“I don’t want to upset you.”
“Luckily for you, I am physically incapable of getting anymore upset today than I already am.”
“Three more came in while you were out.”
Paul shook his head.
“It’s just,” Sherri continued, “no one wanted to wake you. We all knew you needed the rest.”
“What else?”
Sherri looked at the clock on the wall. “Damian Palmer is approaching his twenty-second and a half hour since infection. They want you up on creep ward.”
Paul nodded. “And yet, I sense there’s even more.”
Sherri smiled politely. “Two agents from Washington will be landing soon. They’ve asked to speak to you personally.”
“Agents from where?”
“I’m not…sure.”
“Okay,” Paul said, standing up from his chair. “Very well then. Thank you for the coffee and the update.” Paul looked at Sherri. She kept a thin smile on at all times, but it failed at disguising her exhaustion. Paul pointed at the couch. “You should have a rest.”
Sherri cocked her head. “I couldn’t.”
“I insist,” Paul said. “You’ve been here just as long as I have and you’ve had half as much rest.”
“I’ll think about it,” Sherri said as she followed the doctor out of the office.
The two strolled down the hall together, approaching the elevator that led to creep ward.
“I know all of this saddens you, doctor, but try to think of the positive,” Sherri said. “They’ve started evacuations in Riverside and even some southern areas of East Violet. By sunrise tomorrow, we’ll all be shipping out of here. Everything is going to turn out okay.”
“You are a sweet girl,” Paul said, pressing the call button for the elevator. “Stay down here—keep those Washington agents, whoever they are, occupied while the CDC throws another victory party for Damian. I can’t juggle them and new faces, yes?”
“Sure thing, Dr. Merrill.”
The elevator dinged and the steel doors slid open before Paul. He nodded and stepped aboard, plugged his key in, hit the button for creep ward and smiled as the doors slowly closed between Sherri and him.
When the elevator doors reopened, two nurses waiting nearby assisted the doctor into a yellow Hazmat suit. Down the hall, swarms of doctors, nurses, and CDC agents hustled back and forth. A clock in the creep ward hallway clicked. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Every swing of the second hand was heavy and ominous, until it was the only sound the doctor found himself focusing on. The hour and minute hands pointed at 8:43. Damian Palmer came in around 10 PM the night before. In a matter of moments he would near his twenty-third hour of infection. The staff at East Violet Memorial were bursting with anticipation to see what would happen next.
Fully suited, Paul pushed forward down the hallway towards creep ward. A crowd had formed around the foot of Damian’s bedside. One doctor held a camera, recording the patient’s weak and ghastly movements. Another doctor stood by with a clipboard, feverishly scribbling notes. Agent Litchfield stood near the corner of the room, his hands flailing about as he talked excitedly into an ear piece, his visor fogging and clearing with each enthusiastic breath.
Paul picked up one of several clipboards hooked to the foot of Damian’s bed, all of which detailed the nature of his injuries and why he was administered. Scanning the pages of notes, it felt to Paul as if something didn’t add up. A puzzle piece was missing.
“Who else was brought in with Damian?” Paul asked. The commotion around the gurney continued to rumble.
Paul cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Who else was brought in alongside this patient?” he asked, practically shouting.
The room hushed. A voice unseen in the crowd piped up with “no one else, doctor.”
“Well,” Paul went on, flipping through pages of notes. “He was in a severe, head-on collision. Unless that collision was with a tree—which it was not, the police report identifies another vehicle—there should be another patient with him. Where’s the driver of the other vehicle?”
The doctors and nurses in the room murmured and flipped through their own pages of notes, none of them able to give Paul a clear answer. Finally, Litchfield ended his phone call and hollered over the low roar of voices, “There was no other driver.”
Litchfield approached the space in front of Damian where Paul was standing. “I spoke to the cop who brought him in—the other car fled.”
“Any clue as to what the make of the other car was?” Paul asked.
“Some witnesses said that they watched a white Range Rover speed off, apparently,” Litchfield said.
