by Robin Crumby
“You should get yourself checked out. Perhaps you came into contact with something?”
She drained the glass of water in front of her, but struggled to swallow. The drink only seemed to make things worse. She suddenly began to claw at her windpipe, her throat blotchy and red. She was struggling to breathe. She leaned back in her chair, wild-eyed.
Zed panicked, not sure what to do. She was pointing over his shoulder to get help from one of her colleagues. He banged on the glass door to get their attention, feeling helpless. A young Asian woman was the first to react and threw open the door.
“What’s going on? Gill?”
“I don’t know. She said she was feeling weird. Her skin was itchy. Then she drank some of that water, and this happened.”
The Asian woman eyed the glass of water suspiciously. “Gerry!” she shouted over her shoulder. “Get a paramedic in here now!”
****
While they waited, the Asian woman hastily donned some rubber gloves and a face mask and handed Zed the same. He lifted Gill out of her swivel chair and laid her back on the leather sofa in the corner, placing a cushion under her head and a blanket over her chest. Her eyes were closed, and she was having trouble breathing, her chest rasping and rattling like an old lady.
The paramedic ran in with a green shoulder bag which he dumped next to the sofa, clipping his mask into place. “How long has she been like this?” he said, feeling her forehead and taking her pulse with his other hand.
“I was just talking to her. Less than two minutes.”
“If she’s ingested something, we need to get it out quickly. I’m going to give her an emetic to make her sick. Grab that bin, will you?”
The paramedic rummaged around in his bag and pulled out a small container labelled Ipecac syrup. Craning her head, he poured some of the liquid into her mouth. The reaction was almost instantaneous.
He inspected the contents of the waste bin but seemed none the wiser. He placed an oxygen mask over her face and looked over his shoulder, calling for assistance.
Two paramedics appeared at the doorway and advanced towards them carrying a stretcher. Gill’s condition, far from improving, seemed to be deteriorating rapidly. There was a frothy discharge from her nose and mouth as her chest heaved. One of the paramedics gently pushed Zed out the way, making room for them to lift her on to the gurney and take her to the medical centre.
Zed stood back, his hand to his mouth, watching them leave.
The Asian woman folded her arms. “Who exactly did you say you were?”
“I’m an old friend of Gill’s. Zed Samuels. I’m working for the colonel. Look,” he said, batting away her questions, “has anyone else been to visit her in the last half an hour?”
“Nope, just you.”
He looked around the room, trying to figure out what could have happened, noticing a small ventilation grill directly behind her desk. Was it possible the place had become contaminated? If so, why wasn’t he affected? No alarm had sounded, and the lights on the sensor were illuminated and showing green. He looked back at the desk.
“There was a glass right there,” he said, pointing.
“What glass?”
There was a water mark but no glass.
Chapter Thirty-six
By all accounts, the reports from the quarantine camp made for grim reading. The chaplain looked visibly shaken as if the gates of hell itself had opened. He passed the report to David Woods, the politician Riley had met once before. There only appeared to be one printed copy.
Sergeant Jones’s advice was troubling her. What had spooked the Americans enough to order an evacuation of all personnel? Perhaps they had seen at first hand the scale of the outbreak.
“How bad is it, padre?” asked Riley, when he had finished reading the report.
“Nineteen dead, hundreds more infected.”
“Camp Three was the source of the outbreak,” added the politician, removing his cream blazer and straightening his tie.
“How far is that from here?” asked Riley.
“It’s a refugee camp for new arrivals just south of Newport. Not far. By the end of the week, we’re expecting most of the camp to be infected.” David Woods uttered the word “refugee” with particular distaste as if he blamed them for bringing disease to the island. His views on immigration were well known.
“Do we know what we’re dealing with?”
“Everything’s happening faster this time,” said Captain Armstrong. “Spreading quicker, more deadly. We might be dealing with a new strain.”
“Are we sure it’s been contained?” asked David Woods, with obvious concern.
Armstrong hesitated as if regretting what he was about to say. “I’m afraid not. Two of the other camps are now reporting similar outbreaks.”
“Then we need to get Doctor Hardy and his team back from Porton as soon as possible.”
“Do we know their status?”
“They’re dealing with a security situation at Porton. Sustained attack by a large heavily armed group. Well-coordinated. Multiple casualties. Suspected gas attack using VX. The colonel has requested immediate evacuation.”
“Until they’ve got control, we can’t risk sending our Merlins.”
“That’s no longer an option, sir. Both Merlins are grounded. One of them got shot up over Southampton yesterday, and the other needs some spare parts from the mainland.”
“Peterson, can you spare the Seahawk?”
“We’re expecting Sergeant Jones back sometime this afternoon.”
“Very well. Let’s get a team ready to leave as soon as possible. In the meantime, Camp Three has requested additional resources be deployed. If this is some new strain, then we need to know what we’re dealing with.”
“Yes, sir.”
****
As the meeting broke up, Riley approached Captain Armstrong.
“Captain, I’d like to volunteer to go with the team to Porton. I know the site and, well, Zed and the colonel are there.”
