to eat me!’”
“A bit delusional,” Porter suggested.
“I’d say. Severe mental distress.”
“So the infection crosses the blood–brain barrier,” Beck said.
“It appears so.”
“God…”
He gingerly pulled the sheet down to McKendrick’s abdomen. Porter didn’t laugh this time, but instead let out a small gasp. The torso was covered with the same fluid-filled vesicles as the arms. It was like an uneven sheet of Bubble Wrap.
“That, too, is surprising,” Beck said.
“What’s that, Michael?”
“When Sheila and I were talking in the car, we both commented on how it sounded as though you could argue a case for smallpox. But then there were other symptoms—” He pointed to the chest area. “—like this that were inconsistent. Cara, see what I talking about?”
“Smallpox vesicles are usually concentrated on the arms, legs, and face.”
“Whereas these—“
“—are spread evenly across the patient’s entire body.”
“Right.” He set the blanket back carefully.
“They’re burning all the sheets after changing them, too.”
“Good idea,” Beck said. “Where’s the other patient?”
“In the next room here.” Gillette pointed down the corridor.
“I’d like to see her now.”
“Sure. But prepare yourself.”
He let Porter return to the neutral zone first, where she removed her PPE following standard procedure. Facial shield, bonnet, and shoe covers were placed in a burn bag. Then the gown, grasped at the shoulders and pulled forward so the contaminated outside layer was kept away from the body. The gloves came off at the same time, trapped inside the gown. Bare hands were washed in a small sink with microbial soap. The respirator was removed by pulling the rubber strap forward from the back. Finally, hands were washed again.
They returned to the scrub room and put on a fresh set of PPEs—including Gillette. Then they went to the second AIIR.
Beck immediately sensed something different. If the specter of Death were merely lingering in the last one, it had taken up residence here. In the corridor, the microblinds had been fully shut. Inside the neutral zone, Beck saw that the lights in the room were so low, they were nearly off. Funerary, he thought. It has the feel of a funeral . It was still and silent, save for the soft electronic beeping of the equipment. And, in spite of the microblinds, the patient was kept behind a curtain that someone had pulled all the way to the wall.
Beck glanced back at Porter, who stood behind Gillette with unabashed fear in her eyes.
“Are you okay?”
She only nodded, her gaze fixed on the curtain.
“Okay.”
He was not a man given to melodrama, unlike some he had encountered through the years. They used patients like exhibits in a freak show, through which they could impress and intrigue their audience. Beck despised them with the heat of a supernova, and he countered their toxic effect on the medical profession by performing his duties as nontheatrically as possible.
With that in mind, he brought the curtain back casually. As the patient came into view, however, his heart began pounding. From the corner of his eye he saw Ben lower his head and cross himself. Cara, her defenses stripped completely away now, said unevenly, “Oh my God…”
It was a woman in her late twenties to mid-thirties. Beck drew this conclusion mostly from her dark hair, which lay long and thick on the pillow. It had no visible streaks of gray or silver, nor did it bear the odd shades of artificial coloring. It was likely the only part of her anatomy still in its original form.
The face had been so radically altered that it was impossible to envision what she once looked like. The pustules ranged from marble-sized to a few that were as big as golf balls. One hung from her cheek with a sickening heaviness. Her eyes and mouth were partially open, as if she was awake but no longer possessed the ability to react. Her skin was an uneven dark purple now that
“A bit delusional,” Porter suggested.
“I’d say. Severe mental distress.”
“So the infection crosses the blood–brain barrier,” Beck said.
“It appears so.”
“God…”
He gingerly pulled the sheet down to McKendrick’s abdomen. Porter didn’t laugh this time, but instead let out a small gasp. The torso was covered with the same fluid-filled vesicles as the arms. It was like an uneven sheet of Bubble Wrap.
“That, too, is surprising,” Beck said.
“What’s that, Michael?”
“When Sheila and I were talking in the car, we both commented on how it sounded as though you could argue a case for smallpox. But then there were other symptoms—” He pointed to the chest area. “—like this that were inconsistent. Cara, see what I talking about?”
“Smallpox vesicles are usually concentrated on the arms, legs, and face.”
“Whereas these—“
“—are spread evenly across the patient’s entire body.”
“Right.” He set the blanket back carefully.
“They’re burning all the sheets after changing them, too.”
“Good idea,” Beck said. “Where’s the other patient?”
“In the next room here.” Gillette pointed down the corridor.
“I’d like to see her now.”
“Sure. But prepare yourself.”
He let Porter return to the neutral zone first, where she removed her PPE following standard procedure. Facial shield, bonnet, and shoe covers were placed in a burn bag. Then the gown, grasped at the shoulders and pulled forward so the contaminated outside layer was kept away from the body. The gloves came off at the same time, trapped inside the gown. Bare hands were washed in a small sink with microbial soap. The respirator was removed by pulling the rubber strap forward from the back. Finally, hands were washed again.
They returned to the scrub room and put on a fresh set of PPEs—including Gillette. Then they went to the second AIIR.
Beck immediately sensed something different. If the specter of Death were merely lingering in the last one, it had taken up residence here. In the corridor, the microblinds had been fully shut. Inside the neutral zone, Beck saw that the lights in the room were so low, they were nearly off. Funerary, he thought. It has the feel of a funeral . It was still and silent, save for the soft electronic beeping of the equipment. And, in spite of the microblinds, the patient was kept behind a curtain that someone had pulled all the way to the wall.
Beck glanced back at Porter, who stood behind Gillette with unabashed fear in her eyes.
“Are you okay?”
She only nodded, her gaze fixed on the curtain.
“Okay.”
He was not a man given to melodrama, unlike some he had encountered through the years. They used patients like exhibits in a freak show, through which they could impress and intrigue their audience. Beck despised them with the heat of a supernova, and he countered their toxic effect on the medical profession by performing his duties as nontheatrically as possible.
With that in mind, he brought the curtain back casually. As the patient came into view, however, his heart began pounding. From the corner of his eye he saw Ben lower his head and cross himself. Cara, her defenses stripped completely away now, said unevenly, “Oh my God…”
It was a woman in her late twenties to mid-thirties. Beck drew this conclusion mostly from her dark hair, which lay long and thick on the pillow. It had no visible streaks of gray or silver, nor did it bear the odd shades of artificial coloring. It was likely the only part of her anatomy still in its original form.
The face had been so radically altered that it was impossible to envision what she once looked like. The pustules ranged from marble-sized to a few that were as big as golf balls. One hung from her cheek with a sickening heaviness. Her eyes and mouth were partially open, as if she was awake but no longer possessed the ability to react. Her skin was an uneven dark purple now that
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