Amanda's Story (18 page)

“Why would you say that?”

“Because it's coming back; the infection.” He stared at her, waiting for clarification. “I know I don't have any of the blisters, but I have everything else.” She held her bare arms out for his examination.

“Nor do you have the virus in your blood or any of your tissues, Amanda.”

“You're wrong; it's in my head, in my brain. I'm seeing things and I hear voices in my head. I'm saying random, crazy things. This is how it starts; you start seeing things, then you lose control of what you're saying, and then you lose control over everything. I've been through this before. I watched my dead brother and father walk right in front of me when I was in Honduras, and when we were up here earlier I watched you and that other doctor, the one who lied to me—Martin —arguing in this room. Almost exactly where you're standing now.”

“And that's what has you worried?” He sat in one of the two remaining chairs.

“I saw Cameron Lambert dancing with his baby singing ‘I'm a Little Teapot.' I didn't even know his name was Cameron.”

“That surprises me. He was one of your escorts when Doctor Martin was having you tested. He reported that you were very friendly.”

Amanda tried to remember, but everyone looked the same in an isolation suit. “I never saw him dance or sing.”

“I'm not saying that you did, and I don't think that you actually saw Dr. Martin and me arguing in this room or any room. You were isolated from human contact for over a month in a tiny room with limited intellectual freedom, and that came directly after watching thirty people die and being trapped with their bodies, alone, in a jungle, surrounded by armed men. And let's not forget what happened to you last year.” He sounded very reasonable, but Amanda remained completely unconvinced. “Okay, how about this: I divulge a secret that Dr. Martin and I were not on the same page, and then you meet face to face a man you had been friendly with a month earlier who is bursting with pride over his newborn son, and your brain goes to work. Your mind simply added color to the picture that others gave you; you didn't create it.” Amanda's features began to soften. “I doubt this is the virus, or any serious mental affliction, but if it makes you feel safer to be downstairs, then stay downstairs.”

“I saw this very room in a hallucination,” she confessed. “And the one downstairs; I saw them exactly as they are. I even saw these chairs.” Her voice rose and she didn't know if she was angry or terrified of the implications.

“Amanda, you walked through this room when you arrived. I was right behind you, and then we walked down those stairs, through the observation room, and into the isolation room.”

She suddenly felt very foolish. He had answers for everything, and they made far more sense than hers. She dropped her head into her hands but didn't cry. She was so humiliated; the only saving grace was that he was the only one who knew, and that he viewed her breakdown as an anticipated event. “I am so embarrassed.”

“Don't be. In fact, I applaud your strength. After all you've been through, if your biggest problem is a little cerebral confabulation you are one special lady.” He nodded his head. “I think we'll keep this conversation between us. If Dr. Martin finds out, he'll want to do a brain biopsy next.”

“If it's okay with you, I'll stay here tonight.”

“It's going to take some time for your mind to adjust, and learn to feel safe again. I see it a lot in my world.”

“Post traumatic stress syndrome.”

“I think that's a reasonable diagnosis. The only difficulty in your case is trying to figure out which one of your traumas triggered it.”

“Thanks,” she said, and a part of her wanted to give him a hug, but another part strongly resisted.

“I do need to tell you that I won't be around as much. Dr. Martin and his crew are taking over the day-to-day operations. I'll still be here and I'll check on you from time to time.”

Her heart dropped. She trusted the colonel, and despite the fact that she had only met the man once, she didn't trust Martin. “He's the one keeping me here.”

“He's the one that has been directing your care,” he said evenly, but Amanda sensed a deep well of darker emotions. “I really don't think there's much more to do with you anyway. I'm guessing that you'll be going home soon.” He stood, preparing to leave. “I hope when all this is over I have the opportunity to see you under different circumstances, Amanda.” He smiled and Amanda blushed.

“I think I would like that, Colonel.” He was more than twice her age, but that didn't seem to matter. She simply felt comfortable around him, and for now that was good enough.

Amanda stared at the ceiling, and as the hours slowly passed the hope and trust she had placed in Colonel Bennett's assessment began to fade. She had seen him several times in the past seven weeks, and had talked with him several more; his simple, unassuming demeanor radiated a quiet confidence that in ordinary circumstances she would find very comforting and reassuring. She rolled onto her side as MONA whispered in her ear that these were not ordinary circumstances. Bennett's reasoning and logic were impeccable in the warm daylight hours, but in the cold dark of the night—when the impossible not only became possible but likely—reasoning and logic, no matter how impeccable, were no comfort.

