Lena had by this time pulled on gloves, and she bagged the errant fingers, following just behind Swigart and the two transporting the remains. They cursed on seeing the loss of a couple of extremities, but in the long run, the lightness of the body made it seem no harder a chore than moving a slab of balsa wood from one place to another. The stiffness made getting Alandale’s body through the tight entryway to elevator difficult, especially on turns, reminding David of moving a sofa up a flight of stairs—until they accidentally hit a bulkhead, shearing off the hard, stiff left leg at the knee. This and the irking noise and oozing brown goop from the severed limb conspired in an instant to pull a cry from Will Bowman’s gut. Will held on, but he’d dropped the left calf and foot to grab onto the single right ankle now in his two hands to avoid dropping the bottom end of the body altogether.
Cursing their carelessness with the body, a gloved Swigart slipped on spilled brown ooze from the leg, quickly salvaged his footing, and then recovered the runaway leg to carry it up behind them, shouting, “Damn it, Bowman, take better care!”
“I’m not a damn undertaker, boss!” Even as he said this, David wondered if there could be egg sacs laid inside the corpse he carried.
It could not be soon enough for the men to rid themselves of the body, and soon it was in Navy parlance a ‘managed task’. “We should’ve used the service elevator at mid-ships,” complained Bowman who was looking ill since Alandale’s leg had sheared off, increasing the unpleasant odor rising from the discolored corpse.
“If Cookie got wind of us using his service elevator, he’d be as mad as Ahab’s whale,” Swigart tried joking when he again saw the brackish liquid seeping out of the wound where the leg had come off at the knee.
“Yeah, I can hear him now, said David, mimicking the cook—“Damnit, the elevator’s for two things only—supplies in, slop out.”
They laughed together at this even as they hefted Alandale’s inert form across the deck and into a hatchway leading them into the bio lab, past the lab itself and to a wall unit—the freezer compartment on board for the collection of biological specimens. Kelly had led the way, and now she held the door wide for them.
Lena Gambio passed along her baggie of fingers in alongside Alandale corpse laid along the floor of the walk-in freezer. Swigart added the errant leg and foot even as the cameras rolled.
“Wait till Woods Hole asks you for biological specimens now, Dr. Irvin,” Lena said, trying to make light of this awful moment.
Craig Powers and his cameraman continued shooting, Powers creating a running narrative that he would edit together later.
David felt a wave of surreal emotions engulf him. Alandale not yet cold in his icy coffin, his severed leg and fingers a mocking sight; still, it was either laugh or cry at such moments, and the laughter escaping others, he knew vented a truckload of pent up emotions. However, Lou Swigart was like stone, not joining in on the ‘merriment’ although he’d opened it earlier with his remarks about Cookie’s elevator.
Kelly commented, “Thank God you clowns didn’t begin your comedy routine in front of Forbes.”
Bowman said, “Always wanted to do stand up, and with these cameras in my face, I think it’s my chance.”
The camera caught the odd juxtaposition of the petrified body, now technically in three pieces, as the door to the specimen freezer closed on Alandale’s remains.
David snatched off the surgical gloves and unceremoniously tossed them into the nearby medical waste bin. He then waited as the others filed out, until only he and Kelly remained in the bio lab. “You know,” he said, “Alandale’s body could be riddled with those eggs you were talking about.”
“No—I don’t think so. The brackish ooze, remember? From Declan’s journal, I’ve learned this is the remnant of egg sacs gone bad—dead, aborted if you will.”
“Ahh… no need to worry then.”
David’s sarcasm made Kelly wince, a look of utter sadness coming over her. “He was such a wonderful old gentleman, Alandale. What’s happened to him, and I fear this man Ford, David… it’s just the tip of the iceberg. Brace yourself; it will only get worse.”
SEVENTEEN
“My God… my God, Declan, what’re you trying to do?” asked Thomas Coogan as his best friend, Declan Irvin, using long-handled bone cutters, severed McAffey’s spine with a single snap.