Paul thought hard. East Violet was a prosperous town, and a Range Rover wasn’t an uncommon enough luxury vehicle for any particular individual to come to mind. Paul felt like he was close to something—
Grargh! Urch! Blargh! Damian moaned and pulled at his restraints. He squirmed and contorted in the straps that bound him to his hospital bed. The skin on his face clung tight; his dry, chapped lips smacked open and shut at the air in front of him. His eyes floated around aimlessly, often times in directions independent of one another. Every so often they would roll back in his head entirely. Bits of flesh flaked away from his body and clumped together on either side of him.
Damian let out a guttural howl that shocked some of the nurses standing close to him. Several of them leapt back in fear. More hissing. More howling. Eventually, Damian pulled up so hard with his left arm that the limb separated at the elbow joint. The severed piece of appendage lay motionless on the gurney, still strapped down by the wrist, while Damian flailed around a bloodied stump that gushed with a pulpy, viscous, black ooze.
Thump. A nurse in the back of the room fainted and collapsed onto the floor; a nearby doctor helped her to her feet and brought her out of the room.
Damian fixated his eyes on Paul. The two stared deeply into one another’s eyes, Paul’s expressionless and Damian’s full of rage. All at once, the shrieking stopped. Damian’s split arm dropped lifelessly beside him. His head rolled to the side as a dribble of spit and blood leaked onto his pillow.
“Twenty-three hours, almost to the Goddamn minute!” Litchfield cheered from across the room.
Paul turned back for the hallway that led to the elevator. He trudged along, shoulders drooped. I should be happy, I suppose. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had failed. Failed Marc, failed Damian, and before long the entire wing of creep ward would perish in spite of his efforts. He and Agent Litchfield had tried different combinations of antiviral medications, all of which had no effect. Out of desperation, Paul even tried several different antibiotics, despite the fact that any first day medical student should know they are useless in combatting viral infections.
Stripped of his hazmat suit and having passed through decontamination, Paul rode the elevator from creep ward back to the floor below. When the doors opened they revealed a thin, petite woman and a tall, chubby man with a messy goatee.
“Dr. Merrill,” the female figure said, extending a hand, “we’ve heard so much about you. My name is Stephanie Perry, and this is my colleague, Matthew Ritchie. We’ve just landed and we’d love to ask you some questions.”
“I didn’t catch where you’re from?” Paul said as he shook Stephanie’s hand, then Matthew’s.
“We’re from Washington,” Matthew said plainly.
“Uh-huh,” Paul said, “my nurse mentioned that earlier. Which agency are you here on behalf of? I suppose that was the question I meant to ask.”
Matthew opened a briefcase and pulled out a slip of paper crammed edge-to-edge with legalese. At the bottom of the document was a judge’s signature.
“We are not at liberty to discuss that,” Matthew said, “but please rest assured that we are here in good faith and in the best interest of this hospital, as well as the city of East Violet.”
Paul handed the paper back to Matthew then crossed his arms.
“Please,�
�� Stephanie said. “We have full jurisdiction here, and I must wholeheartedly emphasize what my partner just said about having your hospital’s best interests in mind. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.”
“And if I don’t wish to cooperate?” Paul asked.
Stephanie let out a hmph. “We’re on your side, doctor. But if you’d like to reexamine the document my partner just handed you, you’ll find that your cooperation would not only be appreciated, but that it is legally required.”
“Well then,” Dr. Merrill laughed. “To my office then, yes?”
Paul slumped in his office chair. Stephanie and Matthew took a seat opposite of him.
“Doctor Merrill,” Matthew said, pulling a folder from his briefcase.
“Call me Paul, please,” the doctor interrupted. “We’re all on a first-name basis here.”
“Sure,” Matthew said, combing through some papers in his folder. “I have here that you appeared on a television show three years ago—a daytime, talk show affair.”
“The Daily Doc?” Paul asked in disbelief. “Yes, but what has that have to do with anything?”
