The Only One Who Can Save Them Called Me Trash

The leak at Harmony Biologics' cold storage facility on White Raven Island happened two weeks ago.

An experimental biochemical agent called VX-7 seeped out of a cracked storage tank and drifted with the sea wind toward the docks, the processing plants, the ferry terminals.

The first victims collapsed on the seafood processing line.

Harmony Biologics' employees called it the flu.

By day three, the death count had doubled and no one could leave the island anymore.

Only then did everyone realize—

It wasn't the flu.

My wife, Evelyn Thomas, came back on the last commercial flight before the lockdown.

She brought our six-year-old son a wooden airplane the day she returned.

Three days later, she died in front of me.

One day after that, my son died too.

At the emergency room door, the doctor only said, "I'm sorry."

I didn't cry then.

Because my phone rang.

"Dad, I ran down to the basement storage room." My daughter Abigail Miller's voice was shaking so hard I could barely recognize it. "They said Mom came back from White Raven Island. They said my brother's dead. They're telling me to get out."

I gripped the phone tighter.

"Are you safe right now?"

"They're banging on the door."

Bang.

On the other end of the line, someone really was banging on a door.

I looked up at the doctor.

He held my test results, his hands trembling.

"Mr. Miller, you're the only natural antibody carrier we've found so far. Your blood might be the only cure for this entire disaster. Federal Emergency Management Agency is sending a team for you. They'll be here in thirty minutes. Please cooperate."

I stared at him for three seconds.

"My daughter is trapped in a basement storage room right now, with a crowd of panicked adults banging down the door. Who's going to get her?"

The doctor said nothing.

That one second of silence drained every last trace of warmth from my eyes.

Outside the corridor, an alarm suddenly blared.

A live feed popped up on the monitor wall.

A man in a black jacket stood outside the hospital, holding a box of blue capsules toward the camera, shouting—

"The hospital won't tell you the truth! The only survivor of this leak is inside!"

"His whole family got poisoned, but he walked away without a scratch—"

"Because he'd been taking Bluetend Capsules!"

I stared at the screen.

It was Matthew Moore.

The last phone call my wife made before she died—that name was in it.

I turned to the doctor. "Are you unlocking the door or not?"

"Mr. Miller, I can't—"

I didn't let him finish.

I pulled the IV needle out of my hand. Blood ran down my fingers.

I unscrewed the valve on the oxygen tube beside the bed, stuffed the corner of the sheet into the door gap, and hit the alarm.

The siren exploded.

"Oxygen leak—isolation door lock override!"

Click.

The electronic lock popped open.

I pulled the door wide.

At the end of the hall, four security guards ran straight at me.

I didn't run.

Five years ago, after that accident, they disciplined me and fired me from the rescue team. Everyone said I was useless.

What they didn't know was that some skills never leave you.

Like how to spot the backup circuit of an electronic door in thirty seconds.

Or how to take down four men in hazmat suits with a piece of broken glass—

In thirty seconds.

The first man lunged. I sidestepped, caught his wrist, and twisted it down.

His elbow snapped back.

He grunted and dropped to his knees.

I shoved him into the second man.

They collided.

I pulled the restraint cord from the first man's belt, looped it around the third man's arm, and slammed him against the wall.

The cord caught on the fire hydrant.

His arm locked overhead. He screamed.

The fourth man pulled out a stun baton.

I yanked the fire hose off the wall and whipped it at his feet.

He stumbled. The baton clattered to the floor.

I picked it up and pressed it against his side.

The current crackled.

He convulsed and dropped.

At the end of the corridor, the doctor held his face shield, pale.

"Mr. Miller, what are you—"

I didn't look at him.

I picked up the radio from the farthest security guard.

A voice came through the speaker.

"Joseph Miller has left Isolation Unit One. Haven Healthcare Hospital is requesting backup."

"When will Federal Emergency Management Agency arrive?"

"Twenty-six minutes."

Twenty-six minutes.

Enough time to do a lot of things.

I tucked the radio into my pocket and walked toward the first-floor lobby.

On the screen, Matthew was still live.

He still didn't know I'd already come downstairs.