Decimation: The Girl Who Survived

by Burke, Richard T.

  “Hmm,” Perrin said, studying the hasty stitching. “One or two of these stitches have popped. We’re going to have to do some repair work. We’ll give you a local. You won’t feel a thing.”

  “Where are my parents?”

  “There’s too high a risk of infection at the moment,” Rosalind said. “You’ll be able to see them in a day or two.”

  Antimone tried to sit up then flopped back, her face a mask of agony. “Can’t I talk to them? Do they even know I’m alive?”

  “Antimone, you need to relax. You’ve been through a traumatic experience. We’ll let your parents know you’re okay. Maybe a mild sedative, Dr Perrin?”

  Perrin nodded then strode to a set of cabinets beside the nurse’s station. A few seconds later he returned carrying an injection gun, a small glass vial of clear liquid protruding from the top. He held the barrel against Antimone’s arm and depressed the trigger. The drug entered her bloodstream accompanied by a short hiss. “This’ll help you relax.”

  Antimone’s eyes grew heavy-lidded. “I want my baby,” she murmured, but within seconds she was asleep. By now, Rosalind and Perrin had the room to themselves.

  “You know what this means, Nigel? Do you have any idea of this girl’s value? If we can work out what makes her special, we can finally develop a cure. This company will be worth billions, maybe even tens or hundreds of billions.”

  “We’ll have to get blood from both mother and child and test for the presence of the virus. We’ll also need to sequence their genomes. I’ll get the tests started right away.”

  “This has to remain tightly controlled, only the highest level of security clearance. We can’t afford for anybody to find out she survived. Not even her parents can know.”

  “What do we tell them?”

  Rosalind pondered a moment. “Well, they already think she’s dead, so let’s keep it that way. Tell them the child died too, some bacterial infection so dangerous that we had to cremate both bodies immediately. Get one of the doctors who works down here to sign the death certificates. If we give the parents some ashes, they won’t know any better.”

  “She’s not going to stop asking to see them, though. That might become a problem.”

  “What’s she going to do? Yes, she’ll be pissed off, but she can’t get out of here. I’ll get Grolby to arrange for an armed guard to be stationed outside her room.”

  “I’ll get a gynaecologist to look her over, somebody we can trust.”

  “Who did the C-section?” Rosalind asked.

  Perrin consulted the chart. “John Martin.”

  “That old fart. But at least he needs the money. He’s an eight, right? We need to keep the circle of people who know about this as small as possible.”

  “But that stitching was a disgrace. If he did that, I don’t want him anywhere near her.”

  “He might not be the most dynamic character in the world, but as far as I know he’s conscientious,” Rosalind said. “Find out who did this work then sack them. If it wasn’t Martin, get him down here. If it was, find someone else.”

  “I’ll get on it right away, Rosalind. By the way, what are we going to do about the child?”

  “Until we’ve done the tests, keep them separated. I want round the clock care. Nobody needs to know what’s special about the boy.”

  “She’s definitely not going to like that,” Perrin said.

  “I suggest we use it as leverage. Threaten to keep them apart unless she behaves.”

  “Good idea. That should work.”

  “Let me know as soon as you find out anything. You know, Nigel, this is going to make Ilithyia the biggest company in the world.” For the first time that day Rosalind Baxter smiled.

  Chapter 21

  Tuesday 4th January 2033

  Dominic Lessing wandered from room to room, more than anything to give him something to do. There were reminders of Antimone everywhere: the colourful snake draught excluder she had given them for Christmas last year, the cushion she liked to lean against when she was sitting on the sofa, the stair-lift that enabled her to go upstairs.

  The image of his daughter’s stomach being cut open before they removed the baby would be seared in his mind for the rest of his life. He had wanted to rush in and stop the operation, but he knew it was beyond his control. He had read about the agonies endured by women after they delivered their children naturally, the way the virus turned the body on itself, basically turning their internal organs and brains to mush. He couldn’t bear to think of that happening to his own daughter and just prayed that she hadn’t suffered.

  The doctor had held the boy up to the observation window so they could see their grandson. To Dominic he had looked like any newborn child: a scrunched up face, eyes that couldn’t focus yet, fine wisps of hair, mouth open as he exercised his lungs in a high-pitched wail. That first glimpse had been all too short as the baby was whisked away and placed in an incubator.

  A counsellor had guided them away before the surgeons had stitched up the incision. The only real consolation the woman could offer was that their daughter’s death had resulted in a new life. In many ways, Dominic relished the prospect of the sleepless nights and the endless routine of feeding and changing as a way of distracting him from darker thoughts. Before any of that could begin, though, they had to wait for the hospital to call. The child seat was already installed, the formula milk was piled up in the cupboard, and the crib was assembled in the spare room.

  Dominic glanced at his watch once again. Half past eleven. The midwife had assured them that the baby would be ready to go home sometime this morning.

  “Dominic, will you please stop pacing.” His wife sat on the sofa, cradling her fifth cup of tea of the day. “You’re driving me mad.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t sit down. Why don’t we drive there now? They’ve got our mobile numbers.”