“Out of the question. I can’t send a civilian into that war zone.”
“With all due respect, I’m aware of the risks. I might be able to help. I know my way around Porton.”
“The Americans will have operational command. It’ll be Sergeant Jones’s call, but I’ll certainly pass on your offer.” He noted her disappointment and suggested an alternative. “Can I ask you something in return? The medical team is short-staffed. Perhaps you would go with the padre to Camp Three? There are going to be a lot of frightened people there. We could do with all the help we can get. Sister Imelda too.”
“Whatever I can do to help, captain. Let me have a chat with the sister.”
When Riley relayed the captain’s request, the padre nodded in resignation, but the sister seemed to draw back, flustered by the suggestion.
“If we’re going to be allowed to leave St Mary’s, then I’d prefer to return to my own people. They’ll need me just as much as anyone at Camp Three.”
“But sister, there are no reports of sickness in Ventnor.”
“That’s not the point. The doctors say that pregnant women and newborn babies will be particularly vulnerable. I need to warn them.”
“And risk spreading infection?” challenged the chaplain, before seeming to pull back. “The sister must do what she feels is right,” he said, inclining his head, too gracious to challenge what Riley suspected as cowardice. “Perhaps, if you do end up staying, in my absence, you’d be good enough to remain in the chapel where everyone can find you?”
“Of course, father, it would be my honour.”
****
Half an hour later, Riley and the chaplain reported to the car park where a convoy of military vehicles was being readied for departure.
At its head was an armoured personnel carrier followed by two minibuses carrying the doctors and nurses. The windscreens and windows of the buses were reinforced with rusting metal grills, their front bumpers fitted with bullbars and what look
ed like a snow plough. All personnel had been issued with green hazmat suits with a simple mask that they were instructed to wear at all times when inside the compound.
The crowd at the front gate had swollen further, and hundreds of faces were now pressed against the perimeter fence, watching the convoy load up.
“How are we meant to get out with all these people here?” asked Riley.
“If they don’t disperse voluntarily, then they’ll use tear gas, same as they did last time,” answered the padre.
As if on cue, two guards emerged from their hut with a single-barrelled launcher. They inserted a canister and took aim at the front gate, some thirty metres away. With a soft thump, the canister came skidding to a halt at the feet of the crowd. One of the men stooped to pick it up but was quickly enveloped by a dense cloud of choking smoke.
A second and third canister were fired to left and right of the group, and the tear gas drifted over the crowd. People began clutching clothing to their mouths, coughing. In a few minutes, the protesters staggered away, their eyes streaming. A few remained slumped at the side of the road, heads between their legs, tears streaming down their faces. One man emerged from the gas cloud, pointing and shouting at the soldiers, a gas mask obscuring his features.
A guard unit advanced towards the gate with semi-automatic weapons drawn, cautioning the remaining protesters to disperse immediately. The last stragglers turned and ran.
As soon as the heavy gates were pushed to the side, the lead APC revved its diesel engine and set off down the road, followed closely by the two minibuses.
****
The senior medical officer briefed them en route. Camp Three housed nearly six hundred refugees in a fenced-off quarantine zone. In any normal cycle, they would be made to wait the required forty-eight hours before being assigned to work parties based on their skills and experience. At the first sign of infection, almost thirty hours ago, the whole camp went into lockdown. Those displaying early symptoms were immediately separated and placed into holding areas.
The officer in charge of Camp Three met them by the front entrance and updated them with the latest information. Over one hundred were already sick or dying, and they expected that number to double over the coming days. A morgue had been set up at the far end of the compound to accommodate the bodies.
“We’ll need to take blood samples from all the victims,” insisted a grey-haired registrar from the hospital.
“Help yourselves. They’re laid out in chronological order. The first fatality is at the far end, working forward through to those that died earlier today nearest the door.”
“How many in total?”
“Twenty-three so far. If it goes on like this, we’re going to need a bigger morgue. It’s not just the refugees either; we’ve lost two nurses now.”
“It’s like we’re fighting some unseen ghost,” admitted his deputy.
The padre’s head came up as if stirred by this turn of phrase. “The Spanish Lady,” he muttered. “People are superstitious, you see. In Christian iconography, she was a dark exterminating angel, punishing those who had sinned. A mater dolorosa, if you like, mother of sorrows, a physical embodiment of God’s vengeance, walking among them, spreading disease.”
“These people are terrified, padre. They’ll latch onto any conspiracy theory. We’ve already dealt with instances of prejudice, victimisation, racism, anti-Semitism.”
“Someone’s always to blame. Muslims, Asians, the Jews.”
“Yellow, brown or black,” cautioned the chaplain, gesturing towards his own skin, “the virus has no regard for the colour of our skin.”
“I’m sorry, father. I meant no offence. Everyone’s frightened, that’s all. They’re not thinking rationally.”
“None taken. We are all equal in the eyes of the Lord.”
“With so many people packed together here from all over the country, it’s virtually impossible to control the spread of infection,” added a young doctor.
