They all swung around to look at him in surprise. Without getting any closer, he pointed to the package in the corner.
Chris sprang into action with the catlike reflexes of someone who worked in live radio--someone used to dealing with crazies and obscenity spouters before their words got out on the airwaves and brought down a big fine from the FCC. He punched numbers into the phone and began shouting their address to the 911 operator. He'd pressed the Talk button, so Jim heard every word.
"It's sarin gas. Yes, sarin! In the KNWS studio! Hurry! It's killing him! It's killing Jim Fate!"
Behind Chris, Willow took one look at Jim, her eyes wide, and turned and ran out of the studio.
In the news tank, Greg backed away from the window. But in the screener's booth, Aaron moved toward the door with an outstretched hand. Jim staggered forward and held the door closed with his foot. His gaze met Aaron's through the small rectangle of glass set in the door at eye level.
"Are you sure? Jim, come out of there!"
Jim knew Aaron was yelling, but the door filtered it into a low murmur, stripped of all urgency.
He couldn't afford the breath it would take to speak, couldn't afford to open his mouth in case he accidentally sucked in air again. His body was already demanding that he stop this nonsense and breathe. All he could do was shake his head, his lips clamped together.
Chris pressed the Talk button again. "They're sending a hazmat team. They should be here any second. They said they're bringing oxygen."
Jim made a sweeping motion with his hands, wordlessly ordering his coworkers to leave. His chest was aching. Greg grabbed a board and a couple of microphones and left the news tank at a run. Aaron took one last look at Jim, shook his head, and then left. A second later, the fire alarm began to sound, a low pulse muffled to near nothingness by the soundproof door.
Chris stayed where he was, staring at Jim through the glass. The two of them had been together for years. Every morning, Chris and Jim--and more recently Victoria--got in early and put the show together, scouring the newspaper, the Internet, and TV clips for stories that would light up the lines.
"I'm praying for you, man," Chris said, then released the Talk button. He gave Jim one more anguished look, then hurried out.
Jim wished he could follow. But he couldn't run away from what the poison had already done to him. His vision blurred. Time was slowing down. He was so tired. Why did he have to hold his breath, again? Oh yes, sarin.
When he looked back up, he saw that Victoria was still in the screener's room. She moved close to the glass, her dark eyes seeking out Jim's. Angrily, he shook his head and motioned for her to go.
Victoria pressed the Talk button. "I don't smell anything out here. The booth is practically airtight, anyway."
Jim wanted to tell her that "practically" wasn't the same as really and truly. It was the kind of argument they might have on air during a slow time, bantering to keep things moving along. But he didn't have the breath for it.
A part of Jim's brain remained coldly rational even as his body sent more and more messages that something was badly wrong. He hadn't breathed since that first fateful gulp of air when he opened the package. A vacuum was building up in his head and chest, a sucking hollowness, his body screaming at him, demanding that he give in.
But Jim Fate hadn't made it this far by giving in when things were tough. It had only been a minute, a minute-ten maybe, since he'd pulled the red string. But then he did give in to another hunger--the hunger for connection. He was all alone and he might be dying, and he couldn't stand that thought. He moved to the glass and put his hand up against it, fingers spread, a lonely starfish. And then Victoria mirrored it with her own hand, the anger between them forgotten, their matching hands pressed against the glass.
There was a band around Jim's chest, and it was tightening. An iron band. It was crushing him, crushing his lungs. His vision was dimming, but he kept his eyes open, his gaze never leaving Victoria.
With her free hand, Victoria groped blindly for the Talk button. "Jim, you've got to hold on," she yelled.
Jim's heart contracted when he heard how hoarse she sounded. She had to leave!
He lifted his hand from the glass and made a shooing gesture, again wordlessly ordering her to leave. Instead she pushed the Talk button again and said, "I hear sirens. They're almost here!"
But his body was ready to break with his will. He had to breathe. Had to. But maybe he could filter it, minimize it.
Without taking his eyes from Victoria, Jim pulled up the edge of his shirt with his free hand and pressed his nose and mouth against the fine Egyptian cotton cloth. He meant to take a shallow breath, but when he started, the hunger for air was too great. He sucked it in greedily, the cloth touching his tongue as he inhaled.