Mercy 6

“Stay still,” said another voice, a young woman. Silva. “That’s it.

Hold still for a while. Sounds come out of it once in a while. The building expanding and contracting. They sound human. Always in two syllables. Mullich says, anyway.”

Mendenhall worked herself into a standing position. Silva had removed her lab coat and changed into a dress, blue with vaguely Thai piping. She wore black ballet flats. Her ponytail was set higher than usual. The disguise worked, giving the impression of Eastern, far from Brazilian.

Still buried up to her shoulders in linens, Mendenhall tried adjusting her own failed disguise, tugged the skirt, twisted the blouse, curled her toes to make sure the Mary Janes hadn’t flown off during her plunge. Her clothes embarrassed her. She wanted to remain in the bin.

“I stuffed as much as I could up the chute,” Silva told her.

“Mullich said not to bother. But he’s never done it. It’s all blueprint to him.”

“I liked him better as an enemy.”

Silva offered Mendenhall her cell.

“Get rid of it,” said Mendenhall. “They’ll just track us with it.”

Silva maintained distance. Her feet were together, prim.

“How long have you been in here?” Mendenhall worked her way to the edge of the bin.

“About two hours.”

Mendenhall looked to the chute. “From there?”

“Yes.”

“From Four?”

Silva shook her head. “They never found me. I dropped from Seven.”

“Seven.” Mendenhall shivered. A double moan came from the chute, a kind of chant.

“He put stuff in it. For me. It slants a bit. Good design, he says.”

“Mullich showed it to you?”

“The journalist,” replied Silva. “Mullich showed him; he showed me. When I was trapped on Seven. Promised a soft landing. It wasn’t that soft. I tried to make it better for you.”

“The journalist. He’s still here?”

“He found me because he knew you were outside. Knew somebody was pretending to be you. Here. He’s really good. But high.”

Mendenhall pried herself over the side of the bin, stuck her landing as best she could, tried to look awake and ready. She could have returned to the linens and in their coolness slept for hours.

Silva took a step back. “I’m thinking of turning myself in.”

“We have more to do.”

“There’s nothing left to do.”

“We can help Dr. Claiborne.”

“If I go to his lab, it’s a threat to him.”

Mendenhall pulled on her shoulder, tested the joint. “You’re a kind person.”

“Why do you say that?”

Another chant fell from the chute, almost her name. It seemed to cut across her, shift her, a stick in water. She craved an apple, a slice of ginger, that pinot she had left back at the bar, her work in the ER, arrivals, and sleep, a hard full slam, darkness, blackout.

“How would you have treated Cabral?” Mendenhall closed her eyes and rolled her shoulder some more. “If you had known? How would you have treated him? Before he slept and died.”

“Full rest, oxygen, glucose.”

“Would you have left him alone? Bedside?”

“No,” Silva answered. “That would be the worst. I would think.”

“But I mean would you have left? Even if someone else remained?”

“No.”

“Then don’t turn yourself in. Stay down here.” Mendenhall tested their distance, took a half step. “Help me with someone. I brought her in. Julia. Her name is Julia.”

Silva neatened her stance. Mendenhall imagined her fall, a diver, feet first, arms folded, given over, slicing the dark.

“I’ll show you what I found.”

61

The basements weren’t as open as Mendenhall had hoped. From beneath the door she and Silva could tell a security pair was patrolling the hall.

“I could go out.” Silva tightened her hair band, adjusted her flats.

“They get me. You get to Julia.”

“There might be more.” Mendenhall put a hand to the tech’s shoulder. “I have a better idea. You play doctor. I play dead.”

Mendenhall lay on a gurney, arms straight. Silva covered her with a sheet, hung a toe tag on her right foot.

“This won’t fool anyone.”

Mendenhall relaxed in the whiteness. She would have to fend off sleep. “They’re very scared of death,” she replied. “We don’t have to fool them. I scared one away by just stepping out of the shadows.

Up there they are brave. But very skittish in the basements. When they see you, know this.”

“If this doesn’t work, then we both get caught. What happens to your patient?”

“Dr. Claiborne will be with her.”

“The sheet moves when you breathe.”

“Listen. They — the DC security — seem to think the virus is down here. That it began down here or is being shoved down here.

Put on your mask and gloves. Go straight to that room. Hold your breath if you have to, and I’ll hold mine. One minute. That’s all it takes.”

In the hall, she lost confidence. She was blind, the white now smothering. She quickly lost breath and had to gasp, sucking in the sheet. She sensed Silva breaking stride, losing the straightness of the gurney. The wheels skidded sideways. Dead gurneys were different, meant for delivery, not speed, cold and heavy. Mendenhall’s back ached. She needed a pillow.

She heard a pair of footsteps, boots. The gurney swayed to the side. Silva took a quick breath.