“Finn—oh God, you have to help me!”
Panic. Her breath came fast. In the background, glass shattered, followed by a man’s muffled shout, the sound bleeding through the line as if it were coming through a wall.
“Fiona, slow down. What’s going on?”
“They’re saying it’s a riot, but it’s—” A sob tore through her words. “People are attacking each other. They’re biting—”
My mouth went dry.
“Biting?”
“I saw a woman—she—” A shaky breath. “Finn… a woman just—she just bit a man’s throat… She just… tore it out.”
I told myself she had to be joking. But that wasn’t Fiona.
Another crash through the phone. Closer.
“Fiona, where are you?”
“At the hospital. I came in early and—” Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “They locked the doors.”
A sharp bang ripped through the line.
She screamed.
“Fiona!”
“They’re trying to get in!”
I already had my jeans in my hands; dread settled in my chest.
“Find a room and lock it. Barricade the door if you can. I’m coming to get you.”
“Finn—”
Dead air.
I stared at the silent screen. Half a second. Maybe less.
I dressed in whatever my hands found first. The hangover, a dull pressure behind my eyes, was still there, but my body had already stopped caring.
My handgun lay on the small table beside the bed. I picked it up, checked the chamber, and tucked it into the small of my back.
* * *
I pulled the door shut behind me just as my phone rang again.
“Fiona?”
Her voice came through in a whisper, so quiet I nearly missed it.
“Finn… I made it out.”
My grip tightened on the phone. “Out of the hospital?”
“Yes.” Her breath trembled. “I’m in the parking garage, the underground one across the street. Hiding in the security office on the third level.”
I could hear her holding herself together by a thread.
