by Mira Grant
My motion must have caught Dr. Lo’s eye, somehow; I had no idea what the peripheral vision was like in a biohazard suit, but she turned back toward me, and asked, “Now you’re afraid? After the worst parts are over, now you’re afraid? I know we’ve given you a clean bill of health, Sally, but you may want to consider therapy.”
I glared at her. She left the room, and the officer stepped into the doorway, preventing me from following her out. At least he wasn’t wearing a mask. I felt less like a risk to the health of everyone around me when I looked at another face without a piece of plastic in the way.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Ms. Mitchell,” he said politely.
“I want to speak to Dr. Banks,” I said, and stepped into the slippers.
“He’s still undergoing examination, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to speak with you once he’s free,” said the officer.
Still undergoing… I stiffened. “Sherman.” What was his last name? Shit. “Sherman Lewis. He’s one of Dr. Banks’s assistants. He was brought down here with the rest of us. Is he all right? Have they finished examining him?”
“I can’t discuss the health of other patients, Ms. Mitchell,” said the officer.
“We’re not patients, we’re people who didn’t get to finish having lunch,” I shot back.
Laughter came from the hall behind him. Weary laughter, but laughter, and that was better than anyone was going to get out of me. “It’s all right, Floyd, you can stand down,” said Dr. Banks, moving into view behind the officer. “Once Sally gets an idea in her head, there’s not room for too much else in there.”
“Yes, sir,” said the officer, and stepped aside.
Dr. Banks was wearing the same blue scrubs I was. Somehow, he managed not to look ridiculous in them—a feat I was sure I wasn’t matching. He stepped into the officer’s place, looking at me with a small, paternal smile. “I’m sorry if our security drill frightened you, Sally. It wasn’t the intention.”
“Where’s Sherman? What happened to Chave?”
“That’s one of the things I like about you. You care about people. That’s a rare quality, and it’s one I think we should be focusing on more.”
“And you’re deflecting,” I said. “Where is Sherman Lewis? What happened to Chave?”
Dr. Banks sighed. For a moment, he didn’t look like the owner of a massive multinational corporation: he looked like a man who hadn’t slept in weeks, and was covering it up with foundation, hair dye, and stimulants. “I’m afraid Ms. Seaborne did not recover from her unfortunate incident in the cafeteria.”
“‘Unfortunate’—do you mean whatever went wrong with her, or do you mean the officers with the shock batons?” I crossed my arms and glared at him. For some reason, I was no longer afraid of SymboGen refusing to let me leave the building. I was more concerned that I would never leave this basement. Not alive, anyway. “She’s dead, isn’t she? That’s what you mean when you say she ‘didn’t recover’ from being electrocuted.”
“Sally…” Dr. Banks hesitated. Then he sighed again, and said, “There’s a great deal you don’t understand. I’m so sorry you had to see that, and please believe me, no one is sorrier about what happened with Chave than I am. She’s been with me almost since the beginning. Neither of us ever expected things to end this way.”
“I’m pretty sure she didn’t expect to be electrocuted when she got out of bed this morning, no.” I kept glaring at him. “Sherman Lewis. Where is he?”
“Sally—”
“I come here every time you call me. I let your staff take all the blood they want. I answer your questions, I listen to your lectures, I do whatever I’m told to do, and I don’t fight you. That could change. Sherman is the only person here who always treats me like I’m a person, too. Not lab equipment, not an experiment, a person. Now where is he?”
“Sally, I’m sorry.”
The words were spoken softly, but they might as well have been screamed. They seemed to echo through the room, getting louder with every iteration. “Why are you sorry?” I asked. I could barely hear my own voice over the echoes of Dr. Banks’s statement.
“You have to understand, he had prolonged physical contact with Chave. He was exposed.”
His first words were still echoing, and now they were backed by a heavy pounding, like the sound of distant drums. “Exposed to what?”
