Theydidn't even bother to look at her. Either they couldn't hear her, or theydidn't care. As she backed away from the window, she saw sweat from herforehead run down the glass. She plopped on the bed, and began rocking back andforth, her knees drawn up to her chest, her hair plastered to her head, andvisions of people who weren't actually there dancing in her eyes.
Shesaw her grandfather, long dead, fiddling with an old black and white TV in thecorner. "Put on the game," she said.
Hergrandfather turned around to face her, only his face was rotten and blooddripped from his mouth as he smiled and said, "What game?"
Hergrandfather melted away. She waved goodbye to him as she leaned back on thebed. Her body began convulsing, and Molly's eyes rolled up in the back of herhead. She bit the tip of her tongue off, and then she was still. All that wasleft was the hunger.
Chapter 31: Observation
Joan watched Molly die from a monitor in her own cell.They called them rooms to patients, but they were obviously just cells. Thecameras in her own cell allowed her to watch the patients without endangeringthe rest of the medical staff. She hated that she had to trick Clara and Mollyinto entering into quarantine, but if what she suspected was happening washappening, then it was obviously the lesser of the two evils. The other optionwas to let possibly infected people go out into the world and continueinfecting other people.
Thoughts rolled around in Joan's head, piles of doubtsand worst-case scenarios flitted about the edge of her rational mind. How widespreadwas it? What if she was wrong about everything? What if there had actually beensome way to save Molly?
She didn't feel any different than she had this morning.She wasn't covered in sweat as Molly had been, but she had been in close enoughcontact with the infected to be a risk. The question was, "How long wouldshe be a risk for?"
Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Molly convulsing.She had been a good nurse. Her bedside manner left a little to be desired, butshe didn't deserve anything that was happening to her. Joan looked at her watchand paged the security guards.
The intercom in her cell was another perk that the usualquarantine patients didn't have. There was a knock at her door, and she pressedthe button on the intercom to allow her to speak to the guards in the hallway."The patient in room 231...," she hesitated as guilt gnawed at herconscience, "Molly, isn't doing too well. I need you guys to check hervitals."
"Can do," the guard in the hallway said. Shedidn't know him. No one knew any of the quarantine staff, except for thehospital director. It was protocol. The last thing you wanted was to have aninfectious disease get out because so and so used to go drinking with thisperson, or that person was married to this person, and what would he tell hiswife if something terrible happened? It was the hard reality, but the men usedfor this work were cold, scientific and completely impassionate about anything.When she had first suspected an epidemic of some sort of new disease at play,she had initiated the quarantine protocols even though she knew very well thatthis would mean being confined in a cell for an undetermined period of time.She was free to move about the quarantine wing, but she would not be leavinguntil she was sure she was fine.
But if what she thought was going on was going on, therewas no place in the world that she would rather be right now than behind alocked door in a secure facility with a nice reinforced steel door to keep anysort of infection far away. Sure, there was a chance that the disease wasairborne, but she didn't think that it was much of one. The old lady in theE.R. didn't have a scratch on her, but had merely been complaining ofdehydration and illness. Her now dead husband had said that she had been sickfor about a week, and he hadn't shown any signs of infection after being inclose contact with her.
Of course, there was no way of knowing the gestationperiod of this particular bug. Was it a strain of flu or something completelynew, a random mutation that struck the jackpot with a new brand of twistedlethality?
The men in the biohazard suits entered the room. Thetaller of the two checked Molly's vitals, while the smaller man held asubmachine gun aimed at Molly. After checking her blood pressure, temperature,and pulse, the tall security guard looked up at the camera in the corner of theroom and made a slashing gesture across his throat.
Joan was prepared for this, but she still felt a rush ofblood to her face as she couldn't help but feel that some part of Molly's deathwas her fault. She hid her face behind her hands in an effort to keep fromcrying. When she pulled them away, the soldiers had left.
Joan stared at the screen, waiting for nothing to happen.She didn't know what she was doing. Waiting for her own body to start sweating?Waiting for Molly to miraculously spring to life?
She began again, examining all of the information thatshe had available to her. So far she had established, through conjecture and alimited amount of observation, that some sort of contagion was running aroundthe city. The infection could be spread by a very weak airborne pathogen or bya seemingly more virile version of the pathogen that either lived in thevictim's saliva or blood.
So she waited. What was that saying? You couldn't prove anegative? She wished the saying wasn't true. Joan checked in on Clara, who wasin another cell. Numerous others had been quarantined as well, including thebitten security guards, numerous patients, and Miles the orderly
