The Butcher of Oakhaven

The Cold Storage Vault

The heavy steel door slammed into the frame with a thud that vibrated through the concrete subfloor. I dropped the iron security bar into the wall brackets, locking the deadbolts into place just as a sharp volley of gunfire hammered against the outer steel plate.

The hollow metallic clatter of bullets echoed down the concrete ramp outside, but the thick vault door did not budge.

Inside, the air was freezing. Thick clouds of condensed white vapor rose from our mouths with every breath. Rows of tall stainless steel shelving stretched fifty yards into the dim blue light, holding sealed glass carboys and silver temperature controlled canisters.

Gideon Pratt leaned against a row of steel shelving, his chest heaving, his face pale from terror and the sudden drop in temperature. "They are outside, Vance. They have the entrance blocked. We are locked in a deep freezer with one way out."

"Then we find the manifest before they bring a cutting torch," I said.

I moved down the central aisle, wiping cold condensation from my eyelashes. The throbbing behind my left eye was sharp, a steady pressure that made my vision blur at the edges. Using the forceps to short circuit the door terminal had cost me, but we were inside Sector Seven.

On the third tier of steel shelving, small white labels marked each canister with batch numbers and hazard codes. I reached out, tracing the serial numbers with my thumb until I found the seal matching the entry in Pratt's ledger: Series Nine, Compound B.

"This is it," I said.

Pratt stumbled down the aisle after me, pulling his coat tight around his neck. "What is in those canisters?"

"The same stabilizing agent Julian Sterling tested at the North District hospital six years ago," I said, unscrewing the protective outer cap of the top canister. Inside sat a thick glass vial filled with amber liquid. "He told the board it was an experimental blood expander. In reality, it causes permanent nerve damage within forty eight hours if the dosage is not counteracted."

"Why would he manufacture nerve damaging agents in a civic foundation facility?" Pratt asked.

"Because he sells the treatment right after he introduces the poison," I said. "He creates the demand, controls the supply, and collects the praise for saving the city."

I carefully pulled two sealed glass vials from the rack and slipped them into the inner pocket of my coat alongside the stolen ledger.

Before I could lock the canister lid back down, the overhead fluorescent lights flickered twice and died, plunging the vault into absolute darkness.

Pratt gasped in the dark. "They cut the main power."

A heavy mechanical clunk echoed from the far end of the room. A red emergency backup lamp clicked on near the ceiling, casting long crimson shadows across the steel shelves.

From the ceiling ventilation grates, a soft, high pitched hiss began. Thin plumes of white gas began pouring into the room, falling toward the floor like heavy smoke.

"Halon," I said, grabbing Pratt’s shoulder. "They are purging the oxygen in the vault."

Pratt coughed, panic rising in his voice. "The manual override! There has to be an emergency vent release near the back wall!"

"The back wall is forty yards away," I said, pulling the nine millimeter pistol from my waistband. "And Sterling is not trying to preserve the stock anymore. He is erasing the evidence."

Through the red haze of the emergency lighting, I looked toward the back of the cold room. A narrow service door sat flush against the concrete wall, marked with a faded yellow exit sign.

I dragged Pratt toward the rear door, the cold gas already settling thick around our knees. The air grew thin, making my chest tighten with every step.

Pratt stumbled, his knees buckling on the frosted floor. "I cannot... I cannot breathe, Vance."

I hooked my arm under his shoulder, hauling his weight up as we reached the steel service door. I grabbed the heavy brass handle and thrown my weight against it.

The handle turned, but the door stayed rigid. It was locked from the outside.

A thick glass viewing window sat embedded in the center of the door panel at eye level. Through the reinforced pane, a face appeared in the dim light of the corridor beyond.

It was not a guard.

A man in a tailored charcoal suit stood on the other side of the glass, his hands resting calmly in his pockets. He was in his late fifties, with silver hair combed neatly back and silver rimmed spectacles catching the red glow from our side of the door.

Dr. Julian Sterling.

Sterling looked through the glass, his expression calm, almost sad, as he observed us through the window. He raised a small hand held radio to his lips.

The speaker mounted above the service door crackled to life, Sterling's smooth, familiar voice coming through the static without a hint of tension.

"You always were too persistent, Vance," Sterling said softly. "Six years ago, you should have accepted the settlement and left Oakhaven. Now you have dragged poor Gideon into your mess as well."

Pratt pressed his face against the glass, pounding his fist against the reinforced pane. "Julian! Open the door! I did everything you asked! I kept the manifests quiet!"

Sterling did not even look at Pratt. His eyes remained locked on mine.

"You took something that does not belong to you, Vance," Sterling said through the speaker. "Leave the ledger on the shelf, and I might let the local authorities handle your arrest. Keep holding onto it, and this vault becomes your permanent grave."

I stepped up to the window, my face inches from the glass. The oxygen level in the room was dropping fast, my lungs burning as I forced out my next words.

"Three seconds, Julian," I said.

Sterling raised an eyebrow behind his silver spectacles. "Three seconds for what?"

I raised the nine millimeter pistol, aimed directly at the center of the reinforced glass pane, and pulled the trigger three times.