On the bed, Don continued to shiver and flail. The sad, liquid sound of the expulsion of gas came from underneath him. The unbearable stench of shit and blood and rotten flesh filled the room. An impossible amount of blood kept erupting from his mouth, steadily pumping it out of his body and onto the bed and floor.
Tommy threw his body into pushing himself backward, one squeaking inch at a time. He didn’t think the virus could spread through the air; if that was the case, the whole bar full of Streets and Sans guys would have come down with it. No, the virus probably wasn’t airborne, but he sure as hell didn’t want any infected blood touching his skin.
He heard a soft pop and froze. It felt like one of the leather restraints had torn, just a bit, but he didn’t want to give it away. The problem was, he wasn’t sure which leg might have torn. He looked around, and found he was nearly back against the door. There wasn’t much else he could do. If the virus was now airborne, then he was dead. If it wasn’t, then hopefully he was far enough away from Don to avoid contamination.
He forced himself to concentrate on the wheelchair. He mimed rocking around, still thrashing against his restraints for a while, but he was actually trying to read anything he could off of the wheelchair. He discovered that it had a certification sticker on the arm, and this particular wheelchair’s certification was over fifteen years old. If the leather had not been taken care of properly, it could be brittle by now. That might be what he’d heard. He thought about that faint tearing sound, lingering in the air for a quarter second. Maybe less. Wondered if THEY had heard it. Wondered if it truly had torn something major, something that he could tear completely away, or if it was nothing, just a cruel joke to get his hopes up.
Don flopped against the bed, still vomiting. He was blind now; two pools of blood filled his eye sockets. The thrashing slowed. His fingers fluttered. The legs stopped moving. The chest rose, sank, rose once more, then slowly sank. It did not rise again. Blood bubbled out of the mouth, pulled by gravity, instead of forced out by muscle contraction.
Don was dead.
CHAPTER 47
9:49 PM
August 13
Dr. Reischtal hated meetings. They gave everybody the illusion their opinions were important. That they had some kind of right to be included in making decisions. Especially the slob, Dr. Menard or something. Dr. Reischtal didn’t care if he was one of the top vector-borne virus men in the country. He seemed to still think that he was part of a team.
And he wasn’t the only one. Dr. Halsey had actually had the audacity to challenge his decision regarding Krazinsky, in front of the others, no less. Dr. Reischtal promised himself that she would pay for that deliberate breach of protocol. Once this current situation had been resolved, she would never again work on anything at the federal level.
The insubordination was spreading. Instead of following their orders, some of these doctors seemed to think it was their duty to “think outside the box.” Dr. Reischtal would like to rip out the fingernails of whoever had come up with that asinine phrase, but he had to admit, even he found himself using it on occasion. Nevertheless, it was beyond him why these doctors and scientists couldn’t simply do what they were told.
It was time to remind them who was in charge.
“I would like to begin by clearing away any misconceptions.” Dr. Reischtal glared around the table. Everyone had stopped talking and stared at his biohazard suit when he strode into the room. No one was sure right off if they were supposed to be taking such extreme precautions outside the patients’ rooms. They were dressed in scrubs, mostly because they hadn’t had a chance to change.
Dr. Reischtal drew it out, knowing he had their full attention. “You were brought here because you are expert virologists. To decipher this organism, we need your full cooperation, and that means—”
Dr. Menard raised his hand. “Is this a test or something, doctor?” He gestured at the hazmat suit.
“I can assure you this is no test. For myself, the suit is a necessity. If you do not feel that is it necessary . . . that is your decision.”
“What are you not telling us?”
“You are being told everything you need to know. Now, as I was saying—”
Dr. Menard held his hand up again, like a kid in fifth grade who has to go to the bathroom. “Need to know? What does that mean? You mean to say that you have information that you won’t tell me?”
“Possibly. I am providing you with the information that you will find important. Is that clear?”
“Not really. What information?”
“I can assure you—”
“We’re all dealing with a drastic virus here. Something that’s dangerous as all hell. If you know anything else, you are obligated to let us all know. So, is there any news on Mr. Krazinsky?”
Dr. Reischtal fixed Dr. Menard with an ice-cold stare. For a moment, all anyone could hear was Dr. Reischtal’s metallic, amplified breathing. “Tell me, Doctor . . . Menard, is it? Tell me, Dr. Menard, is it customary to interrupt your superiors out west, or wherever it is you are from?”
“I just want some straight answers. I—and I think I speak for many of us here in this room—we’re sick and tired of all the limited information and clandestine bullshit around here.”
“I concur,” Dr. Halsey said. “What about the original patient, Mr. Wycza? What is his status? I am hearing reports that his door is locked.” She clicked her pen as if it were a weapon.
Dr. Reischtal drummed his gloved fingers on the table. Rather than face a full-scale mutiny, he decided to pacify the usurpers. For now. For later, he had methods of dealing with troublemakers like Dr. Menard and Dr. Halsey. And if they would not listen to reason, there was always a solution to be found in Sergeant Reaves.
“Very well,” Dr. Reischtal said. “Mr. Krazinsky is resting comfortably. As for Mr. Wycza, I regret to inform you that he passed away earlier this evening.”
“Why were we not notified? Who is doing the autopsy?” Dr. Halsey demanded. “I would like to observe.”
“There will be no immediate autopsy. The remains are far too infectious and the room is contaminated beyond measure. My team will be responsible for all postmortem investigations.”
Dr. Halsey muttered under her breath, “This is absurd.”
“If there are no more interruptions,” Dr. Reischtal continued, “we now have a timeline for the virus. Mr. Wycza was the first living host that we were able to examine. We also have a fairly accurate timeline. Once infected, estimates place the host’s life expectancy at approximately ninety to one hundred hours.”
“Four days. Jesus,” Dr. Menard said. “Is Mr. Krazinsky displaying any symptoms yet?”
“Mr. Krazinsky’s symptomology does not follow the usual pattern, no.”
“Then why the hell do you still have him on a floor with a known contamination?”
“I believe he is a carrier.”
“This virus has shown zero inclination to simply ride along in a host. It is destroying every single infected patient in this hospital as we speak. And yet, you insist on keeping an otherwise healthy, non-infected patient within close contact with other patients.”
Dr. Reischtal placed his hands flat on the table. “Do you not understand that this individual had more contact with the infected rat than Mr. Wycza? By all logic, the virus should have spread through his system like wildfire. Why is it that the disease ravages anyone else that gets close, but Mr. Krazinsky has remained untouched? There are many, many unanswered questions about this man.”
Dr. Menard frowned. “There are many, many unanswered questions about your methods, doctor.”