Claiborne lowered a shoulder. “He got you out. Didn’t he?”
“He showed me a way. I got myself out.” She pointed back to the lab door. “Julia. I had to bring her in. None of the EMTs were going to take her. Were even going to consider her. She’s here. With maybe a chance. That’s what I have to give her. So go. You should just go.”
“I can’t go.”
She grabbed a nearby glove box and threw it across the lab. She searched for something heavier. “You Path people. Down here in your holy basement. Why are you the only one down here? The others ran. Whoever was on shift down here with you. Tehmul ran on me when he got the chance. Who ran on you? Gonzales? Stuart? Both? Thorpe left a long time ago. Dmir came in. Disease Control came in.”
“And it spread. Out there. And it went where you were.”
Mendenhall shook her head, bit her lip. “It struck. In a line predicted by a specialist. A specialist like us. It traveled vertically in a packed hotel, like this place. It presented itself in the thickest crowds. Like outside that bar.”
“That shows virus.”
“They all fell in the same second.”
“Then they were all exposed in the same second, and the virus has a precise incubation.”
“Despite different metabolisms, different immune systems, different diets, different life paths?”
“Virus works.”
“It will always work. We say, ‘Go viral. It went viral.’ What the hell does that mean? It’s just how we see things. It’s lazy and inaccurate. It’s handy. Common. And powerful.”
“You honestly think Thorpe and DC are disregarding evidence?”
“Even manipulating it. Forced observation. It’s willful misinformation designed to gain power and control. The stratagem.”
“And yours? You breach containment. Go into the public sphere. Bring someone in?”
“If you thought I was wrong, we wouldn’t be standing here.”
“I’m barely standing here.”
“So go,” she told him again. “Use whatever passageway you have down here. Go be with your wife. Take her to the park. Raise a glass to me.” The light was gray; air vents purred. “Raise a glass to me.”
The ER proved a mistake. Claiborne had tried to warn her, offered to go gather the supplies for Julia. “They pretty much stay out of the basement. But they know you slipped containment and will come looking for you,” he had told Mendenhall. Her patients had been moved to a far wall. Her cubicle was occupied by Dmir. He was sipping from a mug and tapping her keyboard. His furrowed brow tried to convey concern but showed confusion. A curtained partition now cut the bay in two, cutting off flow and sight lines.
Extra beds had been moved in, lights added, pale music. Security stood in pairs.
And Pao Pao was gone.
In a few seconds her vantage point would be compromised.
She slid to the next corner. Nurses doing nothing at the station recognized her. One pointed, and a security pair turned. Mendenhall charted her path. Behind her an elevator chimed. She didn’t know if it was too late to simply retreat, to return to the basements and survive containment there, work there, cooperate. Claiborne could only guess. He had warned her, but she had needed to see. She had thought she didn’t.
It was Pao Pao, the notion of her taken from the floor.
Mendenhall tried to resist the possibility that she was the cause, that she had betrayed her floor, that she had betrayed Claiborne, was still betraying him by not telling him everything, especially about Silva.
Getting fresh IVs for Julia was definitely not an option. She moved with the open whisper of the elevator, lost her trackers, evaded the nurses. Had they stepped away from their station, two simple strides, they would have seen her. She made it to the old file room. Some EMTs and nurses were in there, sitting on the floor, leaning their shoulders against the wall. The inside fluorescents were off, and the outside parking lamps cast a solemn glow and long shadows. One nurse was smoking; others were sipping coffee.
None of them showed any interest in Mendenhall.
A bedpan in the middle of the floor was filled with ashes.
Another beside it contained three cigarette butts that had been straightened and reshaped. The smoking nurse passed her cigarette to the EMT on her right.
Mendenhall positioned herself against the wall.
“The ante is two butts or one whole.” The EMT spoke holding his inhale.
“I just want to sit here.”
“You,” said one of the nurses. “You started this.”
“You’re mistaken.”
The EMT released his smoke. The next in line, a feline nurse, her long legs crossed, her feet bare, pinched what was left, inhaled, cheeks hollowed. “No. It’s you,” she said in slow exhalation, the smoke powdering her words.
Mendenhall curled beneath the cloud. “I just need to sit for a while.”
“You mean hide.” The long nurse passed the cigarette, a white speck in the shadows. She followed with a languorous stretch, toes pointed, then spread.
“I’m not hiding.”
“You should be. Your nurse should’ve.”
Footsteps sounded outside the door, stopped. Mendenhall hunched more against the wall, dipped in the shadows of the others.
The door opened, and there was the tall silhouette of Mullich. He took a half step in and spotted her. She knelt forward, didn’t know what to do with herself.
“Hey,” she whispered. “Hi.”
He retreated, motioned to someone in the hall, and made room for two security pairs. One pair remained in the doorway while the others swept in and reached for Mendenhall. They didn’t let her stand. Their grip cut the blood flow in her arms. A sharp line of pain slashed diagonally through her left shoulder, just over the heart. She sought dignity, legs together, chin up, thinking of countless ER arrivals sprawling and crying and clawing their arms and legs, shirts or dresses riding up, vulnerable, surrendered, prey for the nurses and EMTs. She braced her arms and double-fisted her hands together, ready to take a swing if freed. She took aim at Mullich’s jaw, the angular shadow.
60.
She had always pictured it as beds lined neatly behind glass.
Mercy’s formal quarantine consisted of three adjacent rooms, four beds each, sliding glass doors. She was not there. She was in what used to be a laundry room. The machines were gone, but the concrete platform that had once held them was still there, pipes standing and capped. For her, there was a bed, table with pitcher, and bench. A flatscreen hung in a ceiling corner. The muted channel showed brush fires, then switched to a man in a DC lab coat talking about the outbreak. A helicopter shot of Mercy General filled the screen. It looked festive in the evening light, fires glowing behind the hills.
She was alone, and she felt empty. The fluorescent lighting made a sickening buzz, a pallor rather than a glow, something less than white. She was more angry with herself than with Mullich, not so much for trusting him but just for moving toward him, greeting him, showing herself as a fool.
Through the small door window she could see the adjacent room, another level of quarantine. Pao Pao was in there, tending to those who were still in their beds. Two patients played chess at a folding table. Pao Pao stopped by their game and adjusted one of the table legs, wedged a tongue depressor underneath for stability.
The players smiled thanks as she moved to the next bed.
Mendenhall pressed her face to the glass, palms to the door. Pao Pao was helping a patient flex his ankles and legs. She kept him covered as she fitted the heel of her hand into his arch and then pushed. She asked a question, then repeated the exercise.