“Dr. Kuvayev? How are you feeling? I’m afraid you startled me somewhat.”
The doctor’s eyes rolled around with no real purpose. His mouth gaped open but no words came out.
Sokolov leaned in. “Doctor, can you hear me? It’s Sokolov. We’re here to take care of you. Is there anything you would like?”
No further response was apparent.
“Can you hear me?”
The eyes sought, then lost, then reacquired Sokolov’s face.
“Uh.” It was a short, gasping moan.
“What is it? I don’t understand.”
His jawed worked and the eyes started to wander again.
“Uhh. Uhh.”
His back arched again and he strained against the restraints. His eyes bulged and the veins in his neck and arms popped against the pressure he was applying. The heavy straps creaked under the stress.
“He can’t break these straps, can he?” Hamlin asked, suddenly concerned. He remembered the strength that Pechkin had when he lost his senses. Kuvayev was a much larger man.
Kuvayev continued to strain. His mouth opened wide and he let loose with a horrible scream.
Both men cringed and moved away from him.
“This isn’t good. He’s going over, just like Pechkin.” Hamlin couldn’t tear his eyes off the straining prisoner.
“What about the tranquilizer?” Sokolov said. “It worked with Pechkin.”
“Yes, but he died before coming out of it.”
Finally Kuvayev stopped pushing against the constraints and slumped back down. He continued to gulp short, shallow breaths.
“He is strapped down,” Hamlin replied. “As unpleasant as he is when he’s incoherent like this, maybe for his sake we should let him continue. Perhaps it will work itself out after a while. The fever can’t last forever. He has several advantages over Pechkin because we knew more about what to expect and adjusted his treatment accordingly.”
Sokolov considered his suggestion. “We don’t want him loose. Remember how difficult and dangerous it was to inject Pechkin.”
Yes, I remember you slamming the door and trapping me in the room with him, Hamlin wanted to say. He didn’t.
“How much pressure can those straps hold?” he asked.
Sokolov had to think. “I believe in the vicinity of two thousand kilograms.”
“Okay. Then regardless of how hard he tries, there is simply no way he can generate that kind of pressure. I say let’s just leave him.”
“He could injure himself while trying to escape his bondage.”
Hamlin had already thought of that. “Which is still preferable to death induced by the tranquilizer, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Well, this should provide me with a very interesting shift. I feel, probably for the first time, that I might be getting too old for this.”
“Do you really need to be in here? Unless he’s due for medication or the fever starts to break, what can you do for him anyway? Why not slip in, say, once every thirty minutes or so? He might even rest better with nobody in here to catch his attention.”
Sokolov shook his head. “No, I prefer to stay in here with him. I can at least monitor what he is doing. In another hour I might be convinced to give him more medication for the fever. I fear any sooner might result in liver damage.”
“What about an anticonvulsant? There is some valproic acid here in storage.”
“My good doctor, how is it that a microbiologist has such a detailed knowledge of medications and human physiology? I must say, I am both impressed and confused.”
Hamlin smiled for the first time in what seemed like eons. “I don’t. Kuvayev suggested it to me before his symptoms became so severe. He didn’t know if it would work, but he felt we should consider it.”
“I shall take it under advisement. At this point, I’m not sure that the convulsions are persistent or problematic. Go to bed, Dr. Hamlin. You’ll be no good to me if you don’t get some rest.”
He turned toward the door for the second time, risking one last glance at Kuvayev. He didn’t look good.
“Be careful. I’ll see you after I get some sleep.”
This time, despite the turmoil of his shift, Hamlin fell asleep almost immediately. There were no dreams to contend with. He slept so soundly that when he awoke, he had no semblance of an idea of how long he had been out. It even took a few seconds for his brain to reboot and remember what his circumstances were. He rolled over and looked at his alarm. It was after nine.
He shuffled out into the hallway and turned toward the dining hall. He was thankful for the extra rest, but uncomfortable with the missing structure. Schedules are what made the world go around, as far as he was concerned. Without them, everyone would be a sort of hippy, searching for peace as a cover story while in fact accomplishing nothing as their lives drifted away. Or something like that.
Once again, most crew members were present despite the relatively late hour. Faces looked haggard and listless. Once fully in the hall, he knew immediately why. He could hear Kuvayev screaming and banging.
He sat with the nearest grouping. They barely acknowledged his arrival.
“Who’s in there with him?” No point in being coy about it. Small talk seemed inappropriate.
“Sokolov and Obolensky,” a younger man from the drilling crew responded.
Hamlin had to think. Obolensky was a short, stout researcher who focused more on environmental findings, testing samples for obscure clues as to what life here had been like in the past millennia.
“Why Obolensky?”
The man’s eye continued to focus on a stain in the porcelain of his coffee mug. “He was on the schedule.”
Francis stood up. He was going in. He had to see for himself.
As he reached for the doorknob, a thunderous crash sounded from inside the room. He jumped perceptively. Now what? More bellowing from Kuvayev. He turned the knob and swung the door open.
Somehow the big man had managed to tip the gurney over. It lay on its side while Kuvayev continued to strain and yell.
Hamlin reached for his respirator and quickly slipped it on.
“I’m afraid the atmosphere is lacking in pleasantries,” Sokolov said with a raised voice.
Obolensky looked terrified.
“How did he manage that?” Hamlin said, looking at the tipped gurney.
“He is generating a tremendous amount of kinetic energy for being strapped down. When he throws himself, the weight of the gurney doesn’t always contain the momentum.”
Kuvayev looked even worse than before, lying on the floor, writhing and screaming.
“There are three of us in here now. Should we try to lift him up?”
Sokolov nodded. “Excellent idea, Doctor. Obolensky, why don’t you give us a hand and then consider your shift expired.”
“Yes, of course.” The man answered almost too quickly. From the look on his face, Hamlin guessed that he was counting the seconds until he could get out of the room and away from the howling perversion on the floor.
“May I suggest two at the head, one at the foot,” Sokolov said. “And do watch his mouth. He gives every indication that he would bite if given the opportunity. I believe he is capable of removing a finger.”
Hamlin didn’t need to be told twice. If getting chomped was a possible means of transmission for the virus, he wanted no part of it. He figured that he would rather be on the deck of the Titanic as it sank than in the clutches of Kuvayev in his current state, anyway.
It was an awkward resurrection to say the least, and they nearly dropped him twice as the wheels of the gurney slipped on the floor. But they managed to get him righted, followed closely by a wave of relief from all three.