Authors: Dustin Thomason
12.21 (27 page)
M
ICHAELA THANE WAS THIRTEEN WHEN THE RODNEY KING
verdict set off looting and burning of thousands of buildings from Koreatown to East L.A. Her mother was still alive then, and she had kept Michaela and her brother in the house for nearly four days, where they watched on their nineteen-inch television as rioters set the city ablaze. It was the last time Thane remembered Los Angeles looking as it did now.
On the car radio, she listened to pundits argue about whether it was the email leak from the mayor’s office that had started the unrest. One commentator claimed it was the nearly ten thousand estimated sick—agitated and desperate—leading the destruction. Detractors of Stanton’s quarantine declared this the inevitable result of trying to contain ten million people. But Thane had spent long enough living and working in this part of L.A. to know people here didn’t need a reason to be angry—they needed a reason
not
to be.
Just before the turn in to Presbyterian, she looked in her rearview mirror to see Davies peel off; he’d trailed her here to ensure her safety. And safe it seemed to be. Floodlights illuminated the night sky, helicopters circled and jeeps swept the perimeter; National Guardsmen with guns patrolled the buildings as if it were a base in Kabul.
Since returning from Afghanistan, Thane had spent nearly every weekday, every third night, and many weekends at Presby. She’d been
here on virtually every holiday too, taking the least desirable call nights. Her colleagues thought she did it because she was selfless, but really Thane had nowhere else to go. A hospital operates 365 days a year, twenty-four hours a day, just like a military base. And eating the staff turkey on Thanksgiving and drinking plastic cups of sparkling cider when the clock struck midnight on New Year’s was better than being alone.
Working at Presbyterian had never been easy, and sometimes they had to improvise more than medics in the mountains. The hospital was understaffed and overwhelmed. Yet Thane and her colleagues had provided decent care to tens of thousands of patients nonetheless. They helped other services, did favors for critical patients, listened to one another complain, and drank heavily together to try to forget it all. Over the last three years, the Presby staff had been Thane’s big, messy, occasionally happy substitute for a platoon.
Now so many of them were dying inside these walls, and Presbyterian itself would soon be a memory too. Even if they could stop or slow the disease, they’d never be able to ensure that all the prion was gone from the floors, the walls, the sinks, the bedrails, and the light switches. The building would be demolished and removed by hazmat, piece by piece.
I
T WAS AFTER ONE A.M.
, but CDC staff still roamed the halls—tending to patients, trying to calm the victims, barking orders at one another. Thane had difficulty seeing their faces through the helmet of the biohazard suit she’d put on, but that also meant it was difficult for them to see hers. As long as no one recognized her, she could walk the wards unnoticed. The suit was sweltering hot and uncomfortable to move in, but she pressed on past rows of listless patients staring at the walls or restlessly pacing their rooms.
Her first stop was on the fourth floor. Meredith Fentress was a heavy-set woman who just a week ago had manned the lobby. Thane had spent
many nights chatting with her about the Dodgers and their never-ending string of disappointments.
Now Fentress was whimpering and tossing, covered in sweat.
“You’ll feel better soon,” Thane whispered as she pushed the antibodies from a syringe into the IV, and the yellow-tinged solution dripped into the patient’s vein. Thane watched—just as she and Stanton had discussed—to make sure there was no negative reaction that called for an immediate response.
Nothing. When Thane was sure, she made her way from room to room. Occasionally she had to wait for a CDC doctor to finish with the patient and leave, but for the most part, she thought, it was almost like she was invisible.
Amy Singer was a tiny bottle-blond third-year medical student with whom Thane had done a night rotation in the ICU. As she administered the antibodies, Thane remembered a night that they’d both fallen into an uncontrollable fit of laughter after an old man on the floor confused the two of them.
Suddenly a nurse wearing a biohazard suit walked in. She looked at Thane skeptically. “Can I help you?”
Thane pulled out the CDC ID Stanton had had made for her. “Just taking some secondary samples,” she said. “Monitoring how quickly protein loads are growing.”
The nurse seemed satisfied and continued on her rounds. Thane breathed a huge sigh of relief. So far all had gone well. She prayed that the antibodies were doing their work.
Ten patients later, Thane found Bryan Appleton lying quietly in his bed. His eyes were closed, but of course she knew he lingered in a dangerous netherworld. She also took note of the three deep red scratches on the side of his face—when she was done, she’d attach restraints for his own safety. Appleton was one of the kitchen staff, who had practically force-fed Thane meals on her call nights. He’d always seemed to understand that residents survived on the free eats—oatmeal cookies, melon, juice, and coffee—that magically appeared in the call rooms.
Thane watched to make sure the liquid flowed easily through the IV. Then she tried to turn him so she could fasten his arms to the rails.
Appleton’s eyes opened.
He grabbed the sleeve of her biohazard suit. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “What are you doing to me?”
