“Sir?” I step into his path. “I'm Chris Thompson. We spoke on the phone.”
A confused look flashes over McElroy's face, then vanishes. “Right. Dave Thompson's brother. He was asking for you.”
Duh. “Yes, sir. I came as fast as I could.”
“He's in one of the triage rooms.” He gestures at a line of curtains along the far wall. “He'll be glad you're here.”
I glance in the direction he indicated. All but one of the curtains are drawn. I don’t see Dave. A thought pops into my head. “Officer?”
“Yes?”
“Is my brother in trouble?” I expect him to say yes, to tell me Dave was the cause of some major catastrophe, so I’m surprised when he shakes his head.
“No. Sorry I didn't make that clear on the phone. I was the first responder to his accident. It was a single-vehicle crash, no fault of his.”
A scream erupts from the waiting room. A woman. Then another, louder. A moment passes, and I hear what sounds like furniture crashing over, perhaps the long row of chairs I passed on the way in.
Before I can ask McElroy what's going on, he pushes me aside. His palm is on the butt of his pistol, the safety strap unbuckled. He moves to the door and peers through one of the ten-inch square windows.
“Shit,” he hisses. “Here we go again.”
“Again? What is it?”
But he's already gone. I'm tempted to follow, to find out for myself what's going on, but I need to check on Dave. Besides, McElroy is a cop. He's trained for this sort of stuff.
I grab the closest doctor, a pretty young Indian woman, by the elbow. “Dave Thompson? He's my brother.”
The doctor, Chandra-something-or-other according to the fine blue embroidery over her left breast pocket, stares at me as if I just asked her the meaning of life. She tries to look around me, at the ER where McElroy went.
I snap my fingers in front of her face, forcing her to focus. “Dave Thompson?” I ask again.
She stares at her clipboard. “We moved him upstairs a few minutes ago. Twelfth floor. Orthopedic.” She steps around me. “Excuse me. I have to check on the ER.”
Realizing this is all I'm going to get out of her, I step aside to let her pass. She pushes through the door and is gone.
More shouting comes from the waiting room, then another crash, this one louder, closer to the doors. I decide I'm not going in there. I look around the emergency room for an elevator and see a pair of extra-wide, gurney-sized doors at the far end of the room. I set off in that direction with a determined stride, trying my best to look like I belong.
When I reach the elevators, I find the one on the left is already on the top floor. I push the call button for the other one, and the doors slide open immediately. I step inside and press the button for the twelfth floor, then lean back against the waist-high railing to wait.
Less than a minute later, the elevator chimes softly, and the doors rumble open to the top floor of the building.
Compared to the lobby and the emergency room, the top floor is a ghost town. I look for a nurses’ station and spot one a few yards down the hallway. An overweight woman in a floral print top huddles behind the desk. She's on the phone. She glares at me as I approach, putting me immediately on the defensive. What the hell did I do?
“Dave Thompson?” I mouth, motioning both directions in the hall with my eyes.
“Hold on, Louise,” the woman says into the phone. She puts her call on hold and gives me her attention. “Did you come from the first floor?”
I nod.
“My friend in Records said she heard gunshots in the emergency room. Did you see anything?”
My breath catches in my throat. Gunshots?
“I, uh, no… there was a commotion in the emergency room, but I didn't pay much attention.”
Three ear-splitting tones blast from the public address system speaker mounted in the ceiling. A moment later, there’s a fourth, longer tone, piercing my ears like an ice pick to my brain.
A man's voice booms from hidden speakers: “Attention, hospital staff. This is an emergency broadcast. Medical Center Tower One is on lockdown, effective immediately. Code A1. I repeat, Medical Center Tower One is on lockdown, effective immediately. Code A1. Please exercise extreme caution. Further instructions will follow.”
I lock eyes with the nurse. “What’s Code A1?”
She pulls a binder from a flimsy metal shelf beside her desk. “Good question.” She runs her finger down a series of tabs until she finds one marked A1, then flips the binder open to that page. Her face goes white as she reads.
“Sir,” she says sharply, “I have to ask you to vacate the hallway right now.” She stands up and grabs her purse from under the counter shelf.
My patience is almost exhausted by this point. All I want to do is find Dave.
“I will,” I say, not quite knowing what she means by vacate. “But first, please tell me where my brother is. Dave Thompson. And what the hell is A1?”
She hesitates, looking like she wants to bolt. Finally, after an interminable moment, she leans over her keyboard and types. “A1 means we are under threat of a terrorist attack.”
A terrorist attack? What the hell? Why would a terrorist want to attack a hospital? I straighten and glance over my shoulder at the elevator.
“Twelve eighteen,” she says, breaking me out of my spell. She points to my left. “Down there, on your right.” She fixes me in her gaze for a moment. “I have to go now. We have a rally point. I suggest you go to your brother's room and stay inside until we get the all clear.” She scoots from behind the desk and takes off at a brisk waddle, heading in the opposite direction.
I call out to her. “Miss?”
She ignores me, rounding a corner and disappearing from sight.
I notice her phone isn't blinking anymore. Louise must have gotten tired of waiting.