“They said the same thing about the military training camps at the end of the First World War. They were breeding grounds for disease, like the Spanish flu.”
The officer in charge led them through to a large marquee being used as a field hospital. The pungent smell of the place caught in Riley’s throat. It was almost as if the victims’ flesh was rotting on their still live frames.
On every inch of floor space, the sick had been laid out on plastic sheeting and bedrolls until it became impossible to move between them without treading on someone.
Undeterred, the padre tiptoed from person to person, kneeling beside them on the cold earth, where space allowed, listening carefully to their gasped words of confession. He administered last rites to those with more advanced symptoms. Riley followed closely behind, offering her own words of comfort. One of the Ghanaian victims they attended to looked up at Riley and the padre with terror in his eyes, mouthing something she didn’t catch.
“What did he say?” she asked the padre.
“He thinks I’m some sort of witch doctor come to save him.”
Several of the bodies were lifeless and could not be shaken awake. He looked back at the officer in charge with a heavy heart, steeling himself for the task at hand.
“Sergeant, can you organise a clear-out? We’ll need to make room for new cases.”
The usual organised cleanliness that you came to expect of a hospital was strangely absent. In its place was mild panic. They had all experienced this before, the memories still vivid from last time. Most thought they would never have to witness death and destruction on that scale again and yet here they were, not even three years later.
Each curtained-off section they went into was a vision from hell itself. Patients coughing blood, nosebleeds that could not be stopped, young men and women crying for help. The plastic sheeting was sticky with congealed blood. Patients gasped for air like fish out of water.
One of the nurses closest to Riley tried to place an oxygen mask back over a young man’s face but in his fever he rolled his head from side to side, fighting for breath. His eyes opened wide for an instant, back arched in agony, staring up lifelessly at his carers. He slumped back spent on the pillow. Riley heard an unmistakable crackling sound from his chest like popping candy.
“What’s wrong with his skin?” she whispered to one of the nurses.
“The doctor said it’s from lack of oxygen. Their lungs fill with liquid, and they literally turn blue and start to drown. Sometimes, the cyanosis can be so extreme that we can’t tell whether the victim is black or white.”
Riley felt giddy, and she thought she might faint. She rushed outside, gulping air greedily, trying to steady herself, perspiration beading on her brow and top lip.
In the distance she watched a woman shuffling towards the canteen, dragging her feet along the dusty path. She paused mid-step and seemed to struggle to breathe, sinking to her knees and throwing up the contents of her stomach onto the grass. Riley turned away, taking in the scale of the disaster unfolding before her eyes.
The rest of the medical team joined her by the marquee entrance. She was acutely aware that the camp personnel who brushed past her all wore the simplest of surgical masks that offered minimal protection from the virus.
“And where exactly is the camp doctor?” demanded the senior medical officer from the hospital, emerging from the marquee.
“Doctor Porter is in his office,” admitted the camp commander.
“Why the hell isn’t he out here helping these people?”
“He’s refusing to come out, sir. I think he’s had some sort of breakdown.”
The medical officer marched over to the Portakabin that served as the doctor’s surgery and waiting room combined. The door was locked, and he hammered several times before his call was answered.
“Have you lost your mind? What the hell are you doing in there?” shouted the medical officer.
The resident doctor clung to the door frame, his knuckles white, squinting at
the fading daylight. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale and clammy. He had apparently not slept in days.
“There’s nothing more I can do for them. They all think I can just give them a flu shot and they’ll get better. As soon as I go outside, I get mobbed.”
“You’ll do your job, man, like everyone else.”
“I can’t keep lying to them. I’m telling you, nothing is working. They’re all going to die,” he said, swallowing hard.
“Either you get out there right now, or I’ll have you arrested.” With that, the barrel-chested medical officer shoved him outside. “Off you go. And hurry up,” he said, pushing him towards the marquee before turning to the others. “You see what I’m dealing with?”
A cart passed them in the muddy roadway, pushed by two decrepit-looking women in a semi-catatonic state. The cart was stacked with more than half a dozen bodies, piled haphazardly, one on top of the other. Over the wooden side hung a foot, missing its shoe. A name tag attached to the big toe twirled in the breeze. In red marker pen were the words “Tuesday 19th pm”.
Riley half expected one of the women to ring a hand-bell like they had done in medieval times, and call out “Bring out your dead”. The scene was surreal and haunting.
“Are you sure this is flu?” asked the padre. “It looks more like cholera to me.”
“We can’t be sure, but the symptoms of heliotropic cyanosis and dyspnoea are consistent with extreme cases of Spanish flu. It’s worse than anything we’ve experienced before.”
“I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“No one has.”
“Sir, sorry to interrupt,” said a breathless young guard, “but there’s a mob at the front gate demanding to see you.”
The commander seemed irritated but curious to know what they wanted. He strode up the roadway towards the motley group shouting about something Riley couldn’t make out.
“What’s this all about?” he demanded.
“The same thing I was telling this guard. You can’t keep us here,” warned a thick-set man, red in the face and incandescent with rage.
