'How do we know what’s really going on? The government never levels with us…'
'You’re saying there’s a serial killer that’s got hold of the stuff…?'
'Is this for real? Are you serious?'
'I’m just…it’s scary…everything’s scary these days, and just when you think it can’t get any worse…'
'I think I’d like to move to a small town someplace and stock up on supplies and just hunker down, you know…'
'I can’t talk to you; I’m looking for my kids… Marci! Terri! Where are you? We have to go…!'
Tess shook her head. 'Thank you, Channel Eight,' she muttered. 'That’s very helpful. That’s just-'
She wanted to say terrific, but her throat was suddenly dry, and the word died in a croak.
Weird-and now she was conscious of a sick feeling in her stomach, a liquid queasiness that became a dry, pasty taste in the back of her mouth.
More soda. That was what she needed. Too bad there wasn’t some nice Bacardi in it.
She picked up the big paper cup and raised it to her mouth, and her fingers splayed and the cup dropped on the table, spilling its contents.
What the hell?
Myron Levine was back on-screen, but Tess wasn’t listening anymore.
As she stared at her right hand, another shudder twisted through the tendons and ligaments. Her fingers shook briefly.
And the thought that had almost surfaced earlier flashed with full clarity in her brain.
It can be all around you — Tennant’s voice came back to her- and you won’t know it until you experience the initial symptoms of exposure: runny nose, sweating, upset stomach, headache… VX.
She had been exposed.
She looked around wildly, her environment suddenly hostile, as she tried to understand how Mobius had done it. But how didn’t matter at this moment. She had to get out. That was what Tennant had said-in the event of exposure, evacuate the area immediately.
The door to outside was only ten feet away. She got up, grabbing her purse off the coffee table, took two steps away from the sofa, and her knees buckled and she collapsed on the floor.
She knew what was happening. The nerve agent attacked the central nervous system. It caused flulike symptoms initially, then tremors, then convulsions and paralysis.
Finally, asphyxiation as the lungs stopped drawing air.
She struggled to rise, but she couldn’t make her legs work. They were shivering all over with what Dr. Gant had called generalized fasciculations, a fancy way of saying that her muscular activity had been converted into a series of tics and flutters.
The most basic control she possessed, her control over her own body, was lost.
At the ATSAC briefing, both Gant and Tennant had stressed that a VX victim had to escape the contaminated area immediately, but neither of them had mentioned that she would be unable to use her legs.
Could she crawl? Maybe, if she dragged herself forward using just her arms…but if she couldn’t stand, she would never be able to get the door open.
Anyway, she didn’t have time for a slow, arduous crawl across two yards of carpet. Already her breathing was coming harder than before. Shortness of breath-dyspnea-another symptom mentioned by Dr. Gant when he was handing out…
Handing out the antidote kits.
She’d received one, too-a MARK I Nerve Agent Antidote Kit-the same thing combat soldiers were issued when they were headed into a hostile zone where chemical weapons might be used.
Gant had explained it all, as an official-looking crew passed out the pouches. Each kit consisted of two auto injectors, crayonlike devices that could be yanked free of their plastic holder and pressed against the outer thigh. A needle would deliver a standard dose of medication intramuscularly. The first injector contained two milligrams of atropine sulfate, which would improve respiration. The second device held six hundred milligrams of pralidoxime chloride, an antidote to VX, which would break the chemical bond between the nerve agent and the enzymes in the blood.
And she had it in her purse, which lay on the beige carpet beside her.
If she could reach it.
Her right arm was no good. It had stiffened up with a painful muscular contraction. She thought of rigor mortis and pushed the idea away. Death was not the imagery she needed in her head just now.
Try with the left arm. Teeth gritted, she willed her arm toward the strap. It was almost within her grasp. But her fingers wouldn’t obey her, wouldn’t close over the strap. They were fluttering, useless.
The effects of the nerve agent were spreading fast, covering more and more of her body. Soon the muscles of her rib cage would fail, and she would suffocate, smothered by her own body.
She didn’t want to die that way. Fear gave her strength. Clumsily she hooked her hand over the strap and dragged it toward her.
She had the purse. But it was shut. She had to undo the clasp. Couldn’t do it. No motor coordination. In desperation she slammed the heel of her hand against the purse. Again. Again.
The clasp popped open. Okay, now get the kit out. Come on. She could do it; she was almost there…
She found the pouch inside the purse and scooped it out in a shaking hand.
With effort she ripped the first injection device free of its plastic clip.
The jerking and twitching of her legs had died away, replaced by a heavy sense of muscular fatigue and a numb, limp paralysis. This was a bad sign, a later stage in the progression of neurological attack. But at least it made it possible for her to inject herself cleanly.
Twisting at the hips, she pushed the green tip of the injector hard against her thigh, and the needle punched through the fabric of her pants leg and penetrated the muscle. She held it in place, counting to ten.
Popped it free. Cast it aside.
One down. One to go. The atropine was only the preliminary treatment. The second injection was the antidote itself.
She reached into the pouch again, and suddenly the shaking of her left hand became a generalized agitation of both arms, and she was rolling on the floor, arms crossed over her chest as if straitjacketed, then pounding the floor with her elbows, her hands.
The seizure passed, and she lay still, stunned by her exertions
But breathing. Still breathing. The atropine had kept her lungs working, at least.
Get the antidote into her system, and she might actually survive.
She rolled onto her side and reached for the pouch. Her left arm was heavy, fatigued, but not yet paralyzed. Movement was difficult, not impossible.
Snap the injector free…
She was trying, but she had no strength. Her fingers could not exert enough pressure to break the injection device out of its clip. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t Another tremor swept through her, jerking her sideways. The room darkened.
She wavered on the edge of unconsciousness, then came slowly back.
And found the injector, liberated from its clip, held loosely in her hand. The jerk of her arm had broken it free. All she had to do was stick the needle in her thigh…
But her arm wouldn’t move.
The last wave of seizure activity had stolen all her muscular strength. The extreme muscle fatigue Dr. Gant had called flaccid paralysis, which already had overtaken her legs, had now taken possession of her upper body as well.
The injector began to slip from her fingers. If she dropped it, she would never be able to pick it up. With an effort of will, she managed to hold on.
There was no hope of injecting the drug into her thigh-it was a million miles away. But another injection site would do. Deep muscle was what she needed. The muscle tissue of her breast and underarm was close enough that she could reach it simply by bending her arm at the elbow.
It was a slow process, though not painful-she felt no specific pain anywhere, only the numbness of utter exhaustion. An inch at a time she advanced the injector. She could see it clearly, could even read the words printed