Alone in the cell, the voices were blessedly distant, but a single repetitive hallucination irritated her like no other. Each time she closed her eyes, her mind seemed to float through the walls of her cell and glide unseen through the dark corridors of Tellis. Like a kite without a string, she drifted at the whim of an unseen breeze, aimlessly floating. At first the disembodiment was a curious and enjoyable distraction and reminded her of the rare occasions when she drank to the point of intoxication. She wasn't much of a drinker but had in her earlier years enjoyed just enough excess to realize that it was not the life for her. She hated the loss of control and the unreliability of mind and body, and that was the major difference with this experience. If she opened her eyes she immediately snapped back. No vertigo, no nausea, just a quick trip out of her cell—the perfect hallucinogenic experience. Only now she was tired, closer to exhausted, and the tedious trips that never went beyond the darkened rooms of the Tellis Medical Facility were preventing her from getting any sleep. Their novelty had worn off, and the unbidden ghostly trips were fast becoming irritating. Unlike the previous hallucinations, which were always intimately associated with an individual or a specific location, these were completely devoid of meaning or purpose. They retained the strangely hyper-real sense that the previous visions had, just not their significance.

She returned to staring at the ceiling, wondering if this bland hallucination represented a change for the better or a further unbraiding of her mind. Her eyes began to close and once again she felt the lightening of her mind as it prepared for another meaningless jaunt through the halls. She abruptly sat up, and in a bid to stay awake forced herself to analyze the situation. Something was affecting her mind; that much was clear. Colonel Bennett assured her that it was nothing more serious than PTSD, and the educated, rational portions of her mind agreed. After all that she had experienced, some transient mental instability was to be expected. Only her id ruled the rest of her brain, and it was awake and restless. It whispered in MONA's voice that no matter how illogical or impossible, she was still infected, and the situation was deteriorating, not improving.

She tried to reject the idea.
It has been almost two months,
she thought.

A virus can stay dormant for years. Varicella will present with chicken pox, and then decades later return as zoster, and the shingles, MONA countered.

Both of those primarily involve the skin, she countered right back.

Herpes Simplex starts as a cold sore, but in some people returns as a vir
u
lent medial temporal lobe encephalitis that most die from, and those who survive are usually impaired.

She had remembered this very fact weeks ago but quickly put it out of her mind; apparently MONA had found it. This new virus, EDH 1, as it had been christened, had more than a passing similarity to Herpes Simplex I. Both presented with a rash. A cold sore was nothing more than a rash in the lining of the mouth, and, in an unfortunate few, the virus attacked the inner portions of the brain—centers that were intimately involved with the creation of memories, and when disturbed were capable of producing vivid and recurrent hallucinations.
No one survives Herpes Encephalitis without treatment.
It was a weak response but the only one she could think of.

At this point we are the only one to survive.

Bennett says they can't find the virus in my blood or tissue.
She clung to this one thought like a shipwreck victim clings to a log.

That doesn't mean it's not there, or hiding in the nerves or in the brain.

It was the logical counter to her one best hope. MONA had developed abilities beyond her usual Middle-Of-Night-Angst. Tired of the argument, she closed her mind to MONA and surrendered to the fatigue. Her eyes closed and her mind drifted away, at first through the corridors of Tellis, and later into the oblivion of sleep.

She awoke with a start; it took a few seconds for her to recognize her familiar cell. She could hear voices through the open airlock and felt several more in her sleepy mind. During the short night, she had traded the hallucinations for the voices. She slipped out of bed and attended to her personal needs. Like every other morning, she found a new set of surgical scrubs and toiletries in the cubby next to the airlock. She ducked behind the curtain and began to dress. Modesty may be the first victim of hospitalization, but her mind was dark this morning and she didn't have the slightest desire to indulge the lonely fantasies of the men around her. She finally pulled back the curtain as Nathan Martin ducked his head under the airlock's seal.

“Good morning,” he said, and immediately she doubted whether it was “good” or “morning.” He was of average height and slight build and was not, by any standards, an attractive man. He wasn't repulsive; just, like his height, he was average. His dark hair was thinning on the top and streaked with grey. Amanda guessed him to be in his late fifties. “I hoped you slept well.” He was amiable, but her mood darkened even further. He pulled one of the two plastic chairs from a corner and sat without a word. Amanda edged closer to the bed and decided to remaining standing. “We met several weeks ago, I am …”

“Nathan Martin. I know who you are. You are the person who is keeping me here.”

