Freezing Point

by Karen Dionne

  “Is he—”

  Dr. Rodriguez put a finger to his lips and motioned Zo into the hallway, then shut the door and pointed down the corridor. Obediently, she trailed him to Elliot’s office, the odor of vomit clinging to her hands and clothes.

  Inside, Ross was leaning against Elliot’s desk. Dr. Rodriguez waved her toward the extra chair. She remained standing, fight or flight response on high alert. Whatever was behind their impromptu powwow couldn’t be good.

  “Another one?” Ross asked Rodriguez.

  Luis nodded. “Dr. Peterson.”

  Ross exhaled a low whistle. His eyes flicked to Zo, then looked away.

  “What?” she asked. “He threw up, that’s all. It’s no big deal. Is it?”

  “We’re not sure,” Dr. Rodriguez said.

  Not sure? What was that supposed to mean?

  “I asked Ross to meet us here after you told me Elliot was ill,” he continued. “With Elliot out of commission, I’m the station’s acting director, and frankly, I’m struggling. I can use Ross’s expertise.”

  “Elliot’s not the first person to get sick,” Ross told her, “in fact, he’s the fifth. Fernando was first. He woke Mac up yelling crazy stuff about aliens and spaceships, then spewed right across the room.”

  “That’s what happened to Elliot. He was fine when we went to bed, then all of a sudden, he threw up. Totally missed the wastebasket. He said he hasn’t done that since he was a kid.”

  Ross nodded as if that was exactly what he had expected. “After Fernando threw up, Kevin started competing with him for bathroom time. Then Todd and Vikas started in. At this rate, we’re going to run out of buckets.”

  “What did we have for dinner?”

  “It’s not food poisoning,” Dr. Rodriguez said, “though I thought so, too, at first. The victims all have fever, chills, muscle aches, and abdominal pain, but then they progress to blurred vision and headaches—even mental confusion. That part doesn’t fit.”

  “Some kind of flu?”

  “More like gastroenteritis. Influenza is a respiratory infection. Worse, this looks infectious, and it’s quite a bit more severe than your garden-variety GI infection.”

  “How do we treat it?” Ross asked.

  “Well, there’s the rub. Problem is there are thousands of bugs that cause gastrointestinal infections. Most aren’t serious, but the ones that are generally have specific symptoms. Agents like shigella, salmonella, and E. coli 157 will cause diarrhea, usually with blood or mucous. I’m not seeing that here. It’s too cold for giardia to survive, and this looks nothing like cholera. And there’s something funny about this presentation.”

  Zo wanted to say there was nothing funny about the situation at all, but bit back the retort.

  “In what way?”

  “It’s not unusual to see confusion and blurred vision and similar symptoms with infections in the elderly, but with the exception of Elliot, these are young, healthy victims. I don’t know what to say except that it doesn’t fit.” He sighed, and Zo noted the dark circles under his eyes. His skin was sallow. If Luis got sick . . .

  “However, I can tell you this,” he went on. “Sometimes when a doctor sees a patient, they get an instinct. It’s hard to identify just what it is about the patient that bothers you, but there’s something unnerving that you can’t dismiss. I’m getting that feeling here. Warning flags that things could go south quickly.”

  “My, God.” She sank into a chair.

  “I’m sorry, Zo,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s totally unprofessional of me to be so alarmist. I know you’re worried about Elliot, and it’s true—he’s thrown up once. Nothing worrisome about that. I just want to be cautious because some of these other patients are troubling me. It strikes me as an outbreak; one that’s more serious than the usual GI illnesses I’ve seen, but that doesn’t fit the symptom profile of any of the more aggressive ones I know. Plus, I’m having trouble figuring out how this infection would spring up out of nowhere. We haven’t had a tour ship stop in weeks, and the incubation period is too long for an aggressive virus.”

  “Don’t some GI and respiratory bugs have animal reservoirs?” Ross asked.

  Dr. Rodriguez nodded. “Bird flu in poultry, campylobacter in dogs and cats, hantavirus in rats—”

  “Oh no. No way.” Zo shook her head. “This is so not my fault.”

  “We’re not looking to assign blame,” Ross said, “just for an explanation.” He turned to Rodriguez. “You think this is hanta?”

  “Hard to say. If it is, it’s atypical. Hantavirus is predominantly a respiratory infection, though patients do suffer significant GI symptoms. After that first big outbreak in Four Corners, hantavirus became a recognized pan-American zoonosis. Outbreaks have occurred as close to us as Argentina and Chile. It’s possible we’re looking at one here. There are several varieties, each with a distinct rodent host. It may be that Zo’s rats harbor a new strain.”

  “Hantavirus is transmitted by direct contact,” Ross said. “Humans become infected when they handle diseased rodents, or their droppings.” He looked at Zo.

  “You’re saying the virus was introduced though me? But I’m not sick.”

  “It’s possible you have a natural immunity. It’s also possible that sometime within the next few hours, you’ll be sick as a dog.”

