Chapter 118: Salvation
The red mist poured from Devon’s nebulizer machine, flooding Blissville Hospital with a faint, shimmering haze that snaked through the ventilation system, reaching into every ward, every room, every shadowed corner.
It glowed soft under the flickering fluorescent lights, a beacon of hope carrying the cure Devon had poured his soul into crafting. Patients strapped to beds or slumped in chairs coughed and gasped as the mist hit them, their lungs raw from the Aerothrax poison, now meeting something new, something alive.
Devon moved through the chaos, his boots thudding on the tiled floors, his voice cutting through the fading screams like a lighthouse in a storm. "Inhale the mist!" he shouted, loud and clear, his words echoing down the halls.
"Breathe it in deep, as fast as you can, it will cure you from the poison!" He strode through the hospital, his coat flapping behind him, repeating the command to patients and staff who looked dazed, scared, or ready to bolt from the strange red fog swirling around them.
In the pediatric ward, the air was thick with fear, the mist curling around beds where kids clung to their parents. A mother held her wheezing son, maybe six years old, her eyes wild as she tried to shield him from the haze.
"What is this stuff?" she cried, her voice shaking, her arms tight around the boy. Devon knelt beside her, his face calm but his voice urgent. "It’s safe. It’s the cure. Let him breathe it, now." She froze, her gaze darting to his face Dr Devon, her fear softened, a flicker of hope in her eyes, and she nodded, loosening her grip.
"Okay, Tommy, breathe, baby," she whispered, guiding her son’s head toward the mist. The boy’s coughs, sharp and painful, slowed, his small chest rising easier, his glassy eyes clearing as the mist worked its magic.
He looked up, a tiny smile breaking through, and his mom choked back a sob, hugging him tight. Across the room, a teenage girl, maybe fifteen, yanked off her oxygen mask, her hands trembling with fear of the unknown fog.
But when she saw Devon, her face lit up like she’d seen a hero. "It’s you!" she gasped, then sucked in a deep breath, the mist swirling into her lungs. Her coughing stopped, her shoulders relaxed, and she grinned, weak but alive, whispering, "I knew you’d come."
In the ICU, where monitors wailed like sirens and patients lay still, the mist pushed deeper, curling around beds and machines. A nurse, slumped against a bedframe, blood crusted on her lips, blinked awake as the mist brushed her face.
"Dr Devon?" she whispered, her voice hoarse, recognizing him from years ago when she’d trained under him.
He nodded, pointing to the air. "Breathe it in. Right now." She obeyed, her chest rising slow at first, then stronger, the awful rattle in her lungs fading like a bad memory.
An old woman, barely conscious, her skin gray and her breathing shallow, stirred as the mist settled over her bed. Her fingers twitched, then gripped the sheets, her eyes fluttering open. Devon moved from bed to bed, his voice a steady beat: "Inhale! Keep breathing!"
Some patients, too weak to move, lay still as the mist washed over them, their faces softening, the tension in their bodies easing as the poison’s grip broke. A doctor, his mask stained red with his own blood, ripped it off and took a deep breath, his eyes locking on Devon’s with a nod of gratitude. "You did it, man," he rasped, his voice rough but full of life, a shaky grin spreading.
The emergency room was a mess, overturned carts, scattered syringes, bandages strewn across the floor like battlefield debris. But the mist was everywhere, seeping into every crack, every corner.
A janitor, collapsed in a corner by a mop bucket, coughed hard as the mist reached him, then sat up, his eyes clearing, his hands steadying.
"What’s going on?" he mumbled, dazed. Devon clapped his shoulder, his grip firm. "You’re gonna be okay. Just breathe." The man nodded, taking shaky breaths, his face shifting from fear to relief, color returning to his cheeks.
In the maternity ward, a pregnant woman gripped her bedrail, her eyes wide with panic as the mist swirled around her. "Is this safe for my baby?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Devon appeared at her side, his presence steadying her. "Breathe it in, you’re both gonna be fine." She locked eyes with him, saw the certainty there, and nodded, inhaling deep.
Her coughing slowed, her hand resting on her belly as she felt her baby kick, a small sign of life that made her smile through tears.
