“Oh, God, get away from her,” a girl in the back of the class said, and before I could even open my mouth to speak again, they were all bolting for the door, a couple of them even overturning their desks in their haste.
A few seconds later, I was alone in the classroom with Taylor, who continued to look around blankly, seeming unaware that she’d managed to clear the space in about five seconds flat.
A cowardly part of me wanted to take off as well, but I told myself I couldn’t do that — I was the teacher (okay, the T.A.), and I had some sort of responsibility to make sure she was all right. Besides, if she really did have the Heat, then I’d already been exposed, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it now.
I approached her and put a hand on her forehead. Jesus Christ. She felt as if she was on fire from within. No wonder she was having a hard time focusing on anything. She was so hot that her brain must be cooking right inside her skull.
The university hospital was all the way across campus. I was stronger than I looked, thanks to a childhood spent hiking and walking and going to the shooting range with my father, but I knew there was no way I could get Taylor all that distance by myself.
Shaking, I went to my desk and pulled my purse out of the drawer where I always stowed it. My fingers trembled as well while I got out my phone. Thank God it wasn’t too much work to dial 911.
It rang…and rang…and rang. Panic started to set in. I could feel my heart beginning to pound and my own nervous sweats starting, although I didn’t think I was running a fever. Not yet, anyway.
Then, at last: “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
I cleared my throat. “Hi, my name is Jessica Monroe, and I’m in Building 81 on the UNM campus. One of my students is very sick and unable to walk. I’m pretty sure she needs to go to the hospital.”
“Symptoms?”
“A very high fever.”
I could have sworn I heard a muttered “shit” at the other end of the line, followed by a long pause. “Ms. Monroe, we are experiencing longer-than-normal response times for ambulances due to heavy volume. We will get someone out to you, but it may be a while.”
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what that meant. Maybe it was lagging behind, but the Heat had finally come to Albuquerque.
I sat with Taylor, since I didn’t know what else to do. She held on to the edge of her desk as if it was the only thing keeping her anchored to reality, her head first lolling this way and then that, her glassy dark eyes staring off into the distance, as if fixed on some object only she could see. It was frightening enough just being close to someone who was that sick, but even more frightening was how detached from reality she seemed to be. We Monroes were a healthy lot, and so I didn’t have a lot of experience being around sick people. Devin got a horrible stomach flu one year, and we had colds and coughs from time to time, but nothing like this.
Sweat was dripping down Taylor’s forehead and staining the tight T-shirt she wore. More rivulets of perspiration ran down into her cleavage, but I doubted anyone would have found the sight particularly sexy. For myself, I could only think of the millions of microbes she must be spreading in every direction each time she shifted in her seat. One time she shook like a dog, and little droplets of sweat sprayed everywhere, a few hitting me right in the face.
It took every ounce of willpower I had not to swear out loud. Belatedly, I realized that I had a partially drunk bottle of water in my purse. I doubted that would do much to help her, but at least it was something. And I had a feeling she was far past worrying about any germs I might have left behind on the bottle.
“Taylor?” I asked. No recognition in those strained dark eyes, which were still staring out at something only visible to her. “How about some water?”
She blinked. Maybe it was the only way she could answer, or maybe it was simply an involuntary reflex. Either way, it gave me an excuse to get up from the desk next to hers, to go to my purse and fetch the bottle of water. As I approached her, I could almost feel the heat emanating from her, impossibly, inhumanly warm.
What must her temperature be? I had no way of knowing, but I wondered how anyone could stay alive and conscious — even the fragile consciousness she was clinging to right now — while suffering such a high fever.
“Taylor, here’s the water.” She didn’t seem capable of taking the bottle herself, so I held it to her lips. For a second she didn’t move, only let the opening rest against her mouth, and then some lizard-brain function must have kicked in, because she latched onto it and drank greedily while I tilted the rest of the bottle’s contents into her mouth. Within a few seconds, all the water was gone.
