Chapter 7 - The Wire in the Wall
Julian dropped to his knees beside the heavy oak desk, his phone's flashlight beam shaking uncontrollably.
He had six hours. Maybe less, if the air ran out first.
He looked at the USB drive in his hand. Then he looked at the old desktop computer sitting under a layer of gray dust in the corner of the vault—an ancient IBM tower from 2004, its heavy gray power cord plugged straight into an orange wall conduit.
He scrambled over to the tower, hit the power button.
Nothing. The main power to the vault had been cut from the circuit breaker outside.
Julian slammed his fist against the metal casing of the computer tower, a sharp yell of frustration bursting from his throat. The metal groaned under his blow, the top panel popping loose, revealing the dusty green motherboard and a nest of multicolored wiring inside.
He stopped. His thính giác picked up a faint, steady hum coming from the wall behind the desk.
Not the main line. An auxiliary backup wire—a three-phase copper line running from the emergency generator in the courtyard, designed to keep the old pharmacy refrigerator cold even during a blackout.
He grabbed his iron scraper from his pocket, his mind working at lightning speed.
He didn't need the whole computer. He needed power for his phone.
He crawled behind the steel refrigerator, his shoulder screaming with pain, and used the sharp edge of the scraper to slice through the rubber insulation of the emergency line. Sparks flew into the dark, blinding him for a fraction of a second, the heat scorching the hair on his forearm.
He stripped the wires with his teeth, his mouth tasting of copper and salty sweat.
He took his phone’s USB charging cable, cut the end off with his scraper, and spliced the exposed red and black copper leads directly onto the live emergency line.
His phone screen flickered once, twice, and then lit up with a small green lightning bolt icon in the corner: CHARGING (1%).
And right next to the battery icon, a single bar of cellular signal popped up—the emergency wire was acting as an crude antenna, pulling a faint signal through the iron conduit from the roof.
His phone chimed with an incoming text notification.
It wasn't from Clara. It wasn't from the police.
It was an unknown number, sent three minutes ago:
May you like
I know you're in the vault. Don't use the door. Look under the third shelf on the left.
---
