Desmond had seen this place before. This was the place that had come to him in a memory. He had thought it was a warehouse then; now he knew the truth.

The ship was a floating hospital, a laboratory where they conducted experiments. The setup was brilliant. The subjects had utterly no chance of escape. They were probably loaded on and off in cargo containers. Had they gathered vulnerable subjects from around the world? Used them up and discarded them? The idea was horrifying.

Peyton stood beside him, staring in shock.

Two barely audible clicks from his right drew Desmond’s attention. Avery was motioning to him, her expression saying, Come on, you idiot. He seemed to be able to read her perfectly, and she him. He wondered how long he had known her. And how he had known her.

He caught up to her and grabbed her shoulder.

“Is there a cure on this ship?” he whispered.

“What?”

“To the outbreak in Africa.”

Avery seemed annoyed. “No, Des. You don’t remember?”

He stared, confused.

“They’re testing something else here. It’s… never mind. We have to hurry.”

Testing something else. Desmond wondered what that meant.

He followed Avery around the outer row. At the far end of the room, she opened another hatch and burst through into a corridor, which was dimly lit with what Desmond assumed were emergency lights. The entire medical section apparently had its own backup power system. Plate glass windows along one wall revealed operating rooms in disarray. Blood covered the tables and dripped onto the floor. Bloody sutures, clamps, forceps, and scalpels lay strewn about.

The opposite wall was solid except for a series of doors. Avery moved quickly, opening each one, her rifle held ready. Desmond covered her advance, sweeping his rifle forward and backward, Peyton tucked behind him.

“Found her,” Avery called.

Peyton rushed into the room.

Hannah lay on a hospital bed, her eyes closed, her strawberry-blond hair spilling onto the white pillow. An IV line was connected to her hand, and a clear plastic bag hung beside her. A monitor displayed her vitals.

Peyton lifted the young woman’s eyelids. “She’s sedated.” She began disconnecting the IV. “I’ll carry her.”

“You can’t,” Avery said, with force bordering on anger.

Peyton stopped. “I’m carrying her.”

“We’re going up seven flights of stairs—in a firefight. You can’t carry that much dead weight.”

“I’ll—” Desmond began, but Avery flashed him a look.

“No you won’t. You’ve got to fight. The stairwell will be crawling with people. So will the deck.”

Desmond knew there was no negotiation this time. And that Avery was right.

To Peyton, Avery said, “Either wake her up so she can walk out, or leave her here. Your call.”

Peyton glanced at Desmond. He nodded, silently insisting, Make the call.

Peyton studied the monitor a moment, then checked the end of the bed and began searching the drawers.