May 29th - 10:00 p.m.
CIA Headquarters - Washington, D.C.
“Thanks. We’ll take care of it.” In the doorway of the large office, Joe took a thick folder from another agent then turned and headed back to his desk. He could see the back of Brian’s head as he neared. “Christ,” Joe ran his hand down his own face. “I don’t ever recall being this tired. Here.” He dropped the folder on the desk in front of Brian. “Take a look ...”
“Huh.” Brian’s head sprang up in a sort of shock.
“Were you sleeping?”
“No.” His voice was sharp.
Joe walked around the desk and hesitated before sitting down when he saw Brian’s face. Pale, pasty, and the darkness under his eyes seemed to match a bruise-like ring that had formed around his swollen neck. “Brian. Are you all right?” Joe didn’t sit, he walked back to Brian.
Brian twitched his head and blinked his eyes trying to focus. “I can’t ... got ...” He spoke in a delirium.
“Brian?”
Slow, so slow and deep Joe’s words were that Brian panicked. He jumped from his chair. “No.” He held out his hands.
“Brian.” Joe reached out grabbing for Brian’s arm. The second his hand touched upon the skin, Joe retracted his arm. “Christ, you’re on fire.” Spinning, Joe reached for the phone. “We got to get you to a doctor.”
“No!” Brian shouted again, backing up. “I just need to throw up. I just need to ...” As he turned to get out of the office, Brian bumped into a neighboring desk, tried to grip it for balance and in his useless struggle, he swayed and toppled to the floor.
The receiver dropped from Joe’s hand and he rushed to Brian’s side. “Someone!” He called out as he slid to the floor with Brian. The moment Joe hit the floor, Brian’s back arched drastically, his arms flung out in a rigid movement and he began to violently convulse. Holding Brian while reaching for the buzzing receiver became an impossible feat for Joe. “Someone!” Joe screamed out again. He grabbed onto Brain and as soon as he did, Brian’s head jolted back and forth and like a volcanic eruption, bloody projectile vomiting shot out across the room. Grabbing Brian under his arms, Joe lifted him upright. Struggling to hold the big shaking man, Joe braced Brain’s back to his chest and wrapped his arms around him to hold him upright. Red faced he cried out as loud as he could. “Someone call 911!”
May 29th - 10:05 p.m.
County General Hospital - New York City, NY
A loud bang of the double doors from the emergency area to the treatment area announced two rushing paramedics. Moans of pain emerging, eyes rolling, a convulsing Mabel thrashed up and down on the cart. The emergency workers moved her at a rapid pace as vomit still spewed from her mouth. Dr. Thomas Levin, a young resident at the hospital, ran right long aside of them. Two nurses stopped what they were doing to join.
“Jean,” Thomas visually examined the situation as the cart rolled down the corridor. “We’re going to start a Dilantin IV. Fifty milligrams of Valium. Clare, run me a gastrointestinal work up and get a hold of Dr. Morgan, this is right up his alley.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Clare took off running back to the nurses’ station, and Dr. Levin, the paramedics, and Jean continued to move down the hall and into a room.
May 29th - 10:20 p.m.
Memorial Hospital - Washington, D.C.
Brian echoed a gurgling scream as his body violently arched and flung high in the air. Up and down he bounced on the table. A doctor and three nurses frantically worked to help him. The examining table rattled and tipped from each movement of Brian’s body.
The physician’s forearm dug deep into Brian’s chest, but it didn’t help. Even Dr. Everett’s body weight didn’t stop Brian. “Someone help me hold this man down! I can’t tube him!”
Joe felt as if he were watching some sort of television show. He stood in the back near the door; Brian’s blood covered his arms, face and chest. He watched, not knowing what to do, feeling helpless as the doctor tried desperately to insert a tube into Brian’s mouth. Brian was literally choking to death on his body fluids that continued to seep out. Then Joe watched as Brian arched up high again and fell hard to the cart, motionless.
Silence.
“He’s crashed!” Dr. Everett cried out. “Get the cart! Epi! I need Epi! Nurse, bag him.” Dr. Everett hurried, jumped on the side of the table and took a resuscitative position over Brian. He immediately began compressions.
It was happening so fast. One second a nurse flew out of the room past Joe then back in, nearly knocking into him with the crash cart she pushed.
Dr. Everett jumped off the table. “One amp atropine, one amp epinephrine.” He grabbed the paddles to the defibrillator. The nurse injected Brian and Dr. Everett readied the paddles and brought them close to Brian’s exposed chest. “200 ready and ... clear.”
A click, a touch of the paddles to Brian. He jolted up and fell back down.
“Nothing. 300 and ... clear.” Dr. Everett hit him again and raised his eyes to the heart monitor. “Still nothing. 360 and ... clear.”
Joe’s bloody hand ran slowly down his own face as he backed up even more in that room. Nothing helped Brian. Each futile attempt of the valiant medical staff who wouldn’t quit went through Joe with as much pain and shock as if he too were getting hit with the machine that failed to bring Brian back to life as it was designed to do.
Saturday, May 30th - 11:33 p.m.
