Mercy 6

The last thing Ben-Curtis asked was, How many more? That was the one answer he wanted, the patient at the doorknob. Who’s next? Who’s dying in there?

She forced herself to finish the warm, tainted milk. She wrote out a response she knew she would not send.

It’s not a virus. The infection is us. I am the worst part of it because I know and I act and I speak and I don’t speak out of fear and comfort. We’re all dying in here.

We go to sleep and wake up dead.

Instead of catharsis she felt dread, the same feeling she had whenever she removed a bandage to find that a wound had worsened. She thought of Kae Ng 23 first but recognized her own self-diversion. She almost forgot to delete her message to Ben-Curtis before hurrying off to Pathology. To find Silva. To wake her.

35

She searched the lesser rooms of Pathology. They were empty, peaceful, just as Silva had explained. Mendenhall found her in a small lab at the end of a hall. Within, light fell from a green exit sign. As Mendenhall’s eyes adjusted, Silva’s form came clear.

The tech lay on her back, her lab coat as blanket, her head on a thin pillow. Her hair swept over her face, and her hands rested on the pillow, too, softly fisted.

Part of her wanted to linger and watch, watch for breathing, for a flutter of lashes, a finger twitch. But the part of her that always won swept her toward Silva. I am breaking into pieces, she thought in the movement, a line of vertebrae slinking into itself. Her two fingers went to Silva’s carotid, dipped into the warm fold.

Silva’s head twitched, turned in the direction of the touch.

Mendenhall started, drew her hand back. She sighed twice, the first deep with relief, the second sharp with self-reproach. Silva did not wake. Her lashes quivered. Her lips mouthed dream words.

Mendenhall smoothed the tech’s hair clear, placed hand to forehead. Body temp was just below 98.6. Silva had gone into deep sleep. She might have slept for hours. Mendenhall’s touch had triggered her toward consciousness, maybe into dream. Silva’s fists clenched and released, still pillowed about her head.

Mendenhall pinched the ends of Silva’s hair, twirled a thin lock into a delicate yarn. She lifted this and watched the green light slide along the sleekness.

“If I knew what I believed, I would tell you. But it’s only in parts right now.” She eased the lock of hair higher, weightless between thumb and forefinger. “Maybe that’s just what belief is. Parts never reaching a whole, always that gap.”

Silva murmured in her sleep. Mendenhall watched the flutter of lashes, followed the black curve, the lift at the end reflecting the lift of the brow. When she fixed her gaze, she found that Silva’s eyes had opened. She was awake.

Mendenhall released the lock of hair. Silva blinked, focused, appeared only slightly perplexed. She lifted her head, raised herself to one elbow, her lab coat falling away.

“Dr. Mendenhall.” Silva checked her watch. “I overslept.”

She started to hurry. Mendenhall touched her shoulder. “You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

Silva blinked some more, let her stare go blank. “No.” She made an mm sound. “No. It’s not.”

Mendenhall pressed her palm to Silva’s forehead, then drew a pulse. The tech’s eyes appeared clear, remarkably clear. “You feel something? Something off?”

Silva stared straight ahead. “The only time I think clearly is just before waking. Dreams, you know? What they seem to do?”

Mendenhall nodded.

“I’m not off.” Silva finally looked at Mendenhall. “You’re the one. You.”

“I’ve been scanned. You have my blood. I’m good.”

“Still. Something.” Silva gathered herself into sitting position, opened a space on the edge of the bed for Mendenhall. “You. You’re not the same.”

The same? Mendenhall almost felt she was the one trying to wake.

“Not the same as what?”

“The person you were before all this started. Before you called containment.”

“You didn’t know me then.”

“I did. Dr. Claiborne spoke of you often, your work, your charts.

He sent me up there often, usually to gather data, sometimes just to observe, to maintain connection.”

Mendenhall didn’t know why this bothered her. She fought her temper, sat on the edge. “Look. I’m ER. We change for each arrival. We move on. We turn it over to the specialists and move on. Trauma. Think about it. Everything can cause trauma. We can think ourselves into it, dream ourselves into it. I surmise and tend wounds.”

“While I slept, what did you do?”

“I sutured a wound, reset a shoulder, stole some milk from caf. I told off Mullich and made nice with your boss.”

“You shouldn’t have done those.” Silva swung herself off the other side of the bed, gathered her hair into a ponytail. “Those last two. Those. I could see it in your face.”

“You didn’t even look at my face.”

“I saw it before I woke up.”