Jessica Andersen - Intensive Care

She peeked inside the storage room, where a small army of cleaning supplies was shelved beside a collection of mops and a hulking floor waxer. The overhead light was on. She stepped inside and said, “Mr. Frank?” though it was obvious that the tiny space was empty. She was turning to leave when a faint hiss and a whiff of something nasty drew her to the far corner. She crouched down and sniffed. Her heart picked up a notch.

“Mr. Frank,” she called, readily identifying the odor and its cause. “One of your bottles is leaking!”

The only response was a soft clicking sound and a sudden deadening of the air. Ripley froze. She turned and stared at the door.

It was shut.

The hissing grew louder, and in the light of the single bulb above her head, she saw a cloud of vapor rising from the corner. The smell grew worse. Her eyes watered and the back of her throat started to burn. She grabbed the doorknob and twisted.

It didn’t move.

Ripley stared at the knob in disbelief. She rattled it. Numb shock poured through her and she coughed. The bitter air scorched her throat. The pain spurred hot, hard panic.

“Help!” she yelled, “The door shut behind me and there’s gas. Let me out.” She rattled the knob harder, barely able to see it through a river of tears. She thought she heard a footstep in the hall and yelled louder, “Mr. Frank? Anyone? Open the door!”

She pressed her ear to the wood and heard nothing over the hiss of bubbling chemicals.

Chemicals. She wrapped the lab coat over her face and slitted her eyes against the sting as she crouched down and peered behind the waxing machine. A pair of bottles leaned drunkenly against each other. Drain cleaner spread from one in a garish blue pool. Bleach leaked from the other, and where the two puddles merged, vapor bubbled and hissed.

Chlorine! She had to get out of there. Fast.

Galvanized, yet already weakened by the foul air, Ripley grabbed a broom from the corner and beat the handle against the door. “Help! Help, there’s gas in here. Let me out!” She inhaled to yell again and choked.

It hurt to breathe. It hurt to keep her eyes open. It even hurt to beat on the door. Oxygen. She needed oxygen. Ripley crouched down and sucked at the narrow crack beneath the door, but the seal was tight.

Holding the lab coat over her face, she battled back through the thickening fog and tried to nudge the bleach bottle away from the drain cleaner. But the gas had fuddled her coordination. She pushed too hard, and the bottles tipped over. Bleach splashed into the blue puddle and the reaction was instantaneous.

A gout of vapor erupted. Ripley reeled back and fell against the door, sinking to her knees as her strength failed. Blackness crowded her vision as she gave a few feeble whacks at the door and called, “Help me. Somebody, please help me!”

She thought she heard another footstep in the hall.

Then she thought nothing.

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