Francis had been standing there long enough.
“Come on. Let’s do this. I’m ready.”
“You take the needle, then,” Kuvayev said, extending his hand toward Hamlin.
Sokolov tried to read his reaction. “Are you comfortable with this, Doctor? The injection is an essential part of our plan.”
Hamlin nodded. “Yes. I can do it. Give it to me.”
“Very well. I shall open the door once you two are in place. Kuvayev, you enter first and try to hold Pechkin still. Hamlin will then inject him. We will then exit the room and wait for the drug to take effect. While we are waiting, we can formulate a plan on how to deal with him, based on what we find when we walk in. Are we ready?”
The other two stepped in front of the door.
Sokolov grabbed the handle. He made eye contact, nodded, then threw the door open.
Kuvayev entered first, Hamlin pushed right up against him to keep as close as possible.
They stopped immediately upon entering. The stench of urine and feces assaulted their noses. There was no light, even when Francis flipped the switch. The sound of labored breathing came from the far corner of the room.
“Pechkin?” Kuvayev spoke softly, slowly.
More labored breathing. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Hamlin could barely make out the outline of a figure crouched in the corner. Details were lacking, but he appeared to be naked and covered with dark smears. If the smell meant anything, Hamlin already knew what they consisted of.
“It’s me. Kuvayev.”
Still no discernible response. The figure was definitely staring at them. The breathing was fast, like someone who had just been running.
“We’re here to help.” The words were still said slowly and softly.
Still no response. Hamlin decided to risk some conversation.
“He’s going to be hard to reach with this needle while he’s crouched down like that.”
Kuvayev nodded. “He’s going to be hard for me to grab, as well.”
Sokolov was in the doorway, holding his sleeves over his face as best he could.
Francis figured anything less than a full HAZMAT suit wouldn’t be enough. He looked at Kuvayev, then back to the figure in the corner.
“What now?”
“Let’s move closer,” Kuvayev said. “Stay right behind me. We’ll go nice and slow and read his reaction to us. Maybe I can get him to stand up. It would be a good start.”
“I’m with you. Nice and easy now.”
The big man took a single step. The noisy breathing continued unchanged.
“Yegor. We’re here to help you.”
The breathing stopped. Completely. The room was silent.
They were so close together that Hamlin could feel Kuvayev stiffen noticeably.
“Pechkin?” This time was question was loud and urgent.
Sokolov leaned further into the room. “What’s happening?”
“Damn!” Kuvayev walked toward the now silent man. He reached down to touch him, Francis lagging behind. The sick man leapt to his feet and roared—a deafening sound that was more like a beast than a human being. He grabbed Kuvayev and then appeared to reach in and bite him. Kuvayev screamed and grappled with the delirious man. He was thrown across the room like a rag doll. After hitting the wall hard, he slumped to the ground.
Hamlin was now unprotected and close enough to reach out and touch Pechkin with his hand.
Pechkin stood there, breathing hard and fast but not moving. He seemed to be looking at Sokolov in the doorway. Hamlin was sure he was mistaken, but he thought he could feel the heat coming off Pechkin’s naked body. But that would be impossible. Hamlin didn’t move a muscle, trying to become part of the wall.
Pechkin suddenly lunged for the doorway. Sokolov screamed and slammed the door shut with just an instant to spare. The crazed man howled and slammed into the door. The crash was significant but the door held. This seemed to be as far as Pechkin was prepared to go with his reaction.
And then came the breathing. No other sounds of movement were apparent. Hamlin was alone in complete darkness with this deranged person.
He warned himself not to panic. He stood perfectly still, not making a single sound. Would Sokolov go for help? What kind of condition was Kuvayev in? He was the resident medical doctor! How would they survive without him? Then he remembered the syringe in his hand.
Sokolov stood outside the door, thinking furiously. He needed to do something and fast. But what? Which course of action would best serve the long-term needs of the station?
The man on the other side of the door screeched. It slammed and then there were several other crashing sounds around the room. What had just happened? Sokolov grimaced but held his ground.
The room grew deceptively quiet once again. Sokolov thought he heard moaning several times, but couldn’t be certain. Stress made time passage seem slow. He remained frozen in place. None of the others had left their room as far as he could tell. That was good.
A full minute ticked by. Then two. Nothing seemed to be happening. After five minutes of quiet, Sokolov decided that it was time to act, regardless of consequences. He reached for the door handle and then slowly turned it.
The stress of swinging the door slowly open was tremendous. Sokolov moved it slowly, eyes trying to make out details in the room that might tip him off as to what had just transpired. He was also looking for movement.
There! In the center of the room, Pechkin stood silently. His head swiveled ever so slowly until he stared directly at Sokolov. He opened his mouth and a wheezing sound came out. It was almost like he was trying to speak. Sokolov took a big risk and stepped just a little farther into the room.
“What is it, Pechkin? I can hear you.”
His mouth worked slowly. Open, shut. Open, shut.
Where were the other two? After allowing his eyes time to work, he saw Kuvayev along the side-wall crumpled, and what appeared to be Hamlin in the back corner, lying on top of what used to be a bed.
“Pechkin?”
The sick man fell over sideways with a thud and lay motionless on the floor.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hamlin regained consciousness only to find himself in the same hellhole. Now there was some light. The hallway door was open and there was Sokolov standing in the room. How was that possible? It was then he saw Pechkin motionless on the floor. He then decided to disengage himself from whatever he was entangled in.
“Doctor Hamlin!” Sokolov rushed over and gave him assistance. “Are you all right?”
Francis winced as he moved. “I think so. My right side is pretty sore.”
He was able to regain his footing and hold the upright position.
Sokolov hesitated. “We have much to do and I don’t know how much time we have.”
Hamlin was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t hurt a rib. Perhaps it was even broken. “Well, Pechkin should be docile for some time, if that helps.”
“You were able to inject him?” Sokolov asked.
“Yes. At first he didn’t even seem to notice. That allowed me to empty the syringe. Then he whacked me pretty good. I don’t even remember landing on whatever this is.”
“Excellent, Doctor! Excellent! So, now we have a possibly injured comrade and a very sick comrade who is at least temporarily incapacitated. I must confess; I am not quite certain how to proceed. I’m afraid this contingency isn’t in any of the training manuals. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Let’s get Kuvayev out of here first. We can assess his condition and try to figure out what kind of treatment, if any, he needs. Over and above any personal feelings the crew has for the man, we definitely don’t want to lose our only real medical doctor.”