by Bina Shah
As they passed through the double doors, the red light glowed on the surfaces of their faces and the bodies behind them. They stopped the gurneys there; Mañalac stepped on a small lever near the front wheels, and they locked into place. There was a slippery sound of parting plastic, and then a rush of fresh air over Bouthain’s skin that made all his pores tingle. Everything suddenly seemed brighter, more hopeful. For the first time, he started to wonder if this insane plot might just succeed.
The antechamber was deserted, as part of quarantine procedure. Protocols had been developed to prevent exposing any more people than necessary to the hideousness of the Virus. Even Bouthain’s colleagues lowered their voices whenever discussing it. Bouthain had taken for granted their squeamishness about all things having to do with women and their bodies. He had often spoken of the need to erase the stigma surrounding the disease and its victims. But this general disdain would be useful to them now, and the quarantine protocols would help them to get away without being detected.
Mañalac patted Sabine’s shoulder though the bag. Bouthain wondered if she would be cold or warm to his touch; there was no time for him to see for himself. He went to a closet and rummaged around inside for a set of green scrubs that he quickly slipped on: a gown, a mask, boots, gloves. Mañalac followed suit: they were both now two anonymous hospital workers dealing with a dangerous biological situation.
“We have to close the transport cases now,” said Mañalac.
“Is the ambulance ready?”
“Waiting in the bay,” Mañalac replied, with some pride. Julien had always said this nurse got things done even before Julien asked for them, anticipating what was needed and figuring out how to do it without having to be consulted. Bouthain would make a note of it and find a way to recommend a promotion for the man after this was all over.
“Let’s do it, then.”
Their conversation faded as the gurney rose on its hydraulics, lifting the pods up into the air. Then forward movement again: they passed through the second set of doors, out into the ambulance bay. An insistent droning drowned out most sound: the sandstorm was still raging outside the hospital. Bouthain didn’t know how they were going to get through the storm, despite his earlier nonchalance.
The new space was filled with incandescent white light. From darkness into light, stage by stage: the place they were going purer than the one they were leaving behind.
A slight bump and then a jerk, as Sabine’s gurney clicked into place with the back doors of the ambulance. It tilted slightly, raising her head higher than her legs. The plastic surrounding had been designed to make it easy for a body to slide down the angled surface of the gurney. Bouthain hated seeing bodies treated like offal, flung onto heaps before being cremated: the same in war and the Virus epidemic. He made sure to guide her pod with gentle, respectful hands into the mouth of the ambulance. Then he and Mañalac did the same for Julien.
Mañalac quickly leaned into the ambulance. “Not long now. Little more patience, you’ll be safe soon,” he murmured, just before he closed the doors. It sounded like a benediction to Bouthain’s ears. If Mañalac was religious, he’d better keep praying that they made it to the border without Reuben Faro catching them.
Mañalac took the driver’s seat, switching on the ambulance lights and testing the wheel; Bouthain climbed into the passenger seat and buckled himself in. Mañalac tapped a code into the ambulance dashboard display, and the door of the bay began to lift onto a solid yellow wall that was already blowing sheets of dust into the bay.
Mañalac lowered his mask for a moment and glanced over at Bouthain. “Ready, boss?” They weren’t technically supposed to call him boss, or chief, or anything else besides his title. But “boss” was an ironic term of respect among the working class of Green City: a subtle sign that signaled not Bouthain’s superiority, but Mañalac’s total trust in him, no matter what the consequences.
Bouthain nodded tersely. “Let’s go.” Mañalac pulled up his mask again, pressed down on the accelerator, and swung the ambulance into the maelstrom outside.
Almost as soon as they’d left the bay, the winds, blowing in all directions, began to buffet the ambulance, restricting them to a stop-start crawl through the streets. Driving through the city was usually an easy task, with the city laid out in a grid that driverless cars could navigate. But sandstorms were weather phenomena that reduced visibility to zero and confounded even the most capable navigation system, so Mañalac had to use his own sense of direction to get them out of Green City heading toward the border, a four-hour drive away from Green City. In the sandstorm it would take them much longer to get there. They’d be in Semitia by nightfall, if they were granted a miracle.
