I grabbed the lever and pulled it.
Somewhere deep in the building, a massive mechanical groan tore through the walls as the lower gate began to open. Water roared through the pipes—a deep, thundering sound that vibrated up through the floor and into my chest. The main tank draining, flushing out through the system and into the holding pool.
Good.
But the tide gate still needed to open for the boat to clear the channel and reach open water.
I grabbed the PA microphone and slammed the button.
“Sloane!”
My voice echoed through the entire aquarium, bouncing off glass, off water, off every empty corridor.
“Swim for the ladder! Get the boat started!”
I forced the next words out.
“I’m opening the tide gate, but I can’t release the holding pool until the boat clears the channel!”
If I opened everything at once, the surge would slam the Mariner against the concrete walls, crush it, kill everyone inside.
They had to move first.
The boat had to clear.
My throat tightened. My grip on the microphone turned white-knuckled.
My voice cracked, just barely, just enough that I heard it and hated myself for it.
“I can’t leave Frank.”
The words hung in the air.
Behind me, something slammed against the control room door. The bolt held. The cabinet shifted half an inch; I closed my eyes.
Tried to steady my breathing, tried to pretend this sounded like every other plan I’d made this week—calm, logical, another problem with a solution at the end of it.
But my hand wouldn’t stop shaking on the microphone, and we both knew what staying behind meant.
“Just get to the boat,” I said quietly.
My voice carried through the empty building, through the dark hallways and the drained tanks and the water still rushing somewhere below.
Twenty Eight
Sloane
We ran.
The spiral ramp blurred under our feet as we pushed toward the top level, where the maintenance hatch sat above the main tank. My lungs burned, and my legs threatened to buckle with every stride, but stopping meant dying.
Behind us, the aquarium had come alive with the dead.
Their moans filled the corridors, a low, competing chorus that bounced off glass and concrete until it sounded like the building itself was groaning. Heavy footsteps echoed from somewhere below, the slap of feet on the tile, the crack of a body hitting a railing. They poured through the lower levels like water finding cracks, filling every hallway we’d just abandoned.
Jeff ran right behind me, his breathing ragged and harsh. Ethan slightly ahead, sneakers squeaking on thewet ramp, arms pumping.
The moaning got louder; they’d found the ramp.