Amanda's Story (15 page)

After more than fifteen minutes the airman reappeared and Amanda reached for his arm. “Why aren't we going?”

“Sorry, ma'am, but there are some things that need to get straightened out before we leave,” he said over the idling rotors, and there was that word again.

“Where are we going?” she asked before he retreated from view.

“That's one of the things that need to be figured out,” he said cryptically.

“Are you going to be closing that door?” She pointed to the large hatch.

He looked confused. “Not until we leave, ma'am.”

She stared at the ceiling, strapped into a stretcher she didn't need, and waited for another hour, hoping that nothing had happened that would leave her stranded again. Even the crew was getting antsy; they kept looking out the hatch, then walking down the small ramp, and then later she watched as two of them lazily walked around the large helicopter. The “Ma'am-man” periodically checked on her, and once turned on a fan over her bunk. It was a silly but thoughtful gesture; her suit denied her any real benefit. Finally, the rear hatch opened and a half-dozen white-suited men started loading and securing box after box into metal compartments. Each box was wrapped in biohazard stickers.

The rear hatch closed and suddenly the capacious interior was crowded with soldiers, their weapons, and isolation suits. A rush of emotion hit Amanda and she began to cry. “This isn't me anymore,” she whispered and reflexively tried to wipe her wet eyes, but her gloved hand only banged off her visor. The helicopter began to shake and then lift. She had left Honduras, and along with it Bernice and twenty-nine others. She had no guilt, survivor's or any other kind, just sadness—a deep enduring sadness. She closed her eyes and for the first time in days wondered what she would do once she got home.

But she didn't go home. Almost a day later, more white-suited people led her down a grey corridor, through multiple sets of double doors—each of which forced them to wait for the locks to electronically disengage—and finally into what looked like a very unfriendly and utilitarian hospital room equipped with three ceiling-mounted cameras.

“Once you hear the door close, you may remove the isolation suit, Mrs. Flynn.” The man's voice was all business, and he turned to leave.

“Hey, wait a minute. I was told that once we arrived to wherever this place is someone would explain what was going on!” Her patience was long gone. They flew her to an aircraft carrier, and before she could enjoy the experience she had been bundled onto a small plane and flown from Air Force base to Air Force base until she landed here an hour ago. She assumed this was the ultimate destination, as she had been constantly warned not to try and take the now very sweaty and smelly isolation suit off. In addition, this was the first bed she had been offered.

“The doctor is already here and will explain the procedures.” He had barely turned and acknowledged her, and his tone was one of bored disinterest. The proverbial clock watcher.

“Asshole,” she said, waiting for the door to close and lock. She had a ceiling and three blank walls to stare at; the fourth wall was almost entirely taken up by a mirror. She had watched enough TV to know that her mirror was certainly one-way glass. She looked for a light switch but found none. There was no thermostat either. The only other feature beyond the Government Issue bed and the stainless steel sink and commode thoughtfully hidden behind a virtually see-through drape, was a recessed air duct that stretched along the bottom of all four walls. A white air dam on the ceiling completed the picture. She was in a reverse airflow room; not even air could escape.

She pulled the drape and worked her way out of the suit, her scrubs soaked through with sweat. She tried to clean herself as well as possible and then pulled back the curtain and fell into bed.

“Can you at least turn off the lights?” she yelled, and an instant later the overheads dimmed.

She slept the sleep of the exhausted. She tossed and turned and woke several times wondering where she was. There was no clock on the wall, and her broken watch was last seen in the dirt of Honduras. Her mind cycled between Bernice and Lisa. They would have been instant friends and she would have loved to have seen that. She rolled over and brushed a tear from her eye. Grief hung in her chest like a ten-pound weight, but it stayed there; it didn't pull her down into the abyss as it had so often in the past. It seemed as if she had spent most of her life in that abyss of grief, pain, and helplessness. It wasn't yet time to think about silver linings or anything good coming from the horrific last two weeks, so she rolled over. As her mind floated freely she recalled her last interaction with Charlotte, and she finally felt a trace of guilt.
Or is it that I just think I should feel bad?
That actually felt closer to the truth. A part of her was manufacturing emotions that seemed to be lacking.

