Mercy 6

He took Covey’s hand in both of his and helped her aim the laser at the spot between her feet, slanted a 67-degree pitch. He released. She started there and drew the line for them, from horizon to horizon. All the way to Reykjavik.

“How wide?” asked Mullich.

“Three meters either side, if nothing changes.”

“What changes?”

“Anything.” She aimed at the moon, which loomed behind the ash veil. “Everything.”

“Should we even be standing here?” Mullich motioned with his arms, indicating a channel around them.

Mendenhall felt she wasn’t there, was just seeing them, dreaming them. She held her hand out so she could look at herself. Of course we should be standing here. It’s what we do. Every day we go into ER, into where life happens, life strikes. Every afternoon those people gather on that wide downtown sidewalk, where the bus stops, where the sun ricochets its way between the glass buildings, down to light the faces, hopeful eyes, desperate shoulders.

She spoke while she felt she still could. She nodded to Covey.

“Claiborne can get you out. He’s your best bet. He’ll say he can’t, but wait and then he will. If not, then go back the way we came.”

She sat down on the roof and leaned against the low wall. The moon appeared to be sliding as the ash blew across its face. She took two deliberate breaths, measured her heart. “It would be nice to set me up out here. But do it right. Pick out a quiet basement room and a nice bed. Claiborne will tell you what to get.” She looked at Mullich, tried a smile but felt only a quivering. “I’ve no doubt you’ll be able to get the stuff.”

Covey and Mullich crouched near her.

“Stay with me,” she said to Mullich as forcefully as she could, whatever was left of her ER voice.

From the waistband of her skirt, she removed the final syringe, saved just for this. She popped the cap with her thumbnail, kept eye to eye with Mullich as she did so. Then, using the moon as backlight, she measured out the dose and snipped the needle dry.

“This much will let me walk but not much more. Basically I go under here. I’ll be thirsty when I wake up. Put a slice of lime in my water.”

She checked to see if both Covey and Mullich registered this. She wasn’t sure her words were sounding. The moon appeared different, closer, clearer, alien. She’d never seen sympathy on their faces, certainly not on Mullich’s. They both expressed comprehension, though, and she at least took that.

A low dread brushed along her nerves. If she didn’t survive and Covey didn’t escape, it would always show virus.

Mullich took her hand, then released it. The heat of his touch lingered in her palm.

Mendenhall tried to start the injection but could not focus well enough to find a vein. Covey took the syringe and pressed it to Mendenhall’s forearm, constricted the brachial vessels. She injected the dose to begin everything.

Mullich placed his hand on her arm. The scent of damp coals fell about them with the ash. Covey and Mullich moved to ready positions. She felt herself being lifted and dreamed she was rising.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you Dr. David Reardon and Dr. Philip Bajo for your expertise and support. The ER imagined here emerged from the many stories told by Dr. Suzanne Town. I am very grateful to my editor, Fred Ramey, for his foresight, openness, and intelligence. I am lucky to be represented by Peter Steinberg, a thoughtful friend and the best agent a writer could have. I have no idea why Elise Blackwell stays with me, but she does, and because of that my life and writing are better.