The sun hadn’t touched the sky yet, but it was close. Winter walked with Phoebe and River to the western side of Devil’s Pass. She directed them to find the river and follow it, while she circled the edge of the city up to the hospital.
Once she was a block from the hospital, Winter threw on the Saint’s uniform. Bag slung over her shoulder, weighed down by the jugs of cure, she marched to the hospital’s front doors.
“Is Director Blackburn here?” Winter asked the receptionist.
“He hasn’t come in yet,” the receptionist replied. “I think he has some meetings this morning.”
“Good. I need you to send any available doctors to his office. Tell them the Plague Saint is waiting.” Winter handed her one of the cure recipes. “And hold onto this. It’s important.”
As she entered the halls beyond the lobby, Winter pulled out the can of spray paint she’d taken from the factory and popped the cap off. She could hand out every copy of the recipe and they might disappear by the end of the day. But it would take longer for Marcus to get rid of this.
A press of her finger unleashed a spray of black paint that dripped down the white walls. Winter spelled out each ingredient, each step of the process, exactly as Marcus had written them.
“Plague Saint?” The voice came from Dr. Morrison, who watched her with shock plastered across his face as he came down the hall. “I heard the call to go to the director’s office over the radio. What—what are you doing?”
“I came to this hospital to save patients. But it’s not plagues you need saving from, it’s people.” Winter finished the last letter and took a step back. “Come with me.”
Dr. Morrison walked with her to where other doctors were gathering around Blackburn’s office door. The very same office Winter had killed Adams in.
“I have the cure,” Winter announced.
Dr. Liang frowned. “For which plague?”
“All of them. Including white.” Winter removed the jugs from her bag and held them out to the closest doctors. They looked confused, but they accepted the containers. “Divide this up. Start with the sickest patients and use the same dosage as you would if it were Red-X. Some of your red plague patients actually have white plague.”
Winter reached back into bag and drew out her stack of recipe copies. “Here are instructions to make more. It’s a bit complicated, especially with the timing, but follow the directions and you’ll be fine. You can use my lab. There should be ingredients waiting, and there are more at Jonathan Forrest’s house—”
“Sorry to interrupt, Plague Saint, but how are we supposed to get into your lab?” Dr. Liang asked.
Winter froze. “What do you mean?”
Another doctor chimed in. “There are city guards posted around your office and lab. They’ve only been letting Blackburn go in and out, and they wouldn’t tell us anything when we asked about you.”
“I am no longer associated with the hospital or Marcus Blackburn.” Winter adjusted her bag and turned around. “I’ll clear the path to the lab. Start getting the cure out. Make sure everyone knows it exists and raise hell if they try to take it from you.”
She kept going, spraying steps of the recipe on every wall she passed until she turned into the hallway that held her office. Two city guards, both wearing their helmets, stood outside the door. Winter drew the sword out and tossed her bag aside. Her other hand still held the can of spray paint.
“Your presence is no longer needed,” Winter told them.
“Plague Saint,” the guard on the left greeted her coolly. “Director Blackburn said you weren’t using this office anymore.”
“Well, I’m back, and I’m granting access to my lab to every doctor in this hospital.”
The second guard chimed in. “The director said—”
“You think Marcus Blackburn has any authority over the Plague Saint?” Winter raised the sword. “Get back to the station and do something useful.”
The left guard drew his gun, and after a moment’s hesitation, the other followed suit. They were far nicer weapons than Marcus’s old revolver.
Winter cocked her head. “You’ve chosen your allegiance, then?”
“We’re just following orders, sir,” the left guard said.
“Okay, fine.” Winter slowly lifted both hands, still holding the paint and sword, but relaxing her grip and extending what fingers she could in a gesture of surrender. “You’re saying you won’t move unless Blackburn tells you to?”
“Correct.”
“That’s a shame.”
Winter pressed down the nozzle and swung her arm in a wide arc. Black paint coated the guards’ visors. While they frantically tried to rub it off, she swiped at their hands with the sword. Their guns clattered to the floor. Tears opened in their gloves.
She stabbed next, driving the sword into the left guard’s shoulder. His cry of pain went in one ear and out the other. The blade came free with a spray of blood. Winter didn’t miss a beat before slashing at the right guard’s upper arm.
“Better go get that looked at.” Winter’s voice was ice. “Trauma ward’s just down the hall.”
The guards staggered off, and she didn’t care whether they were taking her advice or just trying to get away. She tossed aside the emptied spray paint can and threw open the office door.
More guards stood inside. Five of them. Their heads turned in near unison, and they took in the Plague Saint and her sword dripping with blood. Winter lifted the weapon. Five guns came out in response.
“I’m taking back this lab,” she told them. “You can leave in peace, or we can do this the hard way.”
One of the guards stepped forward. “Plague Saint. You saved my daughter from death last week. We’re grateful for all you’ve done. But the hospital director ordered—”
“The hospital director is a killer and a liar. I am trying to save you and your families from death.” Winter wished she could read their expressions under their helmets. “I have a cure, and I am giving it to the people. Not to a greedy director who only wants to sell it to his friends.”
Uncertainty was a heavy weight in the air. Finally, the guard who had spoken made his choice. His gun lowered. “Clear out,” he ordered.
While three of the others lowered their weapons, one man at the back of the room piped up. “Blackburn’s the one paying us, not the Saint.”
“You’re an idiot if you think this is about money,” the first guard said. “Let’s go.”