“Sally, I really don’t feel this is a conversation that we should be having while you’re upset.” Dr. Banks looked even more uncomfortable, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
The drums were getting stronger, drowning out the echo of his words. “Exposed to what?”
“I’ve called Dr. Kim to come and collect you,” said Dr. Banks. “I’m afraid your clothes won’t be ready for several hours. They will be delivered to your home. You can keep the scrubs. I’m sorry we didn’t get to have lunch together; I was very much looking forward to spending that time with you. I’ll see you soon, Sally.”
“Wait, what are you talking about? What were we exposed to? Dr. Banks—”
It was too late: Dr. Banks was already turning and stepping out of the room. The security officer reappeared as soon as Dr. Banks was through the door, making it clear that I would not be allowed to rush after him. I dropped my hands to my sides and just stared, open-mouthed. The drums were as loud as they had ever been, and for the first time while I was fully awake and aware of my surroundings, I was absolutely certain of what they were: I was hearing the pounding of my heart.
I stood in that little examination room, crying silently for a man who had always been kind to me, and waited for the man I loved to come and take me home. I was exhausted. I was done.
It was hard to tell time with no clocks and no windows. I stood there long enough for my legs to start aching, but I refused to sit down. Sitting down would mean admitting there was something stronger than my anger. The officer who’d been keeping me in the room was replaced by another man I didn’t recognize, wearing the same uniform and carrying the same stun baton. I glared at him as he took up his position. He didn’t say anything, and so neither did I.
My stubborn standoff with the forces of SymboGen might have lasted forever. I was saved from needing to find out by a familiar figure in a San Francisco City Hospital lab coat. Nathan pushed his way past the officer, seeming to neither notice nor care that the other man was armed, and rushed to embrace me.
“Jesus, Sal, you scared the hell out of me,” he said.
That seemed to be the permission my body had been waiting for to fall apart. My tears had been falling for a while. Now I started to sob, as quietly as I could. I pressed my face into his chest and allowed myself to sag against him for a few precious seconds. Nathan folded his arms around me.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
“Sh-Sherman,” I whispered.
Nathan winced. He knew about Sherman. They’d never met, but Sherman was the only person at SymboGen that I consistently spoke well of. “Oh, shit, Sal. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t say anything for a few minutes after that, just clung to him and cried. It wasn’t dignified, but I didn’t care about dignity. I was wearing scrubs and standing in the SymboGen basement. Dignity was the last of my concerns.
Finally, I pulled away, wiping my eyes, and said, “I want to go home. Can you take me home? Please?” I paused, the incongruity of his appearance striking me. “Why are you wearing your lab coat?”
“Because I was already here when the quarantine was called on the cafeteria level,” said Nathan. “They called me in for another job interview.”
They really did want to get me working in the building if they were calling Nathan in. That might seem a little self-centered—not everything in the world is about me, and I understand that—except for the part where, if Dr. Banks was trying to hire me, the only way he was going to accomplish it was by making working at SymboGen so appealing that I couldn’t say no. Having Nathan on the payroll would be a h
uge step in the right direction.
“But…” I paused, my eyes narrowing. “If you were already here, why did it take you so long to come down and get me?” Dr. Banks said he was calling Nathan. Not getting him from the reception lobby; calling him.
“I didn’t know you were involved in the quarantine, and I didn’t want you to feel like I was here to check up on you. I rushed down as soon as I knew that you were waiting for me. It’s been less than five minutes.”
Either Dr. Banks had lied, or Nathan was lying to me now. I touched his cheek with one hand, bile burning in my throat as I looked into his eyes and made my decision about whom to trust. Nathan. I trusted Nathan, and they hadn’t told him. They hadn’t told him that I was in danger, and even when they knew I wasn’t, they hadn’t told him that I was alone in an isolation room waiting for him to come and take me home. Instead, they’d left me where I was, probably so they could clean up their messes in peace.
“Let’s go home,” I said.
