Now I know what death smells like.
Friday, April 24
K and I hiked up to another village about two miles away this morning after Guychel told us the outbreak had reached there. But we were at the site only about a hour before my cell phone rang. It was M, telling me I had to come back, there was some kind of emergency. He would not, however, give me any details, only that I needed to hurry. K and I are taking a break now, out of breath, but should get back within the next thirty minutes or so. I have never heard M so upset; he isn’t the type. I cannot imagine what’s going on, but something in my gut tells me it isn’t good.
THREE
“Michael?”
Ben’s gentle voice pulled him back.
“Hmm?”
Cara was staring at him, too.
He took note of them standing there and, with a mighty effort, shoved it all out of his mind. Pretending he didn’t see Ben’s ongoing stare of concern, he went to the patient’s bedside, his shoe covers shuffling softly on the polished floor.
McKendrick’s face was twitching, the pain relentless and determined. Beck’s instinct was to reach out, stroke the young man’s hair, tell him he would be all right. But the goal here, if the situation was to be regarded with the necessary objectivity, was to save those who could be saved. That meant the patient had to be viewed as a lab specimen: a source of information. Beck could never fully adopt this into his thinking, in spite of the many who had urged him to do so.
He checked McKendrick’s vitals—temperature 102.7 degrees F, heart rate 120, blood pressure 144 over 103, respiratory 23. All accelerated, even with the sedatives. There was a nuclear war going on inside this body, and the native forces were losing in a blowout.
He reached down and pressed on one of the larger pustules with his forefinger. It expanded outward for a second, the tissues straining visibly, then exploded. The honey-colored pus eased between the other blisters with a sluggish viscosity.
Porter said, “Do you want me to collect a sample?”
Gillette responded through the intercom—“You’re more than welcome to, but I’ve already collected several from that patient, as well as all the others, and sent them out.” He was watching through the observation window.
Beck leaned down to get a closer look at the exposed left arm. Even through the blistering, he could see the gathering darkness beneath the skin—a faint mauve scarlet.
“Do you recognize this?” he asked Porter.
“Subcutaneous bleeding, looks like.”
“Ben?”
“Correct.”
“And the others had it, too?”
“Yes.”
“Organs, everything?”
“Everything. When they did the autopsy on one man in his early sixties, they said his insides looked like a stew that had been cooking too long.”
Porter issued a tiny laugh. It would’ve been easy to dismiss this as insensitivity, but Beck knew she was merely focusing on the dark humor of it to protect herself. One of her many defense mechanisms.
He studied the ring finger more closely. It looked like the finger of a gorilla. Even if this man survives, that part of him is already gone, he thought. It was as if the finger served as a preview for the rest of the body a day from now.
McKendrick’s head lolled to one side, and a narrow string of blood ran from the corner of his mouth to the pillow. Taking a penlight from the bedside table, Beck gently examined the oral cavity. The tongue and gums were decorated with weeping sores of various shapes and sizes.
“Ben, has everyone had these ulcers, too?”
“Yes, to a person.”
In his bent-over position, Beck noticed the extensive bandaging on McKendrick’s right biceps.
“What happened to his other arm?”
“He tried to burn off one of his tattoos.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, when the EMTs came for him, he was locked in his garage trying to burn off one of his tattoos with kerosene and a cigarette lighter. It’s a grinning spider, and he was screaming, ‘It’s going
Friday, April 24
K and I hiked up to another village about two miles away this morning after Guychel told us the outbreak had reached there. But we were at the site only about a hour before my cell phone rang. It was M, telling me I had to come back, there was some kind of emergency. He would not, however, give me any details, only that I needed to hurry. K and I are taking a break now, out of breath, but should get back within the next thirty minutes or so. I have never heard M so upset; he isn’t the type. I cannot imagine what’s going on, but something in my gut tells me it isn’t good.
THREE
“Michael?”
Ben’s gentle voice pulled him back.
“Hmm?”
Cara was staring at him, too.
He took note of them standing there and, with a mighty effort, shoved it all out of his mind. Pretending he didn’t see Ben’s ongoing stare of concern, he went to the patient’s bedside, his shoe covers shuffling softly on the polished floor.
McKendrick’s face was twitching, the pain relentless and determined. Beck’s instinct was to reach out, stroke the young man’s hair, tell him he would be all right. But the goal here, if the situation was to be regarded with the necessary objectivity, was to save those who could be saved. That meant the patient had to be viewed as a lab specimen: a source of information. Beck could never fully adopt this into his thinking, in spite of the many who had urged him to do so.
He checked McKendrick’s vitals—temperature 102.7 degrees F, heart rate 120, blood pressure 144 over 103, respiratory 23. All accelerated, even with the sedatives. There was a nuclear war going on inside this body, and the native forces were losing in a blowout.
He reached down and pressed on one of the larger pustules with his forefinger. It expanded outward for a second, the tissues straining visibly, then exploded. The honey-colored pus eased between the other blisters with a sluggish viscosity.
Porter said, “Do you want me to collect a sample?”
Gillette responded through the intercom—“You’re more than welcome to, but I’ve already collected several from that patient, as well as all the others, and sent them out.” He was watching through the observation window.
Beck leaned down to get a closer look at the exposed left arm. Even through the blistering, he could see the gathering darkness beneath the skin—a faint mauve scarlet.
“Do you recognize this?” he asked Porter.
“Subcutaneous bleeding, looks like.”
“Ben?”
“Correct.”
“And the others had it, too?”
“Yes.”
“Organs, everything?”
“Everything. When they did the autopsy on one man in his early sixties, they said his insides looked like a stew that had been cooking too long.”
Porter issued a tiny laugh. It would’ve been easy to dismiss this as insensitivity, but Beck knew she was merely focusing on the dark humor of it to protect herself. One of her many defense mechanisms.
He studied the ring finger more closely. It looked like the finger of a gorilla. Even if this man survives, that part of him is already gone, he thought. It was as if the finger served as a preview for the rest of the body a day from now.
McKendrick’s head lolled to one side, and a narrow string of blood ran from the corner of his mouth to the pillow. Taking a penlight from the bedside table, Beck gently examined the oral cavity. The tongue and gums were decorated with weeping sores of various shapes and sizes.
“Ben, has everyone had these ulcers, too?”
“Yes, to a person.”
In his bent-over position, Beck noticed the extensive bandaging on McKendrick’s right biceps.
“What happened to his other arm?”
“He tried to burn off one of his tattoos.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, when the EMTs came for him, he was locked in his garage trying to burn off one of his tattoos with kerosene and a cigarette lighter. It’s a grinning spider, and he was screaming, ‘It’s going
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