Chapter Eighteen

The sun had gone down. The hazmat suit was still hot but not unbearably so.

Eli walked slowly down the main street. There were other people, all in yellow hazmat suits, shuffling down the road. He was guessing the village was busier than in usual circumstances. There was no one unsuited in sight, though from what Shelly had said, that was hardly surprising. They were all showing the final symptoms: High fever, inflammation of the brain leading to paranoia, difficulty swallowing, drooling, and, eventually, paralysis.

His footsteps slowed. Shelly had told him Clara was in Rosita’s old house. He passed the empty school. What would happen to the village? A ghost town. Maybe they would move out any survivors—if there were any, though it was starting to seem unlikely—and burn the place to the ground. He’d never known of an outbreak where everyone died before. Never come across such an efficient killer.

He hesitated outside the house. Inside, a light was on, but he couldn’t hear anything. He pushed open the door and stepped into the empty living room. It was quiet. Was he too late and she’d already succumbed?

He found her lying on the bed, a thin sheet covering her. Beside her, an IV unit had been set up and a clear bag of liquid attached. He knew they were trying to treat the symptoms—dehydration could kill quickly. He’d never seen her without the headdress. Her hair was short, dark red like a fox, and it stuck out at all angles. Her face was pale, the freckles standing out across her nose. She looked so young.

A strap crossed her chest, probably to save her from falling off the bed if she started flailing about. Otherwise no restraints, and she was alone. There weren’t enough medical staff to keep a constant vigil. He could see the slight rise and fall of her chest, so she was still alive, but her eyes were closed. The last thing he wanted to do was wake her if she was sleeping or unconscious.

Rabies affected people to differing extents. He could only hope that this virus was the same and that if she did awaken, she would still be Sister Clara. Not some mindless thing.

He almost backed out; then her lashes flickered open, and her head turned, her gaze fixing on him. For a moment, confusion glazed her eyes; then she blinked and they cleared. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, and a wince of pain flashed across her face. There was a chair by the door, and he dragged it over to the bed. He sank down, and they sat in silence for a few minutes. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know why he was even there. He couldn’t do anything to help.

Sister Clara licked her lips. “I thought you didn’t deal with patients, Dr. Vance.” Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

“Just select ones,” he said. “I thought you’d like to know—the boy made it to Johns Hopkins, though he’s in pretty bad shape. They’re inducing a coma.” He’d called in before he had come here and talked to one of his colleagues who was overseeing the quarantine and the treatment. He wasn’t hopeful. The virus had gone too far. The boy’s own cells were overwhelmed. His immune system too compromised.

He wouldn’t pass that on to the sister.

“I’m glad. Will you keep an eye on him? I’d like to think someone will survive.”

“Of course.”

They felt silent after that. He could see that talking was painful for her. After a few minutes, he reached out and took her hand in his. It was against protocol, but she looked so small and alone. They sat for a long time. At some point, a medic appeared in the doorway. He nodded at Eli, then changed the IV bag.

“How is it out there?” Eli asked.

The man hesitated and glanced at Sister Clara. She opened her eyes. “Tell him,” she whispered. “I can guess anyway.”

He nodded. “Not good. Most people have entered the final phase. The lucky ones are unconscious.”

“Is no one recovering?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Are you staying?”

Eli didn’t think, just nodded. The medic pulled a couple of syringes out of his bag. “Morphine,” he said. “If the pain gets bad. Just inject it into the IV line.”

He left. Eli blew out his breath. He tried not to think because it was too painful. Time passed, and she lay unmoving. He was just dozing off when her fingers tightened in his.

“If I get very bad, will you…?” She trailed off.

“I’ll give you enough morphine to knock out a horse.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Now, if you’re going to stay…talk to me.”

He found himself telling her about Amber. How he’d come to be a guardian. “I never meant to take her on. Christ, I was hardly more than a kid myself. No family to back me up. Just starting medical school. No money. But I owed Lorna, her mother, and somehow, I found myself outside Social Services and then walking out of there having agreed to take her on. Hell, they shouldn’t have let me. I could have fucked up big-time.”

“And did you?” Her voice was weakening.

He smiled, though he was pretty sure she couldn’t see it through the mask. “She’s wonderful. A much better person than either her mother or me. Maybe her dad was a great guy. Who knows?”

The light was going out of her eyes, replaced by a dull blankness. Suddenly, her back arched so he thought her spine might snap, and her hands came up to claw at her throat.

He didn’t hesitate, just stood up, awkward in the suit; moved around; and injected the morphine into the IV line. For a moment, he didn’t think it was going to take. She was reaching out to him, hands like claws, saliva dribbling down her chin. He stepped back, injected the second syringe of morphine, and she collapsed back on the bed.

He sat down and waited for her to die.