by Bonnie Doran
“No. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re going. Stop arguing.”
Carol nodded. She did feel lousy. She downed a couple more ibuprofen as she slipped into jeans and a T-shirt. Even that simple effort made her feel fifty pounds heavier. Trudging downstairs to the garage, her worry gland started kicking her insides. She would never admit it to Mike, but she’d become a little concerned herself. The flu had never flattened her like this. She eased into the passenger seat.
“Drive, James.” Her smile was a weary one.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Emergency was jammed with a few people holding blood-soaked sterile pads to their extremities, but most of them were coughing their hearts out. Carol thought she recognized a couple from the marriage seminar, but she wasn’t sure. A few of the coughers walked through a door when their names were called and returned a few minutes later, clutching what she assumed were paper prescription orders.
Her turn finally came. She sat on the cubicle’s bed and answered questions from a nurse while Mike watched from a nearby chair.
Finally, the doctor entered, giving a cursory glance at the information the nurse had gleaned. “And how are we feeling today?” He looked too young to wear a stethoscope.
“Rotten.” Carol almost gave in to tears. She’d tried to sleep that afternoon, but no dice.
“What the nurse wrote is consistent with dehydration and pneumonia. This virus is especially virulent, so I’m admitting you.”
Mike’s eyebrows rose.
“Don’t worry. We’ll start her on an IV drip and oxygen right away, and I’ll order blood work and an X-ray. We’ll fix her up in no time.”
“OK.” Carol would have agreed to a lung transplant if it would help her breathe.
The doctor turned to Mike, who’d pulled his face into a deep frown. “You can stay with her if you like, or at least ’til we transfer her to a room.”
Mike nodded.
The doctor left without another word. On to the next patient, Carol supposed.
“Mike?”
“Hmm?” His head was already buried in a book.
“Could you get the book out of my purse, please?”
Mike grunted and rummaged through her tote bag at the foot of the bed. He emerged with a small paperback. “Here it is.”
“Thanks.” Carol opened her novel. Escape or distraction seemed a good idea, but the words swam. She couldn’t focus. She laid it on her chest.
A nurse came in a moment later with a portable X-ray machine, took images, and left. Another nurse inserted a needle for an IV. Carol watched with a certain fascination.
“You’re good,” Carol mumbled, closing her eyes. “I barely felt it.”
Mike turned away. He didn’t like needles.
The second nurse hung a bottle of saline on a hook, inserted plugs or something up her nose, and turned a valve. Carol’s breathing eased.
She blinked at Mike and closed her eyes again. How long had they been here? She sagged into the sheets. “All I want is my own bed.”
Mike looked up. “You’ll be OK.” He squeezed her hand. She tried to smile back.
When the doctor returned, Mike was in fidget mode. “Well?”
The doctor ignored his tone as he displayed the X-rays. “It appears your wife has double pneumonia. I suspect it’s influenza, but I’m concerned about her dehydration and high fever. I’m admitting her to ICU.”
Carol gulped. She was sicker than she thought. Vaguely she heard the doctor talking to Mike as if she were an inanimate object, but she was too worn out to argue.
The orderlies appeared. They wheeled her one way while Mike went another, probably hunting for a latte. He promised to meet her once she got settled in her room. Only after Carol was hooked up to a bazillion monitors did they allow Mike in.
“You look like a Borg from Star Trek.” He plopped into the chair and slurped from a paper cup.
“Thanks a lot.”
She surveyed her surroundings. Her room had a glass wall that looked out to the nurse’s station and a few rooms opposite her. Most people were in worse shape than she was, judging from the moans. One patient, with his wife sitting nearby, caught her attention.
“Mike,” she whispered. “Isn’t that Worth Hildebrandt? Over there?” She tilted her head.
Mike leaned toward the window and squinted. “Hard to tell at this angle. I think I recognize his wife. Wonder why he’s here.”
“Probably caught the same bug.”
A nurse came in and checked Carol’s vital signs. “I’m Annie Burton. I’ll be your nurse tonight. Is there anything I can get you?”
“No.” Her tongue felt thick. “Wait. Maybe something for nausea.”
