18 Floors Above the Apocalypse novel Chapter 330

Dr. Garcia was a man of medicine, his life dedicated to the healing arts, so when he was visibly distressed and wracked with pain, it was clear the side effects of the new drug were no trivial matter.

"The dosage is too high. While it kills the virus, it also wreaks havoc on the liver and lungs. Patients will endure severe pain, and organ recovery will take much longer. Their immune systems will be stronger, but at the risk of irreversible damage," he explained with a heavy heart.

But this was just a prognosis; clinical trials were still needed.

"I'll do it," offered Collin, his voice ragged with coughs. "I've been on meds for days with no improvement. Continuing as is would just waste resources. Let's give the concentrated pill a shot."

If he could survive the ordeal, the medication could be fast-tracked to those in need. If not, well, they would have to find another way. Either way, time was life.

One bore a mission; the other steeled himself to face the trial of medication. The lab's atmosphere was somber, tinged with nobility.

The knowledge Stella had gained from the esteemed mentors, especially the approachable Dr. Garcia, was practical and beyond any textbook's confines. She suggested a compromise, "The pill's potency is too high. How about we halve the dose and administer it in two stages? If that fails, then we consider the direct approach."

The suggestion meant more work—preparing the medicine in two stages required more resources than a single, concentrated dose.

The supply of medicinal ingredients was already spread thin. Survivors from cities far and wide, from Griffith to Swan Hill, from Phoenix Bay to Lincoln, were all waiting.

Swan Hill Research Institute had the most promising formula, but should the antidote be perfected, it would need to be shared with other struggling cities.

Griffith, in particular, was a thorn in the side. Coaked in the guise of charitable donations, they stationed people at the institute's gates, ready to whisk away any successful concoctions.

Not wanting to see Dr. Garcia bear such a heavy moral burden at his age, Stella suggested, "Dr. Garcia, let's prepare both methods and let the officials decide. Perhaps they'll be prompted to search for more ingredients themselves."

Her words were a wake-up call. Collin, supportive of the idea, added, "The key ingredients are scarce, but there have been significant donations. Maybe there's another way to procure what we need?"

After some deliberation, they decided to proceed with both methods.

As a student of medicine, Stella wasn't about to miss out on the production process, staying close to learn each step.

Medicine is a double-edged sword, the dosage critical. Like arsenic, a small amount could cure, but too much could kill.

After three grueling days, even Dr. Garcia couldn't keep his eyes open and succumbed to sleep. Jasper brewed some tea and left it by his side, making sure to cover him with a coat.

Despite damaged equipment, the team used traditional methods to create the potent pills following Dr. Garcia's formula.

Collin, without hesitation, swallowed one. Within half an hour, his liver and lungs were in agony, as if countless insects were gnawing at his insides.

Determined not to alarm his mentor, he bit down on a handkerchief, rolling on the floor in pain.

After two excruciating hours, sweat-soaked and pale as a ghost, Collin was finally still. Cold drafts were to be avoided at all costs, so Stella covered him with a military coat, "Dr. Collin, don't catch a chill."

His symptoms eased, but his vitality was sapped. After resting for half a day and still too weak to walk, Jasper had to carry him back to his quarters.

The mess hall's offerings were meager, nourishment an afterthought. Even with Stella's contributions, a couple of slices of bacon per meal was a luxury.

He jogged her memory, "Remember the tsunami? You brought in a wounded soldier."

Now she remembered—he was the person who had taken the injured soldier under his wing. "That young soldier, is he doing well?" Stella asked, genuinely interested.

"Thanks to the medicine you provided, he pulled through and was transferred elsewhere," he told her.

After a brief exchange, Stella laid bare the potential side effects, "We're in the testing phase. You have the right to choose whether to proceed or not. It's your decision."

He didn't hesitate, "I'll try." He knew the stakes: if those like him couldn't endure it, what hope did the others have?

Predictably, the reaction was intense. Despite his resolve, his body convulsed in agony, sweat pouring down his face. Then, he collapsed, a gush of blood spilling from his mouth, lung tissue mixed within.

Fearing he might choke on his own blood, Stella quickly repositioned him on his side while the medical staff sanitized the area to prevent infection.

Three hours had passed, and his symptoms had subsided, but it felt like every ounce of strength had been drained from his body. If it weren't for his formidable willpower, he seriously doubted he would have made it through the night.

By the next day, he was slightly better, but still visibly weak. With no nutrient IV drips available, the medical staff took pity on him and secretly slipped an extra couple slices of smoked bacon and a small piece of smoked salmon into his meals.

The comparison results came in quickly. Collin, who had taken the medication in two separate doses, was older and didn't have the physical vitality of a younger man. However, his recovery post-treatment was more favorable.

The soldier who volunteered for the drug trial, on the other hand, exhibited more pronounced side effects and his body took much longer to recuperate.