The hallway is a pulsing hive of activity as orderlies, nurses, and even the occasional doctor race back and forth, closing doors and holding hushed conversations. I head for Dave's room, a new urgency in my step.
Terrorists?
Dave's door is closed. I don't bother knocking.
“Chris!” he croaks when I enter. “What the hell took you so long?”
I step inside and close the door behind me. I test the handle, fearing it may have locked, but it didn’t.
He looks worse than I imagined. Not only does he have a cast on one leg, but he's also got a splint on his left hand. A bandage, stained a faint shade of pink, covers the side of his head. Ouch. My stomach clenches at the sight, a quick twinge of nausea, then I'm fine again.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
Dave shrugs and tries to smile, but winces instead. “I'm in a lot better shape than my bike if that's any indication.”
“Really? What the hell happened?”
“Fucking deer. Came out of the bushes and clipped my front wheel. That's the last thing I remember.”
I shake my head, imagining what I would have done in his place. “Shit.” I hate deer.
Dave changes the conversation. “What's going on out there? Someone shut my door a minute ago, and it sounds like they're shutting all the doors along the hall. And what in the hell is Code Eight One?”
“A One,” I correct.
“Whatever.”
“I don't know. Something’s going on downstairs. The nurse said something about a terrorist attack, but I think she's full of shit.” I step to the window and peer out at the parking lot. If there's a terrorist attack underway, I can't see any signs of it.
“Terrorists?”
I shrug. “That's what she said.”
“Fuck.” Dave squirms around, as if he’s trying to sit up.
“Hold on, man. Let me help.” I cross the room in two quick steps.
He stops moving. “I'm okay. I had an itch on my ass. I've been sitting here too long.”
I'm not sure what else to say. I pull a chair from beside the window, slide it
toward the bed, and take a seat. “Did the doctor say when you can get out?”
Dave rolls his eyes. “They said they want to keep me overnight for observation.” He taps the bandage on his head. “Said I took a good hit.”
“Hmm...”
“Thanks for coming,” Dave says, his voice turning serious. “I didn't know who else to call.”
“No problem,” I say, meaning it.
We sit for a moment, neither speaking, neither sure what to say next. I pull out my phone and check it only to find I have no messages, no excuse for putting a wall between myself and Dave. Seeing my unease, Dave finds the remote control and points it at the television mounted high on the far wall.
Good idea.
The television is already tuned to MSNBC. A reporter, light-skinned Hispanic with a trim mustache, stares off camera. His forehead is slick with sweat. He nods at whoever he’s looking at, then swivels to face his audience. He coughs. “Please hold on, ladies and gentlemen. We're going live to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention any moment now. For those of you just joining this broadcast, the CDC is holding a press conference about the mysterious illness sweeping the country.” He puts his hand to his ear. “And now to the CDC...”
“What’s he talking about?” Dave asks. I shush him.
The camera switches to a shot of a wooden lectern in a dark conference room. Atlanta, I presume. A single glass of water sits on the corner of the lectern nearest the camera. A dark blue curtain covers the wall behind, the letters CDC stenciled in subtle off-white lettering in a repeating pattern.
Dave and I exchange a look of confusion. He moves to change the channel, but I hold up my hand, stopping him. “No. Wait. I want to see this—“
“You're the boss,” he says, balancing the remote on his cast. “What do you—“
I cut him off with a hand gesture as a man steps behind the lectern. Somewhere in his early fifties, the new arrival has the steely-eyed look of a man accustomed to delivering bad news. With wavy gray hair parted down the left side and an immaculate charcoal suit, he could be a doctor or he could only be someone who plays one on television—some sort of administrator.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the man says. “I'm sorry for calling you here on such short notice, but time is of the essence.” This comment is directed at his local audience. He shifts his eyes to the camera, and his expression changes, grows harder, more intense. His eyes bore into me, rooting me in place.
A text overlay appears on the bottom of the screen, identifying the man as Steven Walberg, Director of the CDC. The top man.
“Over the course of the past several days, scientists and doctors here at the CDC have been tracking the progress of an as-yet unidentified disease. We have been working diligently to understand the source, the spread, and most importantly, the implications for the broader public health of this country, and to an extent, the world.”
Director Walberg clears his throat and takes a sip of water. “It's my unfortunate duty to report that there have been grave developments in our efforts to understand this new illness.“ He pauses, takes another sip of water, then continues, “Over the past forty-eight hours, we have received an increasing number of reports of the disease in geographically disparate areas of the United States. The disease presents like a common cold or flu, at first—high fever, nausea, and confusion. However, we are confident that it is not a variant of the flu you might be familiar with, such as swine or avian. This is something else, something new, something we haven’t seen before. Affected individuals become extremely aggressive as the disease progresses, turning on their caregivers in unpredictable and often violent ways. Due to the rapid and widespread nature of the infection, we suspect the disease is airborne and that it is likely present in all areas of the country.”
Director Walberg motions to his left, and the camera pulls back, revealing a wall-sized video screen. “This is the status of the infection as of two days ago.” He gestures at a map of the United States on the screen. If I squint, I can see a very faint scattering of pink dots clustered in and around the major population centers of the United States.