The change started slow, almost too subtle to notice, then hit like a wave. The screams that had torn through the halls grew quieter, replaced by gasps, then steady, even breaths. In pediatrics, the boy named Tommy sat up, his cheeks pink again, his wheezing gone. His mom sobbed, hugging him tight, whispering, "You’re okay, you’re okay." The teenage girl, now mask-free, laughed softly, helping a younger kid next to her sit up, both of them breathing easy. In the ICU, monitors stopped their frantic beeping, heart rates leveling out, oxygen levels climbing on screens.
The old woman who’d been near death opened her eyes wide, her voice weak but clear: "I’m... okay? I’m alive?" A young man, strapped to a bed, coughed one last time, then let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh, his chest rising smooth and strong. The air, once heavy with the poison’s choke, felt lighter, cleaner, the red mist fading as it burned away the Aerothrax, leaving behind a hospital waking up from a nightmare.
Devon didn’t slow down, moving through every ward like a man on a mission. His presence was a spark, lighting up hope wherever he went. Patients and staff who’d flinched from the mist, scared of its strange glow, stopped when they saw him. His name was a whisper, then a shout, "Dr Devon!" Faces brightened, fear melting into trust.
A nurse who’d trained under him years ago grabbed his arm, tears streaming down her face. "You’re here," she said, her voice breaking, then breathed deep, the mist filling her lungs, her coughs fading. A patient in a wheelchair, too weak to speak, raised a shaky thumbs-up, his smile wide as he inhaled, his eyes shining with gratitude.
A doctor in the ER, still shaky but standing, clapped Devon on the back, saying, "You’re a damn miracle." The hospital buzzed with new energy, the chaos giving way to relief, the screams turning to murmurs of thanks, laughter, even prayers.
Devon kept moving, checking each room, shouting, "Keep breathing, don’t stop!" He leaned over a bed to adjust a patient’s IV, checked a monitor to confirm stable vitals, asked a nurse how she felt, her nod confirming she was back. Every step he took, every word he spoke, was a promise kept.
In the oncology ward, a woman with a shaved head, her body frail from chemo, sat up slowly, her breathing clear for the first time in hours.
She grabbed Devon’s hand as he passed, her grip weak but fierce. "I didn’t think I’d make it," she whispered, tears in her eyes.
Devon squeezed her hand back, his voice low. "You’re tough. Keep breathing." She nodded, a smile breaking through, and inhaled deep. In the surgical recovery unit, a man who’d been mid-surgery when the toxin hit woke up, his stitches still fresh but his lungs clear.
He looked at Devon, confused but grateful, and muttered, "You’re the guy, aren’t you?" Devon just nodded, moving to the next bed. In the cafeteria, where staff had collapsed during a break, a cook stood up, wiping sweat from his brow, his apron still tied on. "This stuff really works?" he asked, pointing at the mist. Devon grinned, just a little. "You’re standing, aren’t you?" The cook laughed, a big, hearty sound, and breathed in deep.
The mist worked its way through the entire hospital, from the basement labs to the rooftop helipad where a stranded medevac crew breathed it in, their coughs fading as they radioed out, "We’re okay up here!"
The change was everywhere,patients sitting up, nurses helping each other stand, doctors checking charts with steady hands. A little girl in pediatrics, clutching a stuffed bunny, ran to Devon, hugging his leg. "You fixed me!" she said, her voice bright. He ruffled her hair, his face softening for a moment, then kept moving.
The air felt different now, no longer heavy with death but alive with second chances. The red mist faded as it worked, leaving behind a hospital reborn, the monitors quiet, the screams gone, replaced by soft voices, laughter, and the sound of life returning.
Outside, the parking lot was a different story, a tense mess of fear and uncertainty. The crowd, families, reporters, cops had seen Devon march in with his machine over an hour ago, but no word had come since.
The silence was crushing. Families grew restless, their hope crumbling into dread. "What’s happening? Is he dead?" a woman whispered, clutching her husband’s arm, her eyes red from crying.
"He went in with that thing, what if it didn’t work?" another man muttered, his voice low, staring at the hospital doors. Reporters kept filming, their tones grim now. "Dr Devon Aldridge entered Blissville Hospital with an unknown device over an hour ago," one reporter said into her camera, her voice heavy with worry.
