by Amy Cross
"They've completely cut us off from the outside world," Nurse Aubry adds, turning to me. "What the hell's wrong with this place? What are they scared of?"
"Us," I mutter, staring at the soldiers. "For some reason, they're scared of us."
"We have rights," adds another nurse, stepping toward the door and trying to push it open. "They can't keep us in here like animals."
"Step away from the door," the soldier says firmly.
"Or what?" the nurse asks as she continues to push, even though the door seems to be firmly secured. "You're gonna shoot me? Is that what you're gonna do?"
"No-one is allowed to pass this point," the soldier replies, "without the direct permission of General Kent."
"Where is this General Kent guy?" I ask. "I demand to see him! If he's going to close my ward down and keep my staff and patients under armed guard, the least he can do is show his goddamn face and explain what the hell's going on!"
"General Kent will be here shortly," the soldier says calmly. "Until that point, I'll remind you that no-one is to even attempt to open this door. Anyone who gains unauthorized passage beyond this point will be subject to extreme measures."
"And what does that mean?" I ask. "You're going to shoot us? If one of us manages to get out, are you just going to gun us down like common criminals?"
"That is the situation," the soldier replies. "We have our orders."
"But if -"
"General Kent will explain when he gets here," the soldier says firmly. "There's a protocol involved, and the protocol must be followed. General Kent is involved in other aspects of the operation right now, but I can assure you that he'll be along presently to speak to you."
"But -" Nurse Aubry starts to say.
"Don't bother," I say firmly, interrupting her. "This guy's not gonna tell us anything. There's no point talking to some brain-dead idiot. We'll have to wait until his boss shows up."
For a second, a flicker of anger crosses the soldier's face.
"So now what?" Nurse Aubry asks. "Are we just gonna sit around until they decide to let us out?"
Staring at the soldier for a moment, I realize that we're all essentially helpless when faced with these people. With more helicopters arriving overhead, and the sound of soldiers shouting in nearby corridors, it's clear that the entire hospital is in lockdown, and it's also becoming alarmingly apparent that this ward, Ward C, seems to be the focus of all the attention. We're at the mercy of men with guns, and I don't think we're going to be able to talk our way out of here using logic and reason.
"Tell the patients to stay in their rooms," I say after a moment. "I'm going to get some answers."
Cally Briggs
"Knock knock," says a voice as the door slides open a few inches, to reveal June's cautious, smiling face. "Do you two mind if I take refuge in here?"
"Sure," I reply, turning to Emma and seeing that she still has a look of fear in her eyes. We've been playing I Spy and cards for the past hour, but I can tell she's still terrified. Damn it, what kind of a mother am I? Why can't I stop my own daughter from being scared? I guess maybe the problem is that I'm one of the things that she's scared of.
"I've been sitting alone in my room," June says, pushing the door shut before shuffling toward us. "No-one tells me anything, you know. They rush past, and when you try to ask, they just brush you off and say that they'll come back soon, but they're not gonna come back. They're just..." She sighs as she reaches the chair by my bed and starts to lower herself down onto the cushion. "God, this is going to hurt," she says, tensing herself in advance of the pain. "Please excuse my howls, ladies, but I've got piles, and sitting down is hell."
"It's okay," I say, unable to suppress a slight smile at June's openness.
"Mary, mother of God," she says with a gasp as she sits. "They're worse today, you know. Oh God, it's like a ring of fire." She lets out a pained laugh. "Don't worry, Emma. It's nothing to worry about. Believe me, you don't wanna know what I've got."
"What are piles?" Emma asks.
June grins.
"Nothing," I say, collecting the cards from our last game of Snap and starting to give them a shuffle.
"Do you have piles?" Emma continues, turning to me with a frown.
"Just one or two," I reply.
"One or two?" June says, sounding shocked. "Jesus, you don't know you've been born. Wait until you've got fifty of the fuckers, and then you can start complaining. Every time I sit down, it's like planting my cheeks on a goddamn pin cushion. And don't even get me started about what it's like to go to the -"
"Do you want to play Snap?" I ask, intentionally cutting her off before she can get too graphic.
"Sure," she mutters, before glancing at the door. "So, do you know what's happening out there?"
"I've been telling Emma not to worry," I reply, hoping that June gets the message and realizes that she needs to filter everything she says in front of my daughter.
"It's the frog's fault," June replies, turning to me.
Emma frowns.
"The frog?" I ask.
"You know," June continues, "the frog. The one they helicoptered in from Paris yesterday."
"You mean the French woman," I reply with a sigh. "I'm not sure we want to be using terms like 'frog', not in front of Emma. This is the twenty-first century."
"Whatever," June replies. "You know who I mean. Dominique something. I knew it was bad news the moment she was wheeled into this place. I got a glimpse of her, you know. I've been here long enough to recognize the face of a cancer patient from a hundred yards, and I'll tell you for free that there was something else wrong with her. Cancer, sure, but something else. She was a little yellow around the gills, but it was the wrong shade of yellow, and I could tell the quacks were locked in some pretty deep discussions about her."
"What's a quack?" Emma asks.
"She's referring to the doctors," I explain.