“There!” Declan announced, a look of satisfaction passing as quickly as it had arrived. “I was… .was afraid for a moment we’d have to turn him over and open him up from the posterior.”
Declan seems a natural at this, thought Ransom, while Thomas appears queasy, but who am I to talk? Ransom felt on the verge of losing his last meal. While Alastair had been to countless autopsies and inquests back in Chicago, none were anything like this; nothing so putrid smelling as the gases emanating from McAffey’s leathery corpse.
“I’ve seen a lot of things in my sixty some odd years on the planet, lads, but never what’s been done to these men. It leaves me speechless.”
“Why’s it necessary, Declan,” pressed Thomas again, looking over his glasses, “to-to sever the spine?”
Declan answered not with words but by holding the end of the severed section of the spinal cord up to their eyes. “What’s missing from this picture? Thomas, what do you see? Answer me.”
“Dry as bone inside—not a drop of spinal fluid… .”
“As I suspected—somehow the spinal fluid and even the bone marrow… it’s just gone, but by what power?”
“Why take a man’s spinal fluid?” asked Thomas.
Declan shook his head. “Somehow this thing robs a man of every ounce of fluid in the body.”
“But down to a man’s spine!”
“Empty as a beer keg,” agreed Ransom, eyes wide.
“All of it gone, but how? Sucked from the bones do you think?” If Thomas had looked unnerved before, he looked doubly so now.
“Thomas, hold yourself together, man. We have two more bodies to open up.”
“To what bloody end? We damn well know the others’ll be identical to McAffey, Declan.”
“We can’t know that unless we put eyes on it.”
“It’s bloody obvious they suffered the same fate.”
Ransom held back to allow the young doctors to settle this.
Declan got nose to nose with his friend. “And suppose O’Toole lived longer than McAffey, and your uncle even longer? Suppose it’s obvious one of them had put up a better fight than did McAffey?”
“We’d be well informed to know as much, yes.” Thomas stepped back half a foot.
“If that’s so, Tommie, we have to determine how the one may’ve fought it off, don’t you see?”
“To affect a cure, of course… I realize but are we up to it, Declan? I mean, we’re just a couple of medical students at best.”
“We’re up to it.”
“It’s not as if we’re the best equipped for the job!”
“Dr. B and the dean surely are not up to it, Thomas, and so If not us, then by God who will step into the breach?”
Ransom placed his bear-like paw onto Thomas’ shoulder to steady the young man. Thomas looked from Declan to Ransom and nodded. “All right. All right but we may well be doomed before we’ve begun; there isn’t the time.”
“Close up Mr. McAffey for me then, Thomas, and I’ll start on O’Toole, unless you wish to do the honors.” Declan held up the scalpel for Thomas, but he declined it.
“Perhaps I’ll… I’ll open up Uncle Anton.” Thomas held a quivering chin high, his eyes challenging now.
“That’s not going to be easy, Thomas. Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure of anything—not a single bloody thing. Are you?”
“To be honest, no!” Declan saw his gritted teeth reflected in Thomas’ glasses.
“All right, give it to me.” Thomas held his hand out for the scalpel that Declan had earlier offered. “I’ll do O’Toole and leave Uncle Anton in your hands.”
Ransom had come to admire the young interns for their care with one another and their obvious, powerful bond, not to mention their concern for the general population. He paid little attention as Declan sewed up McAffey with the medical string—cat gut— binding the skin together in a way that made him think of a popular book he’d read entitled Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, wife to the famous English poet. He felt a chill run through him on recalling the account of the hybrid thing brought back from the dead. The unnatural condition of these bodies brought the imagery full on within his mind.
Ransom struggled to banish the bad thoughts from his mind’s eye. Ironically, the only thing that managed it in the least was to look over Thomas’ shoulder as the lad now opened up O’Toole. It always had fascinated Alastair to watch a good medical man at his surgical task. Back in Chicago, during times when not too busy, he’d sit in on dissections at the great theater built for students of the famous Dr. Christian Fenger to observe and learn. He’d also seen his lover, Dr. Jane Tewes in action there—her deft hands like a butterfly one moment, like a strong machine the next.
