The Flu 1/2 (37 page)

After a glance to Patrick that conveyed “you were just saying?” Lars walked across the gym to the man and his daughter.

* * *

Hands that were always strong and steady, hands that never twitched a millimeter, trembled out of control, and the radio that Mick held sailed to the ground breaking in three pieces. He didn’t stop to pick it up, he aimed his focus outward and charged full speed from the station.

The front steps were a mere impedance as he tore down them and hopped onto his bike. There was zero hesitation in his jump to start it and even less as he quickly rode off.

* * *

Roaring and choked with tears, the scream that came from Tigger was bigger than his entire body. His little arms extended out to desperately reach his brother as Dylan lifted him up and pulled him from Chris’ legs.

“That’s my brother!” Tigger cried. “Why can’t I touch my brother?”

Dylan couldn’t breathe. Her chest felt as if it were caving in from her sob-choked breaths. With a deep sigh, she looked over her shoulder at Chris who stood by the door. His face was red and puffy; his bottom lip quivered from crying. “You can’t, Chris,” Dylan said sadly.

Dustin’s eyes shifted from his mother to Chris. His brother stood there alone, frightened, and with a deep tearful breath, Dustin shook his head. “Well, I don’t care about no flu.” He raced to his brother.

“Dustin.”

“I don’t care.” Dustin threw his arms around his little brother who stood nearly head to head with him. “He’s my brother, Mom. He’s my
brother
.”

Chris knew he shouldn’t, but he held on to Dustin, squeezing him tightly with all he had. “I’m scared, Dustin.”

“Dustin, please!” Dylan, crying, grabbed Dustin’s arm. The more she tried to separate the pair, the tighter they held on. “Please don’t....”

The front door flew open and Mick charged in.

Dylan wiped her hand under her nose. “Mick,” she whimpered out. “How....”

“Dustin radioed me.” Mick’s eyes landed sadly on Chris. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he stepped to him.

“He was fine over breakfast,” Dylan said. “And then…and then....” Seeing Tigger charging forth, Dylan intercepted him.

Mick extended his hand between the embracing boys and laid it upon Chris’ cheek. “This boy’s fevered bad, Dylan. I have to get him down there.”

“I know, I know.” Dylan wiped her eyes.

Chris felt the huge hand engulf his entire face and he turned into that hand for comfort. “Mick, please tell me don’t be scared.” His words were thick and muffled with congestion not just from crying, but from the flu. “Please?”

The moment Chris’ brown eyes, red and glossy, met his own, Mick’s heart stopped. He thought at that moment that his chest was so tight that he would choke. “Don’t be scared. It’ll be fine. Let’s go. Dustin, let him go.”

“I love you,” Dustin whispered into his brother’s ear. “Get better.”

The nod Chris gave was rapid and frightened. “Mom?”

Laying a strong arm around Chris, Mick walked him to the door.

Dylan followed, “Dustin, I need you to watch....”

“Dylan,” Mick stopped her. “You can’t go.”

“He’s my son!” Dylan cried, shaking with emotion.

“You can’t go. You know the rules of that station,” Mick explained. “You’re upset and there’s too much flu down there. You stay put.”

“But, Mick….”

“No,” Mick stated firmly. “You have to be here with these boys and away from that aid station. You hear?”

Overcome with sadness and frustration, Dylan charged forth, “Fuck you, he’s my
son
!”

“Yes, he is!” Mick blasted “And so are they! What good is it gonna do any of these boys if you get sick! There are over five hundred sick people at that station already, Dylan. That flu is thick down there. You stay here with them, where it is safe.”

Dylan’s mouth trembled, and her voice sounded defeated. “He’s my son, Mick.”

“I won’t leave his side. I promise you,” Mick said, speaking directly into her soul. “I promise.”

Chris stared helplessly at Dylan; when she saw his fear, Dylan broke through the barrier that was Mick and grasped Chris. “You tell me. You tell me. If you say you want me with you, I don’t give a shit about the flu. I don’t give a shit about what the rules are. If you want me with you, I am there. I’ll go.”