  “Thanks.” She made a face.

  “Hantavirus is nothing to joke about,” Dr. Rodriguez said. “After the initial stage, the infected person feels somewhat better, but within a day or two they experience an increased respiratory rate caused by a seepage of fluid into the lungs, leading eventually to respiratory failure. Even with intensive therapy, over fifty percent of the diagnosed cases are fatal. Of course, we don’t have those respiratory symptoms here, not yet at least, but still . . .”

  “People are going to die?” Zo asked, shocked.

  “Not if I can help it,” Dr. Rodriguez said. “Not on my watch. Besides, I’m not at all convinced this is hanta. Some things fit, but a lot doesn’t. For instance, hantavirus isn’t passed between humans. In order to contract the disease, victims have to have direct contact with an infected rodent’s feces. While it’s possible that some of the personnel came in contact with the rats’ feces, the number who are falling ill, and the rapidity with which the illness is spreading, make that highly unlikely. This strikes me as airborne or droplet spread.”

  “Perhaps instead of speculating about the virus’s identity,” Ross said, “we should be asking how we contain it.”

  “Unfortunately, we can’t,” Dr. Rodriguez said. “Infections like this tend to spread rapidly—especially under crowded conditions. We don’t have the luxury of isolating our victims, and even such simple preventive measures as sterilizing infected dishes and bedding aren’t practical. It’s tough enough to produce the quantities of water we need under normal circumstances—I’ve been telling Elliot for years that our open cistern system is inadequate—even dangerous—and this extra load is going to make that impossible. And if the support staff gets sick—well, let’s just say that the next few days are likely to be a challenge.”

  “Maybe we should evacuate,” Zo said. “When the ship comes for Sam’s body, maybe we should all be on it.”

  Ross burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, Zo,” he said, “but have you looked outside lately?” He pointed toward the sleet-spattered window. “There’s no way the ship will get here before the end of the week, and by then the virus will have run its course. Not even an Amazon Woman could conjure up a rescue before then.”

  “So we just wait it out? Twiddle our thumbs and do nothing?”

  “Oh, we’ll have plenty to do,” Dr. Rodriguez said. “Those who aren’t sick are going to have to look after those who are. I have a good stock of anti-inflammatory drugs to make folks comfortable, and we’ll need to make sure those who are ill drink plenty of water. We can’t stop the course of the infection, but we can make sure no one succumbs to dehydration.�
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  There was a knock on the door. Mac came in, barefoot and dressed in sweats. His hair was as wild as the expression on his face. “Where’s Rodriguez?”

  “Right here.” Dr. Rodriguez stepped forward. “What do you need? Are you sick?”

  “I’m fine, Doc.” Mac’s voice cracked as his eyes filled with tears. “But Fernando is dead.”

  Chapter 26

  Los Angeles, California

  Sometime during the past twenty or thirty years, Donald mused, somehow—maybe because of their overpowering fragrance, or maybe it was simple collusion among the Canadian greenhouse growers—freesia had managed to supplant gladiolas and mums as the number one choice of funeral flower. Certainly the main viewing room at the Wujek-Calcaterra Funeral Home on downtown Wilshire Boulevard gave evidence; the noxious, spotted pink-and-white blooms were everywhere.

  Donald had hated the flower since he was a child. The enmity began at his grandfather’s funeral, when the five-year-old Donald had been sandwiched between his mother and his grandmother on a wooden folding chair in the front row while a dozen feet away, his powdered-pink grandpa ignored his favorite grandson by staring fixedly at the ceiling. Throughout the service, the young Donald had sniffed and rubbed his nose—not because of sorrow, but because of a stink strong enough to melt the paint off his tricycle and an as-yet-undiagnosed allergy to all things floral. The women had slipped their misunderstanding arms around his shoulders, adding Dior and Calvin to the mix. It was no wonder the grown-up Donald associated sweetness with death.

  Mercifully, today, protocol had him sitting in the second row, an additional three feet between him and the lethal sprays. That, combined with the double dose of antihistamine he’d taken before he left the house, were doing a fine job of keeping the allergies at bay. Behind the fresh-faced and obviously allergy-free minister, the flowers were positioned in descending order on either side according to the status of their giver. Donald’s scentless roses were in the middle. His offering was also the largest; an extra hundred to the florist had seen to that.

  Carla sat beside him, sans perfume as always, and Sally sat in front of them, flanked by Quentin’s parents and Donald’s in-laws. Quentin was noticeably absent. Cremation was the only option for a body so badly mutilated—though Donald was the only one who knew about that. As executer, Donald had offered to handle the arrangements, and Sally had gratefully accepted. No doubt some would argue that it was wrong of him to withhold the truth from her, but Donald had never shied away from making the hard decisions. The higher your position, the higher your level of responsibility. Heads of households, heads of corporations, heads of state—the difference was only a matter of degree. Let them think Quentin had died of a heart attack; as far as Donald was concerned, that may well have been true. If he’d been attacked and eaten by rats, he’d have had one, too.