"They were tense," June continues. "They were blathering on about this, that and the other, and it was as if they really didn't know what was wrong with that frog... I mean, that woman." She pauses, clearly filled with frustration. "You know what I think? I think she brought something back with her from Haiti. You know she was in Haiti, right? That's where she was working, and they ended up calling her Dr. Death or the Angel of Death or something like that. Probably both. And then they wheel her in here, and the next thing you know, the place is full of soldiers."
"You don't know that it's anything to do with her," I reply, trying to keep things calm.
"She died this morning," she adds.
I open my mouth to reply, but something holds me back for a moment. "Did she?" I ask, feeling as if a cold sweat just passed through my body. "I didn't know that."
"I overheard some of the nurses talking. I swear, I spend half my time loitering near the nurses' station, listening in to their conversations. I don't know why they don't just issue a newsletter so the rest of us can have a better idea of what's happening on our own ward. I mean, we live here, so don't we deserve to be kept fully informed?"
I smile politely. To be honest, the news of the new arrival's death has hit me pretty hard. After all, I know I've only got a few weeks left myself, so every time I think about a dead body in the examination room, I'm forced to consider the fact that sooner rather than later, I'll be on that slab.
"So tell me," June continues. "Do you really think it's a coincidence? That woman arrives from Haiti, and then she dies, and then this whole place goes into lockdown."
I pause. Even though I want to dismiss her concerns, for once, I think she might actually be right. Partly, anyway. "I thought she was in Haiti a while ago," I say after a moment. "You said she was there a few years back. It's not like she caught a direct flight."
"Doesn't matter," she shoots back, as if she was ready for my argument. "There's things that can stay dormant in the body and then spring up when no-one's expecting them."
"I'm sure the doctors took adequate precauti
ons," I reply.
"You'd think so, but then why's the army outside, huh?" She shifts in her seat, letting out a gasp of pain as she irritates her piles. "Face it. Someone's fucked up -"
"Not in front of Emma," I say quickly.
"Sorry, kid," June replies, smiling at my daughter. "Don't worry, everything's gonna be okay. A bunch of adults have royally messed things up around here, but they'll get it sorted out eventually. Maybe it'll take a few hours, but it's not like they can keep us here forever, right?" She pauses. "I think we deserve compensation for stress," she adds, turning to me. "Seriously, this has played havoc with my constitution. People in our condition should be kept protected from this kind of thing, not treated like cattle."
"I don't think any of it was planned," I say calmly, as I start to deal the cards again for my next game of Snap with Emma.
"I've read about some of the things that happened in Haiti," June continues, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "So many different diseases. So much pain and human suffering. If that French woman brought back even a smidgen of the stuff she must have been exposed to over there, she's probably got enough bacteria and viruses to infect a whole goddamn town! Have you read the official reports into what happened over there?"
"Can't say that I have," I mutter.
"I have!"
"I'm sure."
"There are consequences, you know," she continues, sounding as if she's very sure of herself. "When stuff like that happens, people only think about the consequences in terms of ticking boxes and shifting the blame. But there are other consequences. What if that woman contracted some kind of new disease out there? What if she's got something that medical science doesn't understand, and now this whole ward is infected? It's bound to happen sooner or later. I've been reading these websites -"
"Oh God," I mutter.
"I'm serious!" she continues. "Medical experts predict that there'll be a major new disease or virus in the next few decades, something that'll seriously threaten humanity! It's a ticking time-bomb!"
"What does that mean?" Emma asks, turning to me with a wide-eyed, innocent stare.
"Nothing, sweetheart," I say, flashing her a reassuring smile before turning to June and raising my eyebrows, hoping to make her understand that she's scaring my daughter.
"It means that we know who's to blame for those soldiers turning up," June replies. "That's all, honey. And it means we're not the ones who can clean up the mess, so hopefully we can just sit around here and wait for other people to sort it all out. I mean, Christ, there are people who are paid to deal with this kind of thing, right? So where the fuck are they? Why can't they do their fucking jobs and -"
"June!" I say firmly. "I don't mean to be a prude, but can you tone the language down a little around Emma?"
Sighing, June starts to slowly lift herself out of the chair.
"You don't have to leave," I reply, realizing that I've offended her.
"It's not that," she mutters, with an annoyed look on her face. "My bladder's not what it used to be, and I wanna get back to my room before I have a little accident, if you know what I mean. Anyway, at a time like this, I don't see that there's anything wrong with cursing. A good bit of cursing is sometimes just what's needed."
"I just don't see the point in arguing," I tell her. "What do you think is gonna happen? We're gonna walk up to the door, tell those soldiers to be reasonable, and they're gonna decide we're right and open the door?" I stare at her for a moment, hoping against hope that she might see sense. "Give it a few hours and that door'll be wide open. I'm sure."
"Do you really think so, Mummy?" Emma asks. "I want to go home to Daddy."
"It's okay," I reply, turning to her. "You're gonna get to go home. Until then, do you want to play some more Snap?"