Annie frowned. “I’ll have to check with the doctor first. But I can give you Tylenol if you’re achy.”
“Thanks. I feel like a steamroller’s flattened me.”
Mike surfaced from his novel. “Do you know if that’s Worth Hildebrandt over there?”
The nurse grimaced as if she’d just tasted bitterness. “I’m not allowed to say. We have a strict policy about confidentiality.” She cocked her head. “Do you know him?”
“Uh, not really.” Carol glanced at her husband. “We attended his marriage seminar three days ago.”
“Interesting.” Annie tapped her little finger on her cheek.
“I think I caught the flu at the seminar. Maybe he did, too. So cold in the hotel.” Carol allowed Annie to fluff her pillow before lowering the bed to a prone position.
“I told her it didn’t work that way.” Mike touched her hand again.
“I know that, Mike.” Carol sighed. “It’s an expression, I guess. I must have caught it there, though. I’m sure of it.”
“You’re probably right.” Annie looked thoughtful again as she adjusted the water pitcher on the bedside table. “Flu is transmitted either by sneezing or by personal contact. That’s why we’re always telling people to wash their hands. Even with all the announcements from the CDC, the public misunderstands how it’s spread.”
Mike nodded. “Like that swine flu several years ago. Some people refused to eat pork.”
“They haven’t nicknamed this strain yet. Maybe they’ll call it the tofu flu.” Annie chuckled.
Carol smiled. She liked this nurse.
“Speaking of late, it’s about bedtime for you. But first, I want you to drink some water.”
Carol stared at the clock and tried to calculate. Two hours had disappeared since she and Mike had left for Emergency.
Annie turned to Mike. “You can stay if you like, but she needs rest.”
“You have my cell phone number?”
The nurse nodded then stepped out of the room and greeted the patient next door.
“Do you want me to stay?”
Yes. But she couldn’t ask him to. He had to work tomorrow. “No, I just need sleep.”
Mike stretched, stood, and pushed the chair against a wall. He leaned over and kissed her. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”
As Mike left, she heard a confusion of voices and Nurse Annie hissing, “You’re not allowed in here. This is an ICU unit, not a photo op.” The brilliance of a camera flash seared Carol’s eyes. Her husband merely said, “Excuse me,” and slipped past the photographers. Carol guessed the fuss was over Worth Hildebrandt. He had to be the patient she’d seen. Why else would the media be here?
As Carol tossed in bed, she wondered what was going through Mike’s mind. Was he thinking about her health, their relationship, or the next book to read?
20
“I” Plus Three Days
Chet groaned as he turned over in his stateroom’s queen-sized bed. His throat felt like someone had lit a bonfire in it with sharp sticks. He used every tissue in the room, and still he dripped. Coughing only made it worse. But the symptoms were all wrong for the flu.
Four years as a vaccinologist working with the deadliest diseases on Level 4, and he catches a common co
ld.
At least it wasn’t the flu he’d unleashed. When he caught a run-of-the-mill cold, he usually recovered in a day or two. Probably caught it from someone on the plane.
The blue sky visible through the fluttering sheer drapes confirmed late morning. The salty sea breeze blowing in through the sliding glass door was too brisk for him, an unusual occurrence. He wanted the outside world to just go away.
Someone knocked on the door. Probably the steward wanting to make up the bed. “Come in.” Chet sat up and reached for a used tissue. Even that slight effort made him cough.
The stateroom attendant stuck in his head. “Señor, you look so pale. You are ill?”
“Yeah, Enrique. A cold.”
“You want I should ask ship’s doctor for medicine?”
“No, I have some, thanks. Maybe some water and another box of tissues.”
“Sí. Do you want me to close the sliding door?”
“Yes, please.”
Enrique slid the door shut, grabbed the carafe and ice bucket, and left the room. He returned a few moments later, the clink of fresh glasses resonating uncomfortably in Chet’s head. “Do you need anything else, Señor? Food? Another blanket?”
Chet held up a hand to avoid any more questions. He wasn’t up to it. “Just make my apologies to my dinner mates tonight. If I feel like eating, I’ll call you. Oh, and yes, I would like another blanket, please.”
