Seal
She signaled the lobby camera with a gloved hand. The glass doors slid apart with a dry, mechanical wheeze. In the basement flat, the air tasted of old dust and cold concrete.
“We have to board the glass,” John said. He was a shadow against the laminate counter, a green bottle hanging from his fingers. “When the drones stop, the people upstairs will stop waiting. They’ll start looking down.”
She didn't look at him. She was counting the silver lids of the cans. Sardines. Corned beef. Thirty days of life, if they learned how to starve.
“Where are the boards coming from, John?”
“The government?” He scoffed. “Sure. Any minute now. They’ll drop them between the missiles and the prayers. We’ll dig them out of the lobby.”
The bottle cap hit the floor with a hollow clink. He set the bottle on the counter and reached for his rucksack, but his elbow caught it.
It shattered against the tile, exploding into a spray of green shards and bitter foam. The fermented scent twisted in the air—and then it changed.
Sharp. Electric. Ozone, metallic and bitter.
The floor wasn’t gray concrete anymore. It was a blinding, seamless white.
The lab stayed white even when the flask hit the floor. The glass burst. The air changed. A technician clawed at an unbolted shelf, his mouth moving, but no sound came out. The filtration system hummed, low and constant, while the speakers barked for evacuation.
A precautionary seal, they said. The first of many they would tell to cover what wasn’t.
“It’s just a bottle,” John said. His voice cracked, dragging her back. He stared at the mess, his bare feet inches from the jagged shards. “I’ll clean it up.”
She didn't answer. She looked up at the vent in the ceiling.
The hum upstairs shifted—became a wet, rattling wheeze.
She started counting.