Story code: ST-000811
Part 2: Voice Authorization
The metallic click of the brass handle echoed like a gunshot in the pitch-black classroom. Eli’s thumb froze on the glass of his phone screen, the green light from the display casting a sickly, pale hue over his terrified features. The handle stopped at a forty-five-degree angle, catching against the heavy-duty deadbolt. The lock held. For three agonizing seconds, no one in Room 204 dared to breathe. Beneath the lab tables, thirty seventh-graders remained perfectly still, a mass of huddled shapes practically vibrating with fear. The smell of floor wax and stale sweat seemed to thicken in the stagnant air.
On his phone, the green authorization button had vanished, replaced by a grey spinning circle. *Processing.*
Outside the door, the shadow shifted. A faint squeak of rubber on linoleum told Eli whoever was out there had leaned their weight against the reinforced wood. They were testing the barricade. Eli’s heart hammered against his ribs, frantic and painful, like a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage. He pressed the phone tight against his chest to hide the glow, slipping his free hand out to motion downward at the darkness, a desperate, blind signal for the kids to stay as flat as possible.
A girl in the front row-Maya, he thought, though it was too dark to be sure-let out a ragged, high-pitched gasp. It was barely a whisper, but in the suffocating silence of the lockdown, it felt deafening. Eli snapped his head toward the sound, eyes wide in the dark, silently begging her to hold it together.
The person in the hallway stepped back. The shadow retreated from the thin strip of light under the door, allowing a sliver of the fluorescent hallway lighting to bleed back onto the linoleum floor. Heavy, deliberate footsteps moved away, fading down the corridor toward the central stairwell.
Eli let out a slow, trembling exhale through his nose, careful not to let his teeth chatter. He risked pulling the phone away from his damp shirt, angling the screen so its faint light wouldn’t reflect off his face and alert anyone looking through the small door window. The time at the top of the screen read 1:59 PM.
The grey circle was still spinning.
*Come on. Come on.* He needed this transfer to clear immediately. Genesis Fertility Clinic’s automated system would wipe his account in exactly forty seconds. The liquid nitrogen tanks holding the last viable embryos he and his late wife had managed to create were tied to a zero-tolerance billing cycle. If the money didn’t hit the clinic’s ledger by 2:00 PM, the clinic’s protocols mandated the immediate thawing of unpaid biological material. It was a cold, corporate policy that didn’t care about active shooter protocols or the fact that Eli was currently trapped on the floor of a middle school science lab. The embryos were the last piece of Chloe, the absolute last chance for the family they had dreamed of before the leukemia took her.
The screen suddenly flashed bright white. Eli blinked away the harsh glare, frantically cupping his hand over the top edge of the device to trap the illumination.
A massive red caution triangle dominated the banking app.
*FRAUD ALERT. Transfer of $4,500.00 exceeds standard daily limit. Security protocol initiated. Please answer the incoming call to provide voice authorization.*
Eli stared at the text, the blood draining completely from his face, leaving his skin cold and clammy. Voice authorization. He had set up the security feature three years ago after his debit card was skimmed at a local gas station. Back then, it was a responsible, prudent choice recommended by a friendly bank teller. Now, it was a death sentence.
The time ticked to 1:59 PM, forty-five seconds.
The phone in his hand vibrated with the sudden violence of a live wire. The screen shifted to the incoming call interface. *UNKNOWN CALLER.* It was the bank’s automated fraud department ringing through.
If he tapped the red button and let it go to voicemail, the transaction would be permanently cancelled. The embryos would be destroyed. Chloe would really, truly be gone.
But if he answered, he would have to speak. He would have to break the cardinal rule of lockdown protocol: absolute, unbroken silence. His voice could draw the threat right back to their door.
As if summoned by the thought, the heavy footsteps returned to the hallway. They were faster this time, louder, echoing off the metal lockers. They didn’t just walk past the door; they stopped directly in front of Room 204. The shadow blocked the light once again, thicker and darker than before. Two heavy work boots were visible in the narrow gap beneath the door.
The phone vibrated relentlessly in his palm. A low, collective whimper rose from the students hiding under the nearest lab table. They could hear the mechanical buzzing. They knew the danger it represented. A boy closest to Eli’s desk reached out a trembling hand, grabbing the cuff of Eli’s trousers, his small knuckles white with absolute terror.
Eli looked down at the boy, then at the vibrating phone. Fifteen seconds to two o’clock.
He swiped the green receiver icon to accept the call.
He pressed the phone so hard against his ear that the hard plastic bruised his cartilage, burying his face into his own shoulder to muffle any sound leaking from the tiny speaker.
“This is the automated fraud prevention system,” a bright, synthetic female voice announced directly into his ear, sounding horribly loud in the quiet room. “We have detected an unusual transfer request. To authorize this transaction, please clearly state your four-digit security pin now.”
Eli squeezed his eyes shut. He opened his mouth, trying to force air over his vocal cords without making a sound. The silence in the room was absolute, heavy and expectant, save for the terrified breathing of thirty children and the heavy presence waiting just inches away on the other side of the solid core wood.
He brought his free hand up, shielding his mouth to create a soundproof tunnel, and formed the words as softly as humanly possible. “Four. Zero. Eight. Two.”
He waited, his chest tight, his lungs burning, praying the sensitive microphone had picked up the imperceptible whisper.
“I’m sorry,” the robotic voice chirped brightly in his ear. “I did not catch that. For your security, this transaction requires clear verbal authorization. Please speak louder.”
At that exact moment, a heavy fist pounded against the reinforced glass of the classroom door. It wasn’t a frantic, panicked knock. It was rhythmic, heavy, and deliberate. Three slow, booming strikes that vibrated through the cinderblock wall and rattled the periodic table poster hanging near the whiteboard.
“Open the door,” a deep, muffled voice ordered from the hallway. “I know there are people in there.”
Eli froze, his thumb hovering over the microphone mute button. The automated voice in his ear prompted him again, perfectly oblivious to the nightmare unfolding.
“This is your final attempt. Please clearly state your four-digit security pin now, or the transaction will be permanently cancelled.”
The digital clock in the top corner of his screen rolled to 1:59:50. Ten seconds left. The man in the hallway racked the brass handle again, the metal grinding violently against the locked deadbolt.