Pestilence (Jack Randall #2) (8 page)

“My God,” Eric whispered. He looked down on a young boy of no more than four years as he clung to his mother’s leg. The boy gazed up at Eric with one eye, the other glued shut by dried blood and filth. The sun’s warmth and the size of the crowd had attracted a great swarm of flies. As the boy watched Eric pass, flies landed in his mouth, his nose, his eyes. Anywhere there was moisture. He brushed them away but they immediately returned. Too many to deal with, the boy couldn’t afford to waste his strength and the flies were ignored. Eric watched him until he disappeared into the dust.

Their attention all turned to the front of the bus as it stopped in front of the hospital. Eric stood and then bent to retrieve two boxes of supplies that had been assigned to him to carry. He shuffled forward until he was at the front.

“Can you handle one more?” Heather asked.

“Sure.”

Heather added a small box to the top of the two in his stack. Her height did not let her carry too much without blocking her view. Eric did not have the same problem.

“Where do we go?” he asked her.

“Just follow the major until we’re through the gate. Don’t let anybody grab you or the boxes. They’re like gold, and these people are desperate,” she warned.

“Okay.” He got an encouraging look from Sydney as he passed her and followed Heather out of the bus.

The smell was overpowering and the flies were on him instantly. He squinted and shook his head to keep his eyes clear long enough to follow her through the corridor of armed men and past the gated wall into the hospital compound itself. Here the walls of the building offered some shade from the sun, and he found himself walking past a long line of people waiting to see two men under a tarp stretched out in the corner closest to the door.

“What’s the line for?” he asked Heather.

“Food and medicine are limited. Some of these people have walked for days to get here. Most have a disease of some kind, or are too malnourished to be treated. The doctors give them a quick physical assessment to determine if they are healthy enough to be saved. If they are, they get a paper chit that means food and medicine. If they aren’t . . . .” She let her thoughts fade, unwilling to voice the alternative.

Eric stood and watched as a young woman handed a baby wrapped in rags to the doctor under the tarp. The doctor pinched the skin on the baby’s back, then on her thighs. The child did not stir or even blink the flies away from its clouded eyes. A stethoscope was placed on its chest and the expression on the doctor’s face clouded. The baby was too far gone. The doctor turned his attention to the mother. She was very emaciated, beyond what little help the food bank could provide. The doctor handed the baby to a large black man assisting him before facing the woman. The woman held out her hand for the paper chit, but the doctor just shook his head. The woman trembled and again stretched out her open hand. But the doctor again shook his head. The assistant grasped the woman by her shoulders and spoke to her in her native tongue. Small tears appeared as she listened to his deep voice, and she allowed herself to be slowly led away.

“What will happen to her?” Eric asked.

“Sometimes the babies die and the mothers carry them for days. They can’t bring themselves to put them down. He’ll find her a place out of the sun to rest. Provide some water. She’ll most likely be gone by morning. Every day at sunrise the dead are loaded into a truck and taken to a mass grave somewhere outside the city.”

“I never imagined.” Eric shook his head.

“There are too many people,” was all Heather replied.

Eric watched the doctor as he steeled himself before seeing the next person in line. Eric met the man’s gaze briefly and was shocked by how young he really was—barely older than himself. The man nodded in return before wiping the sweat from his eyes and facing the next refugee in line.

Eric turned and followed Heather and Sydney into the building. The crowded lobby gave way to corridors filled with stretchers lining the walls. Most held people who quietly suffered while others wailed or moaned to whoever would listen. Native nurses pushed through the masses to attend them as best they could. Mosquito nets hung at intervals in the hallways and eventually the flies dissipated. The hallways revealed rooms with people occupying every available space. Eventually they arrived at an intersection that was divided by a half wall that kept the traffic from the three desks on the other side. A tall, thin white woman dressed in worn scrubs and the expression of one who was overwhelmed, stood on the other side and she watched as the parade of white faces approached. When she saw Heather’s face among them her expression changed to one of recognition and delight.

“Heather, I thought I would not see you for some time!” She rounded the desk and came through the gate to embrace her friend.

“Sister Mary!” Heather replied. “I come bearing gifts.” She barely managed to set the boxes down before the woman wrapped her in a hug.

Sister Mary released her friend and eyed the rest of the group. “All Americans? Can they donate?” she asked.

“Some,” Heather replied.

