Mercy 6

Claiborne crossed his arms, angled his waist to one side. “Virus.

Hemorrhagic, fast like dengue HF, but obviously much faster. Not very contagious. Has to get into the stratum basale, start there, burst there. They got it in some weird way that isn’t being repeated.

Mullich’s work is actually perfect for us here, centering on locale, degrees of separation among the four. DC taking the bodies is good. They can do much better work than I. They should reduce Thorpe’s control. They’ll get us out of here faster.”

She fingered the rail of the treadmill. “I imagine them to be just like Thorpe. Thorpe squared. Men with protocol are worse than men with guns.”

“Protocol will protect us. Protocol will release us in the morning.”

“Protocol is ego.” She gripped the rail. “Literally. It’s ego put into writing.”

“Ah, right. Dr. Metaphor.”

“You want me to think in metaphor. I can do that. I can drink that poison. I think what’s most viral is the protocol and consensus.

I think we just released it when we opened the morgue door. Now Thorpe is outside as well as inside.”

Her workout scrubs had become clammy. Claiborne looked freshly dressed, relaxed in fine clothes. I run more than he does, she thought. I should be faster. I should look like that.

“Okay,” said Claiborne. “Then what do you think it is? If we had to stop here?”

“I would guess you’re right. But that shock is involved more.

Toxic or physical.” To think pragmatically lifted her. She rolled her shoulders. She guessed this was an extension of Claiborne’s apology and liked him for that.

“You know a virus that induces toxic shock?”

She shook her head. “I’m not thinking that way. I’m thinking in terms of traumatic reaction. That the bodies responded as though toxic or physical impact occurred. Because it’s new. Even if no toxin or ballistic occurred, the nerves reacted as though they had or were about to. Isn’t that what TSS is? A physiological overreaction to a minor but unanticipated toxin?”

He considered this, or pretended to, pulled at the back of his neck and looked askance. They were first and last. She knew this.

There would always be too much information in between their specialties. He knew this, too, was calculating that gap, how far to lean her way.

“I’m glad I found you. Like this.” Claiborne rested his hand on the door handle. “Disease Control will find whatever it is before I do. I never find the new stuff. We just lead them to it. They’ll find no reason for containment. We’ll be running the trail tomorrow.

Take a shower and a nap.”

He left the room, turning his shoulders in that way doctors do, showing their expert backs.

Instead of a shower, she filled one of the metal whirlpools in the room with cool water, not mixing any heat. She stripped, dropped the scrubs into the hamper, and lowered herself into the water.

The chill didn’t hit her until waist level, then increased around her breasts, forcing a shiver. She saved her head for last, pausing for breath before complete submergence. Underwater, eyes closed, she felt the jolt of the chill melt into relief. Sweat and salt and oil lifted in ribbons from her skin. To her surprise, she wanted to remain there, down there at the bottom of the big bucket. She imagined herself first as a specimen in a jar, then as an experiment growing in an old sci-fi flick.

21

Mendenhall dressed, her clothes the same but at least freshly aired. In front of the PT room’s sink and mirror, she pulled her hair into a ponytail. She found an elastic finger splint as a clasp, enjoyed the tight sting along her nape. She applied tinted balm to her lips, then wiped the excess over her cheekbones, raising some color there. Her cell buzzed on the counter.

Pao Pao. Mendenhall let the message come in and finish. She stared at herself in the steel mirror, thought she looked okay, still a catch because she was a doctor. This was a desperate ploy for normalcy. A message from Pao Pao could not mean normal.

Mendenhall held the cell to her ear, close but not touching. The nurse’s flat tone was there, but the Samoan accent was in there, too, downward pulls: three arrivals, one very different. Hurry.

The “hurry” meant be the first.

When Mendenhall moved away from the counter, she thought of a blur of herself remaining in front of the mirror — staying, looking okay, ceding all control.

* * *

Movement in the ER was occurring in concentric circles, reminding Mendenhall of old swimming movies. The innermost circle contained three gurneys and spun with the direction and momentum of arrival. The outer circle of floor EMTs and nurses counterspun with the tangent of escape, with rubbernecking. The murmur swelled until Mendenhall broke through the circles.