The sounds were transcendentally clear. The surgeons’ screams scratching into static as they overwhelmed the speakers in the hazmat suits. The squeak and clip of their shoes on the operating theater’s floor. The machinery rolling about as the three surgeons staggered and flailed.

And the fizzing.

I don’t think anyone had been expecting the fizzing.

It was a surreally placid chaos. Yes, the first few seconds were filled with cacophony and tumult—people running out of the amphitheater, shouting in panic—but that disarray was brief. Others, like myself, wandered out, unsure of ourselves, wondering if it might all just be a dream. The emergency quarantine alarm seemed far off, even though it was very near and very loud. The sound throbbed through my dead head like the heartbeat I no longer had.

The fizzing.

The fungal spores spurt up in aerosol plumes that ate away like fire and acid at where they grazed the surgeons’ hazmat suits, bubbling and fizzing like freshly opened soda pop. Holes and tears melted through patches of the suits, and then through the clothes straight through to the skin underneath. The openings in the green plastic blackened, as if burned. Tears dripped open in the headpiece’s plastic visor. The visor melted like glass windows beneath a century of desert sunlight.

You could see the surgeons’ screams shooting through the spore cloud, along with the waves and rifts traced by their frantic motions in those first It was a macabre ballet of distilled horror, the few seconds of which kept playing on repeat in my perfect memory as I staggered out into the hallway.

I leaned against a wall to support myself, with my tail acting like a cushion in the way it was wrapped around my left leg. Frenzied activity flooded past the opening where the short staircase let out into the hallway. It took a moment for me to realize Brand was trying to talk to me. Though him grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me definitely helped.

“Are you hearing what I’m saying, Genneth?”

I blinked and shook my head. “What?”

“It’s a negative-pressure room. When air flows into the operating theater, it’s only got one way out. It has to go through the room’s exhaust port. From there, it gets sent to the purger, where it gets cleaned before being released outside.”

“Wh…” I began, but I stopped and inhaled sharply. My mouth might as well have been filled with sand. “Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

Brand looked at me with concern. “You don’t need to worry.” He gulped. “None of us in the amphitheater are at any risk of infection.”

I chuckled bitterly.

Brand raised an eyebrow. “Is something funny?”

I gasped. My expression shattered. I felt like sobbing. “No. No no no…”

Brand stepped out of the way as I walked down the last few steps and out into the hallway.

The cavalry had already arrived: healthcare workers trundled down the hallway, wearing hazmat suits much like those worn by Drs. Nesbitt, Mistwalker, and Arbond.

As if those had done them any good.

The gathered onlookers stepped aside as the emergency response team arrived on scene. The response team rolled a quarantine gateway up to the doors of the operating theater. The gateway was a squat, transparent hallway made from plastic skin stretched over an edifice of tubes. The workers pushed the front end of the gateway into a mechanical recess surrounding the operating theater’s double doors, latching it on with a click. A hidden motor buzzed as it quickened, causing the air to softly hiss as the quarantine gate established an airtight airlock space to separate the operating theater from the hallway and the rest of the hospital. The gate’s clear, plastic membranes swelled slightly, as if breathing.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Just like the spores spurting out from Merritt’s thoracic cavity.

A tingle ran down my spine. And that’s when it finally hit me.

I braced myself for a panic attack… but it didn’t come. The expected electric tingling sensation grew stronger for a moment. I could have sworn static charge churned in my head like a swarm of flies, but nothing came of it except a brief lightheadedness and a momentary shortness of breath.

Then my numbness-wrapped legs gave way, forcing me into a kneeling position. More than one person cried out in alarm, or recoiled in terror. I stuck out an arm and lifted up my head, clasping my other hand and the back of my stone-stiff neck.

“No,” I said, “I’m fine. It’s just… a panic attack.”

I was about to take a deep breath when I remembered the sight of Merritt’s transfigured lungs. Instead, I choked and snorted, sucking a gob of mucus out of my sinuses and down my throat. It tasted like green caramel. My voice cracked and broke, and my hand flew to my mouth, as if to catch the shards.