“I have their types with me,” Sydney added, holding up a notebook.

Sister Mary turned and spewed a torrent of Swahili at two nurses standing at the desk behind her. One immediately picked up the phone, while the other sprinted down the hallway. A third unlocked a room behind the desk, revealing shelves for supplies, many of them empty.

“Please leave the boxes here and then follow me. The Americans are in surgery and the blood supply has run out.” She turned and walked away at a pace that was surprising for her age. She did it without looking back.

The group looked to Jack for guidance and he simply replied, “Get moving.”

They all dropped their boxes on the wall by the desk and sprinted to catch up. After two hallways and three flights of stairs they found themselves outside a surgical ward. Sister Mary spoke briefly with the nurse before turning to address them.

“We only have three surgeons right now. One of the hospital’s surgeons was attending his father’s funeral in England. I’m told he is returning as we speak. The others were in country as part of the humanitarian efforts. They have been in the OR since the attack. We’ve exhausted our blood supplies and tapping the local population has proved to be too dangerous.”

“How bad is it Mary?” Heather asked.

“The last few patients have required auto-transfusion. They’re in recovery but . . . we need blood.” The nurse returned to Mary’s side and handed her some papers. She scanned them quickly and looked up, searching for Sydney.

“I need two, maybe three, type A positive?”

Sydney consulted her notes and barked out the names. “Murphy and Randall, Eric, you’re last. Everybody else just stand by. You need help in there?”

Jack and Dennis moved to the front of the group just as a doctor pushed through the doors behind them. His face was masked and his bloody gloves were clasped together against his equally bloody surgical scrubs. He had tired eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses that perched on a sweaty nose. His feet were wrapped in booties and left a trail of bloody footprints. He corrected his posture and worked his neck from side to side before addressing them in American English.

“I’m Doctor Dahli. Sorry to be brief, but I have an embassy Marine on the table who’s bleeding out and I don’t have anything to replace it. Who can donate?”

Jack stepped forward with Murphy. “Right here, doc.”

He nodded and turned to Sister Mary. “Get ’em prepped and in here now.”

“Take off your shirt and shoes and put these on,” Sister Mary ordered as she flung two scrub tops in their direction. They scrambled to comply. Sydney began stripping down as well, oblivious to the men surrounding her.

“Sydney?” Jack asked.

She looked up to see Jack giving her a curious expression. She met it and turned to Sister Mary. “I’ll need one, too. I can help.”

Her tone left no room for argument and the scrubs were provided.

The three of them pushed through the doors and followed the footprints to the second OR. Here Sydney pulled a box of latex gloves off the wall and handed them out. Once they were all gloved, gowned, and masked, she put her back to the door and pushed it open, holding it for her boss and their spook.

“Don’t touch anything. Just find a spot in the corner till I need you,” she told them. Once they had complied, she looked the room over. The surgical team was busy working on the Marine. Her paramedic eyes took in the injuries and the vital signs on the monitor. The Marine was a large man and muscular in the way most Marines are, but his color was poor, and the amount of blood on the floor combined with the blood pressure reading on the monitor told her he was close to bleeding out. She noticed a stretcher pushed against the wall that was adjusted to its highest setting.

“Jack, get up on that stretcher,” she ordered. She walked to the supply cabinet against the opposite wall and began going through the drawers. It was actually a tool box, just like they used in the States. In the third drawer she saw what she needed. She removed alcohol preps, iodine, IV tubing, saline, and two 16 gauge catheters. She couldn’t find a tourniquet, so she grabbed another glove from a box on top of the cabinet.

She paused long enough to look over the doctor’s shoulder and see where the patient’s IV was before approaching Jack.

“Show me your antecubital fossa,” she told him.

“Do I have one?” Jack answered.

“I mean make a fist so I can see the veins in your arm.”

She wrapped the glove around his biceps for a makeshift tourniquet. While he pumped his fist she hung the bag of saline and flushed the tubing, clamping the end when it flowed freely. She scrubbed his arm clean and then eyeballed the catheter by habit before unwrapping it. It was three months past its expiration date, but that couldn’t be helped.

Fortunately, Jack had always stayed in shape and possessed prominent veins. She held the needle up to the light to determine the bevel angle—it also allowed Jack a preview of what was to come. Before he could say anything, she grabbed his wrist to steady his arm and plunged the needle into the vein. Getting a flash of blood, she advanced the catheter with her forefinger, clamping the vein above it with her thumb. She removed the needle and attached the IV tubing. Taping the tubing in place, she retrieved the other end.