He longed to see Jane again, to be with her, imagined what she might look like after so many years, how she had gotten on without him any longer in her life. Perhaps she’d wisely moved on. Perhaps she’d found a good man. Jane remained his greatest loss on having to leave, or rather escape Chicago. How often had he wanted to send her and Gabrielle a letter, reveal where he was, pray that mother and daughter would join him, perhaps in Paris? His damnable logical side had always stopped him, asking what kind of life could he provide for her and Gabby so long as he remained a fugitive on the run?
Ransom had learned a good deal over the years about autopsies, and he suspected should Thomas falter or faint out, that he could in a pinch, take over for the boy—but only if need be.
The dead Mr. O’Toole’s facial features, like those of McAffey, had coalesced into a sickening grin, a gut-wrenching grimace. Still this gargoyle’s grimace gave Ransom a mild comfort in that at least this was, oddly enough, something familiar to him; familiar in so many corpses. ‘Death’s Smile’ as some called it so often accompanied the end right alongside the rattle of a final breath.
“Holy Mother of God!” Thomas erupted as a foamy, bubbling material rose from the cut he made at O’Toole’s chest, making a gurgling noise and sending Thomas backing into Ransom which caused him another start, and one hand landed in the soupy, brown matter oozing from O’Toole. The only saving grace was the glove running up Thomas’ arm and his matching leather apron. “The man has some strange fluid here like ichor… color of black tea…”
Declan joined them, and all three stared at the ooze bubbling up from the Y incision begun by Thomas. “Maybe there’s something to your theory, after all, Declan. I mean if this—O’Toole’s got some residual fluid—whatever it is.”
“Residual fluid, yes. Whatever’s devastated McAffey, O’Toole lasted longer. He managed to get out of the mine… was found behind a bulkhead in the ship. Perhaps something in his makeup, resisted the disease more vigorously than did McAffey.”
“Something in his blood perhaps?” asked Thomas.
“Blood is not the answer to every bloody question,” countered Declan.
“What about the heart? The other organs?” asked Ransom. “Are they in any better shape than McAffey’s?”
Declan shook his head. “No… wish we had time to look at the brain, eh, Thomas?”
“No time as it is.”
“Do be careful not to touch the leaking fluid to your exposed skin, Thomas.” Declan had taken a step toward his friend to emphasize the danger.
“Thank God I used the leather gloves.” Thomas had backed off, not wanting to get even the odors bubbling up from the body in his nostrils. Still, he returned to his surgical instruments and continued his incision while suddenly ordering Declan around. “Keep calm, Declan and don’t snatch away those gloves you have on.” He indicated the elbow-length gloves on Declan’s forearms and hands.
“You too, Detective Wyland.” Declan tossed Alastair a pair. “I refuse to bury you, too.”
Alastair willingly took the tight-fitting surgical leather gloves that went up and over the forearms. He’d seen similar gloves used by cattle butchers in Chicago, and while they did encumber the fingers of a surgeon, they were deemed a far safer form of defense against noxious and infectious organisms than the typical white cloth gloves surgeons preferred during an operation.
Again Thomas continued cutting, and as he did so, the dry cordwood of the exterior of the corpse cracked, crinkled, popped, and came wide, popping again as it did so. The noise alone was disturbing, but the sight proved worse yet.
He soon could see the condition of the organs, and like McAffey’s before, the organs had dried and shrunken to the point they were nearly unrecognizable, despite the soupy, bubbling brackish fluids they floated in.
“What now?” Thomas asked.
“Check the bone and the spinal cord to make the comparisons, but take care. Don’t get that unnatural fluid on your skin.” Declan made more notes in his ledger. His meticulous care with his records impressed Ransom.
Thomas swallowed hard, and took the bone cutter handed him by Ransom. With his leather bound hands literally in the soup, in a matter of minutes, Thomas snapped one of the ribs open, cut out a section, dried it of superfluous fluid, and held it up to the light for all three of them to inspect. “Bone dry inside—no fluid, no marrow,” muttered Thomas.
