As the ambulance came to a stop, the paramedics and the doctor emerged. I quickly closed the back door, ensuring the babies were secure in their seats. They were either drifting off to sleep or potentially losing consciousness; it was difficult to tell, as they often became listless after a change. The paramedics returned to the ambulance to prepare it, while the doctor, an older, tall man, approached me.
After introducing himself to me, I replied, "Mimi, Salvatore. It's nice to meet you. I hope I'm not taking up your time unnecessarily."
He nodded and said, "Not at all; it's good to be needed."
He then took my wrist to check my pulse, his brow furrowing slightly. I had already provided our information to the police, giving the doctor and paramedics time to review our medical records, so my species and elevated vitals were not surprising.
He noted, "Your pulse is almost 200, thready, weak, and erratic. You seem sick, dehydrated, and in need of treatment. But let's check on the babies first. We'll take them one at a time to the back of the ambulance and examine them. Don't worry; even if they're dehydrated, we can start an IV and administer fluids. Now, I understand you had some supplies with you. Did I hear correctly that you have some form of IANF?"
I nodded and said, "I have 25 liters of the full stuff, as well as 8 liters of centrifugal liquid, meaning the solids have been removed. We usually use it as the base for our fluid management in cases of illness."
His expression shifted to one of awe, which I didn't immediately understand.
He then said, "Twenty-five liters... When I was at the children's hospital in Texas, we received donations. Five liters might save 15 children with cancer, helping them endure therapy and wean off drugs, and even then, it was diluted 1:10. So you have 25 liters with you, just in case? I mean, I could... I'm rambling."
I was frankly surprised, but this gave me an idea.
"You can have the tank," I said. "In our pack, we currently have 14 males producing this stuff. It's graded either for medical use or, if it doesn't meet our high standards, for food. So we have plenty. My husbands packed all sorts of things with me, just in case. But the babies can't keep anything down, and, well, we call it 'bump' because the males have a bump when they're full. It would be good for the babies to drink."
The doctor was surprised and said, "Thank you so much; that will make a difference. Now, I don't have much experience with this liquid phase. Could you give me a sample?"
I walked to the back of my car and gave the doctor the first list of what I had, which were dental substances. Then, I opened my supply pouch, took an empty IV bag (about 350ml), and connected it to the fluid tank. I opened the valve, and the bag soon filled with a straw-colored, slightly thick liquid that smelled faintly of passionfruit.
I disconnected the bag, took out my sealer, and placed the bag in position. It cut off the valve part, sealing the top of the bag, so it was just like a normal IV bag. I handed it to the doctor, who took it in his hands as if it were liquid gold, which, for humans, it seemed to be. Good to know.
I went to the side door of my car and took the first baby out; it was Dash. He was listless, not really waking up as I unhooked him and picked him up in my arms. The doctor had already walked to the ambulance, carrying the pouch full of stuff I had given him, and he was sorting through everything as we reached the ambulance.
One paramedic, a tall man with slight acne scars, took Dash from my arms and lifted him onto a gurney, starting to map his vitals. He was boiling hot, as his fever had climbed due to his fussing while I had changed him. The policemen had given my full trash bags to the medics, who had put them in a separate part of the side of the car; they had a hatch there for trash.
The doctor said to me, "Come in, let Harry here take your vitals while we check on this little guy, and we'll get right on it."
I hopped in; there was a seat where to sit, and I had to undress my top so they could put an ECG on me and take my glucose and fast CRP. It was the supernatural version, but I wasn't sure what I usually had, as my vitals and lab values were unique, to say the least. But then again, I had no idea what Salvatore's had logged in my medical record; there might be some kind of list of my so-called normal reference values.
So it was just a question of time and patience to get this done with, and also toleration, as the medic didn't even ask as he prepped for my cannulation. It seemed I was dehydrated as well.
The doctor spoke to the police, requesting that they bring the remaining babies. He assured them there was enough room on the gurney to connect all of them to hydration and administer medication. Once everything was prepared, he planned to contact Chicago and inform them of the situation.
Turning to me, the doctor stated firmly, "You are not fit to drive, I can tell you that. You can travel with your car, as it has seats for the babies, but someone else will need to drive. After I consult with the Chicago hospital, we'll determine the travel time."
