Chapter 6 - The Lazarus Protocol
THUMP.
A violent, electric shock tore through Toby’s chest, ripping him out of the abyss.
Air surged back into his lungs with a horrifying, ragged gasp that sounded like a drowning man breaking the surface of the ocean. Toby convulsed wildly, his back arching off a soft leather examination table as his body fought to regain control of its respiratory system.
"Hold him down! Administer the second dose of atropine, now!" a sharp female voice commanded.
Hands gripped his shoulders, holding him firm against the leather surface. A plastic oxygen mask was pressed firmly over his nose and mouth, pumping pure, ice-cold oxygen into his burning lungs.
Toby gasped greedily, his eyes snapping open.
He was no longer inside the dark, leaking grain silo.
He was in a sleek, high-tech mobile medical unit lit by bright white LED panels. Surrounding him were three paramedics in dark gray tactical uniforms, their faces covered by medical masks. Standing at the foot of his bed was a woman in her late thirties, dressed in a sharp black trousersuit, holding an electronic tablet.
She had striking, sharp features, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun, and eyes as cold and calculating as a hawk’s.
Toby recognized her voice instantly. It was the woman who had called his phone.
"Welcome back, Toby," she said smoothly, touching the screen of her tablet. "Your cardiac arrest lasted for forty-two seconds. You were clinically dead. But your neurological pathways are completely intact."
Toby pulled the oxygen mask down to his chin, his throat raw and bleeding. "Clara..." he rasped out, his voice a broken whisper. "Did... did the money..."
The woman flipped the screen of her tablet toward him.
It displayed an official receipt from St. Jude Respiratory Center: ACCOUNT #4409-VANCE: PAID IN FULL. REMAINING CREDIT BALANCE: $84,200.00.
Toby closed his eyes, a single tear cutting through the cold sweat on his pale cheek. He let out a long, shuddering breath, the crushing weight that had sat on his chest for three years finally dissolving into the air.
"She is safe, Toby," the woman said. "Your promise has been fulfilled. The money belongs to her now, untouchable by debt collectors or legal entities."
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Toby forced himself to sit up, his muscles aching as if he had been beaten with iron rods. "Who are you people? What is this?"
The woman stepped closer, extending her hand. "My name is Director Evelyn Cross. And you have just been inducted into The Lighthouse Initiative."
