Chapter 7 - Code Red at St. Jude's
The sound of the siren was a rhythmic, drilling agony inside my skull.
*Wee-woo. Wee-woo.*
Every bump of the ambulance tires sent seismic shockwaves through my face. I couldn't open my eyes. My eyelids were swollen shut, heavy and thick as wet leather, throbbing with a heartbeat of pure fire. Cold saline was being poured continuously across my cheeks, the liquid draining down my neck, smelling foul and metallic as it interacted with whatever compound was eating my tissue.
“Pulse is climbing—one-forty! Blood pressure dropping to eighty over fifty!” an emergency paramedic yelled over the roar of the diesel engine. “We need a hazardous materials protocol standing by at St. Jude’s Trauma Bay 1! Suspected industrial chemical attack!”
“Keep the irrigation going!” another voice shouted. “Do not let that residue settle! Bag her, she’s going into respiratory distress!”
A plastic mask was pressed over my mouth, pumping freezing oxygen into my scorched lungs.
I tried to reach out. I tried to find Liam.
A large, calloused hand grabbed mine, crushing my fingers with desperate, trembling strength.
“I’m here, Nora. I’m right here,” Liam’s voice broke, wet with tears. “Hold on to me. Don't let go. You’re going to be okay. Baby, please, look at me... just hold on.”
“L-Liam...” I croaked through cracked, blistered lips. “Miles...”
“Miles is safe. He’s with your sister. Nobody is touching him,” he choked out, his lips pressing against my trembling knuckles. “Fight this, Nora. Please, God, fight this.”
The ambulance screeched to a halt. The rear doors burst open to a chaotic blast of cold air, shouting voices, and running footsteps.
“Female, thirty-four, victim of targeted chemical splash to facial region and upper torso!” the paramedic rattled off as the gurney was violently pulled from the vehicle. “Unknown corrosive agent! Rapid onset erythema, full-thickness blistering within ninety seconds of contact!”
I was wheeled through double doors under the harsh hum of fluorescent lights. The smell of hospital antiseptic fought against the chemical stench of my melting skin.
A new voice cut through the bedlam—commanding, sharp, clinical.
“Stop the saline! STOP THE SALINE IMMEDIATELY!”
The pouring water ceased.
“Dr. Vance?” a nurse questioned, confused. “Protocol dictates water flush—”
“Not for fluorinated alkyl compounds!” the doctor barked. I heard the snap of sterile latex gloves. “Look at that white crystalline residue forming on the periphery of the burns! If that’s a calcium-binding fluorinated toxin, adding water accelerates the hydrolysis reaction and drives the fluoride ions deeper into the tissue! She’ll suffer systemic hypocalcemia and cardiac arrest within the hour!”
I felt cold, gloved hands gently examining the edges of my jaw. The pain was so acute that my spine arched off the mattress, a muffled scream tearing through my throat.
“Draw a full toxicology panel! Stat! I need calcium gluconate gel applied directly to all exposed skin! Start an intravenous calcium infusion immediately!” Dr. Vance ordered. His voice sounded remarkably calm, but there was a terrifying undercurrent of urgency beneath it. “And get the police in here. Now.”
“Doctor?” Liam’s voice wavered in the room. “What is it? What did she throw at my wife?”
A heavy silence hung over the trauma bay for two beats, broken only by the frantic beeping of the cardiac monitor.
“Mr. Vance,” the doctor said quietly, his hand resting on Liam’s arm. “Your wife wasn't attacked with household acid or bleach. This is a modified, stabilized industrial etching agent combined with a concentrated dermatotoxin. It’s synthesized for covert chemical warfare and illegal micro-fabrication. In lay terms: this chemical doesn't just burn the surface. It was designed to eat through nerve endings, blind the subject, and trigger multi-organ failure through transdermal absorption.”
A ragged, choking sound escaped Liam’s throat.
“This wasn't a prank,” the doctor added, his voice dropping into a cold, clinical fury. “And it wasn't an accident. This was a targeted, chemical assassination attempt.”
Behind him, heavy leather boots clicked against the tile floor.
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“I’m Detective Miller, Major Crimes,” a gravelly voice announced from the doorway. “Nobody leaves this floor. We’re sealing this hospital wing as an active crime scene.”
***
