“It is strange to me how a person could be facing such a serious threat and still prioritize their appearance to the point where it is their primary concern. I would be surprised if any fashion models or photographers stop by the station to have a look at him. I suppose self-image is a big part of the human psyche, however.”
Hamlin cogitated. “I read a Stephen King book where one of the main characters is impressed by another’s ability to fight while naked. Perhaps Kuvayev simply wants his armor on for this battle. Maybe being naked makes him feel more vulnerable.”
Konstantine nodded in agreement. “Maybe it makes him feel like his enemy has already struck the first blow.”
“Your attempts at psychology notwithstanding,” Sokolov said, “it is still necessary for him to be in this condition to assist with temperature control. Might I suggest that you don’t engage the crew in a conversation about the right and wrong aspects of being undressed. Let’s not open the door to any dissention. Cooperation was the platform you campaigned on, Doctor Hamlin, if my memory is correct.”
“Indeed it was, and still is. We’ll keep our talk in a totally supportive direction.”
That seemed to pacify Sokolov somewhat.
“Very good. Then let’s go and check on the condition of our comrade.”
Supper was somewhat better than lunch. Kuvayev ate a small amount of soup that was made especially for him, even though he had to be fed by a crew member due to the restraints. His relatively good condition at this late point in the day helped keep everyone’s spirits higher. Most put on respiratory protection and took the opportunity to go in and visit briefly, wishing him well and promising to visit again in the morning. The human contact seemed to help him keep his outlook positive. Sokolov reviewed and confirmed the regiment for meds and other attention for Kuvayev before crew members started heading to bed. A rotation was set up so that someone would be monitoring him all night. Hamlin took the two until four shift, a decidedly unpopular time frame. It could possibly help him gain back some respect and trust from the crew, he figured. In a worst-case scenario, he could always steal a quick nap later on in the lab. Konstantine wouldn’t tell.
Getting to sleep once he was in bed was another matter. Hamlin tossed and turned, and finally determined that no position was comfortable. He resigned himself to simply staring at the ceiling. When he finally drifted off, he had bizarre and dark dreams with themes of death and disease. Pechkin haunted him, always lurking in some dark corner, naked and smeared, gaping and gasping, turning slowly to look at him with milky eyes. He would roar, Hamlin would scream in response and then he would awaken, heart pounding and terrified, looking about his room wide-eyed to make sure he was alone. After his second bout with Pechkin, Francis cursed himself for not stashing some vodka in his room. When his alarm went off at one-fifty, Hamlin was exhausted. At least there would be no dreams for the next two hours.
He was not happy about Kuvayev’s condition when he got to his room. Although uncovered and in front of a pedestal fan, his temperature had climbed to one hundred four. Hamlin grilled the crew member he was replacing but was told convincingly that Kuvayev’s medication was maxed out. They were running out of options. It was up to his immune system now.
“How was he the last time he woke up?”
The lanky man whose name escaped Hamlin almost removed his respirator prematurely, but caught himself just in time. “He’s been sleeping for the past hour or so. He was still talking before he nodded off. But his sentences were short and he was tiring out easily.”
The mask Francis wore was already hot and uncomfortable. The room was cool though.
“What about the room temperature? Can we drop it more?”
He shrugged. “It is fourteen degrees Celsius now. Sokolov said to consult him before going any lower. We don’t want frozen pipes or for Kuvayev to catch pneumonia on top of whatever this is.”
“Logical on both accounts. All right, I’ll keep a close eye on him. You’d better get some sleep.”
The man moved toward the door. “You look like you could use some yourself.”
Hamlin smiled under his mask. “I feel worse than I look.”
“I doubt that.” The door closed, bringing the conversation to an end.
Hamlin turned his attention back to the big man strapped on the gurney.
“Hang in there, Kuvayev. You can beat this thing.”
The words didn’t sound inspirational. It was all he had.
“Damn. I wish there was something I could actually do to help you.”
He looked around the room. Maybe there was something here that they had forgotten. He saw a small pile of rags on the counter by the sink. Perhaps if he soaked one in cold water, he could lay it on Kuvayev’s forehead. That might help a little. Surely it couldn’t hurt. And it would give him something to do, even if only for a few minutes. Without distraction, the next two hours could last a very long time.
Sokolov arrived at four. He looked as fresh and proper as always. Francis felt like death warmed over.
“How is our comrade faring in his good fight?”
“He just hit one hundred and five. It’s been creeping up slowly since I got here. But he’s been quiet. So far he’s been sleeping through it.”
Concern was evident in Sokolov’s eyes. “I really don’t want him to go any higher. Under the circumstances, I wish we could chance another dose of medication. Regardless, I can manage by myself, I’m sure. Perhaps you should return to bed and get some rest. I would be willing to be lenient with your starting time at the lab today. Why don’t you turn off your alarm and sleep in a little longer?”
Hamlin was grateful for the offer. “I might just do that.”
The gurney rattled loudly. They both spun around, eyes wide and expectant. Kuvayev appeared to be sleeping, his face and body glistening with sweat.
“What was that?” Hamlin asked. He tried to sound calm.
“Perhaps just a twitch,” Sokolov said. “It wouldn’t be unusual for someone with a high fever.”
They stood with their eyes locked on the ailing doctor. Nothing else happened.
“I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I am. Stop worrying, Doctor.” Sokolov reached over and removed the cloth from Kuvayev’s forehead. “I’m afraid this is no longer helpful. I’ll run some cool water through it and reapply. Go to bed, Dr. Hamlin. Perhaps morning will bring good news about our friend here.”
“I sure hope so.” Francis felt a fresh wave of weariness wash over him. “I’m off, then. You know where to find me if you should need assistance.”
“Good night, Doctor; at least for what remains of it. Pleasant dreams.”
Hamlin walked to the door. No dreams at all was his current goal. Just sleep and nothing else.
The gurney shook again. Francis stopped and walked back into the room. He stared, transfixed, waiting for the source to become evident. He didn’t have to wait long.
Kuvayev, eyes still closed and for all appearances still asleep, suddenly arched his back and bucked against the restraints.
“Damn it!” Hamlin exclaimed. “Is he having a seizure?”
Sokolov approached carefully. “As bad as that would be, I think it preferable to the issues that plagued Pechkin. Keep a close eye on him while I get this cloth cooled off. I don’t know what else we can do.”
Kuvayev’s breathing had changed. Now he was taking in rapid, shallows gasps of air.
“Something’s happening. I would bet his heart rate just spiked.”
Sokolov wet down the cloth with purpose, then strode back and applied it to Kuvayev’s forehead. No sooner had he done so than the sick man’s eyes opened wide.
“Good Lord!” Sokolov jumped back before he could stop his reaction. He calmed himself and approached again.