"There’s been no update, no sign of progress. We’re waiting to see if this is a breakthrough or a tragedy." Social media churned with panic: "#BlissvilleCrisis, no news yet. Did Aldridge fail?"
"Is everyone gone?"
"What’s taking so long?" The crowd pressed harder against the steel fences, cops struggling to hold them back, their shouts louder, tinged with despair. A father who’d been yelling for his daughter sank to his knees in the gravel, muttering, "It’s too late, it’s over."
Then, a sound broke through from inside the hospital a loud, joyful shout, followed by another, then a chorus of voices. The crowd outside froze, heads snapping to the windows, the doors, straining to see through the glass.
"What’s that?" a reporter yelled, her camera swinging toward the entrance, her voice shaking with sudden hope. The shouts grew louder, not cries of pain but bursts of excitement, voices overlapping in a wave of relief. The steel doors slid open with a hiss, and people poured out, nurses in stained scrubs, doctors still in surgical caps, patients in gowns leaning on each other, their faces bright with life.
A nurse ran straight to her husband in the crowd, throwing her arms around him, laughing through tears. "I’m okay! I’m okay!" she cried, her voice hoarse but alive.
A young man, barely able to walk, stumbled out, his sister shoving past the guards to hug him, both sobbing as they clung to each other. The boy from pediatrics, carried by his mom, waved at the crowd, his smile wide, his breathing clear and strong. An old man, supported by a nurse, stepped out, raising a shaky hand to his family, who screamed with joy and rushed the fence.
The chant started again, "Dr Devon! Dr Devon!"but now it was a song of victory, spreading through the lot like a wildfire of hope.
The media went wild, reporters shoving mics toward the survivors, cameras flashing like strobe lights. "Breaking news from Blissville Hospital!" one shouted, her voice trembling with excitement. "Patients and staff are emerging, showing clear signs of recovery! Dr Devon Aldridge may have delivered a cure to the Aerothrax crisis!" Her cameraman zoomed in on a nurse hugging her family, tears streaming, then panned to the crowd, now cheering, signs waving high, "Thank You, Dr. Aldridge!"
"Hero!" Social media flipped from panic to pure joy, posts flooding in, "They’re alive! #BlissvilleMiracle" "Aldridge did it!"
"Thank you, Doc!"
The teen who’d tweeted from inside posted again: "I can breathe! Dr Devon saved us!" Her post hit millions of views in minutes, comments pouring in with heart emojis, prayers answered, and GIFs of celebration.
A reporter grabbed a doctor stumbling out, his scrubs wrinkled but his eyes clear. "What happened in there?" she asked, mic shaking. "Devon brought a mist. it worked," he said, grinning. "He saved us all."
Devon stayed inside, moving ward to ward, checking every patient, every bed, his focus unbreakable.
In pediatrics, he knelt by Tommy’s bed, checking his pulse, the boy’s breathing steady now, his cheeks pink. His mom grabbed Devon’s hand, whispering, "Thank you, thank you," tears falling. Devon nodded, his voice low. "He’s gonna be fine." In the ICU, he adjusted an old woman’s IV, her eyes clear now, her hand squeezing his with surprising strength.
"I thought I was gone," she said softly.
He smiled, just a little. "Not today." He checked monitors, watched oxygen levels climb, asked nurses how they felt, their nods and smiles confirming they were back. In the ER, he helped a young man sit up, his breathing smooth, his laugh shaky but real. "I owe you one, Doc," the man said.
Devon shrugged. "Just keep breathing." He wasn’t taking chances every person needed to be stable, every ward checked. The mist had done its job, but he moved like a man who knew one slip could undo it all. Inside, he felt the weight lifting, the system timer in his head no longer a death sentence but victory.
Meanwhile, in a dark office far away, a man in a tailored suit sat at a polished desk, the only light a dim lamp casting shadows across his face. His phone buzzed, vibrating against the wood. He picked it up, his eyes narrowing as he read the text, "Someone has found the cure to Aerothrax. How do you suggest we proceed, sir?" His fingers tightened around the phone, his jaw clenching, the shadows hiding the cold, calculating glint in his eyes. He leaned back, the chair creaking, and stared at the ceiling, his mind racing with plans yet to unfold.