She leapt at us, swatting me to the floor, one hand reaching for the restraints at her drawstring. Patrick jabbed the shotgun butt at her, putting a dent in her forehead, the swinging motion straining the plastic tubing to the breaking point. As if it were happening in slow motion, I saw the mask start to pull away from his face. He leaned forward, trying to give the tubing some slack. Then the Chaser sprang onto my chest, her knees pinning my arms to the sides. The back of my hand knocked the tank, and it toppled and started rolling on the tile. As it spun away from us, I saw the dial rotating around, the needle well into the red zone.

Patrick lunged toward the rolling tank, leading with his mask. If that tank rolled too far from his face, the tube would rip off.

I bucked violently and wrestled with the Host. She stank of sour sweat and grime. I smacked her head to the floor, but she only bounced back stronger on top of me.

Over the frayed shoulder of her scrub top, I saw Patrick on all fours, still scrambling after the tank, keeping the faintest dip in the tubing. He dove for it, but before I could see if he reached it, the nurse’s hand slapped down over my eyes. Nails dug into my forearm, and I felt a restraint start to encircle my wrist.

I flailed, freeing my hand and trying to claw at her face, but her grip was too powerful. Her hand slid from my eyes and covered my mouth and nose. I tried to breathe around the reek of her sweaty palm, but my air was cut off, my vision starting to go spotty. It had just begun to haze over when I heard a clank, and her head snapped to the side, bent at an impossible angle on her neck.

She fell away, revealing Patrick behind her, mask intact, gripping the portable tank he’d just used to nearly unseat her skull from her shoulders. At my side she jerked on the floor, dots of static fizzling across her eye membranes.

Patrick took a knee, exhausted from the exertion, the oxygen intake messing with his stamina. Groaning, I turned on my side to face the tank, squinting at the dial.

Nearly on empty.

“Patrick, we gotta go.” I stood, picked up his tank, and hoisted him to his feet. He grabbed his shotgun from the floor and stumbled along beside me, his arm around my shoulders.

The Respiratory Care Department turned out to be a glorified suite at the back of the second floor. Three beds, various equipment piled on carts, a hanging privacy curtain in the rear.

I scanned the suite—no tanks.

Patrick looked at me, his eyes wide above the mask. “Chance. You need to get ready.” He spun the shotgun around and held it out to me.