“That’s all,” I told her, but she didn’t seem to understand, even lifting one hand to grab at the bottle when I began to pull it away. “Just rest, Taylor. Please. The ambulance will be here soon.”
That, of course, was a lie. I had no idea what “longer-than-normal response times” might mean, since I’d never called an ambulance for anyone in my life. My father might know, but even if I could get a hold of him, which I doubted, he’d probably read me the riot act for not getting out of there the second Taylor started to display symptoms. Or maybe not. He was pretty big on the whole “serve and protect” mentality.
Right now, though, I had a feeling I was on my own.
I pulled my cell phone out of my jeans pocket where I’d stowed it and looked at the time. Fifteen minutes since I’d called 911. It felt roughly ten times that. A quarter-hour response time wasn’t great, but it also didn’t feel too outside what might be considered normal. I might be waiting much, much longer than this. Biting my lip, I went to my contacts list and pushed the button for campus security, since I figured they might be faster than the paramedics, but the line was busy. I ended the call and tried again. Still nothing. Damn it.
As if finally registering that there was no more water, Taylor slumped back in her seat, head tilting to one side. Her body was twitching feebly. Some kind of convulsion? Again, my lack of experience with any kind of serious illness stymied me. Maybe it would be better for her to lie down, but the linoleum floor had to be far less comfortable than the chair. Since it had been a warm day, nearly eighty degrees, she didn’t have a sweater or jacket that I could lay her on, and I hadn’t brought one with me, either.
Never before in my life had I felt so useless, standing there and watching as the sweat rolled off her and she continued to jerk helplessly, like her body was being controlled by some unseen puppeteer. I went to the browser on my phone, thinking that maybe I could click over to WebMD or something and see if there was anything else I could do to help her, but no matter how many times I backed out of the browser app and tried to refresh it, I couldn’t get the damn thing to connect. It wasn’t the first time my phone had acted up like this, but in general I had good connectivity here at school. I had a feeling the phone wasn’t the real problem.
But no, I didn’t want to think about that. I didn’t want to think about what might be going on outside the door to my classroom, what might be happening to my parents or my brother.
No, I thought fiercely. They’re fine. They have to be.
Just when I was about to give up and dial 911 again, the door burst inward, and two men carrying a stretcher entered the classroom. Thank God you’re here died on my lips, because they weren’t wearing the usual dark jackets and pants of EMTs, but full head-to-toe yellow biohazard suits, the kind of gear I’d seen on TV on doctors and nurses treating people with Ebola.
They went straight to Taylor, extricated her from her desk, and laid her down on the stretcher. Once they were done with that and she was strapped in, one of them turned toward me.
“Name?”
I guessed they were asking about Taylor, not me. “Taylor Ortiz,” I told him. “That’s her purse right there on the floor. It should have her I.D. in it.”
The EMT grabbed her purse by the strap and lifted it from the floor, then extracted her wallet fro
m within. He opened it, glanced at her driver’s license, and then nodded and dropped the wallet back in her purse. “You?”
“Me?” I blinked at him, then responded, “Jessica Monroe. I’m the T.A.”
“How are you feeling?”
Scared. “Fine. That is, I don’t feel like I’m running a fever or anything.” Did that even matter? I hadn’t heard what the incubation period was for the Heat, but I assumed it didn’t have instantaneous onset. No disease did…or did it?
“Go straight home,” the EMT said. “No contact with anyone else. If you start to exhibit symptoms, don’t call your doctor. Go straight to the hospital.”
“But….” The word trailed off as I attempted to gather my thoughts. Something about this didn’t feel right. No, wait, scratch that — nothing about it felt right. I’d been exposed to someone who obviously had the Heat. Shouldn’t they be quarantining me or something?
The EMT’s hooded head tilted to one side as he waited for me to spit it out.
I said, “If she’s sick, haven’t I been infected, too? Don’t I, I don’t know, have to be isolated or something?”
