The Plague Within (Brier Hospital Series)

by Lawrence Gold

  “Marty, it’s Beth. I’m at Brier. Andre Keller has awakened. We may have a real lead on treating this thing.”

  Silence.

  “Marty, did you hear me? They’re working on a treatment. Finally there’s hope.”

  “It’s too late.”

  Beth felt her stomach drop to the floor and she began shaking. “She’s not...”

  “Dead...dead! Say the word!” He paused. “No, she’s not dead yet, but she will be soon. It’s too late for her. Too damn late.”

  Beth’s anger erupted. “Stop it Marty, you don’t know that and neither do I. With life, there’s hope.”

  “Please, spare us your platitudes, Beth. Call us when you have something.” The line went dead.

  Archie rushed back to the lab. He’d called Ray and his own chief technician and outlined the approach they’d be taking. When he arrived in the lab, he placed a call to Angela Brightman. Her service answered, “Ms Brightman is out of the country. Can I take a message?”

  The ink was barely dry on the first in a series of press releases about the adverse effects of PAT0075 when Evangelicals for Life began demonstrating at PAT’s offices in Emeryville. The group of about fifty demonstrators circled before the closed entrance gates. A lonely seventy-year-old security man stood his post in the guardhouse ignoring the repeated rapping on his closed window by the chanting demonstrators.

  How do people get to be this way? he thought.

  The pace of activity, the chanting and the waving of signs escalated once the media arrived with their satellite trucks and glaring lights.

  One man wearing a pig mask carried a sign saying, “Half man/Half pig. To hell with biotechnology!”

  Several round signs had a diagonal line across; “Social/Genetic Engineering—No!”; another read, “Designer Babies—No!” Other signs read, “Don’t usurp God’s powers”; “Only God can play God.”

  As they marched, the demonstrators chanted, “Reclaim the streets; reclaim the genes.”

  When the Emeryville Police arrived, Sargent Butts approached a tall man who looked like a minister and was directing the demonstration.

  “May I have your name, sir?” Butts said.

  “My name is Reuben Trask, and yes I am the leader of this demonstration.”

  “Do you have a permit for this demonstration?”

  “No, and we don’t need one. This is public property and we’re exercising our free speech rights. They still exist in this country, don’t they?” Reuben leaned over to inspect the officer’s nameplate. “Sergeant Butts.”

  “You’re blocking the entrance to this facility, and if you do not move, we’ll arrest the lot of you.”

  “We have an absolute right to be here, officer. We’re not moving.”

  Sergeant Butts spoke into his lapel microphone, “Bring them in now.” He turned to Reuben. “You’re under arrest. Please turn around with your back to me.”

  When Reuben hesitated, Butts grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him, and placed him in cuffs.

  The demonstrators chanted as they surged toward the officer. “No! No! No!”

  Suddenly, the wail of sirens and the flashing of strobes shattered the night. Five police cars and vans pushed their way through the demonstrators. Officers, clubs drawn and ready, applied white plastic double cuffs before directing the demonstrators into the vans.

  A young reporter stood before her camera operator carrying the newest high definition digital remote camera. Its built-in high intensity light flooded his target.

  “This is Sherrie Sacks, KTVU, reporting from Emeryville. We’re at the site of a demonstration by Evangelicals for Life against People for Alternative Treatment, a genetic engineering company recently in the news for side effects of an experimental drug. EFL, as they call themselves, has been demonstrating at Planned Parenthood, abortion clinics, biotech companies, and university research facilities with a vitriolic pro-life, anti-stem cell research, and anti-genetic engineering themes. The police have arrested their leader, Reuben Trask, and members of his group a dozen times in the last few months at similar demonstrations. An increasingly angry judiciary and an impatient public, tired of the demonstrations and their inconvenience, are demanding stronger punishment, particularly longer jail time.”

  Chapter Fifty

  New hope and enthusiasm inspired Archie Blake as he returned to the laboratory. Andre Keller had given them a solid lead and a pathway to follow.

