Six of the seventeen infection victims had visited ship doctors. There could have been more than that — all medical staffers were impossibly overworked taking care of the wounded, and there was no way of knowing if they’d properly tracked visits.
Of those six, though, there was an instant commonality: they had reported to the infirmary with complaints of headaches, body pain, sinus drip, and sore throats. Minor things, especially at a time like this. The docs had prescribed ibuprofen and cough suppressants. Basic treatments for common ailments. So common, in fact, that most people with aches and a sore throat wouldn’t talk to a doctor at all — they’d just tough it out.
Tough it out, or, self-medicate.
He called up his second algorithm, the one that data-mined records of all medical supplies across the entire task force.
When the results came up, he felt a cold ball of fear swell up in his stomach, felt a panicked tingling in his balls.
He had to tell Margaret.
CONSUMER HABITS
Margaret and Clarence sat in the theater/briefing room, waiting for Tim to come in and deliver his urgent news.
She had just watched a man die, yet she felt… excited. Walker’s hydras were a weapon, a contagious weapon. They spread via contact with blood. If pustules formed on Edmund, she would test those as well but she already knew that would also result in contagion.
The hydras killed the infection, but what else did they do? Hopefully she would have enough time to study that, find out what the side effects might be.
So far, Tim’s yeast had produced no noticeable effect on Chappas. It was several hours into the test, yet they had no way of knowing what the catalyst’s effects might be, if there were any at all. Maybe they’d get lucky with Chappas; maybe the yeast would cure him.
She’d dissected Nagy’s brain herself, found it thickly webbed with the crawler-built mesh. Tim’s hypothesis seemed correct: once the crawlers reached the brain, it was too late.
But that didn’t change the possibility that the yeast could inoculate the uninfected. Sooner or later they would have to test that theory. Since Tim had selfishly helped himself to part of the first precious batch, Margaret wondered if he might volunteer. Somehow, she didn’t see that happening. Tim was an excellent scientist, but he was also a coward. He didn’t have an ounce of Clarence’s self-sacrificing nature.
Speak of the blond-haired deviclass="underline" Tim rushed into the room, more wide-eyed than ever. He smelled of sweat. He carried a laptop, information already displayed on the screen.
Margaret stood. Her legs ached. Her whole body ached. “So what’s this critical information, Tim?”
He handed her the open laptop.
“I found a significant indicator for infection,” he said. “We can probably detect outbreaks across larger populations, and do it even before victims would test positive for cellulose.”
Margaret looked at the screen: a chart showing purchases of cold medication? Clarence came up to stand by her side, read as well.
At first, she didn’t understand the significance, but then it clicked and clicked hard.
Clarence shook his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “People buying cough drops and ibuprofen shows that they’re infected?”
“Not on an individual basis,” Tim said. “But in the bigger picture, yes. It’s how the CDC can spot a flu outbreak, based on an abnormal spike in sales of medicine that treats flu symptoms. Seventeen people on this flotilla have tested positive so far — shortly after the battle, six of them reported coldlike symptoms of headaches and body pain.”
Margaret read through Tim’s numbers; they painted a frightening picture.
“Ibuprofen could be meaningless,” she said. “People are working hard, they’re beat-up, stressed, but look at this — the Pinckney’s ship store is out of Chloraseptic, Robitussin and Sucrets. Almost out of Motrin and Tylenol.”
“Inventory for those items was at eighty-five percent the day before the Los Angeles attacked,” Tim said. “Two days after the attack, inventory on pain meds and cold meds dropped to fifty-five percent. Three days after the attack, those supplies were at about thirty percent. Today — four days after the attack — the supplies are gone. Those supplies should have lasted six months or more.”
He sniffed, whipped the back of his hand across his nose. His bloodshot eyes stared out. Tim was in bad shape.
“The Brashear isn’t as bad,” he said. “But consumption is clearly up. If I’m right, the Pinckney is badly infected and the Brashear is close behind.”
Margaret noticed that Clarence was staring at Tim. Not in disbelief, or in surprise or admiration, but in suspicion.
“Tim,” he said, “you have a runny nose?”
Margaret felt the room grow cold. Clarence’s hand had drifted near the pistol strapped to his left side.
Tim, however, didn’t seem to notice. “A little,” he said. “I’m kinda wired and worn out, you know? Fuck-all long days it’s been.”
Then he, too, saw Clarence’s stare, and understood. Tim leaned back, held up his hands.
“Don’t get crazy, big fella. I just tested negative like ten minutes ago. Besides, the yeast probably made me immune.”
“Probably,” Clarence said. “But if you were already infected for more than a day or two, the yeast doesn’t do anything, right? You were here during the attack, treating dozens of sailors. You could have been exposed.”
Margaret reached out, put a hand on Clarence’s arm.
“Just test him again,” she said. “Remember, he’ll test positive well before he’s contagious to us, so calm down. I doubt he’s infected.”
Clarence raised his eyebrows: how do we know that?
“I’ve got the sniffles, too,” she said. “And my body hurts all over.”
Clarence took a step back, giving himself enough space to watch both her and Tim.
Margaret sighed in exasperation. “Clarence, for fuck’s sake. Tim and I are working around the clock here — at some point, the body breaks down. You get the sniffles, you get headaches. So how about we all test now, together, just to be sure? We can test again every time we step out of the suits.”
Clarence relaxed slightly, almost imperceptibly, but he wasn’t convinced.
“Okay,” he said. “But unless you’re in your suits, I need you two to stay away from each other. And both of you keep your distance from me, got it?”
She let out a sarcastic huff. “Good to see you’re consistent.”
Now he looked only at her. There was hurt in his eyes. She wanted to take those words back, but she couldn’t.
Clarence put both hands on his face, pressed hard, rubbed. He lifted his head, blinking rapidly, sniffing in a big breath.
“If Tim’s theory is right, we have to assume well over half of the Pinckney is infected, about to convert and become violent. I need you both to suit up and finish whatever you’re doing in the lab. Get samples of your work packed up and ready to travel on a moment’s notice.”
Margaret had been thinking only of numbers, but Clarence’s urgency drove home a harsh reality: the Pinckney was a heavily armed warship, one that might soon be overwhelmed with the Converted.