Blue Piranha

Doors part; Patrick bolts. I follow into a gray tunnel—walls and floor dead concrete, air like an execution chamber. Sensors, cameras, silent guardians with stun batons every few meters.

Patrick stops, opens a wall panel, presses his eye to a scanner. The lights die. Darkness. Then red laser threads weave across the corridor like a lethal web. Green flashes—access granted. Iron doors slide open.

"Move!"

I do.

At the final door he stares into the overhead camera. It unlocks; we enter.

I freeze.

The room is blinding white, but the floor is flooded with blood.

On an operating table lies a motionless body—scarlet pooling beneath.

The doctor is crumpled on the tiles, a guard pressing cloth to the gash in his abdomen. His skin is the same color as the walls; his breath rattles high in his chest. Someone has gutted him.

Steven's words click: They'll give you a chance to prove yourself.

If I can keep the doctor alive—if I can save him—I can earn my place.

And maybe get close enough to finish what I truly came here to do.

Patrick's face was blood-drained; his voice shook.

"He'll bleed out before the surgeon gets here!"

I froze. Everything hinged on me? If I failed—if he died—I'd be buried with him, my body tossed out with the kitchen waste.

"I'm talking to you!"

He seized my arm, yanked me toward the center of the room.

"Do something before I put a bullet in your skull!"

I shut my eyes—had to shut out the panic.

Deep breath. Focus.

I dropped beside the doctor's half-conscious body, knees in the spreading pool of blood.

His half-lidded eyes fixed on me. Harsh, wet wheezing—his airway was barely open.

Fingers to his neck: pulse slow, weak, uneven. Skin ice-cold, paper-pale—classic hypovolemic shock from massive blood loss.

I shoved the guard's hands aside, peeled the blood-soaked cloth back—

A large, triangular shard of glass was buried in his flank, between his ribs on the left side.

Who stabbed him?

No arterial spray, so the big vessels were spared, but frothy pink bubbles hissed from the wound— and that rattling "crackle" in his breath...

Tension pneumothorax.

I snapped my head up, barked at the guard:

"IV fluids, infusion set—now! Big syringes, antiseptic, blood-type kit—everything!

Patrick sprinted off. I yelled after another guard:

"Any emergency kit—thoracostomy gear, or at least a wide-bore needle and tubing!"

I snatched an IV bag from a side table, grabbed a scalpel. If we waited, his lung would collapse, his heart would arrest.

Locking eyes with the doctor, I whispered, "Sorry—"

—and jabbed the scalpel between the fifth ribs, just above the upper edge, careful of the intercostal bundle. A small slit. A hiss of air and blood gushed out; the wheeze vanished. His first clear breath shuddered through him.

Patrick skidded back, dumped supplies, saw the chest incision and roared:

"What the hell did you do?"

He jammed a pistol to my temple, veins bulging.

"You trying to get yourself killed?!"

I laid the scalpel down, voice steady.

"Tension pneumo. If I hadn't vented the lung, he'd have coded in minutes."

The gun-butt cracked my skull; pain blurred my vision— but the doctor's breathing was smooth now. I'd done it right.

Patrick hoisted me by the arm.

"If he dies, I'll skin you, fry the meat, and serve it."

The medic guard returned with a kit.

"Let me work—give me the IV!" I gasped.

Patrick released me, muttering curses. I spiked the line and slid the needle into the doctor's vein.

"What's his blood type?"

"No idea," Patrick panted, mopping sweat. "I'm O-negative. I'll donate."

"Good. Sit still—direct transfusion."

I rolled up his sleeve, found a vein.

To the young guard staring wide-eyed:

"Hold the dressing—don't touch the glass. Only the surgeon removes it."

He obeyed, pressing hard. Bleeding slowed but didn't stop.

"When's the surgeon?" I asked, threading tubing.

"Minutes," Patrick said, wiping his brow.

Just then the door burst open. An elderly man with glasses swept in, two guards on his heels. He took one look, flipped open his bag.

"Everyone out. Now!"

Patrick yanked me by the arm.

"Take her to holding. If he dies," Patrick growled, "I'll skin you alive and throw your flesh to the dogs."