As gently as she could, Thane maneuvered her arm out of his grip. “It’s Michaela, Bryan. I’m giving you medicine.”
Appleton shot up in bed. “I don’t want any fucking medicine!”
His eyes looked wild. The beeps from the monitor beside his bed came faster. His heart was racing at a hundred eighty beats per minute.
“You have to lie down, Bryan,” Thane said. He was a big man, but she’d dealt with worse. She leaned her weight over the bed, positioning herself. Was he having an allergic reaction to the antibodies? Was it VFI-induced anger and stress causing the tachycardia? Either way, she had to calm him down. “Please, lie down for a minute and try to relax.”
Appleton threw all his weight and catapulted her over the side table.
“Don’t you fucking touch me!”
he screamed as she fell to the ground.
Thane could feel the nasty bruise blooming on her head, but she also knew she had only seconds to get up. Shakily, she got to her feet and glimpsed Appleton’s blood pressure: 50/30.
He was having an anaphylactic reaction, and he needed an epinephrine injection. But he was already pulling out his tubes. It would be impossible to get close enough. “Please, Bryan,” she begged. “You’re having a reaction to the drug. You gotta let me give you something for it.”
“You’re poisoning me!”
he screamed, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and starting after her.
“I’ll kill you, bitch!”
Thane darted around the bed and headed for the door. Bryan’s screams echoed down the hallway, and soon other patients heard him and joined in. Yelling that they were poisoned too. Demanding to be released from the quarantine.
Thane fled to the stairs. Her biohazard suit was suffocating as she descended to the third floor, where she nearly barreled into a man in a hospital gown standing at the top. It was Mariano, the security guard who’d stood outside Volcy’s room for days. Thane was hit with a wave of
sadness. The man had spent years trying to protect himself from disease with masks. But he hadn’t protected his eyes.
“Keep away from my wife,” he shouted. He was sick and obviously hallucinating.
“It’s okay, Mariano,” she said. “It’s Michaela Thane.”
Mariano bared his teeth, grabbed the nylon fabric of her biohazard suit, and threw her down the stairs.
Thane’s neck broke the moment she hit the landing.
I have taken ownership of One Butterfly and Flamed Plume, Auxila’s daughters. Haniba did her duty, as is ordained by the gods. The girls visit her grave—marked with a cross signifying the four cardinal directions—every other sun. Her suicide was met with acclaim from the royal council, who believe Auxila was chosen for sacrifice by the gods
.
Never knowing me to be carnal, the members of the council were shocked to hear I had taken his daughters as my concubines. Darkened Sun believed me only when I told him I planned to lie with the younger of the two first and that my abstinence was actually a preference for unspoiled youth. I have commanded Flamed Plume to spread word to the other girls of Kanuataba of how her younger sister submits most humbly to my insatiable appetites
.
I also told the girls in truth that I would never make them lie with me. At first they seemed terrified I would force myself upon them. One Butterfly, only nine years, was particularly scared at first, but when I bled her gums upon the loss of a tooth, she was grateful and regarded me with softer eyes before confessing her sorrows to her worry dolls. The elder girl was slower to accommodate. Only after weeks did Flamed Plume come to trust me; for the past four nights we have spent every evening reading the great books of Kanuataba together
.
I take no pride in owning these girls, but Haniba had spoken true. I could not let Auxila’s daughters be defiled. Their father was a holy man, whose family took me in as an orphan when my father left for the land of our ancestors. And then Auxila set me on the path to nobility, a debt that I can never repay. Still, I do not know what to say to the children when tears pour out of their eyes after visiting their mother’s grave. I have never understood the ways of women
.
I give them crumbs to feed my bird self, who has taken to perching inside the cave. It gives the smaller girl solace. She is too young to understand that the macaw is my spirit self, but she can muster a smile when he squawks, and it stops her tears, if only for a moment. Despite my efforts, I am a poor substitute for a mother
.
Two suns ago, my concubines and I were paid a royal visit by the holy prince, Smoke Song. It is most unusual for the prince’s lessons to take place outside the palace, unless we are studying some natural phenomenon. But before the king’s recent departure, he agreed to my request to send the prince here. The king is away with his warriors, waging war for three suns against Sakamil. Mercifully, despite his promises, he decided not to take his young son with him
.
Upon the prince’s arrival, it became clear that Flamed Plume would be a distraction. The prince’s eyes lit at the sight of her, and he could focus on nothing else. He had believed he would never see the girl again, this girl of whom he had been most fond for years
.
According to custom, when the prince addressed the girl, she went to kiss the ground beneath his feet. Then I listened to them speaking admiringly of the bird, who silently climbed atop Flamed Plume’s shoulder, preening. The bird was recovering most rapidly and would be ready to journey in search of his flock in a matter of weeks. Looking at the macaw, the prince postured by pushing his immature braid to the front, still adorned with the white bead indicating servitude to his father
.
