“No.” I’m beyond caring, no longer keeping my voice down.
Cassie looks up at me.
“Go. Please. You should leave.”
“You’ll die.”
Gently, I shift the loose strands of hair from her head. When someone’s in shock, even the smallest of kind gestures makes a difference. I need her to know we’re not soldiers, we’re not warriors, we’re scientists. We can’t turn our backs on the living.
I’m not sure where he found them, but Su-shun has a pair of medical-grade scissors. He pulls at her vest, wrenching it away from her body as he runs the scissors up the side of her uniform, cutting away the material and exposing her chest. Wen has a military-issue first aid kit open on the bed. There’s a trauma pack, complete with large gauze pads, an emergency IV, and painkillers.
Our soldiers must have been using this room as a guard house of sorts. There are rifles and backpacks stacked in the corner by the table. I should grab one, but I wouldn’t even know if it was loaded. If I shoot at someone, what then? I’d miss. At best, I’d inflict a flesh wound. They’d toss a grenade in and it’s all over. No, stealth is our only ally.
Su-shun peels back Cassie’s vest, working it over the end of the bolt. She’s been hit in the upper chest.
“Missed the heart. Probably caught one of her lungs.”
That explains the blood seeping from her lips.
“We need to pack the wound,” he says. “If I remove that, she’ll die. But if we can slow the bleeding, we’ll buy her some time.”
I’m shaking. “Where’s the goddamn cavalry?” Neither Wen nor Su-shun reply, which is ominous. We all know. We’re living on borrowed time.
Su-shun dons disposable gloves and packs gauze around the bolt of the arrow, pressing it into the gaping hole and stuffing the wound, tightening the fit.
“Get her on her side. We’ve got to stop her other lung from filling up.”
The message on the screen flickers.
Notification from the Business Center
98% probability of detection in 30 seconds.
Window for evasion has closed.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
When a cold, calculating, inhuman artificial intelligence starts swearing, things are seriously messed up, but how can it be so sure? It’s then I see why. A small red backpack sits by the door to the bathroom. It’s out of place. It’s not military-issue. It’s what will bring one of those fuckers back in here. It’s the reason why the door had to be left open. Even if we were to duck out of sight, there’s no moving Cassie. There’s just no time. Once they see her, the jig’s up. Cassie coughs up blood. Wen supports her head. Su-shun grabs some pillows.
I address the television. “Do something.”
Your tour guide asks:
Do what???
“Anything,” I say. “Everything! ”
In response to my plea, the lights in the hallway go out. Emergency lighting comes on a fraction of a second later, followed by a piercing fire alarm. At first, there’s a series of loud whoops, slowly ascending in pitch, but the sound changes to a pulsating foghorn. A prerecorded voice says, “This is the evacuation tone. On hearing this tone, follow the direction of wardens to the fire stairs. Evacuate. Evacuate. This is not a drill.”
The lights come on and go off again. They continue to flicker erratically, not following any discernible pattern. Both alarms are screaming now, running over the top of each other and competing in their desire to deafen us. The automatic voice stutters, failing to complete a sentence.
“This is the evac—evacuation tone. Fire. On hearing. Fire. Evacuation tone. This is. This. Tone. Follow the direction. Fire. This is. Fire. Fire. Fire. Evacuate. F-fire. F-f-fire.”
There’s something distinctly unnerving about hearing a synthetic voice stutter, even though I know it’s fake.
I hear the distinct ding of elevator doors opening in rapid succession. The air conditioning switches on full blast, and a rush of hot air blows out of the vents. Televisions in all the surrounding rooms turn on, blaring at full volume. A cacophony of voices erupts, muffled by the walls but still audible, adding to the confusion. As most of the doors have been busted down, televised voices echo through the corridor.
“Ask your doctor if Tralfamadox is right for you.”
“Can the Dolphins come back to make the Super Bowl this year?”