“We don’t have the facilities for that. Best thing to do is go home and stay away from other people. If you do get sick, get to the hospital. That’s all I can tell you.”
Then he nodded at his compatriot, and they both crouched down and lifted the stretcher, hauling Taylor out of the room. It was only after the door had shut behind them that I realized they’d left her purse behind, as if who she was didn’t matter.
My phone went off then, and I looked down at the text that had just appeared on my home screen. Due to health emergency, all classes are suspended indefinitely. We ask that all students go to their residences immediately and remain there until further notice.
So the university’s student alert system had finally kicked in.
Too bad that it was already too late.
Chapter Two
The campus was mostly deserted when I emerged from the classroom at a little before noon and locked the door behind me. In a way that was good, as at least I didn’t have to play dodge ’em with anyone who looked infected. But there was still a long line of cars waiting to get out of the parking lot, and I sat there, worry mounting as the minutes ticked past.
What did it feel like when the Heat came over you? A sudden spike in temperature? Or was it a slow, gradual burn, until you, like a lobster in a pot, ended up boiling in your own juices?
I didn’t know. And all this had happened so quickly that there hadn’t been much detail on the news, either. Or maybe they’d repressed what they did know, lest they throw everyone into a panic.
At last I was able to pull out on Central, then headed west. Did I dare take the freeway to get home? All around me, the streets were choked, full of people obviously trying to get to their own homes, so I had a feeling the freeway was a very bad idea. Instead, I ended up zigzagging my way out of the downtown area, finally making it over to 12th so I could head north. A few more zigzags, and then I was back in a residential section, although still a few miles from home. There was less traffic here, although I noticed more cars on the streets than there normally would have been in the middle of the day when everyone should have been at work.
A sigh of relief escaped my lips as I pulled up in front of the house and I saw my mother’s Escape parked in the driveway. No sign of Dad’s Grand Cherokee, or the police cruiser he sometimes brought home. But at least my mother was here.
I scrambled out of the car, then hurried down the driveway to let myself in the back door. We almost never came and went through the front, mostly because my mother was unnecessarily fussy about the Berber carpet in the living room. Better to track dirt through the kitchen, which had abused linoleum she’d been wanting to get rid of for years.
“Mom?” I called out as I came in through the service porch, then on into the kitchen.
“Jess?” she called back. I heard feet approaching from the hallway that ran down the middle of the house. When she came around the corner, I saw that her face was dead white. She let out a little choked sob when she saw me. “Oh, thank God.”
At any other time her reaction might have startled me, but not now. Not after what had just happened to Taylor Ortiz. “I’m fine,” I said. “Only — ”
Her brows drew together. “Only?”
“A girl in my class — she had it. The EMTs came and got her, but they sent me home. It’s probably better if you don’t come too close.”
“Oh, God,” she said, this time invoking the name in horror rather than in relief. She appeared to gather herself, voice strained as she went on, “How do you feel?”
I paused to take stock. “Okay, actually,” I told her. It was true, too. Yes, I was a little shaken after being that close to someone that sick, and then having to fight my way home through hordes of panicky motorists, but otherwise, I felt fine. No fever. No chills. No sweats.
Despite what I’d just told her about staying away, she took a step closer. Motherly instinct, I supposed. She had to reassure herself that I was all right and not merely take my word for it. But because she was a smart woman, she only came close enough to see for herself that I wasn’t flushed or feverish or sweaty.
After a long pause, she nodded. “I keep flipping through the stations, trying to see if someone is giving out any concrete information. What the incubation period is. How infectious the disease is. The — the mortality rate.” She pulled in a breath. “And there’s nothing, except that the situation is being handled and that people should stay home whenever possible. What kind of a policy is that?”
