The Nirvana Plague (37 page)

“How did you get it?” Karen said.

“You don’t get it.”

“What is it then?”

“I don’t know. I can’t say.”

“Why?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

Karen’s heart flipped. “No,” she said.

“OK.”

“I’m not ready.”

“OK,” Ally said. Then: “That’s what it’s like.”

“What?”

“This. That’s what it’s like. It’s like being ready. All the time.”

“Ready for what?”

“Ready for now.”

“Ready for now?”

“Ready for now. All the time.”

“You can’t be ready for now. Now is already happening.”

“Yes, that’s it,” Ally said cheerfully.

Karen could hear the smile in her voice.

“It’s like I’m already happening all the time.”

“I don’t get it,” Karen said. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“I suppose so.”

“But it’s not what you think.”

“How do you know what I think?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what I think?”

“No, I don’t know how I
do
know.”

Marley was on his way to the commissary early Thursday morning for coffee before getting started on the day’s work. Benford called him on comm and summoned him to the video room.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“You better get up here stat.”

“All right.”

The little room was full of people when he arrived two minutes later. Standing room only. They had one video window opened large in the middle of the wallscreen. The commandant of security was standing next to Benford at the front of the room. He started the playback as soon as Marley walked in.

It was Roger’s room. Roger was sitting on the bed. The timestamp on the playback said 0113. Five hours ago.

In a smaller window, next to the one showing Roger’s room, the corridor outside his room stretched away from the camera. Same timestamp. At that hour the corridor was empty — except for an orderly making his way from room to room with bedding changes.

Per protocol, the orderly had to gown, glove, and goggle in the anteroom outside each patient’s quarters before entering, and had to dispose into the contaminated waste chute everything he brought out of the room, including his gown, gloves, and goggles. And he had to scrub before he left the anteroom and made his way to the next room to start the whole process over again. Bedchange duty made for a long and tedious night. Nobody knew why it was done at night when people were supposed to be sleeping. Everyone shrugged it off as just another incomprehensible military routine. Likewise, patients were expected to make their own beds and keep their soiled sheets stacked by the door. Nobody expected the rules to change just because the patient was a civilian. These civilians, however, were not being cooperative. So bedchange duty was more involved.

Everyone watched the scene play out on the wall. The orderly entered the antechamber of Roger’s room, and started gowning up.

“That’s Corporal Partridge,” Benford said.

Roger stood up and watched Partridge through the glass door.

Per protocol, no one was to enter any room if a patient was behaving in any way threatening or even simply noncompliant. But Partridge showed no hesitation; nodded and smiled to Roger through the glass, then pressed his hand to the security pad. The inner door slid open. Partridge stepped through, the door slid shut behind him. Roger stood aside, and Partridge started stripping the bed.

Roger nodded his head twice, smiling slightly, like he approved of the job Partridge was doing.

Then Partridge stopped stripping the bed.

He staggered against the side of the bed. They heard him grunt slightly, more like a cough. It looked like he’d slipped. Easy enough to do in those disposable paper gowns — the booties had no grips.

But he hadn’t slipped. He seemed to carom off the bed in slow motion, stumble slowly away from it, and come up against the wall. Roger watched dispassionately as Partridge slid down the wall, too weak to stand.

“Who was on surveillance?” Benford said.

The commandant produced a nervous young non-comm standing beside him.

“Sergeant Sydney was on duty until 0400.”

“Did you see this?” Benford said to Sydney.

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“You were asleep.”

“I don’t think I was, sir.”

“Well?”

“There are over two-hundred cams in this facility, sir.”

Roger crossed the room to Partridge and knelt down in front of him. He put his hand on Partridge’s shoulder, then on his head. It looked like he meant to pull his hood off, but he didn’t, just kept his hand there on top of his head.

Partridge shook his head like he was trying to shake off dizziness.

Roger held on and leaned forward, bringing his face closer to Partridge’s face.

Partridge started to wag his head, slowly and rhythmically, like he was listening to slow music.

After a minute, Roger stood up again and helped Partridge back to his feet. Partridge looked unsteady. Roger braced him and turned him around to the door.

Partridge raised his hand without Roger’s aid and touched his fob to the security pad.

The door slid open. Roger walked Partridge through into the anteroom.

The door slid shut behind them.

“Roger’s helping him out,” Marley said.

“The hell he is,” Benford said.

“What about the biometrics? Is Partridge having a cardiac—”

“Watch.”

Roger continued to support Partridge as they stepped across the anteroom and Partridge lifted his fob again and pressed it to the other pad.

The outer door slid open. Roger gently pushed Partridge through. They were outside in the corridor.

Partridge was getting a little steadier by now. He reached up and pulled off his hood.

They turned and started walking down the corridor. They moved slowly, but Partridge looked stronger with each step. Soon, Roger was no longer assisting him.

They walked side by side the length of the corridor. At the far end they turned a corner.

The security officer now on duty pointed at another screen with the remote and dragged it to the center of the wall. It showed a view from outside Patient Unit A. The slick metallic wall of the building gleamed under the outdoor flood lights.

A windowless door opened and Roger and Partridge stepped outside.

Roger left Partridge there in his sterile paper jumpsuit, sitting on the sidewalk against the door.

Switching through a series of recorded external views, the security officer tracked Roger’s progress across the compound as he made his way determinedly toward the front gate. As he reached it, an armed guard came out of the security booth and challenged him. Roger didn’t even break stride.