“A run for the primaries, but there are serious doubts about his financial liquidity.”
Over it all, the alarm continues to whine.
Cassie looks up at me. Her eyes are glassy. A tear rolls around the side of her head.
“Stay with me.” I squeeze her fingers, crouching close to her. “We’re going to make it. We’re going to get you out of here. Just hang on.”
Several spotlights ripple across the outside of the hotel. They’re bluish white and blinding. I pull back the lace curtains and wave, getting their attention. A helicopter hovers outside. Several other helicopters land in the parking lot. Troops spill out of both sides, running for the hotel entrance. Shots are fired.
Suddenly, there’s silence. The alarms stop. The lights turn on. The various televisions switch off. The air conditioning cuts out. Distant gunfire breaks like thunder, but the confusion surrounding us comes to an end.
Su-shun and Wen have their backs to our television, but I see one final message.
Thank you for staying at the Astor
Look for the ambulance with a dented door
Boots pound down the hallway.
“In here,” I yell, stepping over bodies and pulling at the door. The soldier who greets me is wearing black and has a gas mask fitted over his face. His gun points at my chest, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s about to fire. He swings the barrel down, pointing it at the floor, and several other soldiers rush past, pushing into the bathroom and the bedroom, swiveling and checking for any threats. The television is off.
“Clear.”
More soldiers take up positions in the hallway outside, defending our room. A team of medics come running up the fire stairs. One of them checks me over.
“I’m fine,” I say as the others examine Wen and Su-shun before tending to Lieutenant Chalmers. We’re shuffled out into the corridor as the soldiers check for any other survivors. It’s another few minutes and several radio calls before a stretcher is brought up in the elevator and the lieutenant is carried away. She gives me a thumbs-up and a smile from beneath an oxygen mask. My heart breaks as soldiers begin moving bodies out into the hallway. They don’t have body bags—not yet—so an empty pillowcase is draped over the head of each corpse. Care is taken; dignity is all that can be given to the dead. Tears well up in my eyes as Colonel Wallace is laid among them.
“We are clear to have you on the move,” a very young-looking soldier says. He’s the only one with his headgear off, but there’s no indication of his rank.
“Who were they?”
“Soldiers. Militia. SWAT elements.”
“I—I don’t understand. What did they hope to gain?”
“Revenge.” The soldier looks me in the eye. “We’ve all lost someone, Doc. There’s a lot of blame going around. They all know it’s protecting you. Everybody does. Killing you would have been payback.”
We’re led out the main doors of the hotel. Spotlights continue to flood the ground, coming from helicopters circling overhead. Several ambulances have pulled up on the main road, with their lights splashing red and blue across the surrounding buildings. They have their doors open, but the middle vehicle has a large dent, as though it backed into a loading dock. Wen and Su-shun are directed to the first ambulance. A paramedic from the damaged ambulance approaches me with a blanket, wrapping it over my shoulders.
“This way.” I go with him, not asking any questions as I hop into the back. He climbs up next to me and we sit on a gurney. He has disposable gloves on and flashes a penlight in my eyes, checking for dilation as a soldier stands guard outside. “Are you hurt in any way? Did y
ou take any knocks to the head? Any hidden wounds?”
“No, I’m fine.”
The door slams shut. Although that’s probably the only way to close it, I jump at the sound.
“Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.” The paramedic gets up and moves to the front of the vehicle. I’m still shaking. He squeezes through into the front seat, leaving me thinking about his words and wondering if optimism might be the worst trait humanity has ever developed.
19
Hospital
I’m not sure why we’re being taken to the hospital. I guess they want us checked out by doctors, perhaps with the offer of a sedative to steady the nerves.
The ambulance has one-way glass, appearing black from the outside but allowing me to watch the various military vehicles and police cars providing us with an escort. I’m still trying to process everything that happened and find myself wondering about the role played by Colonel Wallace. Why would he act as a conduit between me and the A.I.? What was his motive? I can’t imagine what would sway a career military officer to side with the enemy. I’m acutely aware I only have access to a small part of the puzzle. I wish I could talk with him.
