by Hart Johnson
At records she learned that the death toll was actually closer to forty. That seemed like a lot for a town the size of Astoria; the records person agreed with her.
“We consider it a bad month when we lose five or six.” Yet in two and a half weeks there had been thirty-eight deaths, most of them attributable to the flu. “Mostly older people—they're so susceptible.” The woman sounded like she was trying to reassure herself.
“I thought the older people had access to free shots,” Sid said.
“Oh, I think some do but I don't know about that home. Or which people died. Old Mrs. Patterson went—she was a neighbor of my mother. And I know she got out and about good. She might have made it to a clinic. But I don't know when they ran that—maybe a week ago.”
It was neighborhood-level gossip, nothing she could really do anything with. But she decided it merited going to the home. When one place had lost so many, and when the records would all be right there—that was solid information.
Sid was already writing the article in her head as she drove up the road to the little home. It was small and brick and looked more like a hospice than a nursing home, though it said Clatsop County Convalescence on the sign—an old-fashioned rest home.
The place was a tomb. Not that she was trying to be morose, but there were only two residents that she could see in the TV room and neither looked capable of motion on their own. One was asleep on a sofa and the other was zoned out in a wheelchair.
“Can I help you?” A woman at a desk in nurse's scrubs glanced up with a confused expression.
“I don't mean to intrude. I really don't want to bother you, and this might seem insensitive. But I'm a reporter looking into these flu deaths and I wondered if you might answer a couple questions.”
She turned back to an open door. “I'm sorry. We really need to respect the privacy of our residents.”
Sid looked back at the common room. Residents. Both of them. She raised an eyebrow at the woman, but understood she was worried about being overheard. “I understand that, and I'd never ask for any information about individuals. Actually, it really would help if you could answer just one question. Had the residents who died had flu shots?”
The woman's eyes went wide and she wrote something down as she answered.
“I'm sorry, that's confidential, but as you can imagine, in this population, some portion had, and for whatever reason, others had not. That's all I can say.”
Sid looked down at the Post-it the nurse had handed her.
3 o'clock, Rogue Ales Pub.
She'd passed it on her way into town and wondered whether the woman lived that direction or if she just didn't want to be seen with her. She suspected the latter.
“Well, I'm sorry to bother you,” Sid said and left.
It was after two, so Sid went straight to the pub. It was rustic, looking more like a cowboy bar than a pub, but Oregonians loved their microbrews, so she knew the fare would be good. Only a few other tables were filled, but between lunch and dinner in a small town, this might have been normal, and probably what the nurse was counting on. She ordered a diet soda and beer-battered fish and chips. She'd have an ale with the woman when she arrived, but one was the limit when she had to drive back to Portland. She took in the aroma. There wasn't much better than beer-battered fresh fish. She was glad that a closed port didn't mean a fishing ban, though it did cross her mind to wonder why.
She pulled out her laptop as she waited. Her article was working out nicely. The Oregonian might even buy it. She'd worked for them once upon a time and they'd laid her off when newspaper belts got tight. She felt they hadn't needed to cut as deeply as they did, so she sometimes avoided them. Still, she knew the editor and could trust her for a fast turnaround if she didn't want the article, leaving Sid free to try the smaller papers that didn't want the same level of exclusivity. Always best to have a back-up plan.
The nurse, who introduced herself as Mara, had changed clothes before she came. She wore cowboy boots, blue jeans and a sweatshirt under a flannel jacket, very much like the city stereotypes of the coastal lumberjacks. Not that there had been many real lumberjacks on the Oregon coast for a few decades, but the image hadn't faded.
“Can I be confidential?” she said as she sat.
“Of course you can. Though it helps if I can say 'a nurse in a coastal nursing home'.”
Her head bobbed in agreement. “I guess that's okay. Your question struck me... I noticed the same thing. About eighty percent of the residents got the flu shot—batch came in and we gave it. But four residents couldn't because of other things they take, and a few refused. All but one who got the shot died, and three who didn't get the shot lived, almost half. So the shot actually made it worse.”
That sounded worse than ineffective. “Had anyone had the flu before the shots came?”
“Two people—part of the four who couldn't have the shot, and both died. That was why they were so rushed to get everyone vaccinated.”
“Do you talk to any other nurses in town?”
“Not really. I'm just an LPN. The people at the urgent care are RNs and sort of act like they're a different class.”
Sidney had heard of that kind of snobbery from Sarah, so she knew it was true. She thanked Mara, bought her a beer and they talked about what Mara had observed outside of the nursing home. She'd seen a family that lived in her apartment complex die of it—a mom and three kids. And she'd heard of others. But mostly what she had observed was people who were either out of work due to the closed port, or because of the economy. They had largely taken the advice of the authorities and gone to stay with friends or family elsewhere.
Sid was relieved to hear that the ghost town wasn't entirely related to deaths. But the worms were only starting to slither out of their can.
Her cell buzzed with a circus tune and Grant's goofiest face as she was driving back into Portland. He'd programmed it himself and she put him on speaker as she pulled off the Fremont Bridge. “Sid, can I ask you for help with something?”
