Hour 23 (17 page)

Chloe stood up with her gun in hand. “I’ve had enough of this.”

Chloe raised the gun in front of her and gripped the handle firmly. A resounding burst of shots filled the small living room as the firearm blasted away at the door. After seven shots, the gun jammed.

Chloe and Nolan’s ears filled with a shrill ringing from the gunfire. As it faded, the thumping sounds at the door continued.

Chloe trembled. She fiddled with the gun and tried to unjam it. The pounding at the door became increasingly angry and violent. The door rattled in its frame.

“It’s stuck,” Chloe grunted, pulling on the slide of the gun.

The doorknob spun.

“She’s going to get in!” Nolan exclaimed.

“I know,” Chloe said irritably, turning towards Nolan. “But the fucking thing is stuck—”

The gun fired, and for a short moment in time Nolan and Chloe looked at each other without expression. Eventually, Nolan’s face turned from blank to utter confusion. Chloe dropped the gun and ran towards Nolan. The senseless beating continued at the door.

“Nolan,” Chloe cried, catching the straggly boy before he could pass out.

“You…you shot me, Chloe,” Nolan said, grabbing at his shoulder with his hand. Immediately, his palm dampened from the warm blood seeping through his hoodie.

“Nolan, I’m so sorry, just sit still,” Chloe said, and she dropped to the floor with him. Nolan’s face turned white, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

Outside, the pounding at the door was as relentless as ever. To Chloe, it felt like her front door might burst open at any moment.

Pound, pound, pound.

SIXTEEN

Dr. Paul Merrill sat alone in the hospital cafeteria, greedily chomping away at a turkey sandwich. The turkey—or, what he assumed was turkey—was rubbery and had a thin layer of film covering it. The mayonnaise was warm, the bread was dry and crumbly. Day old.

Paul kept a field notebook within reach at all times as patients came into East Violet Memorial. As far as he knew, he was one of the first doctors in the country to work hands on with a virus that had caused so much devastation. He wanted to chronicle every minute of it.

After spending most of his morning stuffed inside a hazmat suit, breathing recycled air, the cafeteria felt cavernous and lonely. Staff on the lower levels used a separate dining hall; his was designated only for those with high-level risks of exposure. Paul didn’t mind. The quiet allowed him to concentrate as he jotted down the morning’s events.

The mysterious virus plaguing New York came to be called “EV1.” Paul first heard Thomas Litchfield, a CDC agent, toss the phrase around after he landed from Washington D.C.

“What does it stand for?” the doctor asked, Litchfield’s helicopter blades still whirring atop East Violet Memorial.

“Extinction Virus One,” Litchfield said, very matter-of-factly. “A global killer. The end of humanity.”

Even with a one-hundred percent mortality rate, and symptoms that developed within moments of infection, Dr. Merrill found the “end of humanity” qualifier a bit macabre and hyperbolic. He also found it suspicious that Litchfield and the other CDC agents knew a great deal about a virus that was supposedly newly discovered and incredibly mysterious.

As a virus alone, EV1 was truly terrifying. It had certainly contributed to endless mayhem, destruction, and death in and around New York. But as a global killer, Paul thought, the virus was extremely weak and inept.

Tests concluded that the virus wasn’t air or waterborne. Its only mode of transmission was from person-to-person contact. A bite, a scratch, a kiss. Those who were infected moved slowly and unintelligently. Save for a failed quarantine or botched military response, Paul reasoned that it shouldn’t be difficult to stop the outbreak in its tracks. And, with reports indicating that EV1 had yet to be observed outside of New York, it seemed as if the military response was by and large successful.

While the military response initiated, Paul’s most important objective was what he called “ethical containment.” Any one who came through the front doors of East Violet Memorial deserved humane treatment alongside their isolation. There were rumors spreading that some of the larger hospitals in New York—the ones still standing and accepting patients, at least—had begun an impromptu euthanasia service for those who showed symptoms of being EV1 positive.

As far as Paul was concerned, that was unacceptable. His opinions on the subject were met with harsh criticism—from Agent Litchfield, from the nursing staff, and from the few other doctors that showed up for their shift. It was them, after all, that Paul was putting in harm’s way for the sake of ethical containment.
What if we found a cure?
Paul wondered. If it was his loved one, he would want them to be given the benefit of the doubt.

Paul scanned his notes.
So many patients, so many infected.
The first was Marc Cooper. He came in the day before, complaining of confusion and muscle spasms.