As June starts shuffling toward the door, I get ready to play with Emma again. Although I know that June's probably right about a lot of things, I still can't quite bring myself to believe that we're in the middle of a full-fledged military operation. Things will be back to normal soon, although as that thought crosses my mind, I hear more helicopters arriving overhead, and I can't help wondering whether the military would really send so many troops unless there was something seriously wrong. Seconds later, the ceiling seems to shake a little, followed by what sounds like people running directly above us. In the distance, men are shouting.
"Mummy?" Emma says after a moment. "You look worried."
"I'm not," I say, even though it's a lie.
She stares at me.
"Honestly," I reply, aware that I have to hold myself together for Emma's sake. "Trust me, sweetheart. Everything's going to be okay. I promise."
Dr. Andrew Page
"Land-lines are down," Dr. Gerrold says, still tapping at the phone on his desk in the forlorn hope that he might be able to get through to someone. "Mobile phones aren't picking up any kind of signal, and there's no network connection on any of the computers. Frankly, we're lucky they're still letting us have oxygen and electricity. I haven't checked to see if the toilets flush yet, but I'm assuming they'll at least grant us that courtesy."
"And no-one's told you a damn thing?" I ask, standing in the doorway. "This is just as much a surprise to you as it is to the rest of us?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" he replies.
"Just that I know there are other channels of communication in this hospital," I continue, "besides the official ones." Pausing for a moment, I wait for him to reply, but he seems lost in thought. "I know you're on good terms with the people who run this place," I add eventually. "You go to all the right dinner parties and cocktail evenings, all that kind of crap. Haven't you heard anything at all?"
"If you're suggesting that I was given some kind of advance warning," he replies bitterly, "then I can assure you that you're barking up the wrong tree. As far as I'm concerned, this has come completely out of the blue. I was talking to some of the hospital's directors just a few hours ago, and I never got so much as a hint that there might be a problem. Whatever's going on, it seems to be very sudden. It's obviously an emergency of some description."
"And that's good enough for you?"
"I'm afraid I don't see your point."
"You just seem rather calm," I point out.
"At least we're in good hands," he mutters.
"Who?" I ask. "The military? Don't tell me you actually trust them?"
"Britain has the finest army in the world," he replies with a frown. "I won't have a bad word said about our soldiers. If they're doing this, you can be damn sure there's a good reason."
"I never knew you were so trusting," I tell him.
"What would you like me to do?" he asks. "Hammer on the doors and windows? Scream for help? Demand to be let out? I doubt I'd get very far. It's very hard to negotiate with a well-armed man, Andrew. No matter what kind of disagreements you endure, he always knows that at the end of the day he has a gun and you don't." He pauses for a moment. "They're not going to listen to us. They're soldiers. They're going to tell us what to do, and we're going to do it. We might not like them, but they're hardly evil. They have their reasons for doing this, even if they haven't deigned to share those reasons with us yet."
"So you're not worried?"
"I'm curious," he replies, "but I refuse to panic. We have to deal with this in an ordered, logical manner."
Sighing, I glance out into the corridor for a moment. There's still a small crowd gathered by the main door, jostling for position while the soldiers continue to keep guard on the other side of the glass. Maybe I'm worrying unnecessarily, but I can't shake the feeling that sooner or later this situation is going to blow up in our faces. You can't take a bunch of ordinary, law-abiding citizens and expect to just lock them up without consequences. People are going to start panicking, and when people panic, things can get ugly.
"This'll all be over soon," Dr. Gerrold says after a moment. "Let's just ride it out."
"Ride it out?" I reply, turning to him. "A
re you serious? There are armed men guarding the door to this ward, and you want to just act like nothing unusual is happening?"
"They'll take care of us," he continues, as if he finds my continued questions to be little more than a minor irritation. "They're not here for their own amusement, Andrew. We have to trust that they know what they're doing. This is Britain, and we do things properly here. At least it's our own soldiers and not the damn Yanks. Let's just show everyone that despite the drama, we're capable of getting on with our work and that our patients' needs remain our number one priority. The soldiers have their job to do, and we have ours. It's no use second-guessing them. Would you like it if they came and told us how to treat our patients?"
"No," I say firmly, "this feels different. Have you seen how many troops there are? Take a look out the fucking window. They've got enough men out there to invade a small country. I've never seen anything like it."
"We just have to be patient."
"In case you haven't noticed," I reply, "I've never been a patient kind of person."
"Well maybe now would be a very good time to practice," he points out. "Whatever the hell's happening, this is still a hospital ward and our patients still need to be monitored and kept in optimal health. I need you to get the rest of the staff together and make sure that patient care isn't suffering. When this mess is over, it's our asses that'll be on the line if someone turns around and sues us because we forget to follow a treatment regimen." Looking down at some paperwork on his desk, he pauses for a moment. "Cally Briggs, for example. These figures from her latest blood panel can't possibly be correct. Someone clearly contaminated the sample. It needs to be done again."
"Let me see," I reply wearily, taking the print-out as he hands it to me. Scanning the figures, I realize that he's right: the numbers for Cally Briggs' blood are way out of line, although there's something strangely familiar about what I'm seeing, almost like a kind of pattern in the chaos. "Do you remember the data we got from the French hospital about Dominique Ribery?" I ask after a moment.