“It's really not that simple. We just don't know if it's safe to release you back into the population.” He crossed his legs and she noticed how well he dressed.

“But it's safe for you to breathe the same air I breathe and to sit five feet from me.”

“Fair enough.” He nodded casually, as if his contradiction was of no real concern. “With your permission I would like to run you through some of the tests that we performed earlier. Just the interviews at first. Perhaps we can jog something loose that will shed some light on what happened down there.” He smiled and it invoked a strong desire in Amanda to knock out a few of his perfectly straight white teeth. That way he couldn't lie through as many.

“And if I decide not to give you my permission?” Her eyes narrowed, reducing extraneous visual input as she focused on her visitor. He was lying, and it wasn't just what he was saying; his demeanor, affect, and body language were all false. She couldn't identify his tell, but her subconscious mind had picked up on it and was preparing for a confrontation.

“I think that with your complete participation we will be able to get you home sooner.” Once again his words were warm, his smile friendly, and his face completely relaxed.

I don't believe that you have any intention of letting me go home, but I do believe that you are an accomplished liar.
She wondered if there was any benefit to giving voice to her thought. As the moment stretched, his smile slowly faded but didn't quite disappear. He watched her, waiting for a sign or an answer, and she knew that she had been correct. No matter how much she participated, he was going to do everything in his power to keep her.

It's his eyes
, she thought.
The steady gaze of an accomplished liar.
He was going to make her disappear. No one outside this facility knew that she was still alive, and even the people who had taken care of her these past seven weeks were being replaced.

“So can I count on your cooperation?”

“I don't seem to have much choice,” she answered as defiantly as her situation allowed, vowing to change it.

“Damnation! I can't manufacture a positive result, no matter how angry you become,” Newton Moore drawled to his temporary boss, Dr. Martin. Moore was one of eight laboratory and medical technicians who had been given a day's notice and uprooted from Atlanta to this hole in the ground miles from civilization. He was voicing the growing frustration that was shared by his seven comrades. “Can you please take a step back?” Martin was literally standing over him, the virologist's tie draped over Moore's shoulder. He and his colleagues had all agreed to deploy into the field in the event of an outbreak, but one woman, no matter how ‘‘hot,'' was not an outbreak by anyone's definition.

“I am trying to see if you're doing this correctly,” Martin answered testily.

Moore abruptly stood. He was nearly a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than his boss and in a rare moment used it to intimidate Martin. “I will gladly watch you do it.” He forced Martin against the wall as he yielded the stool. Moore knew that Martin knew nothing about the new enzyme-linked assay that could reveal even the slightest traces of the EDH 1 virus. Moore had been a principal investigator into the technique and was arguably a world authority, which was exactly why he had been dragged from his lab and brought to Tellis. “I haven't seen the sun in almost two weeks, and I'm getting pretty damn tired of you and the rest of your staff dogging my every step.”

Martin was forced to look up at the angry man with his wild hair. Moore was a super-star in the field of immunoassay, and virtually untouchable. Even before leaving graduate school he realized his undeniable value and banked on it as he purposely tweaked the establishment with his hair and clothes.

“All right, just call me when this sample has been run.” Martin backed his way to the doorway, giving Moore some space.

“It's going to be negative,” Moore said as Martin slipped out of the door. “Just like all the others,” he finished to himself. He returned to his seat and finished pipetting the last of the 96 wells in the microtiter plate. Martin's team, with the full support of the CDC, had moved remarkably fast in isolating the virus and then fabricating an antibody to a portion of the virus's protein wall, which was what made Moore's test possible. An antibody solution had been bound to a chemical that changed color whenever it came in contact with the protein unique to the virus. Moore sat waiting for any of the samples to change to the bright yellow color that signified the presence of EDH 1. After fifteen minutes, each of the 96 small wells remained clear. “Negative,” he said, getting up from his seat. Four hours of work for the same result. He took the assay plate and tossed it into the large red medical waste bin. At least ten other plates had landed there in the last two weeks. He turned off his light and walked back to his room.

“Are you off?” A voice caused Moore to pull up short.

“Hey,” he answered as Scott Price approached from behind. Price and Moore had worked together in the same microbiology lab in Atlanta for twelve years. Moore tolerated the usually grim man partly because they worked closely, partly because every spring they played on the same softball team, and partly because no one else would suffer Price and his near constant black-cloud. “I'm done; at least until they find another part of that luscious body to poke.”

Price held up a small tray filled with needles and blood tubes. “They want some more blood. Want to help?”

