“So far, no one with the vaccine has caught it,” McCoy said, flatly. “I’m due back in New York to check up on the policeman who found Miss Henderson, but so far he shows no sign of smallpox, even in his blood. I would hesitate to be completely certain, yet I think that that’s a hopeful sign. Someone who was infected, without being contagious, would still show smallpox in their blood.”
Nicolas nodded. The real fear was that the smallpox vaccine would prove to be completely useless. Only someone with an insane mindset would be happy to modify smallpox to the point where there was no known vaccine, but then, only a lunatic would release it into the general population anyway. Cally Henderson, even assuming that she had been infected six days before she had collapsed, had been outside the country and the people she might have infected had gone further. Henderson’s Disease could be all around the world by now. The President had warned the rest of the world, but the odds were that it had already spread into hundreds of other countries.
He scowled. There were international protocols for sharing vaccine supplies if necessary, yet there was almost no cooperation from the rest of the world. It wasn’t entirely surprising either; only a handful of countries kept smallpox vaccine on hand and all of them would need it for their own populations. If smallpox could be confined to the United States, perhaps it would be possible to get additional supplies from the rest of the world, but it would be a long time before the world was convinced that that was true. In their place, Nicolas would have made the same decision.
“Doctor,” Doctor Sally Pagan called. “I think you need to look at this.”
Nicolas and Doctor McCoy walked over to her station. “I was comparing Henderson’s Disease to the recorded variants of smallpox that we store here,” Sally explained. The CDC was twitchy about actually storing live samples of biological weapons, but the computer records could allow them to run comparisons without live samples. “I found a partial match.”
“Show me,” Nicolas ordered. The display blinked up in front of him, one showing the increasingly familiar shape of Henderson’s Disease, the other showing a recorded series of images from the past. It was a nightmare given shape and form. “Ah.”
Doctor McCoy put it into words. “Shit,” he said. “Nicky, if that is accurate we now know where the disease came from...”
“That’s not the important question,” Nicolas said, grimly. “The real question is how did it get here?”
Chapter Nine
It is quite likely that, as the biological weapon makes its way through the American population, the medical system will be completely overwhelmed. Other buildings, from schools to prisons, will have to be pressed into service as makeshift hospitals. It goes without saying that stockpiles of medical supplies will be rapidly exhausted.
- Doctor Nicolas Awad
New York, USA
Day 7
The HAZMAT suit felt cumbersome against her skin, but Mija Cat never even considered taking it off. The last thing she wanted to do was breathe in smallpox particles and come down with the disease herself. The entire city seemed to have largely shut down, with the handful of people who had ventured onto the streets wearing facemasks and keeping their distance from other people. The pharmacies had found themselves completely sold out of masks and other medical supplies, while there had been a run on food stores and other vital supplies. It would probably grow worse in the next few days, she knew; the average New Yorker didn't keep food on hand for more than a few days. By then, if the government hadn’t managed to organise food distribution, there would be riots.
She hadn't wanted to go out on the streets herself, but her editor felt that the New York Times had a duty to get the word out to the public, even if it was only on the internet rather than the more standard print edition. The more senior reporters had managed to get out of visiting hospitals and other places where disease victims were likely to gather, forcing the editor to offer her and other junior reporters the chance to shine. A few days ago, she would have loved the idea of a post that couldn't be taken from her by a senior reporter looking for another scoop, but now she would have happily passed it over to the first asshole who asked. The HAZMAT suit, issued to the newspaper staff years ago, wasn't much of a confidence booster. She’d seen enough pictures of infected victims to know that she didn't want it to happen to her. If she hadn't had to pay the bills, she would have told the editor to go give the post to someone else.
The Brooklyn Hospital Centre was surrounded by a wall of policemen, some glancing sharply at the suit she wore. Several of New York’s hospitals had been besieged by mobs demanding to be vaccinated at once – if not yesterday – and the police had had to be called in to prevent a riot. The mobs had only been dispersed when the policemen had pointed out that the longer they stayed together, the greater the chance of catching something nasty from their fellow protesters. Mija held up her press pass as the guards halted her, running a pair of bright lights over her body. The UV lights would kill any disease particles clinging to the suit, or so she had been told. Some of the talking heads on television had questioned that, wondering if anything could be trusted completely when it came to an act of terrorism. Mija just hoped that they were right.
“You must be Mija,” a voice said. A middle-aged woman was standing there, looking tired and worn. She was wearing a nurse’s uniform and a mask that obscured her words and made her sound as if she was deliberately slurring them to annoy the reporters. Mija was not unfamiliar with how civilians reacted around reporters, showing a mixture of fear, annoyance and disgust. Even the ones who wanted their names in the papers distrusted reporters, for it was rare for a reporter to be held to account for his or her mistakes. “I’m Lindsey Mann, one of the nurses at this hospital.”
