Story code: ST-000656
Part 2: Infirmary B
“…so we trust you’ll make excellent use of these wellness tools in lieu of clinical restocks! We’re counting on you to help us put our best foot forward. – Kelly.”
Sarah crumpled the bright pink paper in her fist. She stared down into the splintered crate of custom-printed stress balls. The state had authorized thousands of dollars for branded foam while a man cooked from the inside out twenty feet away. She shoved the wooden crate, sending a dozen glossy pamphlets spilling over the edge and scattering across the cracked linoleum floor.
She sprinted back to Miller’s holding cell. The heat inside the tiny, windowless room was suffocating, thick with the smell of stale sweat and impending death. Miller’s condition had deteriorated drastically in the three minutes she had been gone. His chest hitched in rapid, shallow jerks. Sarah wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his unbruised bicep and pumped the rubber bulb. The needle bounced weakly. Eighty over fifty. His heart rate was hammering at a hundred and forty beats per minute. Sepsis was no longer just a threat; it was actively cascading through his system. His internal organs were beginning to starve for oxygen.
She reached for the wall phone to call central dispatch for an emergency civilian transport. Her hand stopped inches from the heavy plastic receiver. A laminated memo taped directly above the keypad caught her eye: *Effective Monday through Friday, all 911 medical escalations require direct authorization from the Warden’s Office. Zero exceptions. Secure the perimeter for the press tour.*
Calling the Warden would trigger a mandatory thirty-minute review, inevitably followed by a denial. An ambulance with flashing sirens pulling up to the main gate was exactly the kind of bad optics the administration had just diverted her entire supply budget to avoid. Miller would be dead before the denial paperwork was even filed.
She looked down at the heavy steel pry bar still clutched in her right hand. The metal grip was warm and slick with her own sweat. There was only one place left on the entire compound that possessed the drugs she needed.
Infirmary B.
Most of the staff called it the Model Clinic. Over the past month, private contractors had completely gutted a storage wing in the administrative building, transforming it into a state-of-the-art medical bay. It featured digital heart monitors, pristine white mechanical beds, and heavy glass cabinets stocked with fresh, top-tier medical supplies. It was entirely for show-a sterile, locked museum exhibit built explicitly for Thursday’s legislative tour to secure next year’s state funding. The administration had spent eighty thousand dollars making it look perfect for the cameras. No inmate had ever been permitted inside, and no medical staff was allowed to touch the inventory.
Sarah left the cell block at a dead run. She forced herself to slow to a brisk walk as she approached Sector 4, her rubber soles squeaking loudly against the floorboards. She flashed her ID badge at the tired corrections officer in the control bubble. He barely glanced up from his monitor before pressing the heavy buzzer that unlocked the dividing doors.
The contrast was jarring the second she crossed the threshold into the administrative wing. The oppressive, damp heat of the prison vanished, replaced by aggressive, freezing air conditioning. The smell of unwashed bodies and cheap bleach was gone, masked entirely by the scent of fresh paint and industrial lemon floor wax. The ambient roar of the cell blocks died away, leaving only the quiet hum of recessed fluorescent lights.
She found the double glass doors of Infirmary B at the very end of the hall. The room beyond the glass was dim, illuminated only by the standby lights of the brand-new, unused medical equipment. A heavy electronic keypad glowed red next to the stainless steel handle. Sarah didn’t have the code. Only the Warden and his PR director did.
She gripped the heavy pry bar with both hands. She jammed the flat, forged edge into the narrow gap between the electronic strike plate and the aluminum door frame. She planted her boots against the polished terrazzo floor and threw her entire body weight backward.
The metal frame groaned. The gap widened by a fraction of a millimeter. Sarah adjusted her grip, her knuckles turning white, and leveraged her weight again. The locking mechanism let out a violent, metallic shriek. With a sharp crack that echoed down the empty administrative hallway like a gunshot, the strike plate sheared off the frame. The glass door swung inward, hitting the rubber wall stop with a heavy thud.
Sarah stepped into the freezing room. She didn’t bother searching for the light switch. She went straight to the locked pharmacy cabinet mounted against the far wall. Behind the tempered glass lay precisely what the priority crate should have contained.
She swung the pry bar, smashing it directly into the glass front. The pane shattered instantly, raining sharp fragments over the pristine countertops. Sarah ignored the cuts on her knuckles as she reached blindly through the jagged hole. She grabbed two one-liter bags of normal saline, a sterile central line insertion kit, and four glass vials of ceftriaxone-a heavy-duty, broad-spectrum antibiotic. The expiration dates printed on the labels were two years away.
She shoved the heavy vials deep into the front pockets of her scrub jacket and tucked the saline bags tightly under her arm.
“Nurse Hayes.”
Sarah froze. The voice was deep, commanding, and terribly calm. It echoed sharply off the spotless tile walls.
She turned slowly. Captain Vance, the head of facility security, stood in the doorway. He was in his full tactical uniform, his thumbs hooked casually over his heavy duty belt. He looked at the shattered glass glittering on the floor, then at the pry bar still clutched in her hand, and finally at the medical supplies bulging in her pockets.
“The Warden is not going to like you vandalizing his exhibit, Sarah,” Vance said, stepping into the room and letting the broken door swing shut behind him. “Put the props back in the cabinet.”