  Archie’s team had extensive experience with the creation of liposomes, tiny, artificially made fatty spheres. They would place therapeutic genes inside. Once the tiny spheres were of the right size and electrical charge, they’d incorporate Andre’s DNA fragments into the cells. They theorized that gene sequences might control or reverse the aging process.

  They could prepare the liposomes rapidly, but testing their efficacy in animals would require more time than they had if they hoped to help the afflicted patients.

  Archie called for a meeting at PAT corporate headquarters that morning. He’d invited Greg and Amanda Wincott, Ray Ames, Beth, Clarice Henson, Harmony Lane, and Jack. Andre was on the speakerphone from his hospital bed.

  Archie talked into the speakerphone. “We’re just about ready to go with the liposomes. We’ve loaded in the sequences as you instructed, Andre.”

  Andre’s voice boomed through the phone. “Then you’re ready to go.”

  Archie stared at the phone then scanned the room. “Here’s the problem. The next step, which we’ll begin today, is to test them in mice already subjected to PAT0075 to see its effects. The problem is, I don’t think anyone currently suffering from the ravages of accelerated aging can wait long enough to see if it works in mice.”

  Jack stared at Archie. “What are the risks?”

  Andre’s voice blasted through the speaker. “There is no risk.”

  Harmony laughed. “No risk, you bastard. That’s what you told me about PAT0075, when you proposed that I give it to my patients. You’re not exactly the world’s most credible scientist.”

  “What do you think, Archie?” Greg asked.

  “I think the risk of an allergic reaction is slight in contrast to anything we might try with viral vectors. Besides the fact that we don’t know if it will work, there’s a whole world of what we don’t know out there; what other kinds of reactions, how much do we give, how much will actually get into cells, and if they do, will they work, and for how long?”

  Beth stood. “I don’t see where any of this matters when we’re dealing with the certainty that untreated, these people will die.”

  Archie remained silent for a long moment. “I’m uncomfortable with this. I don’t deny the logic of these conclusions; it’s just that I’ve always been committed to the scientific process and the ethical proscriptions in treating patients with untested medications.”

  Jack scanned the room. “I hate to say this, but this problem isn’t going away. If we choose to obtain someone’s endorsement or approval, who would that be? How long would it take? How many will die meanwhile?”

  Beth rose and glanced across the table. “Jack and I, and I dare say, Harmony, have more than an academic interest in trying to help these people, but it’s without question that this is their only chance. We’re out of time.”

  Archie looked around the room. He met their eyes and had their approval. “We’ll begin this afternoon.”

  Jack called Marty Greer. “Beth and I will be over at about one. We have a treatment.”

  “What are you talking about, Jack?”

  “The people at PAT have worked out a new approach to treating Sandy. I won’t lie to you...it’s new and untested, but we think it might work. And, don’t think me cruel Marty; we don’t have anything to lose.”

  “You’re not telling me something I don’t know already Jack. If there’s any chance...I don’t care what the hell it is, we’ll go for it.”

  “I don’t think we can legally give it in the hospital so we’ll set up an IV and run it
in at your place. Afterward, I’m sending an ambulance to bring Sandy to Brier so we can watch her closely.”

  “She won’t do it, Jack. She’ll come as often as you like, but she refuses to die in the hospital.

  “Jack,” he continued in a barely audible voice, “Do you think she has a chance?”

  Jack leaned back and stared at the phone. “I’m hopeful, but I really don’t know.”

  Archie tried Angela again. Her service answered. “I’m sorry, Dr. Blake, but we haven’t heard from her.”

  “Do you know of any other way to reach her?”

  “No.”

  “This is an emergency. Can you try her family, her business, or anyone who might know where we can find her? Her life’s in jeopardy.”

  “We’ll try, sir.”

  The octogenarian, Angela Brightman approached the front desk of the Lourdes Hotel, Accueil Notre-Dame in her wheelchair. Since 1858 when Bernadette had 18 visions of the virgin Mary, Lourdes, about 500 miles south of Paris in the heart of the Pyrenees, received five million visitors each year, 65,000 of which were seeking the healing powers of its waters.