Chanute Air Force Base - Rantoul, Illinois
Frank swore it felt like he had been waiting an hour. Eyes going from his watch to his nightstand alarm clock, truly thinking that perhaps one of them was wrong. But they were perfectly synchronized and it hadn’t been an hour; it was only a few minutes.
He lay on his bed on top of the covers staring at the reflection the moon made on his ceiling. Pillows behind his shoulders propped him up. He rested one arm behind his head. But Frank didn’t rest. His feet, crossed at the ankles, tapped the air in anxiety. His eyes kept shifting. Clock. Watch. Phone. Clock.
Ring.
It shot through Frank, scaring him even though he waited for it to happen. With a smile, he hurried and picked up before a ring was complete. He roughened his voice. “You’re late.”
There was a long pause that came from the other end. Then Ellen weakly spoke, “He knows.”
“El. I can barely hear you, babe. What are you talking about?”
“He knows,” Ellen said softly.
“About what?” Frank asked then heard the long heavy breath. It went through the earpiece of the phone directly to his chest. Losing his own breath for a second, his relaxed nature left. Frank swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. “Shit, El. When?”
“Frank, I’m just gonna ...”
“When?”
“I don’t ... I don’t want to talk about it. Right now I’m drunk, I’m tired and I’ve been crying.”
It took all of Frank’s concentration to hear Ellen. “El, listen. Okay, listen to me. I’m glad.”
“What?”
“No. I’m glad this happened. It has been too long. Let’s just get this out. Let it out. I’m so tired of hiding behind a bad marriage. I am. We’ve been doing this for so many years. It’s time that you and I ...”
“End it.” Ellen finished his sentence. “It’s time that you and I just end it.”
“I won’t accept that.”
“You have no choice, Frank. I can’t ... you can’t. Too many people will get hurt. Just let it go.”
“El ... El, wait ... El!” Frank heard the click of the other end of the line. Slowly he pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it. Dead air. Immediately, consequences to be paid or not, he dialed the phone. Busy. In a fit of rage, he spun around slamming down the receiver to the base and at a loss as to what he should do.
May 30th – 11:35 p.m.
Ashtonville, Connecticut
Ellen sat huddled on the floor in a corner of her dining room, her legs bent up and brought close
to her chest. Her arms wrapped tightly around them, holding them closer to her like some type of security blanket. She was grateful that the buzzing of the phone had stopped. She stared at it, receiver off the base, still where she dropped it the second she hung up on Frank.
Slowly, she cringed as a burning pain washed through her. She brought two fingers to the corner of her lips and pulled them away to look at them. Blood smudged her fingertips from her bruised and swollen mouth. Wiping her hand on the side of her jeans, Ellen shed a single tear, rested her cheek against her knees and closed her eyes.
May 30th – 11:45 p.m.
County General Hospital - New York City, NY
Mabel laid upon a tilted table in the intensive care unit of the hospital, her small body swollen beyond recognition, intravenous tubing flowed from her. The respirator clicked with each breath the machine pushed into her lungs.
Like an anxious new father waiting on an impending birth, Dr. Levin stood by the nurses’ station. He watched Dr. Wesley, an older physician at the hospital, a man whose word Dr. Levin wanted to hear, as if he were some sort of priest and his knowledge were gospel. Dr. Levin could have gone in there with him, but he didn’t. He felt it wasn’t his domain; more so, he felt it was his lack of experience and perhaps that lack was the reason that a healthy woman went downhill.
Dr. Wesley closed the chart and carried it from the small cubical-style room. He moved to the nurses’ station and Dr. Levin.
“Dr. Wesley. Tell me you have our answers.”
“I wish. In fact ...” Dr. Wesley turned his body to face Dr. Levin, his arm resting on the counter. “I can tell you right now, it is definitely not her digestive system.”
“What do you think it is?”
Dr. Wesley tossed up his hands. “I haven’t a clue. All I know is that we have a seriously ill woman who won’t make it through the night at the rate she is hemorrhaging.” Dr. Wesley paused with total seriousness. “And I also know something else. I think ... I think it may be time to call the health department in on this one.”
Quickly, Dr. Levin looked up. “The health department?”
“Yes. And not only them, but everyone she’s been in contact with.” Dr. Wesley lowered his voice and leaned closer to Dr. Levin. “We may be looking at a possible quarantine.” With those words and a quick raise of his eyebrows, Dr. Wesley walked away leaving a very quiet and staring Dr. Levin.
May 30th – 11:55 p.m.
Gaithersburg, Maryland
Joe wished that scrubbing away the pain and confusion he felt was as easy as scrubbing away the dried blood on his arms, blood that remained from Brian. Over the basin in the bathroom of his home, water pink, Joe washed up, hands, face, and arms. He shut off the water and reached for a hand towel that hung on the rack next to him. Bringing it to him, not only did Joe dry his face, but he buried it in the towel as well. As he closed his eyes, his mind brought back the vision that he knew he’d not soon forget. Brian, a sheet covering his body. Gone.