Everything around them was a sickening orange haze. At times Mañalac could hardly see two feet in front of him; the flashing lights of the few vehicles on the road made small bright pinpoints that he followed carefully, but not too closely. At other times the wind and sand lifted a little, so Bouthain could see familiar landmarks turned into darkened shadows, palm trees oscillating like windmills, as if possessed. The buildings that normally looked so solid in normal weather seemed to tremble in the onslaught, and lights were going out in windows like eyes closing, one after the other.
The ambulance’s air system filtered out the worst of the sand, but Bouthain was glad for the mask he wore: it added an extra layer of protection. The elderly and the weak often died in the days after this kind of storm, from asthma attacks or inhalation-induced pneumonia. Usually Bouthain counted himself among the invincible, but he knew that the sand, if it got into his lungs, could kill him, too.
They drove for an hour in this way, speeding up a little, slowing down, the wheels of the ambulance underneath them grinding noisily into the sand on the road. The sound of sand beating against the windows and roaring wind was a constant hum in their ears. Every once in a while the gears of the ambulance would slip and the engine emitted an angry groan, but above his surgical mask Mañalac’s squinting eyes never wavered from the road. Bouthain felt grateful for the nurse’s steadfastness; his heart was beating fast and hard, and he doubted he’d have the stamina to drive for this long in such dire conditions. It was more frightening than he had anticipated. These kinds of sandstorms were not frequent, but twice or thrice a summer the shamal wind blew in from the north and devilishly whipped up the desert sand and dust into towering, massive clouds. The dry lands created by the destruction of the Final War had made the storms much worse over the last several decades: you could drive for hours and still not travel the circumference of one. Bouthain had never before driven straight into the belly; the best bet for survival was to hunker down indoors, or better yet, underground, to avoid being hit by flying debris or crushed by the buildings that collapsed in the storm’s path. He felt suffocated, and a panicked thought arose before he beat it back down: what if they were buried alive in all these tons of sand?
They made steady progress, however. Here and there a lone figure struggled to walk against the wind: traffic guards, wearing protective gear with masks and hoods, patrolling to make sure everyone was safely indoors. There were fewer and fewer cars on the streets, most of them abandoned on the side of the road, doors open and lights flashing. Already being covered up in sand, by tomorrow morning, when the storm died down, they’d be hulks, their paintwork and engines ruined by the grinding torrents that stripped them as if every inch had been sandpapered. The ambulance was equipped with special filters so it wouldn’t choke like the cars did. They were built like tanks, these ambulances, equipped with everything necessary to save lives short of a full operating theater; so much better than the rickety, ill-equipped vehicles they’d had during the War. But the roads could become impassable if the sand piled up too quickly.
They were silent: Mañalac concentrated while Bouthain listened for any sound from the back of the ambulance. He’d have gone to the back and checked on his patients, but he wa
s strapped into his seat and it was too dangerous to move.
“Little more patience,” said Mañalac, sensing his agitation, even though Bouthain could have sworn he hadn’t moved a muscle. “Try to nap.”
“I don’t need any rest,” sniffed Bouthain, stung by the suggestion that he couldn’t keep up the pace. But against his will he found himself lulled by the soft rocking of the ambulance. Eventually his eyelids closed and he slipped gently into a light, blank sleep.
Bouthain woke up with a start when his ears popped, but he knew exactly where he was. No need to rub his eyes or groggily reorient himself: he saw that they’d managed to leave the city and were now climbing up into the mountains, ascending slowly and, yard by yard, making painstaking progress through the western pass, halfway to Semitia. Sometimes they skidded this way or that, but Mañalac regained control quickly each time the ambulance lost traction.
“Good morning, boss,” said Mañalac.
Bouthain smiled for the first time. “Was I out for long?”
