Chapter 7 - The Edge of Life and Death
Inside the operating theater, the atmosphere was chaotic and desperate. The smell of antiseptic, cauterized flesh, and blood filled the room. Isabella’s vital signs were crashing on the digital telemetry screen.
*Heart rate: 160... 170...*
*Blood pressure: 60/40...*
"She’s in ventricular tachycardia!" the anesthesiologist yelled over the blare of alarms. "The placental detachment is complete! We have massive uterine hemorrhaging! Kenneth, you have to pull those babies right now, or we lose all three!"
Dr. Kenneth Reynolds had blood up to his elbows. He worked with blistering speed, his scalpel slicing through the abdominal wall, parting the muscle layers with practiced precision.
"Suction! Get more suction in here!" Dr. Reynolds barked. "Prep the infant resuscitators! Baby A is coming out!"
Isabella lay trapped beneath the oxygen mask, drifting between consciousness and the icy abyss of death. She couldn't feel her legs, but she could feel the agonizing pressure in her chest, the sensation of her spirit slipping away from her broken body.
*Dante...* she thought, tears leaking from the corners of her closed eyes. *My babies... please let them live...*
"Twin A delivered!" the pediatric surgeon announced.
A tiny, slippery infant was lifted into the light. A boy. His skin was pale blue, his umbilical cord limp. He was not breathing.
"He's in respiratory arrest! Bag him! Start chest compressions!" the pediatric nurse shouted, carrying the frail newborn to the warming table under the radiant heat lamps.
"Twin B! Delivering twin B!" Dr. Reynolds shouted, his hands working furiously within the surgical cavity. "It’s the girl! Cord is clamped! Hand her off!"
The baby girl was rushed to the second resuscitation station. She, too, was utterly silent. No cries. No gasps. Just the frantic, rhythmic tapping of two pediatric teams performing infant CPR on infants who weighed barely four pounds each.
Suddenly, the telemetry monitor attached to Isabella let out a continuous, flatline tone.
*BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.*
"Flatline! Maternal cardiac arrest!" the nurse cried out in panic. "Asystole! Charging defibrillator to two hundred joules!"
Outside the viewing window, Dante stood drenched in the blood of his enemies. He pressed both hands against the thick glass, his chest violently caving inward as he watched the flat green line across Isabella’s monitor.
"No," Dante gasped, his voice breaking into a ragged, guttural sob that tore through his throat. "No, no, no! Isabella! Look at me! LOOK AT ME!"
He slammed his fists against the bulletproof glass, leaving bloody handprints on the pane. The man who had slaughtered dozens without blinking was now weeping openly, his soul being ripped to shreds before his eyes.
"Clear!" Dr. Reynolds shouted inside.
*THUMP.*
Isabella’s body arched off the table as the electrical current surged through her heart.
The monitor remained flat.
*BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.*
"Charge to three hundred! Clear!"
*THUMP.*
May you like
Nothing.
***