  They assigned Angela one of their best rooms and an aide, a fifty-eight-year-old RN named Marie Callens. She’d assist Angela during her stay.

  Marie had jumped at the opportunity to get away from Daytona Beach and her job as nurse in residence at Century House, a senior assisted living facility. When the ad appeared in one of her nursing journals seeking nurses to assist visitors at Lourdes in France, she saw this as a once in a lifetime opportunity for travel.

  Even under the best of conditions, Angela could be difficult. Now she was next to impossible. “Help me up, Goddamn it,” she shouted the next morning. “Get me dressed. Get me to the grotto and to the water. I don’t have all day!”

  Marie pushed the wheelchair with the elderly woman. She’d placed a chinchilla capelet over Angela’s shoulders and a plaid blanket across her lap. Angela jabbered and complained, and constantly informed Marie of her shortcomings. They followed the paved pathway to the grotto that sat at about 1380 feet in altitude, with hundreds of others accompanying them. Most were in wheelchairs. Many used crutches or canes. They varied in age from young children, bald from chemotherapy, to the aged.

  I can see this bristly old woman has lived a long and prosperous life, thought Marie, but I don’t see any miracle for Angela Brightman in the waters of Lourdes.

  Fifty-One

  Jack rang the Greer’s doorbell.

  Marty answered immediately. “Come in you two.” He grabbed Beth and hugged her. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  They’d closed the large great-room’s drapes and the room remained dark in spite of the skylights overhead.

  Beth grasped Marty’s hand. “I hate to ask you how things are going, when I already know the answers.”

  “It’s enough that you guys are here, and that you’re still trying. She’s in there,” he pointed to their bedroom door.

  They entered. The room was dark and reeked of urine.

  Sandy was in bed covered to her neck.

  Marty sat by his wife’s side. “Sandy, it’s Jack and Beth.”

  “Don’t let them see me this way...you promised me.”

  Beth sat beside her friend, caressed her shoulders. “We love you, Sandy, and nothing can ever change that.”

  Sandy sobbed into her pillow, refusing to meet Beth’s eyes.

  Beth looked up at Jack and he quickly took her place. “Sandy, we have new medicine for you. We think it will help. Beth is going to start an IV and run it in. Then we’ll go to Brier so we can monitor the effects.”

  Sandy remained still.

  “Sandy?” Marty said.

  “It’s too late. Look at me. I’m a living corpse. I’m already dead.”

  Jack grasped her hands. “I won’t lie to you. There have been altogether too many lies. We have reason to believe that this new medication can stop the aging, and if we’re lucky, reverse some part of it. Don’t give up now.”

  “I can’t...I won’t live this way. I want my life back, and I’ll never have it.”

  “We have to do this, baby,” Marty said. “It’s our only and last chance.”

  “Do what you like...I’m beyond caring.”

  Jack turned on the room’s lights. Beth inserted an IV into Sandy’s right arm. They hung the five hundred ml bottle on an IV stand they brought and watched as the vaguely opalescent fluid dripped into Sandy’s body.

  Sandy looked at Beth, placed her wrinkled hand on Beth’s face caressing it. “You look so beautiful. So young.” She lifted her nodular arthritic hands. “Look what I did to myself...for what? I was so stupid, so vain, so out of touch with what was important.”

  “Please, Sandy, stop beating yourself up. If you made any mistake, it was a small one.”

  “Small one...look at me!”

  “Bad choice of words. Nobody knew the danger except the people at PAT, but there’s risk in everything we do. Life is risk and every day Jack and I part, we know it could be our last moment together. The answer—cherish each moment, find what’s important, learn from your mistakes, and keep those you love as close as possible, and keep hoping.”

  Sandy turned away. “That’s fine, but it’s a little late for me.”

  Beth grasped Sandy’s hands, “Don’t give up. This is going to work. I know it!”

