Fallout

“Colonel?”

“We’re still working on all the details, but from what I gather, a fishing boat found him floating in a life raft in the Labrador Sea, off the coast of Greenland. He was suffering from hypothermia, barely hanging on. He was taken first to Nuuk, then to the States.”

“Greenland,” Fisher whispered. How had this happened? he wondered. Had he fallen overboard or gone over of his own accord, and if so, why? “Did any ships file a missing persons report?”

“No,” Lambert said. “I’ve got Grim digging, but as of an hour ago, nothing.”

It seemed unlikely such a disappearance would go unnoticed. What did that mean? There seemed to be only two explanations, then: Peter had either been a stowaway, or he’d been thrown overboard.

* * *

An hour passed, then two, and finally a doctor in dark green scrubs and square, thick-rimmed black glasses pushed through the swinging doors beside the counter. He walked over to them. His hair was plastered with sweat.

“Dr. Seltkins. You’re here for—?”

Fisher nodded. “How is he?”

“Well, we’ve got him stabilized, but I don’t know how long that’ll last.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Lambert asked.

“We don’t know yet. We’re running tests. It’s an infectious agent, but of what type we don’t know. I’m inclined to rule out biological; his symptoms are… unique — too unique for fungal, viral, or bacteriological. My guess is we’re looking at some kind of chemical or radiological exposure — or both.”

“I want to see him,” Fisher said.

“We’ve got him in Level 4—”

“I know that. Suit me up. I want to see him.”

Dr. Seltkins sighed, then looked down at his feet.

Lambert said, “Doctor, if you need authorization—”

“No, you’re both cleared,” Seltkins said, then looked hard at Fisher. “His condition is… It’s not pretty. Are you sure you want to—”

“Suit me up,” Fisher repeated.

* * *

Fisher had been inside Level 4 environments before and had hated each experience for the typical reasons. He was neither claustrophobic nor terrified of running out of air due to a suit puncture. What bothered him most was the lack of freedom. He owed his survival over the years to a number of things — relentless training and practice, superb conditioning, quick thinking, dumb luck — but all of them were useless without freedom, the freedom to move quickly and freely. The ability to react in the blink of an eye had saved his life more times than he could remember. With a Level 4 suit on, its bulbous helmet, oversized boots, and bulky gloves left him feeling as vulnerable as a newborn infant. It was born of rote instinct, he knew, this irrational aversion, but it was ingrained in his mental circuitry.

Led by a pair of nurses, Fisher was taken first to a locker room, where he changed into one-piece surgical scrubs with bootied feet, then on to the first Plexiglas airlock alcove where he was helped into a Level 4 biohazard suit. The nurses checked him from head to foot for proper fit and, satisfied there were no gaps or tears, hooked him into the oxygen system, a series of hoses that hung from swivel tracks in the ceiling. Fisher heard the gush of air rushing into his suit, felt it fill his headpiece. The oxygen, so cold on his skin he felt goose bumps rise on his neck, had a slightly metallic taste.

One of the nurses checked the gauge on his arm, said, “Positive vent,” and then they guided him to the second airlock. Beyond the Plexiglas wall, under the cold glare of fluorescent lighting, he could see a single bed with a figure in it. Peter’s face was turned away; all Fisher could see was his ear, the curve of his jaw, the clear nasal cannula tube snaking over his cheek toward his nostrils.

Another biohazard-suited figure — a nurse or doctor, Fisher assumed — stood beside the bed, reading a vitals monitor and making notations on a clipboard.

Fisher felt a pat on his shoulder. “You’re set,” the nurse said. “When the airlock door closes behind you, the next one will open. There’s a panic button on your wrist cuff.”

Fisher looked down, saw the square, stamp-size red button beneath a hinged clear plastic cover.

“If you run into trouble, just push it, and we’ll get to you within sixty seconds. Do you understand?”

Fisher nodded.

“The airlocks are operated from outside. When you’re ready to come out, walk to the airlock and give us the thumbs-up. We’ll process you out. Do not try to force your way out. If you do, we’ll have to pump a sedative into your oxygen supply. Do you understand?”

Fisher nodded again. He felt another pat on his shoulder followed moments later by the sucking swish of the airlock door closing behind him. He heard the muffled surge of the air movers bringing the airlock back up to full positive ventilation.

The door before him slid open.

Stepping carefully, Fisher shuffled toward the bed. Above his head he heard a metallic rasping, and it took a moment for him to place it: the oxygen hose’s track, sliding along behind him. As he neared the bed, the other suited figure came around to his side.

“Sir, we’ve got him on a fairly high dose of pain meds,” the woman said, her voice muffled by her headpiece. “He’s mostly lucid right now, but don’t be surprised if that changes. He comes and goes.”

“He’s in pain,” Fisher said. “How much?”

She hesitated. “It’s hard to quantify it, but we believe it’s a significant level.”

A significant level. Though his business was rife with them, Fisher had never liked euphemisms; they blurred reality and fostered illusion.

“Please don’t touch any of the equipment, the IV lines, or EKG leads.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

Fisher saw her slip from his peripheral vision. Her hose track rasped along for a few seconds, then went quiet. Fisher stepped closer to the bed until he felt his thighs touch the mattress. Peter lay on his back with both hands curled in loose fists on his chest. The index finger on his right hand twitched in a steady but erratic rhythm, as though tapping out a Morse code message. His fingernails were dark blue.

“Peter, it’s me,” Fisher said. “It’s Sam. Peter, can you hear me?”

Peter groaned. His chest heaved, and from somewhere deep in his lungs came a wet rattling sound. A line of pinkish sputum leaked from the corner of Peter’s mouth, rolled down his chin, and dropped onto his chest.

Ah, God… Peter, what happened to you?

“Peter, it’s Sam. Come on you, mudack, wake up.” Mudack—roughly translated as “dumb ass”—was Peter’s favorite nickname for those who tried his patience, and Fisher had over the years done just that, albeit most often intentionally.

Peter’s eyes fluttered open, and his tongue, swollen and gray, darted out to lick his cracked lips. With what looked like painful effort, he turned his head to face Fisher.

It took everything Fisher had not to react, and at that moment he knew regardless of whatever diagnosis Seltkins came up with, Peter was a dead man.

Peter’s hair, once thick and black, had fallen out in clumps, leaving behind a jigsaw puzzle of pale, blue- veined skull. What little hair remained looked brittle and had turned yellow white. His face was shrunken, and the skin, paper-thin and nearly translucent, clung to his cheek and jawbones as though his face had been shrink- wrapped. His eyes, once a deep blue, had been leached of all color save a tracery of ruptured, bloody capillaries. His pupils were black pinpricks. The tendons and veins and arteries bulged from the flesh of his neck; it looked like a pair of skeletal hands had encircled his throat and were precariously holding his head in place. No Hollywood special effects wizard could have created what Peter’s face had become.

Peter’s eyes stared vacantly at Fisher for a long five seconds before Fisher saw even the barest flicker of recognition. Peter opened his mouth, revealing blackened gums, and whispered something. Fisher knelt beside the bed, took Peter’s hand and gave it a squeeze, and leaned in closer to hear. Peter’s fingertips were scraped raw, the