Grant didn't ask favors very often, but then when he did, they were never small. “What is it?”
“I need to get Ricky into the doctor, and I can't do it alone.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Sick,” he said.
“You didn't say anything yesterday. Is he okay?”
“There wasn't anything yesterday. We got our shots day before, then I dropped him off. He was having dinner with his mom last night and I worked today, so I told him I'd stop after. When I got here, he was a mess.”
Sid's stomach tightened. After learning what she just had about shots, she worried this was about to play out on people she knew. “Should you call an ambulance?”
“I suggested it, but you know Ricky. I'm the drama queen. He's embarrassed at the very idea of it. I exhaust him, he says. I figure we can just drive him up to urgent care and maybe he'll cooperate.”
Sid took a breath to keep calm. The part of her that managed to compartmentalize had to laugh at Grant's analysis. It was exactly their personalities. Ricky was soft-spoken and classy, not wanting to put anybody out for anything, and Grant believed all the world was a stage. Why waste your moment in the spotlight? Attention whore was how Ricky termed it—always with an affectionate smile.
“Sure. I have to drop off my stuff, but I'll be there in twenty.” She would have trouble parking in Northwest Portland and didn't want her car just sitting with her laptop in it. She was almost on top of their house anyway. Besides, she needed time to talk herself into the fact that Ricky was young and mostly healthy, not like all those people at the nursing home.
Unfortunately, her self-talk didn't work. Ricky seemed to get things worse than other people. Sid thought she knew why—she’d guessed a few years ago he was HIV positive, so this could be really bad. For all she knew, this was the complications of a cold, though she couldn't fight the bird image in her head. Or the news she was still digesting about the vaccine.
Sid drove ba
ck across the Broadway Bridge, repeating the mantra in her head. Ricky is young. The doctors will help him. And Grant doesn't have HIV. He won't get it at all. She only had limited success convincing herself, but was able to step back and try to focus on helping.
She knew why Grant needed help if it was really as bad as he suggested. Ricky lived on the third floor in a renovated northwest apartment. But renovated meant to historic grandeur, not modern convenience. There was no elevator, and Ricky was no pixie. He probably weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, topping Grant by about forty. That was a lot of person to get down three flights of stairs.
The other unfortunate feature of the gorgeous building was parking. It was hard to come by at the best of times, and rush hour was not the best of times. A quarter to six was the height of it. There were restaurants all over the neighborhood that people flocked to right after work. Ricky was partial owner of one of them. It was his reason for insisting he stick close, even when Grant had begged him to move to Northeast Portland closer to them, or even move in with them.
Sid managed to find a fifteen minute spot and hoped they would give her some leeway if it took twenty. Grant’s car wasn’t there since he never drove to work, so she was sure part of why he’d called her was for transportation.
Grant had left a flip-flop wedged in the outer door. Sparkly. That saved time and was a fashion statement to boot. The outer door was normally kept locked. Sid grabbed the flip-flop, wondering where a size eleven men's flip-flop could be purchased in purple sparkles. Probably Spartacus, the S&M store in Old Town. She climbed the staircase. It had a thick wooden banister and an oriental runner up the middle. It really was a pretty building. On the third floor she made a sharp right to the apartment on the end. That door was ajar, too, so she edged it open.
“Grant? Ricky?”
Grant came out of the bedroom running a hand through his hair. “It’s no good, Sid.”
“What’s no good?”
“I called. They don’t want him. I guess the ER has had dozens of these cases and they can’t do anything. Fluids and rest, they said. It’s a virus, so antibiotics won’t do anything. They sent me there.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the computer. “All the things to do with various stages of fever and signs he might be dehydrated—if that happens I can take him in—they can give him IV fluids. But not until it’s been twenty-four hours because they're too busy.”
Calm, calm, calm. The last thing she needed was to react badly and have that exaggerated in Grant's response. “Man, that sucks. Can I get you guys anything then? Or do you want me to move my car and stay? I’m in a fifteen at the moment because I thought we were leaving.”
“Sprite? Chicken soup? What do sick people eat?”
“Those things, and maybe saltines.”
“Yeah. That’s good.”
She ran to the closest grocery and got what they needed, deep breathing all the way. When she got back she checked on Ricky, too. Purple blotches had formed under his eyes and the rest of his face was red from fever. He recognized her, but he wasn’t with-it enough to have a conversation. It almost sounded like he apologized for being too drunk to dance. He really wasn't coherent.
“Do you need any help with him?” she asked Grant when they’d shut the bedroom door.
“No. I don’t want to expose you, too. I mean, I’ve already been exposed. He can’t have contracted this last night, and dinner with his mom is the only place he’s been that I wasn’t with him since last Friday.”
“What about his restaurant?”
“I called. Nobody else is sick there, and I’m there all the time, too, so if that's where he got it, I still would have been exposed.”
“I appreciate you not wanting to pass it on, but I'm checking on you later, okay?”
He started to hug her then changed his mind. “Consider yourself hugged, but in a germ-free way.”
She made a kissy face at him and left, fighting the urge to cry until she got to her car.