  “I think I’d rather wait here than in a hospital waiting room. It’s only ten minutes away.”

  The trilling of the phone interrupted the conversation. Dominic took two swift paces and snatched the handset from its cradle. Helen’s gaze followed him expectantly.

  “Yes, this is Dominic Lessing. Can we come over now?”

  “Problem? What problem?”

  Dominic’s mouth opened, and his face turned an ashen colour. He seemed to be struggling to breathe. With a moan of anguish, he sank to his knees.

  Helen rose to her feet in consternation. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  Dominic dropped the phone and pitched forwards onto all fours. His shoulders heaved, and he vomited on the carpet.

  An expression of terror occupied Helen’s face. “Are you alright? What the hell’s wrong?”

  Dominic raised his eyes slowly to meet his wife’s panicked stare. Even without speaking, the depth of his evident despair told her everything she needed to know.

  “No. Not the baby?”

  The slightest nod of the head. She bent down and picked up the phone, almost as if somebody else was controlling her body. “This is Helen Lessing. Who is this?”

  “It’s Jennifer Anderson, the counsellor at Ilithyia. We met briefly yesterday. I’m so sorry, Mrs Lessing. The baby’s – Paul’s – condition deteriorated overnight, a bacterial infection. The doctors did everything they could, but unfortunately, he didn’t respond to the drugs. He passed away at just after ten o’clock this morning.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “I’m afraid so. On behalf of everybody at Ilithyia, I’d like to offer our condolences on the loss of your grandson.”

  “But … but he seemed healthy when he was born.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have all the details, but I understand the infection began to develop during the night and didn’t respond to the drugs.”

  “But …”

  “I know you must be in shock. I’m going to drop by this afternoon, but I felt you needed to hear this terrible news as soon as possible rather than finding out when you phoned the switchboa
rd.”

  “Um …”

  “There is one other thing I need to tell you. Well – ah – because of the nature of the infection we were left with no option but to cremate the bodies of your daughter and your grandson. I’ll bring the ashes with me this afternoon. I’m really sorry for your loss. Our thoughts are with you.”

  “Th-thanks.”

  Helen ended the call. She walked as if in a trance to the telephone cradle and deliberately placed the handset in the slot.

  She turned and stared down at her husband. He lay on the carpet in the foetal position, his face in his hands.

  Chapter 22

  The girl lay on the bed. The bump on her stomach was so large that whichever way she turned she could not get comfortable. Even though she knew that giving birth would kill her, in some ways it would be a relief. When she had asked the doctors when it would be, they had been non-committal, telling her that it could happen anytime in the next few weeks. After almost nine months cooped up in this room, she felt like a prisoner on death row.

  She knew they were planning something for her. No food had arrived that morning. She wondered whether they intended to perform the Caesarean on her that evening. It would be just like them not to inform her. Her fears were confirmed when the door opened, and the balding, white-coated doctor entered the room accompanied by two orderlies, dressed in pale green overalls.

  “Is it time?” she asked, her voice quivering with anxiety.

  “No, not quite yet,” the doctor said. “We just need to do an examination to see how the baby’s doing.”

  “Why can’t you do that here?”

  “We’re going to use a scanner, and we need you to be completely still, so we’re going to give you a general anaesthetic.”

  “Is something wrong with the baby?”

  “No, we don’t think so but given your history of drug abuse, we just want to be absolutely sure. Do you need a hand getting on the trolley?”

  “No, I can manage.”

  She shifted her body around until her legs dangled over the edge of the bed then shuffled forwards. She sighed when her feet touched the floor, then waddled towards the waiting trolley. The two men helped her up and when she was lying down again, strapped her arms and legs to the frame and raised the sides.

  “Is it really necessary to tie me down? It’s not as if I’m going to be able to run far, is it?”

  “It’s just a precaution,” the doctor replied, smiling.

  One man stood on each side, and they manoeuvred the trolley down the white corridor. This was only the second time she had been outside her room since arriving. Her brain soaked everything in: the doors containing the small windows, the recessed lighting, the smoke detectors on the ceiling, all of it a welcome distraction from the monotony of the same four walls for months on end.

  They passed the sign for the first operating theatre. She was just about to ask where they were taking her when they pushed through a set of swing doors labelled ‘Operating Theatre S2’. The arrangement of the room was identical to the one she had been to previously. A woman wearing a blue medical gown, hairnet and white surgical mask awaited her. The girl couldn’t be sure, but she thought it was the same woman who had administered the anaesthetic the last time.

  No sooner had the trolley stopped moving than the woman slipped a black mask over the girl’s face. “Hello again,” she said. “It’s just like before. Start counting backwards from ten.”

  ***

  The girl opened one eye. Her gaze tracked along the white floor to the featureless white walls. For a moment her sluggish mind refused to function, and a sense of disorientation engulfed her. Her head felt like it was full of sand. She blinked open the other eye and, as her brain engaged, she concluded she was back in her room, lying on her side in bed. Instinctively her hand moved to her stomach. For a brief second or two, hope flared that the baby had been born and she was still alive, but the presence of the bump indicated otherwise.

  “Don’t try to move,” a voice said from behind her.