“Only a few hours. You kept talking in your sleep. Not like those two in back. They haven’t made a sound.”
The windows of the ambulance were coated in layers of dust, but when he craned his neck to look back, Bouthain could see the orange mass of the dust storm had completely enveloped Green City behind them. He breathed out in relief. Nobody could come after them now: Reuben Faro would be stuck there until the next day. With a clear road and open skies ahead of them, they could be in Semitia by evening.
“What did I say?” asked Bouthain curiously.
“Don’t know, boss. Strange things. About the war, a man with no leg. Your patient?”
“I saw many men without legs, Mañalac,” said Bouthain. “And arms. War’s got a strange way of making you lose your limbs for no reason.”
Mañalac knew better than to say anything. He drove on in silence while Bouthain continued to observe the road closely. He’d often come here for picnics with his family as a child. His parents brought food and drink, and they perched themselves on the edge of the cliff, legs dangling, watching the mountain hawks circling higher and higher through thin, dry air, the sky separated into bands of blue, bluer, bluest strips in the fine, crisp light, the sun shining through the peaks, stinging his eyes.
He’d loved these mountain passes and higher elevations, savored cooler weather in the hot summer months. The barren rocks dotted with scrub brush and the occasional sturdy date tree had drawn him in with their wild stubborn beauty, as had the endless pulsing skies and the deep gorges into which you could throw a shout and a hundred echoes would come back to you. Even as a young boy he’d recognized the mountains as a place where a man knew who he was, without having to be told by anyone whom to obey or what to believe.
It was strange to no longer hear that howling wind, or strain to see what was in front of them. The road was open, the ambulance engine humming powerfully. Soon, Bouthain thought it might even be safe enough to stop the vehicle so he could check on Sabine and Julien. He had no real way of calculating exactly when they might wake—the drug worked differently on everyone—but he wanted to take their vitals and at least make sure they were not in any respiratory distress.
Mañalac slowed the ambulance down, then brought it to a halt. Bouthain cocked his head quizzically; had the man read his mind? But he could see that something was wrong, very wrong. Mañalac wasn’t looking at him, but at the display on the dashboard, where the rear camera showed two black cars stopped behind them, and a group of men standing in the road, holding guns.
Bouthain waited for shouting, pounding on the doors, or a volley of gunfire. If they were dragged out, a single gunshot would put an end to any misery for himself and Mañalac. But what would happen to Julien and Sabine?
“I’m sorry, Mañalac,” he breathed, as his door was wrenched open with a clatter.
“Come on out, Rami.”
Bouthain recognized the voice before he saw Reuben Faro: a low baritone, rumbling with a mix of authority and displeasure. The other men, Reuben’s guards, stood at a distance; only Faro waited nearby as they slowly emerged from the ambulance. Bouthain’s knees almost gave way but he refused to stumble in front of Faro, or to hold on to the door to steady himself. His leg muscles spasmed and ached as they came back to life after the long hours of cramping in his seat.
“Reuben Faro.”
Faro said, “It’s been a long time, Rami.” He was bigger and more menacing than Bouthain remembered him. He’d put on weight and muscle; he was in exceptionally good shape for a man his age. He’d grown a beard, and there was white in it and in his hair, but he was still a man in his prime, stronger and faster and younger than Bouthain.
“Indeed,” said Bouthain. “Is all of this really necessary?” He nodded at the guards, the vehicles, the guns. “You could just let us go.”
“You know I can’t do that. Come on, open up. I want to see who you’re hiding in there.”
Bouthain nodded at Mañalac, who was trembling beside him, his eyes glued to the raised guns held by Reuben’s guards. Mañalac walked slowly to the back of the ambulance, fumbling with the doors. Faro didn’t prod him, or shout at him to hurry, as Bouthain might have expected. He stood easily; there was no use running, or trying to fight him. No point, either, in pretending that neither of them knew what cargo was contained within the ambulance.
Finally Mañalac unlocked and opened the doors, and they slid open easily on their tracks, showing the two bodies entombed within.