“I’m surprised,” replied Ransom.
Declan kept silent council on this finding. He then urged Thomas on, saying, “Now the spinal column, just as we did with McAffey. It’s vitally important that we duplicate each step.”
“It’ll be the same, Declan; I know it, and so do you—and this fluid, this is not natural… not supposed to be here, not in a body in this condition.”
“You’d think all three were dead for a thousand years,” added Ransom.
“This unusual dehydration of the body, coming as it has before decay… it’s as if all the natural process of breaking down was somehow sped up!” said Declan, chewing now on a piece of beef jerky he’d found in one of the freezers. The snack likely belonged to one of the faculty members. He took a moment to share it with Thomas, but Ransom declined the offer.
Thomas next found a spot on O’Toole’s spinal column, and the cutters sent up the snapping sound that Ransom was beginning to detest. Then came a second cut. With forceps, Thomas lifted out the section he’d taken and held it up to the overhead light.
“Again nothing… dry as desert air.” Thomas placed the section of spine the length of a thumb onto a metal plate for later tagging.
“We need a sample of the brackish fluid pooled in the body,” said Declan, and Ransom grabbed up an empty small jar and handed this to Thomas. Declan then lifted a slide, “and I want a look at this muck under the ’scope.”
Thomas scooped some of the brownish-to-black gruel from where it had bubbled and pooled; he captured a heaping specimen in the jar. Declan, leather gloves still in place, took a smear of the stuff for his slide. He rushed over to the microscope and began working the scope to get a clear magnification. With his eyes still on the lens, he moaned, “My God, Thomas, have a look.”
Thomas stepped to the scope, hesitated a moment, and then examined the slide. He said nothing but looked up at Thomas and the two medical men exchanged a look of deep, abiding concern.
“What the hell is it?” asked Ransom, pushing between the young men—a veritable bull in a china shop here in the lab area of the surgery. Ransom took a long look at what was beneath the slide which was magnified five seven-hundred and fifty times. When Ransom looked up again, he repeated, “What in hell is that?”
“Who bloody knows,” cursed Thomas.
“It’s nothing we’ve ever seen before, but
thankfully, whatever it is, the good news is its dying before our eyes.”
“Whatever it is… it doesn’t appear well adapted to oxygen and light, now does it?” asked Thomas. “Whether dying or not, we have to culture it… keep it alive, Declan.”
“What?” asked Ransom. “What’re you saying—keep it alive?” He watched Thomas who’d set about the lab in search of what he needed.
Declan held up a hand to Ransom. “Thomas is correct; to learn from this thing, to understand it, this is the only way, and besides, we can prove its existence to others far easier if it wiggles under the scope.”
“And the only way we can defeat it,” added Thomas. “It’s no use to us dead if we’re ever to find a cure.”
“We need to place it in a culture that will support its life, you see…”
“And at the same time keep our distance from it.” Declan went about the process of finding a culture that the organism might either flourish in or go dormant in yet maintain life.
“Where did this thing come from?” asked Ransom, pacing now, thinking what might happen if this organism were to spread. “Is it a form of the Black Plague?” “No… I don’t think so,” replied Declan, covering his mouth as he coughed to one side.
“I wish it were the bloody Black Plague,” muttered Thomas, who appeared more knowledgeable in disease organisms than Declan, who was obviously the better surgeon. “Black Plague, now there’s a condition we’ve had some experience with over the years, and we know it.”
“Aye, the enemy you know,” muttered Ransom.
“We know next to nothing of how this thing, whatever it is, is transmitted,” began Declan.
“And we know even less about what kind of defenses we can place up against it,” added Thomas. “With smallpox, the greatest scourge and killer of the ages, at least we know it when we see it. But this… no, we haven’t a clue what it is, nor how to treat it—much less how to defeat it!”
Titanic 2012 (inspector alastair ransom) Page 20