“No, but I'll be happy to hold her hand, or anything else she'll let me hold.”

“Hmpf,” Price responded with his trademark grunt.

“So you're going to tell me that she's not the finest thing you've ever poked?” The double entendre only made Price grunt a second time, and Moore shook his head. “I'm calling Buuull Shiiiit on that one!”

“I said she's fine,” Price said. They descended the stairs to the main isolation room, or the Cell, as everyone had begun to call it.

“I said she's fine,” Moore mimicked Price with the voice of a prepubescent boy.

“Are you ever going to gown up?” Price said after putting down the phlebotomy tray. He pushed Moore aside and reached for an isolation suit.

“What the hell are you doing that for? She's not infectious.” Moore pulled at the suit's sleeve as Price tried to slip an arm in.

“Stop it, asshole.,” Price yelled and Moore let go. “I don't care what anyone says; I'm not touching her or any of her blood. Are you going to help?”

“No. I think I'll just stay out here and watch.” He faced the glass and Amanda was staring directly at him. “Sometimes I think she can see through that.”

“The airlock is open, genius. She can hear you.”

“Can she hear this?” Moore flipped off Price with both middle fingers. He watched his colleague stoop and walk into the small room, and then returned his gaze to the lovely lady. She watched as Price negotiated the open airlock and then she very deliberately turned and faced Moore. He stared at her and she seemed to stare right back at him; after a long moment he waved but she didn't respond.

Amanda couldn't hear the obscene gesture, but Price's response was clear enough. She had heard their voices over the chorus of inarticulate voices in her mind. Occasionally one would take the lead and add its own aria in some unintelligible language, but like now they usually blended into a cacophony of strange white noise. She was convinced that they weren't drugging her and that the mental instability was purely organic, earned through stress and isolation. She clung to the hope that if she was ever released, her mind would naturally right itself, and if she was never released what did it matter if her sanity had slipped a little.

She saw Price bang the top of his isolation suit against the airlock that opened to her room, and her mood instantly darkened as he emerged with a scowl on his face.

“I need to draw some more blood,” Price introduced himself.

“Why not? It's been almost eight hours.” Amanda sat crossed-legged on her bed and pushed away a novel as Price approached. She presented a bruised arm, and with gloved hands he tapped her skin looking for an unused vein. “You don't usually do this,” she said with an even tone. An aura of dissatisfaction surrounded him, and Amanda found herself in the middle of it.

“No. We don't have a regular phlebotomist, so we all have to take turns,” he said tersely, and Amanda didn't have to ask him how he felt about that arrangement.

“At least it gets you out of the lab.” Amanda tried to jar some positive emotion from Price.

“My lab is in Atlanta,” he said sullenly as he wrapped a rubber tourniquet around her bicep. “Squeeze your fist,” he commanded, and Amanda complied. “Don't move.” He jabbed a large needle into her forearm and predictably he missed the vein. He cursed quietly as one of Amanda's mental voices suddenly took it up a notch. She focused on the strange, incomprehensible words as Price tried and missed again. He cursed a little stronger this time, and her mental soloist ratcheted up another notch. He tried a different vein as a large bruise began to form on her arm, and for a third time he blew the vein.

“Fuck!” he said out loud, and even though it had become her new favorite word, Amanda was taken aback. His sullen demeanor had deteriorated into outright anger, and he callously ripped off the tourniquet and reached for her other arm. “Let me have that one,” he commanded when she hesitated.

“No! Not until you calm down.” The heat of his emotions was like a sunlamp on her face, and the voice in her mind had reached a piercing level. It took a supreme effort to maintain her focus on Price as pain burst through her head.

He grabbed her other arm and quickly rewrapped the tourniquet. For the fourth time he stabbed her and, like in the previous attempts, missed. He started ranting as he lined up for a fifth attempt, and Amanda grabbed his arm. The pain from his rough attempts, combined with the shrieking in her mind, nearly made her vomit.

“No more! Get somebody else to do this!” She could hear his companion in the control room, or at least thought she could. Reality began to blur as the screaming in her mind began to resolve itself into a long tirade of obscenities. A distant and detached part of her mind was almost happy with the sudden clarity. Words, no matter how foul, were preferable to the inarticulate shrieking. But the resolution gave her no respite from the pain, which was beginning to threaten her level of consciousness. A hand reached her face in the fog of the half-reality and pushed her into a pillow. A sharp jab in her arm was followed by another scream in her ears and in her mind. Price and the voice vied to see who could cause Amanda the most pain.