Bouthain spoke calmly: “She died early in the morning.”
“Why is she in full quarantine?”
“She was Virus positive. We found out when we did her blood tests. She was entering the acute phase, which triggered the organ failure. It happens like that: they go down fast. Even the young ones. And the strong ones. It’s an ugly way to go. We have to mop up the floors afterwards, there’s that much blood.” Bouthain spun out his tale for the man, adding unnecessary details. Ordinary men were terrified of the Virus, but Reuben hardly blinked.
“And who’s in the second pod? Another one? Get them both open. You, Bouthain, not him.”
Bouthain climbed up into the ambulance, opened the first pod, then the second. He beckoned Faro to follow him inside. When Faro crouched beside him, Bouthain gently moved aside the wrapping over Sabine’s face, not knowing what he would see, terrified that it would divulge all.
To his profound relief, she was still and pale, frozen still, not a hair moving, not even an eyelash. Bouthain could hear Faro exhaling harshly in the semidarkness. Without waiting for a response, he uncovered Julien’s face more quickly. “It’s Dr. Asfour.”
“Dr. Asfour? Julien Asfour?” Bouthain could hear Faro’s heavy, ragged breathing. “What happened to him?”
“He committed suicide. We found his body inside his office.” Bouthain’s voice was dry as tonic water.
Reuben looked puzzled. “Why did he do it?”
Bouthain thought fast; he had to make the explanation as plausible as possible. “Shifana doesn’t really like it when staff members kill themselves. Orders are to dispose of their bodies as quickly as possible. Between you and me, I think he got too close to the girl. He wanted to help her. Love-struck. The poor fool.” He thinned his lips disapprovingly, hoping his words and demeanor were convincing Faro. “Then he realized he’d made the wrong choice, and the consequences for his career … well, he was a driven man. He couldn’t handle the idea that he’d engineered his own failure, I suppose.”
“Pity,” said Faro. “I liked him. Oh well. Sometimes they crack under pressure. It wouldn’t be the first time. So how did he do it?”
“Poison,” was Bouthain’s laconic reply.
“Messy. Does his family know?”
“They’ll be told it was an accident. Something happened in the lab, something that necessitated quarantine for him, too. We don’
t want to underscore his weakness, do we?” Bouthain was gambling now that Faro wouldn’t ask too many questions about the medical side of things. He knew that Faro had reached a breaking point, that he could no longer keep up the elaborate ruse of his secret alliance with the Panah. He’d want to move things along quickly. But when men broke, the results were ugly; they would destroy anything around them as they came undone.
“Wait, wait, Reuben, what are you doing?”
It wasn’t easy for the larger man to maneuver around inside the tight confines of the ambulance, but Bouthain had no space himself to reach forward and prevent him from thrusting his face near Sabine to peer closely at her body.
“Faro, be careful …” said Bouthain. “The Virus is not a joke. You wouldn’t want to become a carrier.”
“I’ll take my chances,” said Reuben Faro.
If Sabine were awake, she’d tremble violently at the nearness of the man. Bouthain had noticed her doing it whenever they touched her at Shifana—trauma, no doubt, from her bad experiences with the men she’d encountered. He watched Reuben pondering her body, fearing that something would give her away, a twitch of her lips, the involuntary creasing of her forehead, a moan. He’d have to distract him somehow. “Faro. This isn’t protocol. It’s not safe. Leave it alone, now. Even if you don’t care about your own health, I’m responsible for it. I’ll have to answer for it if you end up infected.”
Faro chuckled, a soft, low sound: Bouthain and his protocols were of no importance to him. He reached inside the pod and pulled apart the rest of the polymer covering, then unfolded the cotton cloth around Sabine, exposing her entire body to his examination.
Reuben held his hand over Sabine’s mouth and nose. “She’s not breathing.”
“Have you forgotten the rules of science? They may no longer apply to you, but they still apply to other people,” Bouthain said with surprising harshness. “The dead don’t breathe. No, Faro, don’t touch her.”
