RESTLESS SPIRITS ▷ ELLIE WILLIAMS

CHAPTER TWELVE: TO GO ON WE MUST LET GO

Every step felt like an eternity, the tension in the air thickening with every heartbeat. Marlowe's entire world had narrowed down to this moment, this desperate rush toward the unknown. Her trembling hands balled into fists, and she could feel her pulse echoing in her ears, drowning out all other sounds.

"Where is she?" Marlowe's voice was a fragile whisper, as if afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile thread of hope that still clung to her heart.

Ellie, gasping for breath after her mad dash, steadied herself and met Marlowe's anxious gaze. "She's at the infirmary," she managed to convey between ragged breaths. "The Emps got to her first."

"Oh my God," Marlowe whispered, the words barely escaping her lips. She felt as if the ground had shifted beneath her, leaving her in a world that was suddenly darker and more treacherous.

Ellie's grim nod confirmed the gravity of the situation. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice laced with a painful uncertainty. "All they said was that she's in critical condition."

The words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the fragility of life in a world teetering on the edge of destruction. But Marlowe couldn't afford to dwell on fear and despair. With a determined swallow, she summoned every ounce of courage and determination she could muster.

She turned and broke into a sprint, charging toward the end of the street where the barricade stood. Her heart continued its furious cadence, a drumbeat of determination driving her forward. In that moment, she was a force of resilience and unwavering love, refusing to be defeated by the chaos that threatened to consume their world.

The tension in the air crackled like electricity as Marlowe and Ellie approached the barricade, the guards' eyes narrowing suspiciously at their arrival. Marlowe, despite the tremble in her hands, raised them in a gesture of peace, her voice cutting through the tense atmosphere like a blade through smoke.

"We're here to see Lydia Kearns," she announced firmly, "She's in the infirmary."

The guards exchanged a quick, silent conversation, their eyes flicking from Marlowe to Ellie and back again. The air was thick with anticipation, as if holding its breath. Then, one of the guards nodded curtly and stepped aside, allowing the two women to pass. Marlowe charged past the barricade with Ellie by her side.

Inside the infirmary, Marlowe was hit by a wave of antiseptic that stung her nostrils. The room buzzed with a cacophony of moans and groans, a symphony of pain. The sight of rows upon rows of occupied beds, each holding a story of suffering and resilience, made her heart plummet with a mix of despair and determination.

Driven by an urgency she could barely contain, Marlowe reached out and grabbed the arm of a passing nurse. The young man, his scrubs adorned with the iconic red cross emblem, spun around in surprise, his eyes widening as they met Marlowe's determined gaze.

"Lydia Kearns," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. "We need to see her. Now." The urgency in her words left no room for hesitation, and the nurse, recognizing the dire need, nodded quickly, leading the way through the labyrinth of beds and equipment, his clipboard clutched tightly in his hands.

The nurse looked down at his clipboard. "They brought her in about 20 minutes ago. They are prepping Mrs. Kearns for surgery. If you're wanting to speak with her, now's the time. She's in Bed 23,"

A jolt of shock ran through Marlowe's body when they mentioned surgery. "Surgery? What happened?" she asked the nurse, eyes wide with concern.

The nurse glanced sympathetically at the patient in the bed next to him. "I'm sorry. I can't tell you everything." The nurse continued, his voice gentle. "You'll need to ask the attending physician for more information."