Chris shook his head, then raised his eyes to his mother. “Stay here. I’ll be fine.” He sniffed harshly and stepped back. “Not to sound bad or anything but...but I’d rather see Mick get the flu instead of you.”

That bred an emotional smile from Dylan. She nodded and ran her hand down Chris’ face. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

Dylan gazed at Mick and mouthed the words, “Watch him.”

Mick winked and gave her a look of assurance, then he pointed to Dustin. “Watch your mom and brother. We’ll be back.” Mick wrapped his arm tightly around Chris, stepped from the house, and pulled the door closed.

After twelve hours, Lars had to wonder what he’d been thinking. One big room for all of the sick people? Perhaps when he originally set out to try his theory on the people of Lodi, he expected the small town with the small population to be hit like all other places, but they had been nearly all getting sick at once.

Then again, in other towns, they didn’t have to deal with who would live and who would die. They were all lumped together because the majority wouldn’t make it.

That wasn’t the case in Lodi. Pushing close to a thousand confirmed cases in just twelve hours, Lars hit the point where he had to divide them into two groups: Those who beat the septicemia, and those who didn’t.

He was overwhelmed, and he was profoundly grateful for Henry and Kurt’s expert assistance. A quick look at a drop of blood on a slide, and the three of them could make an immediate diagnosis.

But the other tasks were more time-consuming. They had to break down the blood, mark it as an initial sample, do a septicemia screening, log the results, and pump the person full of high strength antibiotics, then repeat the whole process in another twelve hours. Was there a change, increase, or decrease? Those results would determine who would stay in the gym to finish treatment and who would go home to die. Plain and simple.

Lars was on the second batch of septicemia testing.

“We’re hitting the psychosomatic phase. Good thing we set up the other testing site at the library,” Henry informed Lars when he stepped into his partitioned off lab in the corner of the gym.

Lars looked up. “You probably had a woman named Dylan Hughes, I mean, Owens, stop by with her two sons for that test.”

Henry flipped through the screening sheets. “Yep. All negative.”

Lars nodded in relief. “I’ll pass that on to Chief Owens. That’s his family. She’ll be back tomorrow, though. She’s seen me for the test a ton of times.”

“Trying to stay ahead of it I guess.”

“I guess. But test the little one. He’s going to be more susceptible because of his size.” Lars stood up.

‘I’m afraid to ask,” Henry said. “But how did we do?”

“Well...not everyone is determinable yet. The early ones are.”

“And?”

“And out of the five hundred that hit the twelve hour point, we were able to beat septicemia in seventy percent.”

Henry exhaled. “Wow, that’s great.”

“It’s better than I expected. But still sad, since at least thirty percent of these people will die. And that’s not including those who will succumb to secondary infections. That will happen, as well.”

“I know. But I watched the world die. I took statistics, Lars. You’ve saved seventy percent of these people that would have died.
Would
have died,” Henry emphasized.

“I have to keep reminding myself of that. If we didn’t try this, these people would have fallen as hard as the rest of the world. But they’re still gonna fall hard. One person, two, or over a thousand like I’m gonna predict. It’s gonna hit them because they’re all like family.” He laid an exhausted hand on Henry’s back. “If you’ll excuse me. There are a few now due for a second bag of antibiotics they won’t get and they...and they’ll have to be moved.”

“Would you like me to move them?” Henry asked. “Kurt and I aren’t as close to them as you are.”

“No.” Lars shook his head. “I think they’d rather hear it from me. Thanks anyhow.” Feeling tired, but not allowing himself to succumb to it, Lars parted the curtains and stepped out with his results. He glanced at the sheet that highlighted the name, row, and cot number of their locations.