How long they had worked on Brian, trying with so much hope and faith to save a man who was only days from his twenty-eighth birthday. Even going as far as to cut open his chest and massage his heart by hand. But to no avail; all attempts were in vain. Brian was not destined to live. He never came back.
There were no answers from the doctors. None. Joe’s persistence afterwards with the doctors didn’t breed the results he wanted. Instead of getting answers that he thought they kept from him, he received lost looks from professionals who just didn’t know what went wrong.
But a part of Joe did. Too quickly and too violently the illness raged through Brian and took him to the point of death. Nothing like Joe had ever seen before. To him, it was almost too frightening.
Tossing the hand towel in the hamper, Joe moved slowly from the bathroom, down the hall and to his living room. He paused to look at the sofa table and the pictures spread out there. His eyes caught a glimpse of his favorite one, a photo taken not long before, of him and his four sons. Standing outside, smiling. All four of Joe’s sons, Frank, Hal, Jimmy and Robbie were in the service. Joe chuckled every time he looked at that picture because he never knew if it was his imagination, but somehow it looked as if Jimmy stood just a little off to the side, pushed there by the other three who never let Jimmy live it down that he chose the Naval branch of the service instead of the Army as they did.
Joe was proud of his boys, a family he raised on his own after his wife died when Robbie, the youngest, was four. How close he kept his family. But it was the first time ever that his boys were at their farthest distance apart from each other. That bothered Joe, especially with the way he was feeling, what he had witnessed and what he began to worry about. His heart and mind screamed that it was time to pull them all together.
Not once during the entire heartbreaking episode with Brian did it leave Joe’s mind that something unnatural and amiss had gone down. He never let it slip far from his consciousness why they were in New York, who they were chasing, the subway, the dead rats, and Barat Ashrad so frightened over something that he took his life without a second thought. Perhaps that was what he was supposed to do. Perhaps not. But Joe also knew where it all began and that was the Centers for Disease Control. Their faxes. The abundance of what he thought was ‘useless information’ Catherine Donovan dumped upon him during the investigation. Information that became puzzle pieces he never knew were missing until he watched what happened to Brian.
Joe didn’t know why he felt the way he did. He wanted to chalk it up to the death of his young partner, but he couldn’t. Joe had always been a man of logic. That logic helped him draw upon the keen foresight that had made him so successful in his career.
Picking up the photograph, Joe walked across the room and picked up the telephone. He knew it was late and he knew he’d get an answering service, but Joe had to call and leave a message anyhow. He just couldn’t with a clear conscious do what he was thinking about without letting someone know. Someone Joe was certain would not doubt him.
“Yes. I need to speak or leave a message for Dr. Catherine Donovan.” Joe rolled his eyes in irritation. “Yes, I realize she isn’t in, that’s why I gave the message option. Thank you. Joe. No last name, just Joe ... now it is important that you write this down exactly as I tell you. Got that? Tell her that Joe called and he believes that Carrington arrived in New York.” Joe paused contemplating the last bit of his message. “And tell her, possibly ... with a vengeance.”
Saying no more, no goodbye, Joe hung up the phone. He carried his photograph not to the table but to his chair. He sat down, picture in hand, staring at it and settling deeper into thoughts he wished he wasn’t having.
THE UNDOING
With one moment’s notice, in one moment’s despair,
a pass in the night and you’re no longer there.
How long will it take until everything’s gone?
One day or two? Does it matter how long?
DAY TWO
May 30th - 8:15 a.m.
Fairfield University, Stamford, Connecticut
His long coal black hair swayed in his happy walk as Henry Kusakari moved at a swift pace with Dean Hayes to the building where the auditorium was located. A tall lanky man, Asian by race, twenty-eight years old, Henry had worked for Fairfield since he mopped floors at sixteen. He made his way through technical school, and his dedication to his work earned him the job as Head of Engineering Services, that and the fact that there wasn’t anything Henry couldn’t fix. If he didn’t know how, he’d never admit it; he would just steal time until he could figure it out. Henry always did.
Henry helped Dean carry his things across the long yard and to the path, claiming it was because he was just that type of helpful guy. But the truth was, Henry hadn’t anything to do yet and he was nosey by nature. Curiosity caused him to carry those boxes, and hopefully idle conversation with the little Lieutenant slash doctor would afford him the opportunity to see what was in them. After all, to Henry it had to
be good or why else would Dean Hayes charge a hundred and seventy-five dollars to hear what he had to say.
That was Henry’s theory. Henry had a theory for everything.
Juggling the box he held, Henry unlocked the auditorium door for Dean and hit the light switch, brightening the room.
“I appreciate this,” Dean told him.
“No problem. So, like, do you think you’re gonna pack this place?”
“We’re expecting a full capacity.” Dean set his box on the table next to the podium.
“Are you really a doctor?” Henry asked setting his box next to Dean’s.
“Yes.”
“So why do they call you Lieutenant?”
“In the military your rank comes first.”
“That sucks. I would think there is more prestige to being a doctor rather than a Lieutenant. Unless you’re a General, then I can see saying General Hayes first. Do you think you’ll make General?”
The Big Ten: The First Ten Books of the Beginnings Series Page 5