“What about Pechkin?” Sokolov said.
“He apparently can’t figure out to open a closed door in his current state. I say we rescue Kuvayev, close Pechkin in here, and get some assistance from the others.”
Sokolov looked like he had been punched in the stomach.
“Look,” Hamlin said, “I understand the theory behind the propaganda and misinformation. But there’s no way we’re going to be able to do this ourselves, and there’s no way you can keep this a secret, even if we both try. Let’s grab Kuvayev and get him and us out of this horrible environment.”
Sokolov conceded. “Very well. You take one side, I’ll take the other.”
Hamlin nearly screamed while lifting and carrying Kuvayev out of the room. It put a lot of stress on his sore side. But it had to be done. After a bit more cajoling, Sokolov gave in and released the rest of the staff to give them assistance. There was universal horror and revulsion, but after the initial shock, everyone rolled up their sleeves and got to work.
Kuvayev regained consciousness shortly after being removed from the room. He had clearly suffered a concussion despite his insistence that he was able to get up and help. He finally agreed to twenty-four hours of bed rest.
One of the unused storage rooms was hastily converted into a medical/confinement room. Pechkin was strapped down on a gurney and wheeled into it. There really were no other options. Cleaning him up was a terrible chore. Four crew members spent nearly an hour removing feces and blood, then treating a myriad of minor wounds. All of them were astonished at the damage he had done to the room. The other surprise was his body temperature. He was roasting.
When a thermometer was finally located, he topped out at forty-one point seven Celsius. Hamlin had to insist on a conversion to imperial measure in order for that number to make any sense to him. It translated to one hundred and seven Fahrenheit. When consulted, Kuvayev became greatly distressed. He immediately subscribed medication to bring it down.
“This level of hyperpyrexia is almost always fatal. We need to bring it down right now. Someone will have to watch him constantly until it is under control. Don’t be surprised if he goes into a convulsion.”
Hamlin was still participating despite his sore side. He decided that nothing was broken. “What else can we do?” he asked. “Especially if he convulses.”
“Strip him naked. Apply cool, wet towels. Blow a fan on him. Open a window. Anything that would make you feel cool should help to bring down his temperature as well.”
Francis went to get some towels. He passed two crewmembers that had located Hazmat suits and were on their way to clean up the room where the attack had happened. He silently wished them luck. They would need it.
It was late into the night. Some of the crew had gone to bed—many were still too wound up for sleeping. Hamlin accompanied Sokolov in to check on Pechkin. Most of their efforts had all centered around bringing down his temperature.
He lay on the gurney, still strapped in tight. All of his clothing had been removed except for his underwear. As they approached him, it was clear that he was still not well.
His eyes opened, and he strained against the straps. He moaned and thrashed as much as he could.
Hamlin was shocked at what he was observing.
“Are you seeing this? His skin looks like a glazed carrot.”
Indeed, his skin glistened from sweat, and was an unnatural reddish-orange color. The heat was pouring off him.
“Has anyone taken his temperature lately?” Francis asked. “He feels like I could fry an egg on his midsection. No wonder he’s delirious and agitated. The surprise is that he’s still conscious at all.”
Sokolov, in a move that seemed totally uncharacteristic for him, reached out his hand and actually touched Pechkin’s shoulder. He withdrew immediately after making contact.
“Good heavens. If he gets any hotter, he’s going to melt the plastic coating off the frame. I’ll consult with Doctor Kuvayev and get some more medication for poor Pechkin. Give me a moment, if you would.”
Hamlin couldn’t tear his eyes away from the ailing man. Pechkin’s mouth opened wide, and he started to breath loudly. Each breath sounded to Francis like Pechkin was saying, “awww…awww.” It was creepy and disconcerting. But everything about this evening fell under that heading. He continued to emit the same sound over and over.
Sokolov returned, a needle in his hand. He stared at it as if unsure of how to procedure.
“My dear Doctor Hamlin, would you be as kind as to inject our unhealthy comrade? You do have some recent experience.”
Hamlin reached out and took the syringe. His mother had been diabetic toward the end of her life. He knew about giving shots.
“That’s fine, Doctor. I don’t mind doing it. As a matter of fact, I’d love to help this poor fellow in any way I can.”
With Pechkin effectively restrained, it didn’t take long to administer the medication. Unfortunately, there was no immediate effect.
Sokolov assessed Hamlin openly.
“You’ve had a very long and stressful day, Doctor. Would you consider a mild sedative to assist you in falling asleep?”
He shook his head in response. “If everything is under control in here, I think I’ll try to find someone who would be willing to share a drink or two with me. I believe that will help me to relax as much as anything.”
“Very well. I may have a quick nap and then I shall check in on Pechkin and see how he is progressing. I do believe if he could shake this fever, he would return to normal quite quickly.”
Hamlin had his doubts. This kind of temperature would probably cause permanent damage of some kind—neurological in all likelihood. And this virus, if that was in fact what it was, was unlike anything that Francis had ever heard of. He had doubts of them being able to control it with the limited medical supplies they had available.
“If you need me, you know how to find me.”
Sokolov gave a smile that actually seemed predominantly genuine. “Good night, Doctor. I shall see you in the morning.”
Hamlin went into the dining hall and was happy to see Lena. He walked over to where she was talking with two of the other crewmembers.
“Mind if I sit down?”
Lena smiled. “No, of course not. Please.”
The two across the table said something briefly in Russian, then stood up, stretched, and headed toward the sleeping quarters.
“Was it something I said?”
Her face became serious. She was slow in answering. “You are spending too much time with Sokolov. Why did he chose you tonight and send the rest of us to our rooms?”
The question was blunt. Hamlin could sense she was very serious about this.
“I don’t know. It surprised me as much as anybody. Based on what I experienced, I would have been more than happy to trade with any of the rest of the staff. It was hell in there. I wasn’t even certain that I was going to live through it at one point. So what do they think, I’m KGB or part of some secret conspiracy?”
“Perhaps.” She was still serious.
“Let’s see, how do I maneuver out of this? Here, see what being chosen did for me.” Hamlin raised his shirt and revealed his side where he had landed after being thrown by Pechkin.
“Oh my God. That looks terrible.”
His move had revealed a massive, purple bruise. There was a small cut that was still bleeding just slightly to top it all off.
“Well, that’s funny because it feels great.”
Now she smiled. “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to improve your condition?”
“Sure. Pain pills and some antibiotic cream should help.”
“I have direct access to neither. You should have asked your new friend, our little overseer. Perhaps, with all this night has thrown at us, it would be a good idea to go to bed and get some sleep.”