Chapter 4 - The Shed on the Property
While Detective Miller coordinated with the county sheriff’s department to secure a high-priority search warrant for the Route 10 property, I returned to the pediatric ICU where Leo had been transferred following initial stabilization.
Dr. Vance, our chief infectious disease specialist, stood beside the bed reviewing the telemetry data while a team of surgical nurses prepped the overhead lights.
"The biological payload is active, Tom," Dr. Vance said quietly as I pulled on a sterile surgical gown. "Whatever was introduced into his subcutaneous tissue is secreting a localized neurotoxin that acts as a local anesthetic—which explains why the boy felt heaviness rather than agonizing pain. But the infection is spreading along the facial nerve pathway toward the temporal bone. If it reaches the braincase, we’re looking at irreversible neurological damage."
"Can we excise it?" I asked, looking down at Leo. He was sleeping fitfully, pale and small beneath the white hospital sheets, his right cheek swollen to twice its normal size with a dark, purplish discoloration pulsing faintly beneath the skin.
"We have to," Vance replied grimly. "Under general anesthesia, with a full Hazmat isolation protocol in place. We’re treating this like a Level-3 biological hazard until pathology identifies the exact species."
Before we made the first incision, however, Miller’s tactical team needed to know what they were walking into on Route 10.
I handed Detective Miller the heavy brass key Nora had given me.
"This opens the padlock on the shed," I told him over the secure radio link as Miller’s unmarked cruiser sped toward the coastal timberline. "Be careful, Jim. Whatever bit Leo—or was injected into him—came out of those terrariums."
"Understood," Miller’s voice crackled back over the receiver. "We’ve got county hazmat units staging three miles down the road. We’re going in hot."
Through the encrypted department radio feed piped into the ICU nurses' station, we listened as Miller’s team arrived at the isolated property on Route 10. The rain had intensified into a howling coastal gale, lashing the windows of the hospital and rattling the exterior vents.
"Property is secure," Miller’s voice came through, tense and clipped. "Main house is empty. We’re approaching the outbuilding now. It’s a wooden shed, roughly twelve by twelve, reinforced with plywood and spray-foam insulation."
The sound of rain drowned out the audio for a few seconds. Then came the metallic clink of a key sliding into a padlock.
"Lock is open," Miller reported. "Stand by."
A heavy wooden creak echoed through the radio speakers as the shed door swung outward into the dark Oregon night.
For several seconds, there was absolute silence on the channel. No shouting, no tactical commands—just the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the officers through their respirator mics.
"Miller?" I spoke into the console mic. "Jim, what do you see?"
"Jesus Christ," Miller whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "Get the hazmat team down here right now. The whole interior... it’s lined with climate-controlled glass enclosures. And half of them are shattered."
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"Shattered?" I asked.
"Whatever was inside those tanks didn't escape by accident, Tom," Miller said, his tone turning deadly serious. "Someone smashed the glass from the inside. And based on the tracks in the mud leading toward the woods... something large crawled out of here hours ago."