1.7. Sarah McGrath:
Portland, Oregon
My Job Wants to Kill Me
Sarah and David were cooking dinner and discussing the death of the governor when Sid got home. The governor was the second state politician to die and it was reported that others were sick. Sarah almost mentioned it to Sid, but Sid's face stilled her.
“Ricky's sick,” Sid said without greeting them.
“Sick?”
“Flu.”
“But they just had the shots.” But Sarah knew they'd already had this conversation. Sid's brother Jeff was right—the vaccine wasn't doing any good.
“It's worse than that,” Sid went on. “A nursing home I visited in Astoria had a bunch of people die—death rate without the vaccine was about half. Death rate with it, nearly one hundred percent.”
“What?” That was too much to take in. Her defenses were keeping her from processing.
“The vaccine isn't just ineffective, it's dangerous,” Sid said, never one for vagaries where words were concerned.
“You're sure?” Sarah asked.
“Sure enough that I'm pursuing it, professionally speaking. I have to verify, as always.”
David threw Sarah a worried look. He knew she was worried about the vaccine and that work would make her get it. She stood to pace. She was normally calm and matter-of-fact, a nurse, trained to handle a crisis with cool efficiency. But she wasn't equipped to face this.
“Grant's fine, though, right?”
“He seemed fine.”
That was good. He'd had the vaccine, too. Sarah had been friends with Grant since grade school. They'd both grown up in Medford and Sarah knew she was the first person the teenage Grant had confessed to that he thought he was gay.
“Sarah, what's that matter?” Sid asked.
“Work is giving me seventy-two more hours to get it or they'll quit scheduling me.”
“I guess you have to, then. Grant's fine. I've only heard this about old or sick people, other than Ricky.”
It was a good point. And she didn't think Sid knew about Ricky's HIV, so it was even more true than Sid knew. But Sarah was still worried. “Ricky and Grant got the shot a couple days ago, right?”
“Yes?”
“What if the vaccine made Ricky sick?”
Sid took a breath and turned to David. “What do you think?”
David wiped his brow with a kitchen towel and Sarah saw he was pasty, with a trace of sweat on his brow. “My brother has a friend in the Navy who died last week—Jack posted the obituary today. The bug got their troop. Young, healthy guys.”
“Oh, geez. I’m sorry,” Sid said
Sarah stared at David. He hadn't told her this until now.
“I haven’t talked to Jack or asked about shots. But those guys always get their shots first. The military can’t afford the risk with the close quarters they keep.”
“Look,” Sid said. “If the vaccine isn’t working, like Jeff said, and if they got hit with exposure they weren’t protected, but that’s a fluke, right?” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself and Sarah knew it.
“I’m waiting,” Sarah said.
“For what?”
“If Grant is still fine on Thursday—last day before there are repercussions—I’ll get my damn shot. But I’m not willing to do it before then.”
Sid nodded. “Okay. Good compromise. Do you want me to try Jeff again and see if he knows any more?”
“Would you?”
“I will. Tomorrow. It’s after eleven there now, and if this is as huge an epidemic as it seems, he probably needs his sleep when he can get it.”
Sarah heard Sid try to call Jeff several times the next morning. David was at work and Sid's open laptop sat on the counter, a sad reminder that she hadn't been able to get through. Sarah sat in front of it, knowing Sid wouldn't mind, and opened her browser window. She wondered what other things Sid had been digging up. If she was pursuing this, there had to be something. She found a strange assortment of
sites and Sarah remembered Sid talking about falling down rabbit holes when she researched for an article. That must have happened here. Sarah opened the most recently viewed page.
It was a map. Sid was a map junkie, as far as Sarah was concerned—very into patterns and trends. She liked aggregated information, where Sarah liked the personal stories. This was a map of the United States in a rainbow of shades—the kind that normally glazed Sarah's eyes over—but this one took her breath away. It was flu deaths per thousand.
It shocked her for two reasons. First, the numbers were a lot higher than she'd guessed or heard. Not that they were huge, but in many places, almost 1% of the population had died from it already. Even more in a few. From Portland half a percent had. That didn't sound like much but she worked in health care and had had to study prevalence. In a metropolitan area with a million people that was five thousand. A lot. Percentage-wise, about the same as Astoria where Sid said they'd had forty deaths.
And as flu seasons went, this was still early in the progression. Some of the southern cities had been hit worse—Los Angeles, San Francisco. A lot of California had been hit hard. Washington State also had. Both were a little worse than Oregon, though Oregon was bad enough. All of that made sense to her. If this were an Asian bird flu of some sort, the West Coast was made up of the states closest to Asia, though California, with its better weather, might not be expected to get it as badly as the states farther north.
The thing that really struck Sarah was that the east coast had also been hit—New York, Massachusetts. Boston had lost a lot of people—nearly 20,000 people.
Why would the states furthest from Asia be hit even harder than they were? It didn't make any sense. DC appeared to have been devastated—almost 4% had died.
Sid ran in and looked at the clock. “Jeff never called me back. And when I tried Grant to see if I could bring anything to him and Ricky, he sounded like death when he answered.”