Matthew leaned back. “It was one of their highest rated episodes. You discussed the importance of vaccinating children.”
“Yes,” Paul said bluntly. “So?”
“Two months after that episode aired,” Matthew continued, “producers for The Daily Doc asked you back. And you accepted?”
“Yes.”
“And again the show had tremendous ratings.” Matthew examined a pie-chart that he pulled from his folder. “Six weeks after that episode aired, you were asked back again—”
“And I declined.”
“Do you mind explaining why?”
“I was busy working on a publication and I did not want any more distractions. I was also worried that my appearances would paint me as a doctor more interested in hosting daytime television than practicing medicine.”
“They offered you a lot of money,” Stephanie blurted.
Paul laughed. “The money wasn’t the point—please, why are we talking about any of this right now?”
“The viewers loved you,” Matthew continued. “Test audiences show—and don’t take offense to this data—that you were ethnic, but not too ethnic. A bit stern looking, but intelligent and approachable.”
“Forgive my partner for a moment,” Stephanie said. She could see the blood flowing to the surface of Paul’s face. “What we mean to say is that, in several months, you’re going to be contacted for a primetime talk show appearance. The United States government would like you to be a spokesperson for all that has happened today, given your commendable dedication to your role as a practitioner and your first hand experiences with the EV1 virus.”
Paul laughed. “Not a chance.”
Stephanie leaned forward slowly. “Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated in this matter.”
Paul groaned.
“Agent Ritchie or myself will be in contact with you to discuss your script, and what you’re allowed and disallowed to discuss—”
“My script?” Paul asked in disbelief.
“Doctor,” Stephanie continued, “I understand your apprehension and I wish you were no more involved in this than myself or Agent Ritchie have to be. These are all choices that were made outside of your hands and outside of our hands, and for the benefit of all those involved it’s probably best that we just…roll with it, for lack of a better term…okay?”
“Fine,” Paul said. “Is there anything else?”
“A bit more,” Matthew added. “We’d like you to help put together a time line for us, okay?”
Paul nodded.
“Yesterday afternoon, Marc Cooper arrives at your hospital, sick. You knew his father?” Matthew rearranged several pieces of paper in his briefcase.
“I did,” Paul said.
“So Marc comes in—dies—and I get it, this entire phenomenon is new, so it’s quite startling when Marc comes back to life. Time passes, now it’s morning, and you find out John and Geraldine Cooper pass—”
“Yes,” Paul said.
“Within an hour of their passing, Alicia Cooper is brought in—”
“You must be mistaken,” Paul said. “Alicia Cooper is not in my ward.”
“Yes she is, doctor. Patient 06784. You have her listed as unidentified. She was involved in quite the bus accident this morning.”
Paul’s eyes welled with tears. He pulled his fist to his mouth and bit it. “Little Alicia? I didn’t even recognize her.”
Matthew paused for a moment so that Paul could regain his composure.
“Then, just this afternoon, a transatlantic flight piloted by who? None other than Russell Cooper—John and Geraldine’s child, Marc’s Brother, Alicia’s uncle—crashes into the Henderson High School.”
“What do you want me to tell you?” Paul said, his voice crackling.
“I mean, it seems like an awfully big coincidence, does it not?” Matthew asked, his voice rife with sarcasm.
“I’m sure many families perished today. Where are you going with this?”
Matthew cleared his throat and pulled yet another folder from his briefcase. He opened the folder, flipped some pages, then pulled out a black and white photo of a young man and woman. “Look familiar?”
“Yes,” Paul said.
“Would you please identify them?” Matthew asked.
“Adam and Kimberly Cooper.”
“Ding-ding-ding,” Matthew said. “Alicia’s parents, Adam and Kimberly Cooper. The only members of the Cooper-clan not seen in the past thirty-six hours. Not once. They’ve vanished into thin air. Have you seen them, doctor?”