“God damn BITCH!” he screamed as he twisted her arm. He forced her face further into the pillow and she began to gasp for air as he finally cannulated a vein. He kept his arm across her back as the blood began to flow into the specimen tubes.

I hope she passes out and dies from anoxia,
said the voice in her mind. It followed with more invectives that Amanda knew were meant for someone else. Suddenly her mind began to fade and her body began to lighten. She felt an arm in her back, only she felt the arm more than her back. The synergy made her dizzy and she fought to stay conscious. Images of the sandy-haired Price and a small woman arguing in a car flashed through her mind.

All I want to do is go home, and this bitch is keeping me here!
He punctuated his thought by pushing her deeper into the pillow, and the sensation of pushing and being pushed overwhelmed her. She was suffocating, and her dying brain began to hallucinate wildly as she watched Price and the small woman renew their argument in a restaurant.

It's his wife,
Amanda thought, and as her consciousness began to fade a flood of alien emotions and memories raced through her. Price and Moore walking down the hall. Price arguing over the phone. Price losing his temper. Price driving. Price sleeping. Price. Price. Price. And finally Amanda made the connection. The voice in her head was Price's. His thoughts, senses, and life had merged with hers.

Abruptly he released her. Her head popped off the pillow and she gasped for air. Her scrub top had been pulled up and for a moment his eyes lingered. A large man with wild hair stood over Price, and he too stared. She angrily pulled her top down. “No wonder your wife left you,” she spat at Price. The words were out of her mouth before she was even consciously aware she was speaking. His memory of the small, dark-haired woman running from their apartment raced through her mind.
You're nothing more than a coward!
echoing in his mind, and Amanda wasn't sure if she had yelled them or if it had been Price's abused wife.

He was on her in an instant. Amanda felt his blows as well as his anger as they reestablished the strange connection that had broken when he let her up. He was screaming in her ears and her mind, and she rejoiced in his impotent rage. Moore pulled the much smaller man off his feet and literally threw him across the room, where he struck the one-way glass. His face shield cracked and he ripped off the hood that covered his head. “You're a fucking bitch and you should have died with all the others.” His face was red and his spittle flew halfway to Moore, who had interposed himself.

“Get out, Price. Now, or so help me they be carrying your ass out of here.”

Price's voice still played in Amanda's mind and she could hear him weighing his options. Finally he stooped to retrieve the four vials of blood and, after a moment's hesitation, threw them against the wall. Glass and blood splattered over Moore. For a moment nothing happened, then both Moore and Price began to move at the same instant—Moore towards Price, who raced to the airlock.

“Asshole,” Moore screamed as Price slipped out ahead of the larger man.

“You're friends with that fuck?” Amanda asked as Moore turned to appraise the damage.

“Friends is too strong a word. We work together, but that ended about five seconds ago.” He picked a shard of glass from a tangle in his hair. Amanda tossed him a towel and he wiped the blood from of his face.

“He beats his wife, or should I say ex-wife.”

“Worst-kept secret in Atlanta,” he answered, and she liked the way he pronounced Atlanta. He leaned over and examined her face. “You're going to need stitches,” he said.

She ignored what he said and searched her mind for a voice that fit this not-so-gentle giant. It was soft compared to Price's screams.
He's going to need more than stitches. Damn, how could he do this to that face?
She blushed.

“Turn your head,” he said, and for the second time she felt her body lighten as his hand lightly touched her chin. She felt his powerful physical attraction, but also a strong sense of propriety. She leaned away from him and the connection became more remote. “Sorry,”—he misinterpreted her response—“I'm not going to hurt you.” He was still close enough that she could hear him complete the sentence in his mind:
I'm going to hurt Price.

“It's okay; it doesn't even hurt,” Amanda said, subtly retreating from the large man.

“It's gonna; he hit you pretty good. Sorry I wasn't faster.” He stood to his full height. “I'll get someone down here to fix you up.”

She tried to ignore his inner monologue. “Thank you for what you did.”

“Should never have happened. And it will not happen again.” An odd look crossed his face. “Did you just say something?”

“No,” she answered, and realized that their connection was possibly reciprocal.

“Okay.” He still looked confused. “Are you going to be all right down here alone? I've got to get some help and find the future-former Mr. Price.”

“I'll be fine.” She smiled, and even with the developing bruise and the cut under her right eye, she felt Moore's heart skip a beat.

He walked to the airlock and turned back. The confused look returned. “You didn't say any …” She shook her head. “I think I need my hearing checked.”