Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Factory Girls: Part Two

The impact of the explosion hurled Isabeau back against the nearest wall. Her head cracked against the wall with enough force that it probably would have killed a human, and everything faded out for a moment. Her ears rang with the impact.

She blinked, the world sliding in and out of focus.

Something heavy lay across her legs, and she shoved it away before realising what it was.

The charred corpse that had once been a worker.

The reek of burned flesh filled the air, along with the stink of chemicals, and Isabeau staggered to her feet, leaning against the wall for support.

Room 42 had been devastated.

The only thing that had saved other parts of the factory was that it had been built in isolated sections, like huts, and protected by sandbags so that any potential explosions would be confined to one place.

That hadn't helped the girls and women in Room 42.

Debris and bodies lay everywhere, some little more than bloodied, blasted shells, others faintly groaning. Steam pipes had burst open, fires had broken out, and scalding water mingled with the blood pooling across the floor.

Isabeau swiped a hand across her eyes, trying to clear away the dust and grit.

For a split-second she had thought the explosion was the result of an air raid attack, a Zeppelin, like Esther had feared. It was unclear what had actually caused the explosion, but the ruins of the room were still filled with volatile materials, which means that more explosions could occur at any time.

People were still alive in there.

Isabeau had to help them.

She stumbled forward, but a hand held her back. Isabeau swung around, blinking, and found a man standing behind her, his face twisted with horror.

"Are you hurt?" he said.

Isabeau vaguely recognised him – he was a mechanic at the factory – and she was sure she knew his name, but she couldn't seem to get her brain in order.

Her head ached where it had struck the wall, and warm wetness was soaking the back of her head covering.

But she could stand, and as long as she could stand, she could help.

"Are you hurt?" he said again, urgently, holding onto her.

William, that was his name.

Isabeau shook her head. "I'm fine. We have to help the others."

"You stay here," he said, looking at the wreckage of the ruin where Isabeau had worked.

Isabeau shook off his hand. "I can help. Don't argue with me, we don't have time."

He didn't look happy about it, but there really wasn't time. People were dying.

William rushed into the wreckage, Isabeau following close behind. Blood and water puddled around her clogs, and the smell of death was everywhere, thick and cloying, pressing down on her like a physical force.

Where was she supposed to start?

Over a hundred and fifty women had been in here when the explosion occurred.

Bodies were everywhere.

So many people had died, but so many were still alive, but injured and calling for help, and she didn't know where to start, and panic threatened to overwhelm her.

Her mind flashed back more than a century, to the night that a revolutionary mob in France had burned down the home that Celeste and Renee had been living in, killing Celeste instantly, and leaving Renee a horribly charred husk who'd died shortly after, with Isabeau by her side.