not sending anyone anywhere, Ethan," Mari replied, her tone matching his. "We're deciding."
A man standing near the far end of the bar stepped out of the shadows.
He had a thick, heavily muscled build, wearing a dark, oil-stained Carhartt jacket. His hands were large and incredibly rough, the knuckles permanently stained with dark grease like he'd worked inside engine blocks for most of his adult life.
"I'll go," the man said. His voice was deep, southern, and calm. "Name's Reggie. I got caught at the light outside when the sirens started. Sitting around in here drinking Vince's water isn't helping anybody. I can swing a bat."
Another guy—significantly younger, wearing a busboy uniform, nervous energy practically vibrating off his thin frame—raised a hesitant hand from a booth near the bathrooms.
"Luis," the kid said, his voice cracking slightly. "I... I can carry stuff. I have a big backpack. And honestly, I'd rather be moving and doing something than just sitting here waiting to see what breaks in through those front windows."
Vince watched the volunteers from behind the mahogany bar, his heavy eyes weighing the room, calculating the odds.
"Four people," the owner said slowly, nodding to himself. "That's a good number. That's enough to carry a heavy haul, cover your flanks, and move fast without making too much noise. Any bigger and you're a parade. Any smaller and you're an easy target."
Ethan leaned forward again, resting his elbows heavily on his knees, staring at the sticky floor like he was trying to physically argue with gravity itself. The red neon light carved deep, hollow shadows under his eyes and cheekbones, making the former operator look ten years older than he had just hours ago in the apartment.
"You shouldn't have to do this," Ethan muttered, refusing to look at Mari.
Mari shrugged slightly, adjusting the heavy strap of Justin's hunting knife. "Nobody should be doing any of this. But here we are."
Outside, something scraped sharply along the hurricane glass again.
It was a horrific sound—the distinct, screeching noise of rotting fingernails dragging against the reinforced pane. A dancer in a sheer robe flinched violently as a dark, twisted shape dragged past the tinted window, leaving a thick, wet smear that caught the red interior light. The sound lingered in the air—slow, searching, mindless—before slowly fading into the low, collective chorus of distant moans echoing down Abercorn Street.
Mari's hand drifted briefly to her lower stomach.
It was a quiet, completely unconscious motion. She didn't even notice she was doing it.
Justin's face flickered sharply in her memory. Not the blood, not the screaming in the alley—just his face. The easy, crooked way he smiled. The way he always leaned forward when he talked. The way he would've already been halfway to the delivery door with a baseball bat in his hand before Maya even finished asking for volunteers. He wouldn't have hesitated to help Dot. He wouldn't have hesitated to protect Tally.
She swallowed hard, shoving the heavy, suffocating grief back down into the dark box in her chest, and forced her focus strictly back to the room.
Ethan finally looked up at her.
There was a dark, brooding anger in his eyes—furious at the situation, furious at his broken body—but right underneath it, there was a profound, heavy worry.
"Just… don't do anything stupid," Ethan said, his voice dropping into a rough whisper.
Mari gave him a tired, cynical half-smile. "That's kind of the whole situation now, isn't it?"
Maya was already moving, listing things rapidly under her breath, pacing slightly behind the bar as she gathered her gear. "Glucose tabs. Insulin pens. Syringes. Alcohol wipes. If we find sealed IV kits, grab them. Broad-spectrum antibiotics like Amoxicillin or Cipro. Bandages. We sweep the pharmacy counter first, then hit the feminine hygiene aisle, then get out."
Reggie walked over to the bar. Vince reached under the counter and handed the mechanic a heavy, industrial-grade metal Maglite flashlight. Reggie gripped the textured handle, testing the substantial weight of the metal in his hands like he was already planning the exact angles of where to swing it.
Luis hurried over from his booth, grabbing a large, empty canvas duffel bag that had been discarded near the coat check. He strapped it tightly across his thin chest, adjusting the buckles, trying desperately to look significantly braver than his shaking hands suggested.
The atmosphere in the club actively shifted around them.
The heavy, terrified silence broke into hushed, frantic whispers. The dancers watched the four of them gear up, their eyes filled with a desperate, fragile hope. Some of the women crossed their bare arms tightly over their chests, hugging themselves like they were physically trying to hold their own bodies together. Others just stared at the heavy back delivery door like it might suddenly open on its own and swallow them all whole.
Ethan leaned his head back against the velvet couch, clearly fighting the overwhelming, irrational urge to try standing one more time. His massive hands curled into tight fists against his thighs, the knuckles turning white, and then slowly relaxed.
The total loss of control weighed on him infinitely heavier than the lacerated artery. He was a soldier trapped in a body that had violently refused his direct orders.
"You come back," Ethan said quietly, staring straight at Mari.
Mari nodded exactly once.
She didn't make a big speech. She didn't offer him hollow, optimistic promises that she absolutely couldn't guarantee she'd keep.
She just gave him a look that said she understood exactly what was waiting out there in the ash.
Vince moved out from behind the mahogany bar, holding a heavy set of keys attached to a thick brass ring. "We'll keep this place locked down tight," the massive owner said, gesturing toward the back hallway. "You get to the CVS. You get in, you get exactly what you need, and you get your asses back here. Knock three times, pause, then twice. If I don't hear that pattern, I am not throwing the deadbolts."
Mari checked the heavy hunting knife at her hip one last time, ensuring it was loose enough in the leather sheath for a rapid draw.
Maya slung a small, empty medical bag securely over her shoulder.
Reggie tapped the heavy metal flashlight against his palm.
Luis adjusted the canvas duffel strap, swallowing hard.
The velvet room fell completely quiet as the four of them stood together near the dark hallway leading to the delivery door.
Even the distorted, looping bassline from the blown-out speakers seemed to dip lower, exactly as if the building itself was holding its collective breath.
Ethan watched them from the couch, entirely silent now. He knew arguing wouldn't change the mathematics of the apocalypse. His dark gaze followed Mari, watching the way her shoulders squared, watching the way she didn't hesitate or look back, even when the sheer terror was sitting right there behind her eyes.
Dot was rapidly running out of time.
And whether they liked it or not—this was the absolutely only move they had left.
Wednesday, December 10, 2025, 5:35 PM
Countdown to Extraction: 57 Hours, 06 Minutes Remaining