Nathan nodded. “Okay.”
It was strange to walk through the halls of SymboGen without either Chave or Sherman at my side, ready to tell me what was next on my schedule or imply that I was somehow too scruffy to be in the building. Two of the security officers accompanied us from the basement to the lobby, which was deserted; they must have sent most of the company home after Chave got sick. It seemed like a good precaution following a possible contamination. I just didn’t understand what that contamination was.
I stopped just before we reached the door, my hands going to my shoulder where the strap of my shoulder bag should have been pressing down against my skin. “My bag!”
“Your personal possessions are still undergoing decontamination, Ms. Mitchell,” said one of the officers. She sounded distracted, and I realized that there was a small earpiece in her left ear. She was probably listening to status reports from the rest of her team even as she walked with us, multitasking her way through an unexpectedly busy afternoon.
“When will they be done? Those are my things. You had no right to take them.”
“Dr. Banks has promised delivery of all your possessions to your home. You’ll have them by tomorrow morning.”
I took a breath, forcing myself not to get angry. This woman wasn’t in charge, and there was no way Dr. Banks was coming back out of his office to see me. I had been dismissed, and I knew it. “Tell Dr. Banks that I am not happy with him right now.” For a lot of reasons, only some of which I was ever planning to discuss with him.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I shuddered and started walking again, Nathan by my side. The doors slid smoothly open to allow us to exit the building, and the jasmine-scented San Francisco afternoon reached out to embrace us.
The world felt dirtier and more complicated as soon as we stepped outside the artificial environment of the SymboGen building. For a company that was built on the hygiene hypothesis, whoever was responsible for the SymboGen interior decorating had chosen a surprisingly sterile palate. The plants were overgroomed to the point of seeming artificial, and filtration systems were everywhere, attached to the small scent-diffusion units that pumped the perfume into the air. I had never seen anything out of place.
Even here in the parking lot things were cleaner than they should have been. The white lines were bright enough to be freshly painted, and the asphalt was so black that I would have assumed it was fresh if it hadn’t always looked like this. The landscaping was pristine. After what had happened inside, all that cleanliness was oddly chilling. It felt like a knot loosened in my chest when we reached Nathan’s car, with its muddy wheels and fast-food wrappers in the footwell.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Sal?” asked Nathan. “You’re pale.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think I am okay.” It wasn’t reassuring, but then again, it wasn’t intended to be. I tried never to lie to Nathan, even when it was something as small as claiming to be “fine” when I wasn’t. He always caught me, and I always felt terrible for having tried to deceive him.
“Do you want to stay at my place tonight?” Nathan kissed my forehead, squeezing my fingers at the same time. Then he let me go and walked around the car. The alarm chirped, signaling that the locks were open.
“I can’t. You heard the officer—my things are being sent to my house, not yours. I think my parents will panic if they get that kind of delivery without me being there to explain it to them.” I opened the door, sliding into the car. It was a relief to sit down after standing for so long. My legs promptly went limp, making me worry that I’d need Nathan’s help if I ever wanted to get up again.
Nathan got into the driver’s side, closing the door behind himself. “Do you mind if I come home with you, then? I don’t want to leave you alone, and it would be nice to spend some time with Beverly.”
“That would be fine,” I said, and smiled.
Then the weight of my betrayal crashed down on me. Sherman was infected—or worse, Sherman was dead—and here I was smiling at my boyfriend, happy at the idea of spending an afternoon with him and the dog I had stolen from another infected man, another man who might be dead.
Wait. Chave and Beverly’s owner had been infected with the same thing. I’d seen both of them succumb, and they had followed the same pattern. “Oh my God, is this my fault?” I whispered. My lips seemed numb, like they were barely attached to my body. “Did I get Chave sick? Did I get her killed?”
“Sal, what are you talking about?”
“Did they tell you anything about what happened inside the quarantine?”