“Good, I could use a lot less guilt,” she whispered as she resumed the habit of talking to herself. It dawned on her that she hadn't had a real conversation, besides the ones she had with herself, in several days. Her body didn't care; it was trying to decide whether to stay awake or to retreat back into the oblivion of dreams. This was the first bed she had been in for nearly two weeks, and it was so comfortable. Her body relaxed into the cotton sheets, having decided that it was time for her mind to turn out the lights, and she closed her eyes and gently drifted away.

“Mrs. Flynn,” a voice said in her dream. The voice repeated itself, only louder.

“Mrs. Flynn is my mother-in-law's name,” she said, trying to get the voice to go away.

“Amanda,” the voice said sharply, and her eyes snapped open.

The lights were still muted and she was still in her hospital cell, as she had begun to think of it.

“I'm Dr. Keyes; I'm one of the assistant directors of this facility.” He sat in a plastic chair that had magically appeared with him. “Excuse the suits; I'm sure you realize that for a time they are necessary.”

“Well, good morning, Dr. Keyes, if it is morning. Would you mind telling me what facility we are in?” Her frustration with everyone's compartmentalization of information came roaring back.

“We are in the Tellis Medical facility, which is in Oklahoma.”

“Tellis, and not Tela. Hmm, too close for my comfort.” She noticed a new set of scrubs at the foot of her bed and a small overnight kit sitting on the shelf above the sink. “I don't mean to be rude, but could you excuse me while I … take care of some things?”

“Of course. There is a call light on the arm rail.” He pointed at the bed rail. “Please press that when you are ready.”

He left, and Amanda tried to clean herself up. Ten minutes later, the call of nature answered and feeling a little more presentable, she faced Dr. Keyes.

“Let's start at the beginning …” For the next two hours he took a detailed medical and family history and then went step by step through the activity of the last two weeks. He was more than thorough, he was exhausting, and remarkably good at prompting things that Amanda had forgotten or in a few instances suppressed. She tried to be honest, even with the more difficult events, but still kept a few things to herself. For his part, he remained purely clinical and nonjudgmental. Only once did he ask her about her emotional state, and simply nodded his head when Amanda recounted the details of Charlotte's death.

“Wow.” He took no notes, and Amanda was certain the entire session was being recorded. “Quite an ordeal.” He stared at her, almost as if he were expecting a response to his summation of one of the worst times of her life. “Are you up for a physical exam?” he asked suddenly, the time limit for her response having expired.

“Okay,” she answered reluctantly. She knew it was coming, but that didn't make it any easier. Her reaction to physical contact or even proximity had persisted throughout her journey to Tellis, and it was unlikely to have left her overnight.

He examined her fully, but she had to stop him several times as her aversion to his presence nearly overwhelmed her. He checked every square inch of her without commenting except when he agreed to step back and give her a moment to refocus.

“As far as I can tell, you appear to be completely healthy,” he said after a very difficult thirty minutes. “We will need some samples from you to confirm that.”

“And then I can go?” It was a natural question, and she had expected a simple yes. It was only prudent to have her fully evaluated before releasing her back to the population, and she was willing to comply, but her willingness had a limit and she desperately wanted to be back home and see Lisa and Greg.

“I don't see why not, but cultures can take quite a long time.”

“How long?” Her radar detected the first signs of evasiveness.

“Well, tuberculosis cultures often don't turn positive for six weeks.”

“Six weeks!” she screamed. “You want me to stay here that long?”

“Calm down, Amanda. You are a nurse, and I would like you to think like one. What option do we have here? Something unknown just killed thirty of thirty-one people in your little camp in a matter of days. Imagine what would happen if this somehow found its way into the general population. You have to be patient until we know for certain that it's safe.”

Of course, she knew he was right, and if the roles were reversed she would quite willingly counsel patience as well. Only, it was so hard to accept it when she was on the receiving end. “I want to contact my family,” she demanded.

“Logistically that will be difficult. I believe that they have been informed of your transfer here.”

“My aunt lives in Oklahoma City; surely accommodations can be made.”

“Not until we start getting some results back. It would be irresponsible before then.” He stood and prepared to leave. “We will try and make this as comfortable for you as possible, but I will tell you right now that our main concern is the health and welfare of the citizens of this country. Your needs are a secondary concern.”

“You lied to her,” Nathan Martin said to Byron Keyes as he emerged from the airlock.