  The IV infusion went without incident, and afterward the ambulance arrived to transport Sandy to the hospital.

  Across the country, physicians repeated these steps a dozen times.

  Jack sat with Sandy’s hospital chart after dictating her admission history and physical examination, laying out all the ugly details, and knowing that what he wrote today would find its way into a court of justice some day soon. He ordered a series of baseline tests and a broad evaluation of metabolic parameters. Jack really didn’t know what to look for as an indication of her condition, good or bad. He was determined to respect Sandy and Marty’s wishes. If she improved, they’d see it soon, or Jack would discharge her for her remaining days in the comfort of her own home.

  Jack visited Andre Keller on his last day in ICU. Tomorrow they’d move him to the general medical ward.

  Andre sat upright in bed, leaning on the over-bed table on which he’d been scribbling into a bound notebook.

  Jack waited as he completed his thoughts in writing and as he lifted his head. “Maybe there’s something about a near-death experience that gets you going. My mind’s been flashing with idea after idea. I can’t wait to get back to work.”

  “You seem to forget that you share some responsibility for what’s happened. Don’t you get that?”

  He looked up at Jack and smiled a knowing smile. “I’m not a monster, Jack, though I understand you and others see me as such.

  “Was I too impatient? Yes.

  “Did I take chances with the lives of others? Most certainly. I’d be hard-pressed to deny that.

  “Am I saddened by what happened? Yes, but clearly not to the extent of others.

  “Would I do it again? Well, maybe you have me there. I’d surely be tempted, but I can see that the downside is too great to take the risk. I’d find some other way.”

  “You’re not going to get away with this; I hope you know that,” Jack told him.

  “Think again, Doctor. The shooting star of my career has ascended way above the horizon. I’m in big demand in the US and any place around the world.”

  He’s probably right.

  As Jack turned to leave, Andre had an afterthought. “Has anyone been able to reach Angela Brightman?”

  “No. She’s disappeared.”

  Chapter Fifty-T wo

  Sandy sat trying to unwind in the now tepid tub of gray bath water. She raised the wilted appendage that was her right leg to the hot water tap, grabbed it with her toes, and rotated it to the left. Hot water cascaded into the bath over the scaly, brown-spotted limb. Gradually, the tub’s temperature increased and w
hen she could not tolerate more heat, she closed the tap and placed an ice-cold towel over her forehead, and relaxed.

  Through the closed door, something creaked, perhaps, she wasn’t sure. She was drifting somewhere between sleep and consciousness when the creak, this time it definitely was a creak, like the pressure on the floor of someone or something approaching.

  “Marty,” her voice, more a murmur, asked, “is that you?”

  She tried to sit upright, but she was too weak. Marty had helped her into the tub, and he’d need to help her out.

  “Marty,” she tried again.Her voice, slightly louder, had a soft but strident quality.

  “Creak...” much louder this time and closer to the bathroom door.

  In the steamy hot water, goose bumps layered themselves over her skin.

  She felt for the tub drain with her toes. She found the short metal linked chain to the stopper, grasped it with her toes, and pulled upward. The pressure of the surrounding fluid made her strain and finally she pulled the plug free. She could hear the mournful, oboe-like sound as the water cascaded into the drain.

  “C r e a k.”

  She turned toward the door...the knob turned.

  “Marty! Where are you?”

  She sat in the wet tub freezing and trembling.

  “Squeak,” a different sound this time as the door hinges cried as it swung open.

  Sandy started to turn toward the door when she felt her toes, then her foot being drawn into the drain. Then it was her legs and her trunk as she fought with her hands against the suction. Up to her shoulders, arms raised, she was too weak to resist as she descended into the drain, straining to reach for something, anything to grasp, to hold her back. Suddenly, she felt hands. Warm hands grasping hers. Pulling...

  “It’s okay, Sandy...It’s Beth. That must have been some hell of a dream.”

  Terrified, Sandy embraced Beth, sobbing.

  “It was a dream, Sandy. Just a dream. I’m here. You’re safe.”