The Ventilation Ducts

Ten minutes. The number was a lie, a temporary ceasefire bought with fraud. Elena didn't move from the door, her back pressed against the wood, listening to the heavy tread of Marcus’s boots fading down the hallway toward the back stairs. The basement. He was going to the basement.

*Hiss-click.*

The ventilator’s rhythm was the only steady thing in a world that was tilting violently on its axis. Elena looked at the battery gauge. *58 minutes remaining.* The extra hour she had bought with the lie wouldn't matter if they came back with a crowbar—or something worse.

She needed to fortify.

She pushed herself up, her legs trembling. She dragged the rocking chair back into position, jamming it under the knob. Then she moved to the window, chipping away the ice on the latch with the handle of the knife. It gave way with a crack, and she shoved the sash up an inch. The wind howled in, a freezing blast that cut through her sweater, but the fresh air was a lifeline.

If the heat came back on, good. If it didn't, at least they wouldn't suffocate.

She turned back to the room. Leo was still watching his screen, his eyes wide and unblinking.

*M.*
*O.*
*M.*

*MOM.*

"I'm here, baby," she whispered. "I'm right here."

She sat down beside him, her hand finding his. His skin was cool, too cool. She pulled the duvet up to his chin, tucking it around his small shoulders.

Then she smelled it.

It was faint at first, a acrid, chemical tang that mixed with the scent of old dust and ozone. It wasn't woodsmoke. It wasn't the clean smell of a fireplace. It smelled like burning plastic. Like capsaicin. Like pepper.

Elena frowned, sniffing the air. It was coming from the vent above the door—the return air duct for the central HVAC system.

The system Marcus said was broken.

A sudden, violent cough ripped through her chest, her eyes watering instantly. The air in the room thickened, turning hazy and sharp. It burned her throat, her nose, her lungs.

"Leo!" she gasped, reaching for the Ambu-bag on the cart. She disconnected the ventilator tube from his trach and attached the manual bag, squeezing it rhythmically. The machine was pulling room air—contaminated air—and pushing it directly into his lungs.

She needed to filter it. She needed to stop it.

She looked at the vent. A fine, white mist was drifting down from the slats. It wasn't smoke. It was an aerosol.

Marcus hadn't gone to the basement to fix the fuse. He had gone to the basement to access the central air handler. And Val... Val was somewhere else.

Elena dragged the heavy changing table under the vent. She climbed up, coughing, her eyes streaming tears. She peered through the slats.

In the crawlspace beyond the ductwork, illuminated by the faint glow of a penlight, she saw a hand. A woman's hand, holding a canister of bear mace.

Diana was spraying pepper spray into the HVAC return.