Chapter 117: Into The Firestorm
The air at Blissville Hospital was thick with chaos, a relentless storm of fear and anguish that pulsed through every corner of the building and erupted into the night outside.
Inside, the sealed hallways were a living nightmare, filled with screams that tore through the air, raw and jagged, echoing off sterile walls as if the building itself was crying out. Nurses and doctors who could still stand gripped their throats, coughing up blood that stained their scrubs in dark, wet patches, their faces drained of color, glistening with sweat under flickering fluorescent lights.
"It burns! God, it burns!" one nurse shouted, her voice hoarse and breaking, collapsing to her knees near a patient’s bed, her hand still clutching a chart that slipped to the floor.
Patients strapped to beds writhed in agony, their oxygen masks fogged with condensation, useless against the fire in their lungs as they gasped for air poisoned by Aerothrax. In pediatrics, a small boy wheezed, his chest heaving in shallow bursts, his mother beside him, her face streaked with tears, gripping his tiny hand and whispering,
"Hold on, Tommy, please hold on." The toxin slithered through the ventilation system, invisible and merciless, turning every breath into a struggle, every inhale a step closer to death.
Handwritten notes in black marker were pressed against the windows, "Help us!" "Can’t breathe!" "Dying!" some smudged by trembling fingers, the ink streaking down the glass in messy trails. A young nurse slumped against a wall, her eyes wide with terror, blood dripping from her nose and soaking her mask as she reached weakly for a child in the next bed, his small body jerking with each labored breath. Monitors shrieked with alarms, their beeps clashing with human cries, creating a relentless, haunting cacophony.
In the ICU, an old man’s heart monitor flatlined, its piercing wail cutting through the chaos, while his family outside pounded on the reinforced glass, their shouts muffled but desperate, their fists leaving smudges no one would clean.
Outside, the parking lot was a frenzied battleground of its own, no less intense than the horror within. Families crowded together, a sea of anguished faces illuminated by the pulsing red and blue lights of police cars and ambulances.
They shouted, sobbed, and shoved against steel barricades that stood cold and unyielding under the harsh floodlights. "My daughter’s in there, she needs me!" a father roared, his voice cracking with pain, his fists slamming into the fence until his knuckles split, leaving red streaks on the metal.
Beside him, a mother clutched a crumpled photo of her son, her voice raw as she begged the riot-geared cops, "Please, let me in, he’s all I have!" The officers formed a grim line, their faces hidden behind reflective visors, batons raised, shouting, "Step back! It’s not safe!" Their radios crackled with urgent orders, "Hold the line!"
"No entry!" but the crowd pressed forward, a desperate tide of humanity, only stopped by the sheer force of the police. One man, wild-eyed, tried to climb the fence, his fingers gripping the metal before a cop yanked him down, both shouting, their voices lost in the uproar.
Paramedics stood by their ambulances, masks tight against their faces, hands empty, their frustration palpable as quarantine protocols kept them frozen. "We can’t just stand here doing nothing!" one paramedic snapped, kicking the gravel hard enough to send it skittering, his partner staring at the hospital with a helpless shake of his head.
The teams in white hazmat suits wove through the chaos, clutching sealed boxes of air samples, dodging families who grabbed at their arms, demanding answers. "What’s going on? Tell us something!" a woman screamed, her voice breaking, her hands clutching at a CDC worker who pulled away, head down, focused on his task.
Another voice cried out, "My sister’s dying in there do something!" but it was swallowed by the deafening roar of the crowd.
Media vans jammed the edges of the lot, their tall antennas piercing the night sky, their satellite dishes humming as they broadcast live. Reporters shouted into cameras, their voices sharp and urgent, battling to cut through the noise. "We’re live at Blissville Hospital, where a deadly airborne toxin has locked down the entire facility!" one reporter yelled, her hair whipping in the gusty wind, her eyes wide with the weight of the story.
"Hundreds are trapped inside, suffering severe respiratory distress, coughing blood, struggling to breathe. No cure has been found, and experts are warning this could spiral into a new pandemic, a global catastrophe if we don’t act fast!"
Her cameraman panned across the chaos, capturing a family waving signs, "Save My Mom!"
"My Brother Needs Help!" and a worker hurrying past, head bowed against the crowd’s pleas.
Social media was a wildfire, #BlissvilleCrisis trending worldwide, with videos of the screams, the barricades, and the desperate faces racking up millions of views.
Online, speculation ran rampant, "This is bioterrorism!" "It’s a new plague!" "We’re all next if they don’t find a cure!" Posts flooded in grainy clips of windows with pleading notes, families sobbing in huddles, hashtags like #SaveBlissville and #BlissvilleNightmare exploding across platforms.
A tweet from a terrified teen inside the hospital went viral, "I’m in pediatrics, can’t breathe, please help," with thousands of replies begging for updates, offering prayers, demanding action.
Governments were in a full-blown panic behind closed doors. Emergency meetings lit up screens in distant offices, scientists and officials shouting over each other, their voices tense as they pored over data. Labs across the country worked non-stop, top researchers mixing chemicals, running simulations, their screens glowing with graphs and molecular models.
But time was the true enemy, slipping away faster than they could keep up. Every update from Blissville was bleaker, nurses collapsing mid-shift, patients flatlining in droves, entire wards going silent.
A leaked audio from a government official spread like wildfire online: "If we don’t get a fix in the next few hours, we’re looking at a mass casualty event thousands, maybe more." His voice was low, heavy with dread, and the internet erupted with fear and anger.
