Chapter 4 - The Shadow of Blackwood Ridge
Outside the double doors of the intensive care unit, Daniel Dalton paced the length of the linoleum floor until his shoes squeaked. Every time an elevator bell chimed or a nurse walked past with a chart, his head snapped up, his eyes searching for answers that no one seemed ready to give.
When Kendra and Harrison finally emerged, their surgical caps removed and their faces mapped with exhaustion, Daniel rushed forward.
“How is she? Did you save her leg? Is she awake?”
Harrison placed a heavy hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “Mr. Dalton, your daughter is alive. We cleared a massive amount of necrotic tissue from her lower extremity. Her heart is responding to the pressors, and the ICU team is running maximum-dose intravenous antibiotics.”
Daniel let out a ragged breath, slumping against the wall. “Thank God. Thank Dr. Keene for sending us to that clinic… wait, no. If Keene hadn’t sent us away, she wouldn’t have gotten this bad.”
“Mr. Dalton,” Kendra said gently, stepping closer. “We need to talk about Dr. Keene’s diagnosis. And more importantly, we need to know how Brooke got this injury in the first place. Necrotizing fasciitis doesn’t just appear out of nowhere from a simple hiking boot friction burn. There has to be a portal of entry—a puncture, a deep laceration, or exposure to contaminated water or soil.”
Daniel frowned, trying to piece together the events of the past week. “She went hiking last Tuesday at Blackwood Ridge. She slipped near the old logging creek and scraped her shin against a rusted metal pipe protruding from the mud near the bank.”
Kendra and Harrison exchanged a dark, knowing glance.
“Blackwood Ridge?” Kendra asked sharply. “Near the abandoned state research facility on the upper plateau?”
“Yes,” Daniel nodded, surprised. “She likes photographing old industrial ruins. She said she cleaned the scratch with bottled water and put a bandage on it. It looked fine for two days. Then the redness started, so I took her to Dr. Keene’s urgent care center because his billboards are all over the city promising advanced, non-invasive wound management.”
“Dr. Keene’s institute receives private research grants from entities that study environmental bio-pathogens found in industrial runoff,” Harrison said quietly. “If Brooke’s wound came into contact with that specific runoff near the old Blackwood creek, she didn’t just get a normal bacterial infection. She was exposed to a synthetic or mutated pathogen designed to resist standard antibiotic protocols.”
Daniel’s blood ran cold. “An engineered pathogen? But Dr. Keene is a world-renowned expert on wound care! Why would he dismiss it?”
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“Because,” Kendra said bitterly, “Dr. Keene’s clinic is heavily funded by the corporate entities responsible for maintaining that abandoned site. Admitting that an environmental leak from that area caused a flesh-eating infection would trigger a federal investigation, massive liability lawsuits, and the immediate shutdown of his multimillion-dollar research grants.”
“He diagnosed her with anxiety,” Daniel whispered, horror dawning in his eyes. “He let my daughter’s flesh rot off her bones to protect his funding and his reputation.”