  She ignored the instruction and tried to face the speaker, but her legs wouldn’t respond. With a rising panic, she realised she had no sensation at all below the waist. She lowered her hand and brushed against warm skin, but the touch of her fingers didn’t register at all. It was as if she had placed her hand on somebody else’s body.

  Her heart rate increased, and she felt the baby kick. Her breathing came in ragged bursts, a rushing sound in her ears. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

  “What the hell have you done to me?” she gasped, trying to locate the man.

  A chair creaked and soft footsteps came around the bed. The bald-headed doctor entered her field of vision.

  “Just try to remain still and relax.”

  “I asked what you’ve done to me. I can’t feel my bloody legs.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid there was a complication.”

  “You told me I was going for a scan. How the hell can a scan go wrong?”

  “During the scan, we discovered a growth on your spine. While you were under the anaesthetic, we decided to deal with it there and then.”

  “So now I’m paralysed from the waist down, you bastard,” she screamed.

  “We hoped that we’d be able to remove the tumour without any side effects, but unfortunately it was so close to your spine that it didn’t prove possible.”

  “You lying sack of shit. I don’t believe a word you’re telling me. You’ve lied to me since the day I arrived.”

  “We only have you and the baby’s best interests at heart. Now you need to calm down.”

  The girl stared at him for a moment then opened her mouth and screamed. The doctor winced. He fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a small injection gun. He adjusted the settings and stood just out of reach of the hysterical girl.

  “I was hoping it wasn’t going to come to this,” he said.

  She drew breath and screamed again. She tried to bat his hand away as he lunged towards her and pressed the barrel against the top of her arm, but he was too quick. He depressed the trigger and sprang back.

  The girl’s eyes rolled up in her head, and within seconds she was once again unconscious.

  Chapter 23

  Thursday 6th January 2033

  Rosalind Baxter and Nigel Perrin entered the large CEO’s office on the second storey. Rosalind shut the door then took the chair behind the heavy black wooden desk facing the floor to ceiling plate-glass window. Perrin sat opposite, clutching a sheaf of papers, silhouetted by a beam of sunlight that broke through a gap in the slate-grey clouds. He seemed ill at ease.

  “Too hot in here, for you Nigel?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Still, it’s a little too bright for me.”

  Rosalind pressed a button on her keyboard. “Darken,” she said. The light streaming into the room decreased until the glare no longer bothered her. “Stop,” she commanded.

  “So,” she said addressing Perrin, “what have we got?”

  “Well, to start with they’re both doing well. We’re keeping them separated for the time being, but she’s starting to get difficult, demanding to talk to her parents and see the child.”

  “Keep stalling her for the moment. What about the test results?”

  He consulted the reports he held on his lap and placed them one by one on the table. “We’ve taken blood from both mother and child, cheek swabs, urine and faeces samples. We’ve also done full body scans.” A small mound of documents rested on the black surface of the desk. Several sheets of paper remained on his knee.

  “You don’t expect me to read all that, do you? What are the highlights?”

  “Okay, Rosalind. The virus is still active in both their blood samples. For whatever reason, it hasn’t entered the destructive phase in the mother. Urine and faeces don’t show anything unusual. We’ve sequenced the DNA from the cheek swabs on the child, and there’s nothing obvious there. I’ve asked them to repeat the mother’s cheek swab. It looks
like somebody mixed up the samples.”

  “I take it you know who that was?”

  Perrin nodded.

  “Well fire them. If there’s one thing I won’t tolerate in this organisation, it’s incompetence. We pay well above the going rate, and I expect the best.”

  “Um … okay Rosalind, but it’s not easy to find good technicians. She’s never made a mistake before.”

  “I don’t care, Nigel. Get rid of her. If you don’t want to do it personally, phone somebody in Personnel.”

  “No, I’ll do it,” he said in a resigned voice.

  “What about the body scans?”

  “Nothing unusual in the child’s. As you know the mother has a fracture between the T-eleven and T-twelve vertebrae.”

  “You don’t think that’s got anything to do with her surviving do you?”

  “I already thought of that, Rosalind. It seems unlikely, but I have instigated an experiment.”

  “Good. The mother was being treated here before the birth. What did you prescribe her?”

  Perrin glanced up sharply. “I did as you asked and gave her the placebo.”

  “And you’re sure none of the technicians mixed up the pills?”

  Perrin sighed. “No, Rosalind, I can’t be a hundred percent, but the chances are extremely small. In any case, as you know we always conduct trials on a number of patients, and so far none of the others has survived.” He shifted his weight on the chair.

  “Something’s bothering you, Nigel. What is it?”

  Perrin hesitated. “I told you we discounted the DNA test on the mother, but there was something of note about the baby.”

  Rosalind leant forwards. “You just said there was nothing unusual in the child’s DNA. Make up your mind. What did you find?”

  “I meant nothing to explain why the mother survived. What I didn’t mention was that we also used it to determine paternity.”

  “Oh for crying out loud, Nigel, get to the point.”

  Perrin placed the remaining sheets of paper on the table. “When we ran the sequencer and analysed the results, I immediately recognised the signature, even though it was many years ago.”