She didn't offer to shake hands, for which Mija was rather grateful. The nurse wore heavy gloves as well – indeed, she had covered almost all of her skin – but it was impossible to know if she was infected already. As Lindsey led her inside the hospital, they passed through a second set of UV lights, followed by a chemical mist that seemed to hang in the air. A handful of patients looked up at them from the Waiting Room, their gazes defocused and unconcerned with the surrounding world. Mija wondered if they were infected, or if they were merely suffering from ghost symptoms. If all of the reported infected were actually infected, Olson had confidently pronounced, the entire population of New York would have been wiped out several times over.
“Welcome to the Brooklyn Hospital Centre,” Lindsey said. She had the tired sound of a person who was parroting the party line, without really believing her own words. Mija was rather proud of her deduction. “The senior staff and the regular nurses are working on the patients, so I have been assigned to show you around.” Her voice darkened. “It is a complete waste of my time.”
Mija winced at the bite in her words. “I understand,” she said, swallowing the urge to mouth platitudes about the public’s right to know. “Thank you for your time.”
“You won’t thank me once you see what you will see,” Lindsey warned, darkly. “I’ve been working and sleeping here for the last two days, ever since I was called up for duty. It has never been quite so bad in all the years I have been working in this city. I don’t think it was this bad in Florida during hurricane season.”
She led the way down into a corridor. Mija stopped dead, unable to believe her eyes. The corridor was lined with hospital beds, each one carrying a single patient. The patients ranged from young to old – there seemed to be a greater number of people over the age of sixty – and their faces were covered in ominous red spots. An old woman’s hand had fallen out of her bed and hung limply, pointing down towards the floor. It too was covered in red spots, spreading rapidly over her skin. Perhaps Mija was imagining it, but she was sure that the spots were forming and multiplying right in front of her eyes. She was suddenly intensely grateful that she couldn't smell anything through the suit’s filters.
Lindsey stopped by the old woman and carefully
moved her arm onto the bed. The old woman showed no sign of awareness, no understanding that there was a nurse standing beside her bed. Her eyes were wide and staring at nothing. Mija looked from patient to patient, but even the ones who seemed awake and aware were lethargic. She caught sight of a small boy – he couldn't be older than ten – covered in red spots. A child – she couldn’t tell the sex – was screaming its head off, comforted by a mother who was herself covered in red spots. Mija felt a sudden urge to vomit and swallowed hard. Vomiting inside the suit would have been truly disgusting.
“I don’t understand,” she said, as Lindsey motioned for her to walk further along the corridor. “Why aren’t these people in a hospital room?”
Lindsey looked over at her, her dark eyes tired. “The rooms are packed, young lady,” she said, sharply. “Do you think that any doctor or nurse worthy of the name would leave people here if there was any other choice?”
Mija shook her head. “This place has four hundred beds officially,” Lindsey snapped. “We’ve managed to stuff in another three hundred or so into the rooms, by throwing out hundreds of regulations intended to keep this place clean and healthy. Even so, we’ve had to cut down on cleaning and disinfecting, which means that the hospital is becoming a breeding ground for all kinds of bacteria. One of the nastier traits of this damned disease is that it weakens the body’s resistance to all other diseases. We’ve had people coming down sick with tummy bugs and colds, which are spreading even through here!”
Her voice hardened. “Do you know that hospitals used to be places where no one sane would wish to go, purely because of the danger of infection, of catching something worse than what you already had? This place used to be clean and as safe as a hospital ever was; now, even if we get a handle on the smallpox outbreak, we will lose hundreds of patients to other diseases. We’re already pushing the limits pretty badly; what happens when we get the next wave of patients? Where are we going to put them?”
Mija had no answer and swallowed nervously as Lindsey finally led her into an official room. She saw what the nurse had meant at once. There seemed to be hundreds of patients shoved into the room, deprived of everything from peace to privacy. She caught sight of several patients who were sharing beds, both partners covered with dark red spots. Now that Lindsey had pointed it out, she saw stains on the floor and on the sheets. One patient was hacking up blood, coughing it out onto the floor; she didn't want to think about how infectious the blood might be. A nurse headed over to him and tried to clean up the mess, but the patient just kept coughing.
“They develop sores in their mouths fairly quickly,” Lindsey explained, as they reached the end of the room. A pair of junior nurses was trying to convince some older patients to drink water and liquid food, but the patients seemed unaware of their efforts. “Once the sores are formed, they start having difficulty breathing and eating. They’re very contagious during that time so it’s actually hard for us to help them.”
Mija blinked. “You’re not vaccinated?”
“No,” Lindsey said. Mija stared at her. “Apart from a handful of doctors and nurses who worked for the military, or who went overseas, we have hardly anyone here vaccinated yet. A number of the retired medical staff were vaccinated when smallpox vaccines were common, but we don’t know if they’re still effective or not. Even so, they came here and volunteered to work, saving as many people as they can.”
