The emergency reception bay of the Sector 4 safe hall clinic smelled of harsh cleaning acid, ozone, and fresh bright red blood.
Outside, the distant rumble of backup artillery shook the soot from the exposed ceiling pipes. Inside, the harsh glare of overhead razor-sharp lamps lit up six field stretchers arranged along the whitewashed brick floor. Orderlies in rubber aprons rushed between the beds, carrying basins of steaming antiseptic and bundles of high-pressure bandages, their boots slipping on the wet floor tiles.
“Get another unit of star-fire expander into Bed Two!” Dr. Morrigan Calder shouted over the hiss of the steam sterilizer, her forehead glistening with sweat beneath her razor-sharp cap. “His beast took an acid quill through the flank. The rotting toxin is hemolyzing his erythrocytes!”
Arthur Vance pushed through the heavy swinging doors, his charcoal trench coat already unbuttoned and tossed onto a side rack. Beneath it, his forearms were bare, his skin scrubbed raw with chlorhexidine. The triple-prism magnifying glass clicked over his left eye as he surveyed the triage floor in two seconds of cold test.
“Doctor Calder, take Beds One through Three,” Arthur said, his voice cutting through the panic with the calming power of a seasoned chief of trauma. “I have Bed Four.”