I didn’t know. I would have assumed that in most cases of infection, the CDC would have send out teams to quarantine people and triage those affected, would do everything possible to keep the disease from spreading any further. Or at least, that was what I’d observed on TV when the news covered outbreaks of bird flu or whatever. But I’d seen no real government presence on my way home today, no squads of experts in biohazard gear, no blacked-out SUVs speeding down the street, no…nothing. It was as if this thing was spreading so quickly the government couldn’t begin to contain it.
That thought was too frightening, though, and I quickly pushed it away. Instead, I asked, “Dad? Devin?”
She glanced away from me, her mouth tight. “I can’t reach your father. I sent a text to Devin, telling him to come home, but he hasn’t answered me. I called the school and got a recording that classes had been canceled and everyone sent home. So my best guess is he’s taking the opportunity to have a little unsupervised time with Lori.”
Lori was his girlfriend. The two had been joined at the hip since spring break last year, and I had a feeling my mother’s guess was all too correct. “Did you try calling her house?”
“Of course I did. No answer. And I don’t have her cell number — Devin would never give it to me. At the time, I didn’t think it was worth nagging him about it. Now….”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I said quickly. No point in having my mother worry any more than absolutely necessary. “If they’re at Lori’s house, then at least they’re inside and away from other people.”
“True, but….”
I knew she would fret about this until Devin appeared, whenever that was. In that moment, fury flashed through me, that he would be so selfish as to go off and bang his girlfriend or whatever while the rest of us were worried sick about him. Uttering such a thing out loud would just set my mother off that much more, though, so I only said, “Why don’t you have some tea while you’re waiting? I need to go up to my apartment and wash my hands and get straightened up, but I’ll be right back down.”
Her eyes were far away, but she nodded. “That sounds like a good idea.”
I sent her what I hoped was an encouraging smile, then went out the back door and down the driveway to the detached garage. The apartment built over it was small, just a little over four hundred square feet, so there was a tiny living room, a spot under
one window for a table and two chairs, a kitchenette, and then the bedroom and bath, which was so small I could reach out from the shower stall and open the door if I had to. But at least it was mine, and it felt good to escape there, to hurry up the stairs and run to the bathroom so I could turn on the water as hot as I could stand it, then let it run over my hands as I scrubbed them again and again with antibacterial soap.
As if that would make a difference. It was better than nothing, though, and I couldn’t think of what else to do. My eyes stared back at me from within the mirror, wide and dark, shadowed with worry. I was pale, but I didn’t look sick.
After blotting my hands on a towel, I reached up and felt my forehead. It didn’t seem overly warm, but I’d always heard you couldn’t really detect your own temperature by doing that. So I opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the digital thermometer I kept there. After cleaning it off with some rubbing alcohol, I popped it in my mouth and waited.
The seconds went by with agonizing slowness. I wandered out to the living room and sat down on the futon, wondering whether I should turn on my TV, see if I could find anything worth watching. But then, if my mother had been unable to, what made me think I would have any better luck?
Instead, I stared out the window at the tree outside, a honey locust, its leaves just beginning to turn yellow. It was warm during the day, but the nights were already cold. The tree knew its time was coming.
Did I?
The thermometer beeped, indicating it was done measuring my temperature, and I pulled it out of my mouth. For the longest moment, I only held it, scared to look at what the readout might say. Finally, I forced myself to glance down.
97.6.
My breath whooshed out of me, and I dropped the thermometer on top of the coffee table. No temperature at all. On the low side, actually.
But what did that mean? Once you were infected, how long did it take for your fever to start building?
I didn’t know. All I did know was that I wasn’t sick. Not yet, anyway. And I’d left my mother alone long enough. Even if I couldn’t sit next to her, I would be close enough so we could talk, and that would help to keep her from worrying until Devin came home. Which he would, eventually, after he’d gotten his rocks off. I loved my little brother, but sometimes he wasn’t the most considerate of other people’s feelings. Well, other people who weren’t his girlfriend, that is.
Magic in the Desert: Three Paranormal Romance Series Starters Set in the American Southwest Page 27