“You have some nerve, Martin. I was ordered to, and I have a strong suspicion you were behind it.” Keyes was an internist and a lieutenant in the newly formed Combined Services Medical Group. “I have a pretty good idea why you wormed your way into this case, and I will remind you of two facts. First, she is not your guinea pig, and second, a lot of people know that she is here, especially me.”

“That is the most insubordinate thing …”

“You're not in the military or the chain of command, so go to hell with your insubordinate crap. As of six minutes ago she became your patient, Doctor. Remember that a long time ago you swore an oath to do no harm, and I will be around to ensure it.”

A smug grin crossed Martin's face. “No, you won't. You've been reassigned. Nome, Alaska, I hope. I would suggest that you go find Colonel Bennett.”

“What was all that about?” Stanley Cripps asked Martin after Keyes had stomped up the stairs.

“We have a history, a long history,” Martin answered. “I'm not sure he's comfortable with his lot in life.”

“It sounded like there was a lot more than jealousy, Nathan. I know Keyes, and he can be insufferable at times but his judgment has always been excellent.”

“What are you saying, Stanley?” Martin had turned to the Professor Emeritus of the University of Chicago, who had literally written the book on special pathogens even before they were called special pathogens.

“I'm saying that I see the potential for great good and great evil in that young woman. Something inside that pretty lady beat off this very nasty bug, and if we can determine her resistance we will go a long way in furthering our fight against these outbreaks.”

“I agree; that is exactly why I came here,” Martin said, his motivations out there for the whole world to see.

“What I am worried about is in that focused search for the revelation, Amanda Flynn will be forgotten. I understand the pressures that you are under; you have some pretty big shoes to fill, if I do say so myself.” Martin had recently been appointed to become the second director of the the Centers for Disease Control and Preventions Special Pathogens Department after Stanley Cripps retired to Chicago. “It is only human nature to try and make a big splash the first time you jump into the pool. I believe that this is the root of Dr. Keyes' concern.”

“That is beyond insulting, Stanley,” Martin said. He knew that Dr. Cripps had never been his advocate, and rumors abounded that he was not even on Stanley's personal list of replacements.

“Ambition has a price, Nathan, and sometimes that price is transparency.”

“So you have concerns that I can't do this job; is that what you're implying?”

“Absolutely not. You are an excellent virologist, first rate. I wish I had half your brain. The problem is that I wouldn't want the other half.” Stanley found his coat, slipped into it, and then turned to the smaller man. “You are politically astute, Nathan, and those who appointed you are also politically astute. Perhaps to run a department nowadays that's more important than … other attributes.” The unspoken word “ethics” hung in the air. “Good night, Nathan. I will be here through the week to review the tissue samples from the other victims and to periodically check on her.”

Martin watched the old man climb the stairs to the ground floor. In the span of five minutes two colleagues—one he could ignore, but one who held great influence—had questioned his morality. He couldn't understand how both men could be so blind. There was only one morality here. Within Amanda Flynn's blood, white cells, or DNA was an answer that could immediately save thousands, and if down the road things went really wrong, perhaps the entire human species. How could her life be balanced against that? Where was the morality in not searching for that answer with all their resources?

Martin was alone in the observation booth; all the recording and monitoring was done in a room above, and he secretly watched his patient pace the length of the small room. She was a beautiful woman, there was no denying that, and she moved with a natural grace.
Maybe not so much grace, but arrogance?
he wondered as he studied her in the dark. Had society elevated her to a life of privilege simply because she had won the genetic lottery, allowing her to live by a different set of rules? She finally tired of her pacing and sat at the edge of the bed, her legs crossed demurely.
What makes you so special, Amanda; why did you survive above all the others?
It was as much a metaphysical question as a medical one. The noisy approach of a pair of medical technicians snapped Martin back to the real world.

“Evening, Doctor,” the first man down said. “We were going to draw her blood now. Did you have plans to see her?”

“No. I don't need to see her. Dr. Keyes did an adequate job examining her earlier. Are you just collecting blood samples now?”

“We'll get the rest in the morning. They can only process blood work at this hour.”

He almost ordered them to collect everything now, and if the samples weren't useable they could be collected again, but simply nodded his head. No sense pissing everyone off on the first day.