I wasn't in any mood to argue, so I agreed; letting someone else drive was fine. I had to admit, I was exhausted. I'd been pushing myself too hard, which was never a good thing for me, but I couldn't help it; my babies were the most important thing.
The doctor's expression was serious as he quickly but gently inserted cannulas into all five of my babies. A medic held open a bag filled with drugs, and the doctor selected a few. He also took some of Salvatore's dental medication and administered a dose through the cannulas, including one for me.
It seemed to be fever medicine, as I flushed and sweated when my temperature dropped, and I felt as though all my strength had drained away. It felt almost like an effort just to sit, but I managed to avoid groaning and pushed on; I just needed to get through this.
The doctor had opened the babies' diapers and taken a small sample of poo from Darien, and he was running some tests on it. He took a swab, swabbed the poo, and placed it into a tube. He then broke the swab and shook it; the small amount of liquid in the tube turned pink. He placed the tube on a shelf and waited; it seemed he had to wait for minutes before reading the results.
As the babies began to perk up after receiving fluids, the doctor finally spoke, "I won't sugarcoat it. Your babies are dehydrated. We're giving them plenty of fluids, fever medication, and pain relief, which might make them drowsy. I'm about to call Chicago once the test results are in. If the results are positive, we're looking at E. coli, a supernatural variant that has caused outbreaks and fatalities across America. Immortals can die, even babies, and I have no test to confirm if they possess your unkillability. I'm not willing to take that risk. The EHEC pathogen causes severe symptoms and might regress its development by a few months. However, with the right antibiotics and care, fatalities are rare, and mostly occur when patients lack medical care."
Despite his attempts to be honest and reassuring, my heart grew cold. The news that immortals could die from this germ and the mention of EHEC made my soul clench, and my heart seemed to stutter in pain. I tried to infuse my babies with vitality through the hive, but they were too young to fully accept it. It required effort, but I kept pushing, hoping even a small amount of my vitality would help them.
As the doctor went to the ambulance to make his call, the medics tried to distract my increasingly cranky babies. They carefully offered them some IANF, or "bump," as we called it, after giving them anti-nausea medication and painkillers. The babies eagerly guzzled it, but not for long. Their faces twisted in pain, and they vomited it all up, showing me the gravity of their condition.
But we would get to the hospital, and it would be fine eventually. I had to keep that thought in my mind and not let myself spiral into dark thoughts of 'what ifs' or worst-case scenarios.
The doctor returned and announced, "It's EHEC. They're aware of the situation now, which means you'll all be in isolation for at least a few days, possibly longer. We'll start with 300 ml of fluid, and then we can get moving. We'll try to keep the cannulas in place, covering them carefully. One of the policemen will drive your car, and a police escort will ensure we don't get stuck in traffic, as you need to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. Chicago is the best place for this, and we're heading there now, fast."
His tone was firm.
I simply nodded and said, "My cannula needs to be removed. My body clots them quickly, and I'm nervous. I don't mind being poked and prodded again; it's soon useless, anyway."
He nodded and said, "Let's run a liter for you, and then you're off. We're hoping to reach the hospital in two hours or less. They're ready for you, and we're keeping them updated. We might need to make a stop along the way. These guys might need changing, as they've received quite a bit of fluid and may be wet, and we'll give them more fever medication, so they might be sweaty and irritated too."
I replied, "I have plenty of spare clothes with me, so we can change them. I'm just blaming myself for not contacting the hospital sooner. I should have called days ago."
The doctor said, "They might have just told you to wait and see. Don't blame yourself. Kids' illnesses are nasty; they can seem like normal germs, and then it become something more serious. Parents often blame themselves, but things happen. You're here now, and we'll get you to the hospital soon. Nothing to worry about."
He was trying to calm me down, which I understood, but it didn't really work. I was still pretty frantic, but I hoped I could keep my cool and panic internally.
As we drove through the darkness of an early summer night, the police cars ahead and an ambulance behind cleared the way for our fast pace. Inside, the babies slept, but I remained alert, listening intently. I focused on their five frantic heartbeats, their breathing, and somehow, I knew they were weakening. I couldn't tell if it was my tired mind, my overworked body, my imagination, or the truth: that they were getting sicker despite the fluids and medication the ambulance crew had administered.
I blamed myself, consumed by the thought that I should have taken them to the hospital sooner. I should have called around, but I'd waited too long. I should have collected a stool sample much earlier; private labs could have analyzed it immediately, giving me an answer. Then, my babies wouldn't be in this condition.