“And this is six hours ago,” the director says as the image is replaced by an identical map. On this version, the dots are much more obvious, pink blossoms swallowing entire cities. Worse yet, each major center of infection has sprouted tendrils reaching out to surrounding areas, chains of infection leading to countless smaller blobs in smaller communities, connecting everything. “As you can see, this new disease is present in all fifty states as of six hours ago.” He takes another sip of his water.
Dave laughs. “Jesus Christ! Is he kidding?”
“Quiet! I don't know.”
“Given the nature of this threat, the CDC has recommended to the President, and he has agreed, to institute a National Public Health Emergency, effective immediately, in an effort to halt the further spread of the contagion.”
“A little bit late for that,” Dave says with a snort.
Someone, probably a reporter, calls out from off camera, and the director raises his palm in a halting motion. “Hold on, Jim. I'll take your questions in just a minute.”
“To my fellow Americans, rest assured that we at the CDC, along with our partners in the private sector, are doing everything in our power to get this situation under control. You may not have seen any evidence of the illness in your particular city or town yet; however, it is only a matter of time. Our recommendations are to stay inside and avoid contact with others unless absolutely necessary. If you or a loved one becomes ill, take measures to prevent infection, a face mask, for example, and proceed directly to your nearest hospital or medical caregiver. The nation’s medical system has been briefed on this threat, and they are being provided further details as I speak. I can't stress enough the importance of being vigilant. If you see someone behaving erratically, do not approach them. Contact your local law enforcement and let them deal with it. With God's good will, we will come through this unscathed. Further information will be available on the cdc-dot-gov website immediately after this press conference, including a transcript. Now, I have time for a few questions. Jim?”
“Thank you, Director Walberg. Jim Stevens from the Associated Press. Sir, you mentioned the symptoms of the disease and the associated violence; however, you made no mention of mortality rates. What can the general public expect?”
Director Walberg licks his lips. “That's a great question, Jim. I don't have numbers yet. We will provide them as soon as they are available.”
“Sir?” Jim again.
“Next question,” the Director says, ignoring him. “Mary?”
“Mary Carpenter here from the Washington Post. How long has the CDC known about this threat? You said two days. How is that possible? And does it have a name?”
The director's face lights up as a roomful of camera flashes go off at once, all of the reporters hoping to catch his facial expression as he answers a potentially career-killing question.
“First, reports of the disease surfaced a little over ninety-six hours ago in Honolulu. This is not unusual. During any given year, there are thousands of disease outbreaks that do not warrant national attention. In almost all cases, they are geographically isolated and burn out before progressing. This one, unfortunately, is different. And no, we do not have a name yet. As I said, it does not resemble anything we have seen before.”
I shift in my chair, trying to find a more comfortable position.
The director makes a show of glancing at his watch. “I have time for one more question.” His eyes roam the audience of reporters. “Ed.”
“Thank you, sir. Ed Halpern from Reuters. Have there been any indications of infection outside of the United States?”
The director purses his lips and shakes his head. “I'm not at liberty to discuss events outside of CDC jurisdiction at the moment.”
“When, sir?” asks the Associated Press reporter.
“Soon,” the director s
ays, annoyance flashing across his face.
A chorus of shouts rings out in the room as the reporters not selected try to get in one last question.
“Thank you for your time,” the director says. “Please be careful, ladies and gentlemen. This is the real deal.” He turns and walks off camera.
Dave picks up the remote and mutes the television. “This is a joke, right?”
I shrug. “I don't know. It sure sounds that way.” A thought strikes. Hospital. Shit. “We have to get out of here.” I get to my feet.
Dave gives me a perplexed look. “Get out? Why would we want to do that?”
“You know how they always say the worst place to be sick is in the hospital. If this is real, then this place is going to be full of sick people real soon.”
Dave crosses his arms. “I think we should stay. And besides, I'm not going anywhere with this thing on my leg.”
He’s got a point. Where would we go? My place? I don’t think so. That leaves his house, with his dirt-bag roommates, not my idea of the best place to recover from a broken leg.
“Hey! Look!” Dave gestures at the television.
The President is on the screen.
“Quick! Turn it up!”
“…as reported by the CDC, our great nation faces a threat unlike any we have experienced before...”
Dave and I watch the entire speech, barely able to believe the words coming from his mouth—the declaration of martial law effective immediately, the curfew, the mobilization of the National Guard in all fifty states to provide emergency assistance. It sounds as if the world is coming apart around us, yet the hospital room is as quiet as a tomb.
Dave mutes the television again when the President finishes, and turns to me, all sense of skepticism banished from his demeanor. “Can I use your phone?”
“Sure.”
“I've gotta call Jenny and see if she and Max are okay.”
I give him a nod of encouragement. Jenny is Dave's ex-girlfriend and the mother of his son Max. They met four years earlier at a party and dated for a little over two months. Eight months later, Max came screaming into the world. Dave didn't even know he had a son until he heard through a mutual friend. Jenny has a new boyfriend these days, one with a steady job and a kid from another relationship.
Elements of the Undead - Omnibus Edition (Books One - Three) Page 18