  “Bless this thy servant, who has been taken unto our Lord’s bosom into heaven . . .”

  Heaven. As the minister’s drone wormed its way into Donald’s consciousness, Donald looked up at the ceiling, feigning piety, while his imagination carried him far beyond; through the troposphere, past the stratosphere, beyond the mesosphere . . . 250 miles above the earth to that last, thin, precious layer separating mankind from deep space: the ionosphere. Next year, it would be his H.A.A.R.P. technology all the way. Ben’s environmental scare tactics may have intimidated the board into choosing his microwave method over Donald’s, but this season’s imminent spectacular disaster would put an end to that.

  He smiled. Donald had always been ahead of his time; a visionary who didn’t just see the big picture, he drew it, forming and shaping it into a faithful representation of his own worldview and values. Nothing would stop him from churning out water at the rate Soldyne deserved—three times faster than Ben’s microwave method, to be exact—not Quentin’s untimely death, not Ben’s pitiful pathological lies, not the bickering, positioning politicians, and most certainly not the protesters who rallied every day outside Soldyne’s gates. It wasn’t oil that greased the wheels of industry, it was water. Water that produced the goods in the quantities sufficient to keep America competitive in an increasingly complex global economy. And as head of Soldyne’s water-producing division, Donald would be on top of it all.

  An elbow in his side brought him back to earth. Carla glared and pointed. The mourners’ heads were bowed as the minister began his final prayer. Donald lowered his head as well, taking advantage of the opportunity to purchase additional insurance by beseeching whichever gods might happen to be listening to grant him success.

  Chapter 27

  Raney Station, Antarctic Peninsula

  Don’t look. Don’t even think. It’s only a blanket. Just pick it up.

  Zo bent down, grasped her two corners, and straightened, bringing the corners up to form the back half of a sling. At the front of the blanket, Ross did the same. He shifted his grip to open the door and they went outside, walked six feet forward, and then stopped so Zo could kick it shut; a drill team whose coordination had been learned out of necessity and that had been formed under duress.

  She kept her eyes on the back of his parka as they followed the flag line to the maintenance shed; noting the contrasting blue and yellow stitching, his neck burned an unhealthy red despite his genes, the long braid swinging against the sway of the blanket—no, not the blanket . . . don’t look down; don’t think about what’s in the blanket—

  She looked out over the bay. Giant ice pancakes jostled the shore while above, the wind gathered the clouds into monstrous cumulonimbus billows. She hunched her shoulders as she and Ross cleared the building and a gust whipped past, taking her breath with it.

  She glanced down. Dr. Rodriguez’s eyes were closed. He was coatless, with one arm draped across his chest. Snow dusted his lips and his lashes, piling into drifts in the creases alongside his nose. His cheeks were stubbled, evidence of how hard he had worked during the past thirty-six hours. His last thirty-six hours. She noted the ring on his left hand and looked away.

  When they came to the maintenance shed, they executed the same door-opening/door-closing routine and laid the blanket on the floor. Zo crossed to the worktable and cut two lengths of rope. She handed the ropes to Ross, who tied the blanket shut and laid Rodriguez alongside the others. Straightening, he bowed his head.

  “Hozo-go nay-yeltay, a-na-oh bi-keh de-dlihn. Yeh-wolye hi-he a-din—”

  She perched herself on a high stool to wait, right foot jiggling in irritation. What good were prayers for the dead? The living needed their help more than the dead did. The whole funeral scene—the flowers, the casket, the long-lost relatives’ my-how-you’ve-growns had always rung false to her, a collection of rituals as predictable as a soap opera, and a rerun at that. She propped her elbow on the worktable to rest her chin in her hand and studied the lengthening row of bodies. Whatever the cause, the virus was virulent and unstoppable. It was hard to believe that less than two days had passed since the first person fell ill.

  The really shocking thing about tragedy wasn’t that it happened; it was how quickly one became inured to it. Sam’s death had been appalling; Friday the 13th/Freddy Krueger horrible; worse than anything Hollywood could dream up because it was real. Fernando’s death so soon after hit like a sledgehammer in the gut, a never-saw-it-coming sucker punch that left her uncharacteristically weepy, dazed, and confused. But smash your thumb often enough, and after a while you didn’t even feel it, and that was what had happened when within hours, Shana, then Kevin, then Todd, and finally Luis succumbed. Each time another friend or colleague died, the blanket surrounding her emotions wrapped itself tighter. Shock, grief, and denial were a predictable progression. Equally predictable was the certainty that she was going to collapse into a quivering pile of jelly once this was over (assuming she lived to tell the tale), but for now, she could hold it together. She had to. She and Ross were the only ones standing.

  Finally, Ross lifted his head. She tugged on her gloves an
d slid down off the stool. Last count, there were two more bodies to be moved.