As we turn in to the hospital, the ambulance hits a speed bump and I find myself flung into the air.
“Hey, slow down up there.”
There’s no answer from the cab. The ambulance rounds a corner at speed. The lights are off, and not just the emergency lights. All of them, including headlights. Out the side window, I can see the rest of the convoy weaving through the parking lot toward the main entrance, but we’re disappearing down a side road. Within seconds, we pass behind a multistory building and drive swiftly under a walkway.
“What’s going on?” I steady myself as I move toward the front. The gap leading through to the cabin is narrow, with medical supplies stacked in racks, along with oxygen cylinders, masks, gloves, spare uniforms, portable trauma kits, and defibrillators. “Where are we going?”
I poke my head into the cabin. There’s no one there. I’ve seen plenty of driverless vehicles. Most of them don’t even have steering wheels these days, but this ambulance is old. To see the accelerator depress and the wheel turn as if driven by a ghost is unsettling.
“I—ah.” I back away. Who exactly am I talking to?
The ambulance pulls into a basement. With its lights off, it’s pitch black within the subterranean garage. I hold on to the storage racks as concrete pillars rush past in the darkness. When the ambulance finally comes to a stop, it is as gentle as a kitten, easing to a halt. The electronic locks on the doors pop open. I didn’t even realize I was locked in. The engine’s still running.
I climb over the passenger’s seat. Crossing the driver’s seat seems somehow wrong. No sooner have I shut the door behind me than the ambulance pulls away, disappearing in the darkness.
A single light over a solitary door beckons me on. I pull on the heavy steel fire door and it opens with ease. Inside, machines whir and glide between tasks, sorting laundry, folding sheets and stacking them on automated carts. Although there are dozens of lights set above the vast floor, only a single row is on, highlighting the path I’m to take. I walk on, ignoring the machinery and being ignored by hundreds of robotic serfs. Behind me, the lights turn off one by one.
Elevator doors open. By now, I’m comfortable being led by my invisible friend. I walk inside and turn, watching as the fifth-floor light comes on, followed by the button to close the doors rather than waiting for anyone else. I always thought they were placebos—buttons put there just to make you feel better when in a hurry. Apparently not.
After a brief ride, the doors open out into a T junction, but the lights lead to the right, with the other two corridors shrouded in darkness. The signage reads, MEDICAL RESEARCH CENTER. After walking through several sets of swinging doors, I see a sign for NEUROLOGY.
Finally, the hallway lights come to an end by a waiting room. Curious, I peer in through the window. An elderly Asian couple sits in the corner, comforting each other. There are dozens of empty seats. Magazines lie abandoned on the cushions. A nurse stands behind a reception desk, writing in an old-fashioned ledger. No computers.
I push on the door.
“Dr. Anderson?” the nurse asks as I walk in, greeting me with a friendly smile.
“Yes,” I say cautiously.
“Please. Take a seat.”
Outside, dawn breaks. Violent orange clouds light an angry sky. The Asian couple murmur to themselves, staring at me. For the first time, I look at myself. Dried blood sticks to my arms. Dark spatter patterns mar my clothes. I’m not wearing a bra. I have no idea what my face looks like. My hair is a tangled mess. I pick up a magazine, wanting to hide.
The nurse disappears. I should have been more forceful. I should have asked her what’s going on. Would she even know?
There’s a bathroom to one side. I duck inside to relieve myself and to try to make myself more presentable. There’s nothing I can do about my clothing, but I wash the blood from my arms. There’s some spatter on my left cheek. I daub at it with a damp paper towel and it runs like fresh blood. I end up using a dozen towels to clean up. Finally, I run a little water up through my hair and tease out the strands. There. Almost respectable. Almost. As normal as anyone can be wearing a bloodstained T-shirt. I fold my arms over my chest and return to my seat.