“Who’s that?” Benford said.

“Private Aikes,” said the commandant.

Aikes lowered his weapon, then dropped it on the pavement. He stepped backward, staggering slightly, till he came up against the wall of the guard booth.

Roger followed him, staying close to him. Then, as he had helped steady Partridge, he helped steady Aikes, and led him back into the guard booth.

The steel mesh gate slid aside. Roger walked Aikes out of the booth and helped him sit down on the ground. He left him there, leaning against the wall of the booth, and walked out through the gate and down the road, finally disappearing into the darkness beyond the camera’s reach.

“Well, shit.”

For half a second Marley didn’t realize that he was the one who’d said it first.

“The escape was not discovered until 0400 when Private Aikes’ relief came on duty,” the commandant said.

“Sergeant, didn’t you see those two men sitting on the ground outside?” Benford said.

“Yes, sir,” Sydney said. “I just thought they were loafing.”

“Patrols have been out since 0400,” the commandant said. “No trace of Sturgeon. We alerted the local police at 0630.”

“What did you tell them?” Marley said.

“We provided photographs and a physical description of the patient. We told them he was infected with a highly contagious disease. He should not be touched or approached or even, if possible, alerted to police interest. They should keep their distance and notify us the moment he turns up. We’ve also been trying to reach Sturgeon’s wife.”

“You haven’t been able to?” Benford said.

“Not yet. No answer.”

“Have the police send someone to her residence.”

“Will do, sir.”

A man in orange shirt and trousers walks along the sidewalk of a downtown street in the small hours of the night. He walks with shuffling steps, dragging the loose heels of his white plastic slippers. The night is chilly, but he wears no coat.

The empty street faintly echoes with the sound of music and laughter. Ahead of him he sees a couple emerge from a glass doorway under a violet neon sign. The couple turn toward him. With exaggerated grace the man catches the woman’s hand in his, and they dance their way out of the pool of purple light. After a few steps, they suddenly stop and embrace. They kiss each other passionately, but lose their balance and stagger over against a lamppost. Their laughter echoes noisily in the street.

The man in orange is quite close to them now.

The couple see him, and the man, while keeping hold of his partner’s arm, bows low, saying: “Evening, friend!”

The woman follows his lead and curtsies daintily, but stumbles a little.

The man in orange does not reply.

The couple laugh again and leaning together continue down the quiet street.

The man in orange continues to the doorway under the violet sign and goes inside.

There is a long bar, beginning near the door and extending away on the left side. A line of booth tables runs the length of the opposite wall. Most of the booths are empty. Recorded music is playing. Muted video screens suspended behind the bar flicker with sports programs. Banks of colorful liquor bottles flirt with the ever-changing light.

A tight knot of men are sitting and standing around the near end of the bar talking with the bartender. They turn when the man in orange enters. The man walks past them and takes the first open stool. They all track him. One of them says: “Evening, pardner.”

He doesn’t reply.

The bartender steps before him and looks at him dubiously. “Can I help you?” he says.

“Where am I?”

“Excuse me?”

“Where are we?”

“The Purple Pony. Did you want something?”

“What city is this?”

The bartender glances over at the knot of men and winks. “What’s wrong with you?” he says to the new customer.

“Do you have a phone?”

“No. Do you need a ride back to the ship?”

“He’s not on the ship — was’n on the ship,” says one of the men, seated on the nearest stool — an older man, bald and bleary-eyed. He leans closer.

“Where you come from, pal? Why you dressed up like that?”

The man in orange looks at him mildly. “Chicago,” he says.

Behind the bald man, the others in the group are whispering:

“I’ve seen him somewhere…”

“He looks like—”

“He’s that— Hey, Jake! Don’t he look like that guy on the news? That guy with the disease?”

Jake, the bartender, abruptly stands taller. “The IDD guy?” he says. “Shit, you’re right! — Ain’t you that IDD fella?”

“No.”

“Sure you are!” says the bald man. “You know:” [robotically] “
I would-like-you to-ask-me what-I would-like-you to-ask-me what-I
— Say, what’s your name, man?”

“Roger.”

“My name is Sal. — Imagine that happened right here in Alaska! — Jake, give the man a beer! — Shoot, we got a real live celebrity here!”

“He got money?” says the bartender.

“It’s on me, damnit!”

Then Sal throws an arm over Roger’s shoulders. “Why you dress like that? Did they let you out on a pass? You going on a bender?”

“I want to make a call,” Roger says. “I need a phone.”

“Sure you do. Sure you do. Who you wanna call, man?”

“My wife.”

Sal begins to root deeply into a pocket, searching for his phone. “She gonna come pick you up, is she?” he says. “But you should stay a while! You should stay and have a drink with us. It’s early!”

Not finding the phone, he begins searching another pocket.

“Anyway! I want to ask you something. What’s going on anyway? You don’t, you don’t seem too sick to me.
I would like you to ask me what I would, I would — I would like you — I would like you to ask me — something.
” Sal breaks up, laughing.
“I would like you to ask me! I would like you to ask me!”

The bartender returns from the tap with a frosted mug of beer.

“Are you still sick, man?” he says.

“I’m not sick,” Roger says.

“They figured out how to fix it?—” Sal locates his phone at last: “Here it is!” He presents the little phone to Roger.

“Here, use my phone. Check in with the wife. Just tell her you’re just gonna have a couple more beers, OK? We’ll get you home OK. Don’t worry about that. All right? Where you live?”

“Chicago.”