“Very good, Señor.”
Chet sighed as Enrique returned with the blanket, arranged it on his bed, and shut the door. Chet got up and fumbled in his kit for a couple of aspirin, zinc tablets, and vitamin C. He downed them with a full glass of water. A faint ringing in one ear confirmed his diagnosis. He submerged himself under the covers, grateful the mattress wasn’t a slab-o-pedic.
Clutching the blankets under his chin, Chet wondered about the spread of the virus. He should have heard something by now on the Internet. The outbreak of an unexpected strain usually raised ominous warnings in the media reports. The flu he’d inflicted wasn’t too nasty, just enough to make his father and those hypocrites suffer. Too bad he couldn’t tailor it for his father alone, but that technology was decades in the future. When he felt better, he’d plug his laptop into the ship’s Internet system and check the news again.
Chet smirked. Maybe he’d send his father a get-well e-card. He shook his head. He wanted his gift to be anonymous.
He drifted in and out of sleep as the cold ran its course. Nothing he could do except wait it out in slumber land. He dreamed about innocuous things until the recurring nightmare reared its ugly head.
He lay on the backyard lawn, pointing at the cloud shapes. A horsie, a kitty, and a sailboat. Grass tickled his neck as he watched the clouds. Butterflies flew around him.
Groans drifted from an open window of the house. He skipped over and tried to peek in, but his four-year-old frame couldn’t reach the sill. He jumped up and down but still couldn’t see. Running to the back door, he opened it and let the screen bang closed behind him. He bounced into the house and stopped at the open bedroom door.
“Daddy?”
His father lay on the bed. Someone was underneath him. They must be playing a new game. He laughed and jumped onto the bed, ready to tussle.
The lady in the bed yelled, and Chet saw her. Miss Tanda, his Sunday school teacher.
Daddy turned his head. He was angry. He rolled out of bed. He wasn’t wearing any pajamas.
Chet crawled backward. He knew he’d done something bad, but he didn’t know what.
Daddy lifted him.
“Daddy, you’re hurting me.”
“Don’t you ever tell Mommy, or I’ll whip your hide. Understand?”
Chet nodded as a tear ran down his cheek.
Chet startled awake, the memory still screaming in his mind. The nightmare had plagued him ever since regression therapy. Boy, was that a mistake.
Remembering what his father had done only reignited a smoldering fire. And revenge hadn’t put it out.
21
“I” Plus Three Days
Hildi’s breath came in ragged gasps as she stared at Larry’s body tumbling in a macabre dance alongside the drifting capsule.
Body. He couldn’t have survived.
Someone bumped her. Frank strained against Jasper’s grip on his shoulders.
“You can’t go after him!” Jasper twisted the struggling figure until they faced each other.
Blobs of tears pooled in Frank’s eyes. “He shoved me. The idiot shoved me.” Frank’s voice ringing through her helmet’s radio held conflicting tones of anger and desperation.
“Listen to me. His faceplate cracked. I saw vapor escape and his suit depressurize.” Jasper shook him.
“Let me go!” Frank tried to wrench himself from Jasper’s grasp, their movements a slow dance in the bulky pressure suits.
“No, Frank.” Jasper’s voice jangled Hildi’s heartstrings. “You’ll never reach him in time. No one can live in a vacuum. You know that. If you go out there, we’ll lose both of you.” Jasper hung his head. “He’s dead, Frank.”
Frank shook off Jasper’s grasp and shoved him away. Jasper clung to a handhold and swung back. He blocked the pilot’s next attempt to launch himself toward the inert body. Hildi feared Frank would start a fight as he raised his gloved hands.
“ISS, this is Houston.” Dan’s strained voice broke the tension. “Flight surgeon confirms the loss of Larry’s vital signs. He’s gone.”
Hildi felt as if space itself mourned.
“C’mon, people.” Joe’s defeated voice had lost all trace of Texas fire. “Time to go inside.”
Hildi cycled through the airlock and unfastened her helmet in a daze, trying to comprehend. Larry, dead. Reconciliation gone. She breathed the slightly stuffy air, grateful for the expanse of the station. Although she knew better, her brain associated more room with more air to breathe. Her heart froze, imagining Larry’s last gasps of life.