I didn't blame Damon at all; he wasn't on my mind. I'd lost trust in him as a medical professional, and he'd be the last person I'd ask for advice. I'd rather call the hospital. This was a fact, and I wasn't dwelling on it. Instead, a heavy cloud of desperation filled my mind, the crushing weight of self-blame, and a deep, aching worry about my little ones' health.
Fever burned through their bodies, causing weight loss. The doctor had warned me they might regress, perhaps even lose their ability to walk for a while. I would have to be patient and let them regain their skills.
Of course, other thoughts raced through my mind. Since they were mine, and I had discussed this with my older girls, it was clear that my memory, my recall, was partially heritable. My babies might have nightmares on top of everything else. It would then be up to the Salvatores or the Wulfe to ease them, if possible. They wouldn't be normal, but I couldn't know for sure. They were just over a year old, and time, the only thing that would tell me anything, was what they needed.
We stopped at the midpoint, where a suitable diner was located. While the doctor and medics brought the babies to the ambulance for fluids and fever medication, a policeman refilled my coffee. The babies barely woke up, and I changed them, but they were just sleepily fussing. It was very worrisome, despite the doctor trying to reassure me.
He suggested that since their fevers were down and they'd received painkillers, they were likely just exhausted. I didn't tell him that I, too, had been a doctor for over a century and recognized certain expressions and ways of speaking. I just let him speak; perhaps it would make him feel better. I sipped my coffee, feeling a hot ache in my stomach and the telltale quietness in my liver.
"Fucking hell, no enzymes," I thought.
Salvatore hadn't given me any to take with me. Fine, I had options. The first was to wait and see. I could try to overcome this damn EHEC and see if my enzymes would recover as I started to recover. Or, I could find a few spiders and other nasty, poisonous critters to get things moving.
The danger there was my own health: how bad of shape would I be in afterward? Could I handle those poisons, or would they be too much? The last option, which wasn't ideal, was to boost my enzymes with garlic and snakes. They weren't poisonous, but they had worked in the past, even if their effectiveness had diminished over the years.
This brought up the next problem: did my babies have special enzymes too? My enzymes were special, unique to me, as I used them for shape-changing, and they were kind of alive. But again, the lepard had its own set, meaning the enzymes were heritable too.
But was it genetic, or had I given them the enzymes in utero? I had no fucking clue. And if the babies did have an enzyme problem, should I try to get some enzymes for myself first, and then give them to the babies, or try to boost their enzymes with garlic?
The road seemed endless. As we finally entered Chicago, I became terrified for my babies. I could hear their faint pulses, and someone's heartbeat was irregular. I couldn't tell who, but they were struggling. Police cars and an ambulance, sirens blaring, joined us as we sped through Chicago to the hospital. My mind was a blur of worry and fear, and I struggled to hold it together.
My own condition worsened; I was photophobic, my head ached intensely, and my abdomen was a mass of agony. Breathing felt like pulling air through wet cloth.
The police officer driving my car looked at me worriedly and said, "Try to hang on, we're almost there. You don't look so perky."
I just nodded, having no strength to speak. I focused on those five frantic heartbeats and their breathing. They hadn't fussed in the last ninety minutes, not since our last stop, and their silence was unsettling.
As our convoy finally reached the hospital yard, we headed for a special entrance. The police car stopped as close to the door as possible. A group of people waited, gurneys lined up. When the car stopped, nurses rushed to open the door and take the children. Ambulance crew members hopped out to give their formal report to a few interns or doctors.
I fumbled with my seatbelt, trying to remain calm. Those five heartbeats were all that mattered. I got out of the car. Sadie, Sabrina, and Seraphina were already on gurneys, oxygen masks on. In the bright light, they looked so small and pale. A nurse then lifted Dash and secured him. He wasn't moving. Finally, Darien was lifted. His lips were blue, and he hung limply in the nurse's grip.
I took a few steps, my breath hitching. My heart felt crushed as there were only four beats; Darien had no heartbeat. It was too much. I stood, took a few stuttering steps as a doctor started CPR on him, and then my legs gave way. Darkness rolled over me as I collapsed, utterly unconscious. The last thing burning in my mind was the absence of my child's heartbeat, clinical death.