“Did your dad have a look at you?” Paul asked when Marc checked himself into the hospital the afternoon before. Paul knew Marc’s father, John Cooper, personally; John worked as a general surgeon at East Violet Memorial for many years, and for quite some time after that he had his own private practice in town.

“I didn’t want to bother him,” Marc answered, tugging at his collar. “I was helping him with yard work…we were getting ready to have a family dinner tonight. Hell, Russell’s even coming, and he never has the time.”

“You drove yourself here?” Paul asked.

“Yeah,” Marc said with a groan. “You know how my dad gets. I didn’t want to interrupt the night.”

Paul crossed his arms. Marc’s symptoms worried him. There would have to be a battery of tests to be sure, but Paul had a sneaking suspicion that Marc might test positive for rabies, or something worse.

“I’ll need you to stay here while we figure this out. That won’t be a problem, yes?” Paul said, examining the young man.

“Mom’s making her famous Cedar-Planked Salmon. You think I’m going to miss that over some bug? Can’t you just write me up for something good and let me go?”

Paul sighed. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

Marc was Paul’s first EV1 positive patient. Paul stayed overnight in the hospital to observe Marc as the helpless soul transformed from man to monster. Through the night, and deep into the morning, more of the afflicted poured in.

At 2:45 AM, Wednesday morning, a drunk college kid was checked in for observation. A couple of officers over in Riverside brought him in after a car accident. The cops identified him as Damian Palmer.

Paul treated Damian personally for the lacerations on his right arm, after some of the nursing staff grew concerned for behavior he showed similar to Marc’s. Hallucinations. Dizziness. Nonsensical jabbering.

A few hours after Damian was restrained and isolated, a car crash victim—Kelly Sweet—was brought in. From what Paul understood, she had crashed her car near Center Square. The cops that brought her in complained that she tried to bite them.

Paul put Kelly on the same floor and wing as Damian and Marc. The nurses began to jokingly refer to the quarantined floor as “creep ward.” After Kelly’s arrival, Paul received a phone call from an unknown caller in Washington, D.C. The caller informed Paul that Center for Disease Control agents would soon be arriving at his hospital.

Dizzied by his strange patients and the news of a CDC lockdown, Paul retired to his office. His respite was cut short when he was alerted of an attack in East Violet. A couple of officers named Jim Whiteman and Min Chow were attacked while on duty by persons suspected of being EV1 positive. Paul rode out to pick up the officers personally, anxious to see the virus in its earliest stages.

When the three of them arrived back at the hospital, Paul ordered both Min and Jim to the creep ward—a term the doctor tried to avoid using—when positive and inconclusive test results came back for the officers. Min seemed hopelessly afflicted, but Paul held hope that the other officer, Jim, would make a full recovery.

Soon after the two officers were restrained and treated, a young female was brought in. She was found exhibiting strange behavior outside of the East Violet Amtrak station. A college ID on her person identified her as Mia Naccarato.

By the time of Mia’s arrival, the CDC had jury-rigged a blood panel that could test for EV1. As with most of the CDC’s actions, Paul found this curious—how could such a panel have been put together so quickly, and under such pressuring circumstances? The doctor found it even more bizarre that the blood panel was, essentially, a kit used for the detection of the early onset of the rabies virus.

“My patients don’t have rabies,” Paul had said with a scoff.

“No, they don’t,” Litchfield replied. “But if they’re EV1 positive, they’ll test positive for rabies.”

Paul laughed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Litchfield said. “Just give them the damn test.”

The doctor did as he was told. Mia, Min, Kelly, Damian, Marc— all tested positive in their blood panels. The only one to come back negative was Jim Whiteman.

By the time the blood panels Paul ordered were completed, it was sunrise. Paul was exhausted and stretched thin, but news of the virus had started to spread. Dozens of nurses and doctors failed to show up for their shift.

Paul guzzled a pot of coffee and carried on.

Around 7:45 AM, Wednesday, the most gruesome EV1 patient that Paul encountered was wheeled into the hospital. A young high school girl who had been in some hideous type of vehicle wreck. Her body was missing from the waist down, yet the teenager hissed and clawed at the staff around her, completely unaware of her mortal wound.

The unidentified girl had pushed Paul over the edge. Though he tried to stay strong for his staff and his patients, his body was going frail with exhaustion. Litchfield pulled him aside and insisted he get some sleep. Paul reluctantly agreed and napped in his office for most of the afternoon.