Most of the magazines are old and predate the war, covering topics like gardening, motoring, fishing, and sailing. I find a copy of Time magazine from a month after the attack. It’s strange to read about myself on Mars. The opinion piece is scathing. Scientist devoid of emotion. Elitist. Apologist. Disconnected from reality. The anger is a reflection of public sentiment and explains some of what I’ve experienced back here on Earth.
After roughly an hour, once the sun is peering over the hospital grounds, a doctor emerges from behind the counter. He’s wearing a disposable surgical gown, with a paper cap on his head, and has a face mask lowered, hanging around his neck. His hands are pale, a sure sign he’s only just removed disposable gloves. There are thin flecks of blood high on his shoulders. They’re faint, but there are no corresponding marks on his chest. He’s been wearing a plastic apron over his gown, but he must have removed that before coming out to talk to the Asian couple. He pulls a clipboard from under his arm.
The elderly couple get to their feet. They’re tired, frail. They must have been here all night. I want to talk to the doctor, to ask him why I’m here, but my concerns seem insignificant compared to the weight they’re carrying. The woman hugs the man, holding on to him as though she’s on the verge of collapsing. The doctor talks in a soft voice, but it’s impossible not to overhear what’s being said.
“I’m sorry. We did all we could.”
The woman doesn’t respond until the husband translates, then she breaks down, sobbing as the doctor continues.
“There was just too much damage. We relieved pressure on the cerebral cortex and removed the clotting from the thalamus, but his ECG readings are flat. There’s little to no neural activity.”
The husband translates, but the woman looks confused. I doubt she understands what these terms mean. I don’t.
“I’m sorry. He’s dead.”
Both the husband and wife weep, holding each other. I’m shocked. I know the doctor prefaced his news with several other comments, but that final statement, covered by just two words, strikes them like a lightning bolt.
“You can see him, if you like.”
The husband nods.
The doctor pulls the clipboard from beneath his arm, turning it around to face them.
“There’s only a small window of time.” He looks nervous. “Andrew’s driver’s license lists him as an organ donor. As next of kin, I—”
“Yes. Yes,” the aging man replies, reaching out and signing the form.
The doctor escorts them from the waiting room and through a set of double doors. I sit there with a lump in my throat. There’s been to
o much death, and yet my perspective is limited. Conversations like this play out every day in hospitals like this all around the world. For me, they’re exceptional, but in reality, they’re the norm. It’s just that, normally, I don’t witness them. That’s the crazy thing about death. It’s commonplace. We, the living, are adept at dodging all mention of death in daily life, treating it as an impostor, when it’s the reality that faces us all. All that really matters is that someone cares.
I feel for the couple. They’re easily in their late sixties. Their son could have had children of his own for all I know. Now I understand why there are gardening magazines in the waiting room. Now I know why there are magazines about fancy cars and trout fishing, Parisian fashion shoots and antique furniture. When people are sitting here, the last thing they want to be thinking about is death. Any mundane distraction will do.
The nurse returns to the reception desk. I get up and walk over.
“Hi. I—um.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Anderson. It’s going to be a long wait.”
“For?”
“For you.”
I laugh. Does this woman have any idea what I’ve been through over the past few days? The last few hours? “For me? I don’t think you understand.”
“The surgeon will be with you soon.”
“Can you tell me anything?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m sorry. Patient confidentiality.”
Well, that’s bullshit if ever I’ve heard it.
I sit back down. There’s a television high in the corner of the waiting room, but it’s off.
I mumble, “You’re no help.”
The seats are made from molded plastic. I’m tired. If there was room, I’d curl up and go to sleep, but the seats are decidedly impractical with bulky armrests. An hour passes, then another. The clock on the wall is relentless, beating out the rhythm of time. My stomach rumbles. Nurses wander back and forth behind the counter, but no one else enters the waiting room.
Reentry Page 15