“What have I done…?”

Finally, the tears came, trickling down my cheeks, daubing the edges of my already wet face mask.

Then came a sound no one expected: knuckles on a glassy door. They knocked thrice.

Everyone turned to look. The motion rippled through the onlooking crowd. We all turned to look.

There stood Dr. Cassius Arbond.

“Doctor,” one of the hazmats spoke up, his voice loud and speaker-grained, “I shouldn’t have to tell you that that door won’t open from the inside. And things won’t end well for anyone if you insist on trying.”

Gritting my teeth, I pushed off the wall and rose to my feet. The hazmats barreled down on me with laser gazes as I walked toward the quarantine gate. The one closest to me stuck out his hand. His body language was as hostile as his words were polite.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” he said, “but we’re going to need everyone to stay clear of this area until a member of this Ward’s CMT arrives to—”

“—Consider me arrived, then,” I replied. Pulling out my console, I opened the WeElMed app and scanned my chip over the sensor. My profile immediately popped into view, showing my status as a member of Ward E’s CMT.

After a pause, the man nodded and stepped out of my way, though not by much. I managed to take all of two steps forward before someone tugged at the back of my PPE gown.

“Fuck! Fuck!” Dr. Nesbitt swore. “It’s all over us! It burns!”

I stopped dead in my tracks.

I saw the surgeon step away and pull out his console, only to scream as the spore dust ate through the plastic casing. Seconds later, Dr. Nesbitt threw his console onto the floor.

“What happened?” Dr. Mistwalker asked.

“The Green Death fried my console.”

Dr. Mistwalker sank to the floor. “Oh God…” She looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t want to die.”

I drew closer, but the hazmat reached out and grabbed me. “That’s close enough,” he said.

Glancing back over my shoulder, I nodded at him, and he let me go, though he didn’t take his eyes off me.

Looking straight ahead through the transparent gateway tunnel, my eyes met Dr. Arbond’s. He stood behind the doors. I started to say something, but my tongue stumbled over my lips. I was like a lizard lapping at the air.

“Cassius… I…” I shook my head. “It’s my fault.” I lowered my arms to either side of my waist, clenching my right hand into a tight, trembling fist. “If I hadn’t asked you to do the surgery, this never would have—”

“—Genneth…”

Cassius’ words were honey. They were soft and warm, like a hearth and spiced wine. He made a drawbridge of his eyebrows and flashed a tetchy smile. As the self-proclaimed “wild old geezer” of West Elpeck Medical, it was one he used often when dealing with us “young’uns.”

“We can figure out who’s to blame later. My bet’s on the fungus.”

Dr. Arbond’s words made me feel better, which immediately made me feel worse. If there ever was a time not to feel better, this was it.

I tried to chuckle, but ended up crying.

“What about Merritt?” I said. “I can’t just leave her there.”

Dr. Arbond shook his head. “I don’t see why not.”

“What?”

He looked back. Drs. Nesbitt and Mistwalker stood behind him, leaning against the operating table, with their heads craned back, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide shut, muttering prayers. Above them, the spore cloud had diffused into a nebulous haze that glinted like dust in a shaft of morning.

Cassius turned to face me once more. “I’d like to think there’s still some more we can—and need—to learn from Merritt’s condition.”

The expression on Dr. Arbond’s face was gentle and serene. There was no need to speak of fear or sadness. I knew I felt it, and I was sure as the Sword that Cassius and the others felt it, too.

“Besides,” Dr. Arbond added, “I think little Mrs. Elbock might appreciate having some company when she wakes up.”

My console jittered from within my PPE pocket.

“My guess is, that’s prolly Dr. Marteneiss,” Cassius said. “You better answer it.”

I nodded.

“Cassius,” I said, nearly overcome with emotion, “you’re pretty darn brave, you know that?”

“Nah,” he shook his head, waving his hand dismissively, “I just enjoy my job.”

My console jittered once more. “Don’t feel guilty,” he said, as I turned away with a lump in my throat. I didn’t tell him I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

I didn’t want to make a promise that I’d already broken.