Ch.35: The Chemical Weapon

The cell door slams shut. The magnetic lock engages with a final, echoing *thud*.

I am back in the chair. Strapped down tighter than before. My wrists are raw, the skin abraded by the leather. Thorne is gone, dragged away to a holding cell in the sub-basement.

Aris is gone, too. He went upstairs to prepare for the harvest. The Client X—the Russian woman—is waiting.

But Greta is here.

She was shoved into the room just before the lock engaged. She is huddled in the corner, weeping. Her face is bruised, her lip split.

"He lied," she sobs. "He moved Leo. I went to the East Wing, but the room was empty. Just a video screen."

"I know," I say. My voice is weak, but my mind is razor sharp. The adrenaline from the confrontation has burned off the last of the Rocuronium fog. I am fully awake. And I am furious.

"He has a bomb on him," Greta whispers. "A collar. If I don't do what he says..."

"He's going to kill him anyway, Greta," I say. "Leo is a loose end. And Aris is cleaning house."

Greta looks up. Her eyes are hollow. "Then what do we do? We're trapped."

I look around the room. It’s a standard medical bay. Sterile. White.

Except for the cleaning cart in the corner.

The guard who dragged me in must have kicked it aside. It’s overturned. Bottles of industrial cleaner are scattered across the floor.

Bleach. Ammonia.

I stare at the bottles.

A memory flashes in my mind. Chemistry 101. The first rule of lab safety.

*Never mix bleach and ammonia.*

It creates Chloramine gas. Toxic. Corrosive. Deadly.

"Greta," I say. "Look at the cart."

She looks. She wipes her eyes. "So? It's just cleaning supplies."

"Bring them here."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

She crawls over to the cart. She gathers the bottles. A gallon of bleach. A bottle of glass cleaner containing ammonia.

She brings them to my chair.

"Open them," I command.

She unscrews the caps. The smell is pungent, chemical.

"We're going to make a cocktail," I say.

"You want to poison him?" Greta asks.

"I want to gas the house," I correct her.

I look at the ventilation intake on the wall. It’s a large grate, sucking air out of the room and recirculating it through the entire HVAC system.

If we mix the chemicals right there, in front of the intake, the gas will be pulled into the ducts. It will be pumped into every room in the mansion. The panic room. The guest suite. The master bedroom.

"But... we'll die too," Greta says, realizing the plan. "We're in the room."

"No," I say. "I won't."

I look at my arm. The skin is pale, scarred.

"I spent five years working in a toxicology lab," I explain. "I built up a tolerance to chloramine. Low doses. It won't kill me. It will hurt like hell, but it won't kill me."

"But what about me?" Greta asks, her voice trembling.

"You have a mask," I say, nodding to the emergency cabinet on the wall. "There's an oxygen mask in there. Hook it up to the portable tank."

Greta runs to the cabinet. She smashes the glass with her elbow. She pulls out the mask.

She hooks it up to the small tank on the back of my wheelchair. She puts it on.

"What about Thorne?" she asks.

"He's in the sub-basement," I say. "Different air handler. He's safe."

"And Leo?"

"The East Wing has a separate system. Isolation protocol. He's safe."

"But Aris..."

"Aris is upstairs," I say. "Breathing the same air as the rest of the house."

I nod at the bottles.

"Pour them."

Greta hesitates. She holds the bleach in one hand, the ammonia in the other.

"If I do this... there's no going back."

"There never was," I say. "He took your son. He took my face. He took our lives."

I look her in the eye.

"Burn him down, Greta."

She takes a deep breath. She nods.

She walks to the vent. She sets the bucket on the floor.

She pours the bleach. The clear liquid splashes into the bucket.

Then she pours the ammonia.

The reaction is instant. The liquid froths. A white cloud begins to rise.

The smell hits me like a physical blow. It burns my nose, my throat, my eyes. It feels like inhaling fire.

Greta backs away, clutching her mask.

The gas rises. It is sucked into the vent with a soft *whoosh*.

I watch it go.

I imagine the gas traveling through the ducts. Moving silently through the walls. Creeping into the rooms upstairs.

Aris will be the first to smell it. He has a sensitive nose. He'll think it's a cleaning spill.

But then his eyes will start to water. His throat will close up. He will start to cough.

And then he will realize.

The house isn't his fortress anymore. It's a gas chamber.

My eyes are streaming tears. My good eye burns. The empty socket throbs.

But I don't close my eye. I watch the white cloud swirl into the vent.

It’s beautiful.

I take a shallow breath. The gas tastes like victory.

I'm going to gas the house.