Paul shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”
Matthew leaned close into the doctor’s desk. “You seem like one of the good ones, Paul. An honest guy. A miracle worker, literally. So I’ll ask you just once more, and this time I’ll inform you that both Adam and Kimberly Cooper have—as of 2:30 PM this afternoon—been classified as enemies of the state, and to withhold information regarding their whereabouts would be considered treasonous.”
Paul couldn’t help but laugh. “Treasonous? I haven’t seem them in years, let alone today.”
Matthew studied Paul’s face for a moment. He sighed when he realized that the doctor was telling the truth.
Stephanie stood up from her seat and excused herself and Agent Ritchie. “Thank you doctor,” she said, extending her hand, “your help and cooperation tonight have been—”
“Greatly appreciated?” Paul asked, laughing.
Stephanie smirked. “I apologize for any inconvenience we’ve caused you. Please know we’re only acting in accordance with today’s extraordinary circumstances.”
“Sure,” Paul said.
“Get some rest, doctor,” Matthew said. “You look like hell. We’re about to put the word out over every television and radio channel in East Violet—your hospital will be an evacuation zone come sunrise. National Guard units are on their way now for escort. It’s going to be a busy day.”
NINETEEN
In the balmy, summer air Jim watched her. Chloe swung carelessly back and forth on her swing set, the one Jim assembled in the backyard of the home he made with his wife. His young daughter laughed wildly, kicking her feet at the ground, rocketing higher and higher with each thrust.
Jim found himself worried by the speed and height of each subsequent swing. You’ll fall off. He reached out towards her from across the yard when—
The sound of a car pulling up outside woke Jim. A cool dribble of spit hung from the corner of his mouth. His back was sore and stiff from dozing off in the wooden chair at the head of the kitchen table.
Across from him Nolan slept, unalarmed by the approaching vehicle outside. He lay face down on the table, his arm outstretched in front of him. Clutched in his hand were a pair of queens.
“You bluffing little shit,” Jim chuckled softly.
Jim stood up and adjusted his belt. Quie
tly, he tiptoed into the living room, passing Chloe and Dana where they lay sound asleep.
The drowsy officer peeked through the blinds. Parked halfway in the driveway and halfway on the front lawn was a familiar looking silver Chevy sedan.
What the hell?
Jim opened the front door and shut it firmly behind him. The driver side door of the Chevy burst open. Exploding from inside of it was a dark, short, stocky frame. It rose to its feet and waddled up the driveway towards Jim.
“Ingram?” Jim called out. “Jesus, Sarge, come on in.”
When Ingram had hobbled close enough to Jim, he kicked forward, landing a powerful blow squarely on Jim’s knee. Jim grunted and collapsed forward; before he could fall face-first on the steps in front of him, Ingram grabbed him by the collar and dragged him forward.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Jim gasped, shocked by the pain thundering through his right knee. It crippled him; tingly euphoric waves rolled up and down his leg. Desperately, he clawed at the gelatinous stomach dangling in front of him.
Without saying a word, Ingram propped Jim on his knees in the center of the postage-stamp sized yard. He connected his right fist to Jim’s jaw with a considerable blow. Wham. Without hesitation, he reeled back his left fist and rocketed it into Jim’s stomach. Jim let out a helpless grunt and fell forward, then rolled onto his back.
Ingram flopped to the ground and kneeled over Jim’s waist, then grabbed the battered man by his shoulders. Weakened and disoriented, Jim fell into Ingram’s chubby arms like a ragdoll.
“Blankenship is dead,” Ingram hollered, as he shook Jim’s limp body. “They pulled his charred body from that fucking high school your daughter goes to. I sent him there, Jim. I sent him there for you. So, this one’s for Blankenship.”
Ingram thrust his arms forward and downward with a burst of energy. Jim’s head cracked against the edge of the cement walkway that led to the front door of his house.
Jim’s world went black then exploded back to life; brilliant colors danced before his eyes. “Sarge, stop,” Jim gurgled. He reached for the service pistol on his hip, but Ingram’s massive thighs blocked him from accessing it. “Please. Stop.”
Hour 23 Page 19