He didn’t have many, but more than he wanted to face. Burdened with intense sadness, Lars moved to his right to start at the head of the line of cots. As he did, he noticed Patrick removing an empty intravenous bag from a little girl and getting ready to replace it with another. Noting the location of the girl’s cot number, Lars quickly looked down at the sheet. He flipped the second page and his eyes closed briefly. Lowering the sheet, Lars headed Patrick’s way.

Patrick prepared to insert the intravenous tubing into the shunt in the little girl’s arm when he felt a hand on his wrist. He looked up to Lars. “Am I doing it wrong?”

“No,” Lars shook his head. “No, you’re fine, but....” He took the tubing from Patrick.

“I don’t understand. She’s due for her second dose.”

“She doesn’t get a second dose.”

Patrick chuckled sadly. “If she doesn’t get a second dose she’ll....”

“I’m sorry,” Lars spoke softly. “Supplies and room are limited as it is. We can’t....”

“That’s bullshit.” Patrick reached for the tube.

Lars pulled it further away. “Patrick, I did the twelve hour test.”

“Doesn’t matter. You heard Henry. Kurt’s levels were the same at twelve hours, they didn’t decrease until the twenty-four hour mark.”

“That’s right. The same.” Lars nodded. “Hers are higher. Two hundred percent higher. I can’t authorize this antibiotic when another child will need it. I can’t.”

“What?” Patrick gasped. “You just want to shunt her aside?”

“You make it sound so cold.”

“It
is
cold. This is a child.”

“And this,” Lars said firmly, “is a battleground. We are at war right now, Patrick. I have wounded lining the hallways, holding their IV’s themselves while waiting for a place to lie down and close their eyes. They need to be monitored. This is the observation bay.”

“What are we supposed to do with her?” Patrick asked.

“Get in contact with her parents.”

Slowly, Patrick shook his head staring at the sleeping girl. “That’ll be real easy seeing that her parents are three cots over.”

“Then I’ll take her down to the cafeteria with the others.”

Patrick saw Lars reaching for the girl, and he stopped him. “No, I’ll take her down.” Sliding his arm under the little girl, Patrick lifted her as her arms dropped and her head fell to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Lars told him and stepped out of his way.

Patrick nodded. In a way he understood, but the reality was too painful. It had started happening so quickly, and it wasn’t slowing down at all. Even though Lars had told him that when it struck it would strike boom-boom-boom, a part of Patrick didn’t believe it would be so bad.

As he turned the corner and neared the cafeteria, Patrick could hear the chorus of coughs assault his ears. The cafeteria was designated as the room, or at least the first of the rooms, to which they would move the patients who had no one to care for them at home, the patients who didn’t beat the blood poisoning. They would get care, the best they could give, and comfort from the limited staff. But Patrick realized when he walked in that, even if the ratio of caretaker to patient was one-to-one, there wouldn’t be enough staff to comfort them. There had to be fifty people in the cafeteria, and all but four were children.

Heart sinking, barely able to look at the older woman who wiped the forehead of a child, Patrick haltingly laid down the little girl. He parted his lips, tried to call out to the woman, but no words emerged. His throat was swollen shut with emotion. Spreading a blanket over the girl, Patrick saw that the woman had noticed him. Breaking the brief eye contact, he nodded his head toward the child and raced out of the cafeteria.

Patrick didn’t stop running until he was outside, then with a loud wheeze he inhaled the fresh cool air and gagged.

Patrick fought hard to keep from expelling the contents of his stomach. Bending over, Patrick held onto his knees taking in slow breaths. His eyes watered, and it was at that moment, when the first tear fell and saturated the edge of his surgical mask, Patrick pulled it from his face.

He no longer had to vomit. He controlled that, but he couldn’t control his feelings. The sadness overwhelmed him and, like a frightened child, Patrick turned and leaned into the wall of the school. His forehead pressed firmly into the wall as his fist pounded against the red brick. What did he do? What did he start? The hundred million dollars that caused the infected FBI agents to chase him to Lodi would never be enough money to bring back even one life lost to the flu. There was nothing that could do that.