“No, just that it was some kind of lab error, and you’d been exposed.” Nathan was looking at me with blatant worry, not bothering to conceal it. “What do you mean, is this your fault?”
Suddenly, I didn’t want to be explaining this where we were; not on SymboGen property, where someone could realize that they hadn’t forbidden me to tell my boyfriend the truth about what happened. I could ignore my phone if it started ringing—or I would have been able to, if they hadn’t taken it away from me. I couldn’t ignore somebody pounding on the window nearly so easily. “Drive. Please. I’ll explain while you drive.”
“All right, honey. Just take some deep breaths, and tell me what’s going on, okay?”
“Okay,” I said… but I didn’t say anything else until the SymboGen building was one more piece of the skyline receding behind us, and there was no chance that we’d be overheard. “Okay,” I repeated.
“Sal?”
“I’m sorry, I just…” I took a breath. “It started out as a pretty normal visit to SymboGen. Lots of tests, Dr. Banks trying to convince me he had my best interests at heart, lots of people running lots of tests on me…” I closed my eyes as I continued talking, recounting the events of the day. I didn’t strictly need to tell Nathan everything—he would probably have been happy with just what happened in the cafeteria and afterward—but I wanted to ease into it, and I wanted to remember Chave and Sherman the way I’d always known them. Chave was never my friend. That didn’t mean she deserved to die the way she did.
Besides, telling him everything meant pointing out Chave’s absolute lack of any symptoms, right up until the moment where she had every symptom and lost herself in whatever strange infection had claimed her mind. There should have been something, some sign to indicate that everything was not okay. There hadn’t been anything at all.
Nathan asked occasional questions, but for the most part, he let me talk. When I came to the part about the cafeteria, he made me repeat the walk from the elevator three times. I didn’t mind. We were both looking for something that could explain what had happened, and neither of us was finding it. Then I reached the worst part of the story, and he stopped asking questions. I spoke, and he drove, and SymboGen fell farther and farther into the distance.
Finally, he said, “Sherman was showing no signs of getting sick when you saw him?”
“No, none. He looked kind of upset, but—we all did.” I opened my eyes, t
urning to face Nathan. “He was worried about me.”
“He was your friend. Of course he was worried about you.” Nathan tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “I would have been worried about you, too, if they hadn’t left me waiting in one of the ninth-floor lobbies for an interview that never came.”
I frowned. SymboGen was the global leader in parasitology, both in research of existing species and in the lucrative development of new strains. Other companies had tried to repeat the success of the Intestinal Bodyguard, but none of them had been able to get their claws into the market. Nathan’s career was never going to move beyond a certain point if he couldn’t get a job at SymboGen—and after my recounting of the day, we both knew why he’d been called in for the interview. It had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with keeping me where Dr. Banks could see me.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Nathan flashed me a very quick smile. He took one hand off the wheel, reaching over to briefly squeeze my knee. “It’s not your fault. I wouldn’t want to work there anyway, if it meant that Dr. Banks had managed to get you under his thumb full-time. I’m pretty sure punching your boss in the throat is an excellent way to get yourself fired.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
“I mean them.”
“That helps.” I sighed, sinking back into my seat. “I can’t stop thinking about Sherman. What if he’s scared? What if they haven’t told him what’s going on?” What if he was dead? But my mind shied away from that thought, refusing to fully process it. Sherman wasn’t my best friend. He wasn’t even someone I saw outside of SymboGen. But he was kind to me, and I didn’t want him to be hurt.
“Sal… it sounds like Chave had the sleeping sickness. If SymboGen has a test for it, they haven’t shared it with the local hospitals yet. I think that if they know Sherman is infected, it’s because he already started showing symptoms.” What Nathan didn’t say was that no one who developed symptoms had yet recovered, or awakened from their disconnected state. Cases were still rare, but there had been enough of them that we were starting to understand a little bit about how the sickness worked. The victims got sick. They didn’t get better.
