Edge of Black. J.T. Ellison

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СКАЧАТЬ ambulances and first responders rushing purposefully toward the Metro. Crime scene tape had already gone up around the park and the roads were closed, traffic being diverted away from the scene. Techs in Tyvek suits with SCBA—self-contained breathing apparatuses—streamed down the frozen escalator. A uniform shouted at Sam, gesticulating wildly toward the medical center. The message was clear. Get the hell out of the way.

      The only comfort Sam took from the scene was that it was still intact. A suitcase bomb would have eliminated the area.

      So not nuclear. Biological or chemical. It could be anything, really. Her mind started into overdrive, and she could swear she was starting to itch. She hoped it was a psychosomatic response.

      A first receiver, bundled in Tyvek and nearly unrecognizable as a male aside from his size, stopped her. People dressed similarly were streaming past them into the bowels of the Metro.

      “Ma’am, were you in the Metro?”

      “No. What’s happening? I’m a doctor, with disaster training. Can I help?”

      “Not until we can be sure you’re okay. Get inside the hospital. You’ll be decontaminated and asked to stay for observation.”

      “I just came from the hospital. I’m fine. I want to help.”

      The receiver shook his head and pointed toward the doors. “Too bad. You’ve exposed yourself. You have to go though the process. Get inside.”

      Oh, son of a bitch. She shouldn’t have gone back out until the scene had cleared. Now she was going to be stuck.

      Sam was tempted to disregard him, to surge forward, but the thought was fleeting. She’d just be in the way.

      She turned and went back into the hospital. A line was forming on the right side of the emergency room, snaking down the hall. Sam knew immediately what they were doing: triage for the people who were in the Metro, and triage for those who weren’t. So whatever substance this was, they were taking precautionary measures for the people who were close to the attack, and a whole different set for those actually exposed to the contaminant.

      Another receiver met her, this time a no-nonsense nurse with steel-gray hair and a sharp chin. Sam tried again. “I’m a doctor. What are we dealing with? What kind of toxin?”

      The woman shook her head. “We don’t know anything just yet, sugar. Now shut up and get in line, you’re holding things up.”

      Nurses. The same everywhere. All dedicated to helping, and no time for bullshit.

      Maybe this was just a massive false alarm. She prayed fervently that was the case, but the precautions now being taken—those that she could see, anyway—precluded that.

      Sam was passed from hand to hand, interviewed briefly, and when it was clear she hadn’t been in the Metro proper, nor was exhibiting any symptoms, was sent to yet another line. People formed in behind her, more excited than scared.

      What the hell was going on? Sam wasn’t used to being incapacitated like this. She felt just fine. Obviously the exposure was in the Metro. She could see people coming in on stretchers, their clothes rapidly being cut off and disposed of, oxygen applied. One man was intubated, the rest were just moaning. Sam watched the first receivers bathe his body with a solution of soapy water, getting whatever he had been exposed to off his skin.

      Words were starting to float around now, from the people coming in off the street.

      Respiratory distress. Coughing. Burning eyes. White powder.

      Sam’s trained mind went to a different place.

      Anthrax. Ricin. Sarin.

      D.C. was always on extra high alert, just like New York, and all the major cities, really, for any hint of terrorist activity. There was one plus to the situation—they were prepared for nearly anything. But the fallout from any of those kinds of attacks could last for days. She combed her memory—what was today? An anniversary of some sort, with meaning only to those involved?

      Her line, the double-check line, she’d dubbed it, took only ten minutes, but it felt like hours. Sam was finally in front of Dr. Evans again.

      “Name?”

      “Dr. Samantha Owens. We met an hour ago.”

      He was taken aback for a moment, then nodded. “I remember. Nashville. What are you doing here?”

      “I went outside to see if I could help.”

      “Brilliant, Doctor. We’ll need you on the back end of this, not in the middle. Any new symptoms?”

      “No. I’m fine.”

      “Since you’ve been in the contamination zone you have to stay isolated for the time being. Maybe you could keep an eye on the folks here, let us know if any of them start showing symptoms. The reports are coming in that the people who are sick took the Metro this morning. So we’re just being extra cautious with people who were in the area. Can you do that for me? Keep yourself out of any more trouble?”

      “Of course. But what should I be looking for outside of respiratory distress? What are we dealing with?”

      “We don’t know yet. They’re in the tunnels doing air-quality tests. HAZMAT is getting positives for an unidentified neurotoxin. Might be a false alarm, but I’ve seen too many people who aren’t looking good to think it’s just a mistake. Good news is, while we’ve got a few critical, none are dead yet. Hang in there. It’s going to be a while before we can release you.”

      “I have HAZMAT training. I can help.”

      “We’re fine right now. We’re the best in the country at response. Thanks, though.”

      She was shuffled off to the right again, taken down a long hallway, then asked to sit on the floor and wait.

      This was insane. She should be helping, not sitting in a hallway with a bunch of scared people waiting to see if any of them started coughing.

      They couldn’t stop her from thinking about the situation, though. She knew exactly what the HAZMAT teams were doing, the tests they’d be running. If there was powder, they’d be able to analyze it on-site. If it was airborne, that was a whole different kind of response.

      The logic of the situation started to eat at her. If Foggy Bottom was ground zero, why stage a biological or chemical attack at the Metro station closest to the best decontamination unit in the area? Remorse? Desire to allow innocents to live? Terrorists wouldn’t be kind, or allow for convenience. They’d stage as far away from help as they could to maximize the dead, then hit the first responders as they came in, as well.

      Come on, Sam. You are really jumping to conclusions now. You don’t even know what’s happening—it could just as easily be a chemical fire as it could a terrorist attack. The Metro was constantly under repair, and steady work was being made on the new Silver Line to the airport. This was most likely just a local issue that needed extra precautions.

      That made her feel better. It wasn’t like her to assume: she was a scientist, after all, logic and evidence her closest friends. But it felt different to be involved, not on the outside trying to figure out what was happening. Without a cadaver, a set of sharpened Henckel СКАЧАТЬ