Governments scrambled to contain the crisis, dispatching more teams, redirecting resources, but the clock was merciless. The world watched, hearts pounding, praying for a miracle, for someone to step up before the hospital became a tomb.
Then, from the shadows at the edge of the parking lot, a figure emerged, moving with a purpose that cut through the chaos. He carried a sleek nebulizer machine, its tubes and tank strapped securely, gleaming under the floodlights like a gadget from a futuristic arsenal.
The crowd froze for a split second, a collective breath held, then erupted into a frenzy. Families surged forward, shouting, crying, their voices a tangled mess of hope and desperation. Reporters shoved microphones out, tripping over cables and each other, while guards leapt into action, shouting, "Stay back! Clear the way!" It was Devon Aldridge, his face calm as a still pond, his eyes sharp and unwavering despite the madness swirling around him.
His coat flapped in the wind, the nebulizer steady on his shoulder, his steps measured and sure, as if he were strolling through a quiet park, not a war zone of grief and fear.
The media descended like hawks, microphones thrusting forward, voices overlapping in a chaotic storm of questions. "Dr Devon! Is that the cure in there?" a reporter yelled, her camera light glaring in his face, her voice high with excitement as she pushed closer.
"What’s in the machine? Can you save them all?" another shouted, elbowing through the pack, his notepad flapping as he scribbled.
"How did you know about the toxin? Were you involved in this?" a third demanded, her tone sharp with suspicion, her eyes narrowing as she leaned in.
"Are you working with the government? What’s the plan? How long will it take to work?" a fourth called, her microphone nearly hitting his shoulder, her cameraman zooming in tight.
"Is that tank safe? How do you know it’ll work? Have you tested it?" another pressed, her voice cutting through the rest, her pen hovering over her notebook.
"What’s your next move? Are there more toxins out there?" a final reporter shouted, his camera light flashing as he pushed past a guard.
The families were louder, their voices raw with emotion, a tidal wave of hope and pain crashing over him. "Please, my wife’s dying in there!" a man begged, reaching past a guard, tears streaming down his face, his hands trembling as he tried to break through.
"You gotta help her, please, Dr Devon!" A woman clutched a cross necklace, her fingers white around it, screaming, "Save my boy, he’s only six, he’s my whole world!" Another voice rose above the rest, loud and fervent with faith.
"Thank God you’re here, Dr Devon! If anyone can save them, it’s you!" The chant caught like wildfire, spreading through the crowd, "Dr Devon! Dr Devon"families, hospital staff, even strangers joining in, a surge of belief in the man who’d appeared from nowhere.
A teenage girl in the crowd held up her phone, filming through tears, yelling, "He’s here! He’s gonna fix it!" Her post hit social media, racking up thousands of views in seconds, comments flooding in.
"He’s the one!"
"Save them, Doc!"
A man nearby waved a sign, "My Sister Needs You!"his voice hoarse from shouting, his eyes locked on Devon.
The guards pushed back hard, forming a human wall, their shouts booming, "Back off! Let him through!" One cop grabbed a reporter’s arm, pulling her back as she kept yelling questions, her microphone still outstretched. Another guard shoved a man who tried to rush forward, his sign, "Save My Sister" falling to the gravel with a clatter.
A third guard tackled a desperate father who broke through, pinning him down as he sobbed, "Let me go! My wife!" Devon didn’t flinch, didn’t answer. His face stayed steady, the chaos around him nothing more than background noise.
He adjusted the nebulizer on his shoulder, his movements smooth and deliberate, his eyes fixed on the hospital doors like a beacon. The crowd parted slowly, forced back by the guards, their voices a tangled mix of desperate pleas and hopeful cheers.
A little girl slipped past the line, her small hands tugging at his coat, her voice barely audible over the din: "Please save my dad, he’s in there." Devon paused for a fraction of a second, his eyes meeting hers, giving a quick nod that carried the weight of a promise, then kept moving, her hope a heavy load he carried without breaking stride.
He reached the entrance, the steel doors sliding open with a sharp hiss that cut through the noise like a blade. The screams inside hit him full force, louder now, raw and immediate, a wall of sound and suffering that filled the air. Nurses lay sprawled on the floor, some still trying to crawl toward patients, their hands shaking as they reached for IV lines or charts.
A doctor leaned over a bed, his mask stained red with his own blood, shouting for oxygen tanks that were long empty, his voice cracking with exhaustion. Patients gasped in their beds, some motionless, others thrashing against restraints, their eyes wide with terror, faces gray from lack of air.
The air was heavy, thick with the poison’s invisible grip, the smell of blood, sweat, and antiseptic mixing into a sickening haze. A child’s toy, a small stuffed bear lay abandoned on the floor, kicked aside in the panic, its button eyes staring up blankly. Medical carts were overturned, syringes and bandages scattered like debris after a storm.
A janitor, still in his uniform, slumped in a corner, his mop fallen beside him, his breath gone. Devon stayed calm, his boots clicking loud on the tiled floor, each step steady and purposeful, cutting through the chaos like he was untouchable.
He moved straight to the main ventilation access in the emergency room, a large grate set into the wall near a toppled cart of supplies, its contents gauze, needles, vials strewn across the floor. He set the nebulizer down with a soft thud, his hands moving fast but precise.
There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, he hooked the machine up, tubes snapping into the vent system with clean, satisfying clicks, the tank giving a low hum as he powered it on. Red mist poured out, faint and shimmering, spreading through the ducts with a soft whoosh, curling into the air like a living thing. He adjusted the flow with a quick twist of a dial, his fingers steady, ensuring the mist reached every ward, every room, every corner of the hospital.