Maria emerged from a section’s doorway. Short, black hair framed her sad face. She hugged Hildi.
Joe cycled through the airlock, followed by Frank and Jasper. He removed his gloves and helmet. With his mousy hair and pale complexion, Joe looked like an accountant, not a sun-weathered cattle rancher. Grief grayed his eyes as he extended a hand. “Hi, Hildi. Welcome to—”
A piercing alarm assaulted Hildi’s eardrums.
Joe’s jaw clenched. “Leonid, what’s going on?”
Hildi’s heart hammered in response to Joe’s switch in demeanor. She dreaded the answer. This couldn’t be happening.
“We have air leak.” Leonid hung parallel to the floor, examining the gauges.
“Where?”
“Docking area. Damage from accident, I think.”
Joe’s curses blued the air as he propelled himself to the control board. “Houston, this is ISS. We have a problem. Air leak.” Joe pronounced it as one word.
“Say again?” Dan’s matter-of-fact voice confirmed Hildi’s suspicion that he already knew. Maybe they wanted to record the moment for posterity.
Joe took a deep breath and tried again. “We have an air leak in the docking area. Request permission to repair.”
“Acknowledged.”
Hildi’s heart took up permanent residence in her throat. Everyone had suited up and clicked their helmets in place. Normally they would have huddled in the Soyuz, but it was damaged and six people couldn’t fit.
An hour creaked by. If NASA took their usual sweet time, it would be hours more before they made a decision.
Leonid said something rude to the gauges. “Leak is getting worse.”
Joe keyed the mic. “Houston, we need an answer pretty bad.”
“Roger, ISS, you are GO for repair.”
“Acknowledged, Houston.”
Leonid looked up from his instruments. His fair hair and complexion contrasted with Maria’s dark features, but their faces wore identical worry lines. She’d already pulled a patch kit and tool
box.
Joe grabbed the supplies in one fluid motion. He and Jasper floated to the docking area. Reconciliation’s shrill decompression alarm still rattled Hildi’s memory. ISS had meant safety as she fled the crippled capsule, but that assurance had evaporated into the air. The rapidly escaping air.
Everyone waited in silence. Maria and Leonid checked and rechecked every gauge. Finally, Joe panted into the mic. “Hole was mighty big, ’bout the size of a plug nickel. Patch is holding.”
Hildi’s shoulders relaxed at the return of Joe’s accent.
“Copy that, ISS. We confirm.” Dan’s standard CAPCOM voice seemed cold and out of place, but Hildi welcomed it, anyway. She could listen to him for hours.
Hildi released the breath she’d been holding as Maria, the first Mayan astronaut, helped her remove the bulky pressure suit. “We usually don’t have this much excitement here. Welcome, by the way.” The scientist’s calmness soothed Hildi’s fight-or-flight state. The instinct soon descended into numbness.
“Hey, Joe, where do we stow our suits?” Jasper sounded like he was asking a party host for the guest closet, but his lips pressed together in a thin line.
“Put them in the locker there. We’ll figure out room arrangements later.”
Hildi frowned, her thoughts swirling like leaves in the wind. She’d forgotten something, like an umbrella. But she didn’t need an umbrella in space…Her eyes widened. The virus sample.
“What’s the matter, Hildi?” Frank pushed off from a wall and grasped her forearm. His eyes reflected pain, grief, and despair.
Hildi’s heart lurched with Frank’s touch. She bit her lip, determined to keep a professional focus. “I left the flu vial on the capsule.”
But Larry was dead, and nothing would bring him back. Her irritation at Frank and at forgetting the virus sample shriveled to nothing.
Leonid floated up behind them. “Houston has lost telemetry with Reconciliation.”
“No!” Frank balled both fists.
If Houston couldn’t reestablish control of the spacecraft, Reconciliation could circle the Earth for years before its orbit decayed and it either crashed or burned up. Recovering the spacecraft intact was crucial to proving Frank’s insistence of instrument malfunction. Hildi’s heart ached.