“But I thought that everyone was going to be vaccinated,” Mija protested. “They can't leave you all here like this...”
Lindsay gave her a cynical smile. “Your generation,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You always want it now, now, NOW! Why do you never understand that there is no such thing as instant gratification in the real world? They have to get the vaccine out of storage, and then to New York, and then they have to find time to inject us and hope that it takes. Until then, we have to soldier on and pray that we don’t get infected. Half of us could be already infected and we wouldn't know about it until it was far too late.”
She smiled at Mija’s expression. “Come on,” she said. “There’s quite a bit more to see.”
Mija didn’t want to see anything else, but she followed Lindsey tamely into a colder room. Blue plastic bags lay on the floor, each one large enough to hold a human body; it took her a moment to realise that she was looking at body bags, several clearly occupied. Bright red hazard warning signs covered the area, warning her not to go anywhere near the containers, while a pair of armed guards wearing military-grade protective suits waved her off. She didn't press the point.
“We’ve lost seventy people so far,” Lindsey said, in the voice of someone who had become used to horror. “Most of them were old, over seventy years old and their bodies couldn't take strain of trying to fight off the virus. That’s a worrying development because many of them were old enough to have been injected and immunised years ago. The others were younger, including a number of drug addicts and AIDS victims. Their bodies were already too weak to fight for long.”
Mija looked up at her. “What are you going to do with them?”
“We reported their deaths,” Lindsey said. “I believe that they will be transported out of the city and incinerated. They can't be buried normally because they would eventually be dug up, releasing smallpox back into the world. Once they are incinerated, their remains will be buried in an unmarked grave.”
She led the way up the stairs and through another set of UV lights. A group of young women were sleeping on blankets under the glare, their faces tired and worn. “Welcome to our home away from home,” Lindsey said. “We’re not allowed to go home until our families are vaccinated, so we have to remain here, even when we need to sleep. Half of the nursing staff sleeps here or in the male dorm while the other half works. We’re going to go insane here.”
Mija found herself grasping for questions, but she didn’t know what to say. Lois would have known exactly what to say to provoke a reaction, yet Mija liked to think that she was a better person. If she’d known that she would have to ask imprudent questions...no, that thought was absurd. She had known it when she’d taken the job, but she hadn't really understood what it meant. Lindsey’s personal story was nothing more than grist for the reporting mill, along with the stories of her fellow nurses and their patients.
“I see,” she said, neutrally. Lindsey gave her a sharp look. “Is there anything you would like to say to the readers?”
“Tell them not to come in to the hospital unless they’re certain that they’re ill,” Lindsey snapped. “We keep getting people who are not infected coming in and wasting our time. And tell them to follow the Mayor’s goddamned orders about quarantine and remaining in their homes. If we could break the chain of infection, we might be able to stop the disease before we lose half of the fucking country.”
On that note, the interview ended. Lindsey escorted Mija out of the building – after a pass through the UV lights and a chemical bath – and waved her goodbye. Mija looked back at the building, knowing what was going on inside the walls, and walked over to the newspaper van waiting for her. There would be another chemical bath before she could get out of the suit and back into normal clothes. And once she was back at the office...what sort of story was she going to write? How could she tell the world what was happening?
The thought tormented her as the van made its way back towards the office. Her editor would want a story that would make the government look incompetent, or something that would have a hint of a scandal, for scandals sold papers. She didn't want to write such a story, for it would only spread panic. She wanted to write about hope, but what hope was there for the city? If the vaccines didn't get into New York in time, how many people would die?
***
“Look, I’m telling you that I have to get through,” the man said. He waved his papers threateningly, seemingly unaware of the M16s that weren’t – quite – levelled in his direction. Doug would have been surprised if he hadn't known that the soldiers were armed
, but perhaps he simply believed they wouldn't shoot. “I have a very important appointment in Washington and I need to get through the blockade...”
“Yes, so you said, four times,” Doug said, with as much patience as he could muster. Two days of duty on the road block hadn't endeared the duty to him, even though things were a little more organised now. The National Guard was finally sorting itself out after the chaos of the first day; now, with roving patrols and relief teams, the blockade was a great deal tighter. “And I told that unless you had an exception permit, you could not get through the blockade.”
The man stared at him, clearly unused to defiance. The only people who were allowed through the road blocks, at least in theory, were military personnel who had been trapped inside the blockade when it had been declared. They would have been vaccinated and could be forwarded to their units – or, in several cases, temporarily assigned to new units. Anyone else had to wait inside the blockade, something that hadn’t gone down well with the public. The remains of several vehicles bore mute testament to several attempts to break through.
The Coward's Way of War Page 9