Which brought the doctor to where he sat now, sitting in the lonesome cafeteria eating whatever scraps the lunch staff had left behind. Just him, his notes, and the gruesome memories of the day that had preceded him.

As he took the last bite of his sandwich, Paul heard a flurry of clicking footsteps approach the cafeteria doors.
Click-clack-click-clack.
They moved fast and with urgency. Paul leaned back, inhaled, closed his notebook and used a napkin to wipe some crumbs from his thin goatee. No doubt, he thought, that his presence would be requested soon.

“Dr. Merrill,” a voice breathlessly called out as the cafeteria doors swung open. “Doctor, they need you!”

Paul stood up slowly and calmly asked, “Who needs me?”

Sherri stood by the door and held it open. “Litchfield and the other agents on creep ward. They want you there now.” The nurse looked as if she had won the state lottery. “Something amazing has happened.”

Paul tucked his notebook under his arm and paused to wonder.
Is one of them showing signs of improvement?
His mind racing, Paul breezed past Sherri and out of the cafeteria. He hurried for the elevator, jammed in a key, and ascended to the creep ward above. Wasting no time he jumped into a hazmat suit, sealed himself shut, and approached the nursery. He found Litchfield and the other agents standing in a circle around Marc Cooper’s bed.

“What’s going on?” Paul asked. His anxious breath fogged the visor of his hazmat helmet.

“Look,” Litchfield said, and he nodded at Marc. “None of us saw this coming.”

Paul stood at Marc’s bedside. Marc squirmed flaccidly in his restraints. His mouth hung open. When he tried to click it shut, it only closed halfway. His skin looked like old, wax paper stained with grease. Transparent, gray, tearing away.
Urgh. Glup. Gulk.
The sounds stuttering from Marc’s mouth were dry and weak.

“What did you
do to him?”
Paul demanded, furiously. “This is my patient! I am responsible for him!”

Litchfield looked up in disbelief. “We haven’t done anything, doctor.”

Paul looked over Marc’s bedside with widened eyes. He looked at Marc’s wrist, where a butterfly needle stuck out, and traced the tubing from Marc’s arm and up to an IV. Everything seemed as the doctor remembered; nothing appeared to be tampered with.

“What’s happening?” Paul asked meekly.

“He’s dying,” Litchfield said, then laughed. “Uh—for real, this time.”

“Why are you all standing around and doing nothing?” Paul said. He scanned the room, looking for a defibrillator.

“There’s nothing
to do
,” an agent scoffed from the back. “He’s
already dead.
How do you suppose we save a dead guy from dying?”

Marc fought his restraints less and less.
Gerp. Ulch.

Paul took a step back from Marc’s bed. He could feel his own heart racing, even as Marc’s slowed to a stop.

With a shake of his head, Paul studied the agents standing around the room. “This isn’t right.”

“Hey,” Litchfield said. “In case you haven’t realized, this is good news.”

Paul grabbed the thing nearest to him—a short, metallic table with some bandages atop it—and hurled it across the room. “I know this man. I know his father. This isn’t
good news.
”

“Get him the hell out of here,” Litchfield said, raising a hand towards the door.

Paul’s world blurred in and out of focus. He remembered being pulled to the end of creep ward and exiting through the decontamination portal. Someone, he wasn’t sure who, pushed him in a wheel chair towards the elevator and back to his office. When he hit the couch beside his desk, he fell into a deep, warm, endless sleep.

When Paul blinked his eyes open, Sherri was seated in a chair across from him.

“How long was I out?”

“An hour, maybe two.” Sherri sighed. “You were hysterical.”

“What happened?”

Sherry thought long and hard about her answer. She didn’t want to upset the doctor even more, yet decided that bluntness was probably in everyone’s best interest.

“Marc died. Completely.”

Paul rubbed his forehead, then slapped his face a couple times.

“They didn’t meddle with him?”

“No,” Sherri said. “And honestly, doctor, why would they?”

Paul leaned up on his couch with a groan. “I need to go home.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. Litchfield and his gang have things under control.”

“Paul,” Sherri said tenderly. She stood up from her chair and took a seat beside the doctor. Paul was taken aback—he was always referred to as Dr. Merrill, or doctor, by the young nurse. “Things are finally going to start to get better, and we need you here when it happens. Please. Stick it out a little longer.”