“You can go. I’m not leaving my post until Blackburn says otherwise.”
“So easily bought?” Winter asked as the other four guards walked past her. “You shouldn’t be serving any one man. You work for the city.”
“The city’s run by money. So am I.”
“I don’t want to kill you.” Winter wasn’t sure she believed her own words. The door clicked shut behind her. “Last chance.”
“A gun against a sword? I’ll take those odds.” He took aim.
Winter dove and barely made it behind the desk. The gun went off, but the bullet didn’t come anywhere near her. She rolled, pulled herself into a crouch, and circled around to the other side of the desk. When she peered around the corner, the guard was moving forward slowly, still aiming at the opposite end where he’d seen her dive.
Winter crawled forward a few feet. Then, sprang up and lunged. Her blade sliced the back of the guard’s leg, but not deep enough to stop him. He spun around. The end of his gun struck the side of her head.
The mask probably helped soften the blow, but it still hit hard enough to send stars dancing across her vision. Winter collapsed onto her side. The guard took aim again. She rolled onto her back and realized her sword had slipped from her grasp. Her hand blindly searched the carpet while her heart pounded wildly.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” the guard asked. “You’re not some magical saint. But what kind of man would do all this?”
Winter didn’t care to answer the question. Her hand found the sword. She grabbed the handle and scooted backwards, making herself a more difficult target. The guard stalked forward, keeping pace. Her back hit a chair. Phoebe’s chair.
With her free hand, she grabbed the chair’s leg. “You want to know who I am?” The Plague Saint’s mask was just visible in the guard’s visor, staring back at her.
“I’m not giving you a choice. You’re under arrest. Put down the weapon, take off your mask, and put up your hands.”
Winter pulled on the chair and swung as hard as she could. It didn’t lift off the ground much, but it tipped and crashed down in front of the guard, tripping him. While he tried to regain his balance, Winter slashed at his hands with the sword.
A nasty gash opened up on the back of the guard’s right hand. His gun slipped from his grasp. Winter frantically pushed herself out of his path and stumbled to her feet. The effort sent pain shooting through her abdomen. And blood leaking through the bandage. Gritting her teeth, Winter forced herself to focus on the guard reaching for his gun. It took a few more swings to make him back away and finally run out the door.
Once he was gone and the office had fallen quiet, she unbuttoned enough of her coat to lift her shirt and get a look at her stomach wound. Oh, God, that was a lot of blood.
Winter staggered into the lab and located bandages and disinfectant. She barely felt the sting this time. Once she had applied the new bandages, her head feeling a little clearer, she assessed the lab.
Jars of liquids were lined up on the center counter. Powders were measured out in trays. And a large bottle sitting in the middle of the table was full of clear cure. Winter inspected it closer. Sure enough, it looked ready to use.
She grabbed a rack of empty vials and distributed the cure among them. Once they were full, she tracked down more vials, continuing until the liquid was completely distributed into roughly fifty of them. She loaded them into her bag.
One last thing to do before she left the hospital.
Sword at the ready, Winter hurried down the hall, taking frequent turns and struggling to recall where the financial records room was. The halls were unsettlingly empty now.
Winter had finally figured out where she was when the receptionist spoke over the intercom. “We are asking all patients, visitors, and staff to stay in their rooms and out of the halls. The city guard is searching for someone. Please be patient.”
Ah. That explained the lack of nurses milling about.
Another corner brought Winter to the hallway she needed. She picked up her pace and stumbled into the door when she reached it. She fumbled awkwardly with the handle and flung it open. The records room was empty.
She traced a finger up and down the drawers as she strolled past them, barely noticing the spots of blood left behind. Her eyes were focused on the letters labeling each drawer. She found the one marked “Pa—Pr” and yanked it open. More blood stained the pale file folders as she searched for River and Marissa Pierce.
She drew out the bills and studied the amounts. Mom’s was a finalized bill, a copy of the letter they’d received in the mail last week with a payment plan laid out. River’s still needed the director’s signature before the bill could be sent out.
Now, it never would.
Winter fished the lighter from the factory out of the bag and held it to the bottom corner of River’s bill. The watched the fire flicker and spread with eager eyes. Flames inched toward her fingers. She waited, waited, waited until the last possible second to let go of the paper. Ashes and embers drifted to the floor as the fire consumed the last of the page.
Winter moved on to her mother’s bill. When the last piece hit the ground, still burning, she crushed the flame with the toe of her boot.
Well, that wasn’t fair to everyone else, was it? Why should only River and Mom be freed from their debts?
There was no telling what changes to the system might come with a change of management. Maybe patient debts would be reduced or relived, maybe not. But at this point, Winter was all but doomed. May as well help as many as she could, right?
There wasn’t much time, though, and she still had cure to distribute.
Winter opened the drawers one by one and set the files inside aflame. The fire might die out before they could all burn, but at least she could do some damage before she left.
The gloves, as she’d expected, weren’t enough to keep the fire from biting her here and there. Once she was done setting her fires, she risked peeling one off to assess the burns. They didn’t look too bad, but the gloves rubbing against them would be painful. She’d see what she could do about that later.
The fire roared in front of her, and she took one last moment to savor its warmth. Sparks jumped at her. Smoke drifted past her, clouding her vision.
Winter turned and left the fire behind. The door clicked shut behind her, and the sound was followed by distant shouting. Guards, getting closer. Undoubtedly, they’d see the smoke and put out the fire, but it was too late to salvage everything.
It was time to take the cure to the people.