“We’re ready,” she announced to the surgical team. Doctor Dahli looked up as if he had just noticed her. He quickly took in the scene and her preparation.

“Excellent, use the femoral line,” he ordered.

The team parted long enough for her to attach the tubing to the central line in the patient’s left femoral vein. She pulled back and opened the roller clamp. Immediately the saline from the bag mixed with the blood from Jacks arm and began flowing to the patient. She watched the monitor for signs of improvement and was soon rewarded with a climb in the systolic pressure. She turned to Jack and saw him steadily pumping his fist. The smile on his face was evident, even from behind the mask.

“Nice job, Syd,” he offered.

She attempted a shrug. “Riding a bike.”

“Very good,” Murphy added.

“Thanks, let’s get you ready. He’s going to need more than Jack can give. Eric is smaller than both of you so I’m saving him till last.” She watched the drip chamber and attempted to get a flow rate, but soon got lost in the math and pulled out her pen to scribble it out on the sheet. Jack would give a pint, maybe a little more, Murphy the same. Then Eric, if they still needed more. She began laying out the equipment for her next IV attempt. She paused long enough to check her watch and observe the surgeons.

•      •      •

Larry sat on a bench next to a nurse working on a clipboard in the hallway and watched as the boy wandered toward him. He was barefoot, and wearing a tattered pair of shorts with a T-shirt that was too large by two sizes. He seemed to take the chaos and the suffering people in stride. He paused at each bed, saying something to the person occupying it that Larry couldn’t understand. The boy stopped when he saw Larry and they observed each other for a few minutes. Larry finally couldn’t help but smile and he got one in return.

“
Mzungu!
” the boy declared as he pointed at Larry.

“What did he say?” Larry asked.

The nurse looked up and smiled when she saw the boy. “He said
mzungu,
it means novelty, or something new or unusual. It’s a Swahili word for white people. You may be the first he’s ever seen.”

Larry nodded and returned his gaze to the boy who had now ventured a little closer, obviously both cautious and curious. Larry didn’t move, just offered a smile. With a nod from the nurse providing reassurance, the boy closed the gap and slowly reached out a finger to touch Larry’s bare arm. He quickly withdrew and a stream of Swahili came forth. The nurse chuckled as she translated.

“He wants to know how your white skin keeps the rain out.”

“Tell him I don’t know. It does it just like his.”

The nurse translated for the boy before shooing him away. The boy retreated, but not before giving Larry a grin as he disappeared around the corner.

Larry’s grin was replaced by a look of determination when he saw Jack approaching. He noted the bandage on Jack’s arm as well as on a few others. Larry hadn’t been allowed to donate due to all his new vaccines.

“We’re done here, time to get to the site before we lose what’s left of the daylight,” Jack declared. “Back on the buses. We’re meeting Greg and Bradford at the embassy.”

“Okay,” was all Larry could say. He rose and followed. He spotted his new friend and offered a wave of good-bye. He got one in return.

“Making new friends, Larry?” Sydney asked.

“Yeah, I can always use some more,” he replied.

•      •      •

The pictures they had seen on the plane did little to prepare them for the real thing.

The six-story structure still stood, but any resemblance to its former self was gone. The entire front of the building lay open and naked to all viewers like the bare thigh of a murder victim lying in the street. The blast of the truck bomb had exposed every facet of the structure. Wires dangled from ceilings and walls, pipes that once brought water and took away waste stuck out at odd angles from every floor. Papers still fluttered in the breeze and people were attempting to gather them. Tar paper that once coated the roof now hung down like a torn sheet as if the building were attempting to hide its shame from those below. Everywhere they looked the living crawled over and around the building’s remains, looking for the dead. Three people were unaccounted for, and the search would go on until they were. The city’s fire trucks used their ladders, not to go up into the building, but to provide a safe passage across the rubble into the first and second floors. Everyone wore a mask over their mouths, all streaked with dirt and sweat. Ambulance crews stood by waiting, but the look on their faces was one of dejection as the chances of finding anyone alive at this point were nil. The crater left by the truck was surrounded by paths on both sides, cleared first by dogs, and then bulldozers, to provide access to the building.