Then he spoke:
—But this bird is nothing compared to my spirit animal, the mighty jaguar. Have you ever seen one with your own eyes? He is swifter than any animal in the jungle and more capable of attacking his prey than the
most skilled archer could ever be. He moves faster than the arrow, and quieter too. I can show you where lie the graves of jaguar bones, which will give you a chill you will not soon forget. Indeed, you might faint upon seeing this, but I will be there to catch you, for my heart and mind are stronger than yours, little girl.—
What happened next between these children surprised me and reminded me in what strange and beautiful ways the gods have fashioned us, the fourth race
.
The girl Flamed Plume did not look away from the prince then when he looked into her eyes, as custom dictated. In the royal palace she could be sacrificed for such an indiscretion. But there was no fear on her face, or in her heart. She smiled enough to reveal that she had two front teeth emblazoned with jade but then hid those jade pieces so he could not see more. Since the day I came to her in her parents’ home to explain that her mother was dead, there had been no smiles
.
Then she spoke as I have never heard a girl speak to a prince:
—But, holy prince, Smoke Song, most revered one, how can the mighty jaguar be faster than a quiver of arrows when I have seen jaguars killed by those very same arrows by our marksmen? Can you explain this contradiction to an intelligence as meek as mine?—
It was not until that moment that I came to understand how strong-willed and noble Flamed Plume is. But how the boy would react to this affront I could not predict. His face indicated puzzlement at her refusal to defer. Yet then Smoke Song smiled and showed Flamed Plume his jade, and I was reminded how little he resembled his father. One day he will make a great leader of Kanuataba, if we can emerge from the calamities that threaten to consume our mighty lands. I was filled with pride for him
.
Still, nothing can ever come of the prince and Flamed Plume; her father has been sacrificed to the gods, and she is stuck between worlds, unfit for the company of a king, no better than a bastard. Watching them, and knowing this, took me closer to tears than I have been in many suns
.
The prince reached into his satchel. I thought he was pulling from it
one of the great books I had instructed him to bring from the royal library, and I swelled with pride, believing he might show his reading skill, which I had taught for so long
.
Yet instead he held an ornate ceramic bowl, more than two hands in its depth, as if built for water. The bowl was decorated with colors of death and rebirth, and he held it out toward Flamed Plume at arm’s length. Then the prince spoke to her:
—Behold Akabalam, who graces my father with his power and in whose honor we build the new temple. Have you seen Akabalam with your own eyes, girl?—
Flamed Plume went silent, bowed by the invocation of the god who had claimed her father’s life. But I was anxious with desire to know: Could the king have shown his son what the mysterious god presided over, that I might understand?
Then the prince spoke to the girl again:
—Do not be afraid. I have power over these creatures, this embodiment of Akabalam. Do not be afraid. I will protect you.—
Smoke Song opened the bowl, and I could see inside there stood a count of six insects, long as a finger, color of the leaves of the most vibrant trees that once ruled our forest. The insects climbed atop one another, attempting to scale the walls of the ceramic bowl but without success. Their long, bent legs were entwined beneath their bodies. Their eyes, color of night, protruded from their heads
.
The prince spoke:
—I have seen him worshipping these creatures, and I took them from his throne room, where they have their royal feasts, and now I, too, feel their power.—
I studied the insects, those that blend with the forest itself. For what purpose we would worship this creature, I could not imagine! They made no honey. They could not be roasted for food. Why would the king dedicate a temple and sacrifice his overseer of the stores in the name of a useless insect? Why would a king denigrate us, the gods’ holy maize creation, in its name?
I spoke:
—This is what your father calls Akabalam? Only this?—
—Yes.—
—And has he told you the meaning of why we must exalt them?—
—Of course he has. But you, scribe, could never feel what a king would feel in the presence of such power.—
But as I studied the insects more closely and watched them slowly rubbing their tiny front legs together in the air, I believed I understood. Their legs gave them the appearance of a man communing with the gods. No other creature I have seen in the kingdom appears more pious. No other creature is such a model for the way all men must pray to the gods
.
Is this why the king so reveres them? Because he believes we have lost our piety in the drought that has lasted nearly two thousand suns, and that they stand as a symbol of commitment to the gods?
The prince turned to the girl and spoke again:
—Only a man ordained by the ancestors can understand Akabalam—
Beyond his father’s influences, Smoke Song is a good child, pure of heart. His is a soul the ancestors of the forest would have loved and respected, as it is written in the great books. While his father might simply have ordered me beheaded if he thought I had defiled a girl he wanted, Smoke Song only intended to impress the girl and win her heart. He stole the insects from the palace, and with them he was showing Flamed Plume how much more powerful he was than I. So I would allow him this pleasure
.
The girl watched as I bowed to the boy and kissed his feet
.