WeElMed’s internal structure was wisely fern-like in design. Its main thoroughfares—corridors broader than they were tall—branched off into smaller but still decently sized hallways which, in turn, branched off into the modularly constructed Wards along with narrower service corridors, such as the one by the landing of the staircase where my two-flight climb came to its end. The answer to my question was waiting for me down the secondary corridor to my left. I turned and entered, and everything went downhill from there.

The main intake lobby on the main building’s ground floor was a hedge maze of poorly placed cordons, brimming with people who looked positively scared out of their minds. To maintain a semblance of order, a handful of nurses had taken on the duties of old-fashioned traffic cops, telling people when and where to move, and when to move back and wait, so as to make room for a passing supply run or the latest effort to rejigger the cordoning. I tried to look for the positives, but, other than the absence of full-blown mass hysteria, the only good sign I could find—if you could even call it that—was that, after a minute or so of watching the mess play out, I could see that quite a lot of people were being turned away. Ordinarily, it would be deeply out of character for me to think in that way, but, this was an exemplary exception. Phrases like “I’m sorry, sir, you don’t appear to have symptoms” and “Please, for your own safety, stay at home unless your symptoms are severe” danced in fugue across the room.

Glancing over to the TV-consoles mounted on our lobbies’ walls had long since become a habit of mine. In big rooms like this, the screens that displayed the Staff Information Feed were mounted side-by-side with consoles tuned to whatever news station the local IT technician liked best. Among arrows, animations, and announcements scrolling across the Feed screen, there was a big bold, red-letter message that simply declared:

All Staff - Check App for Assignments.

I looked down to my console, intent on doing so, only to notice that the update bar hadn’t completely filled, so I wasn’t able to check my assignments. No update had ever taken this long before. This was not a good sign.

I looked back up at the news on the TV-console. It was tuned to CBN, and we’d just passed the top of the hour. The current headline was emblazoned in white lettering on a red stripe at the top of the screen.

DAISHU Declares Pandemic. Urges Distancing & Mask-Wearing.

I stepped closer, straining to listen, despite the captions popped into view near the bottom of the screen.

“Yeah,” the newscaster said, looking off-screen. “Hopefully, Ilzee will tell us all about it tonight during the interview.”

With a nod, the newscaster turned to face the camera.

“Well, good morning everyone, though, if your morning has been anything like mine, ‘good’ might not seem like the right choice of word. You’re watching Vethuba and Six. This is Nail Vethuba, reporting for CBN. Unfortunately, Holly Six is out sick today, as are—no doubt—many of our viewers watching from home.”

While I wasn’t a fanatic about watching the news—prime time broadcasting notwithstanding—when I did tune in to daytime news, Nail Vethuba was one of the sources I could trust to give it to me straight with minimum spin. Nail was an egghead in every sense of the word. Brainy, unimposing, foundational, and light brown. If I recall correctly, his parents were Dalusian immigrants who’d fled the perennial Biyadi conflict. Nail had a caffeinated mind when it came to data, charts, and bullet-pointed lists. He filled his airtime with them like he was a newscast anchor for VOL Business, only without the manic touch of the suspender-wearing imps VOL employed to con the public.

“Over the last few days, disease experts have noted an unexpected and unprecedented surge of respiratory illness, and though it might not be the news we’d want to hear, the DDC insists this is just the tip of the iceberg. Regardless of our political inclinations, there is no denying the Trenton Board of Health Magistrates, in coordination with DAISHU Health have officially declared us in a pandemic. The microbe responsible has been designated NFP-20—that stands for Novel Fungal Pathogen, 2020 AA—following reports from the Cartin Center for Public Health at Elpeck Polytechnic that identified the cause of the disease as a new variety of infectious fungus. Dr. Stephen Thony, the Chief of the BHM, will be joining us at a quarter past, and hopefully he will be able to fill in the details of this rapidly developing situation. That being said, we don’t need Dr. Thony on the air to go over some of the key guidelines that he and the BHM issued last night to help the public respond safely and efficiently to this new public health crisis.”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

A blank screen popped up beside him, with the bullet points writing themselves up as he said them.

• Your bubble consists of the people you live with. Stay with them as much as possible, and avoid contact with people from outside your bubble.

• Stay home as much as possible; avoid all non-essential contact with strangers. If you are infected, avoid all contact, period.

• If you must go outdoors, please make sure to wear a face mask. It is recommended that you wear a mask with an F-99 rating or higher. If you are infected but don’t know it, wearing a mask makes it harder for you to infect others. Also, wearing a mask helps reduce your own risk of infection.

• When out in public, try to maintain at least 10 feet apart from anyone outside of your bubble.

• Try not to buy excessive amounts of supplies from markets and grocery stories. Hoarding and price gouging will only make a bad situation worse for all of us.

And so on, and so forth. As Vethuba spoke, the city’s mascot—Erupek-sama, a red-haired chibi warrior maiden decked out in Templar armor, gold triangle and all—hopped down from one bullet point to another with the Sword of the Angel in her hand. It was good advice, but the advice would only be helpful insofar as the populace abided by it. And by the looks of things so far—I glanced around once more—it didn’t look like we were getting a passing grade.

But there would be plenty of time to fret about that later. Going through the double doors in back, I walked down the hallway where Kurt had gotten tasered some forty-eight hours before, making my way to Mr. Wognivitch’s room, counting the doors as they passed until I arrived.

My console pinged, announcing it had finally completed its morning update. I glanced down to its screen:

Howle, Genneth: Please report to Conference Room A231; meeting at 9:30.

It was 9:02 right now, so I didn’t need to rush, which was good, because, without even needing to look inside, it was clear that something wasn’t right with Aicken’s room. For starters, the police officers that should have been standing guard by the door were nowhere to be found. Not only that, the primary light in the room was out. Maybe he was asleep?

Or maybe he’s gone…

I shook my head. I wouldn’t be able to tell without going inside and seeing it for myself. Here in the old part of the hospital, the little windows you’d normally find in the middle of the doors were instead skylights located up at the top, right beneath the door sill—so, no peeking.

Reaching out, I grasped the metal doorknob and slowly turned. It was cold to the touch; cold and dry.

I retracted my hand a second later.

No no no no no!

I didn’t have gloves. I needed gloves!

Most of the time, I didn’t wear gloves as part of my work, so donning and doffing them hadn’t become an ingrained part of my routine.

Sticking my hand on the inside of my coat, I turned the doorknob and stepped in, using the fabric as a barrier. I found myself in a dim and empty room, lit only by the secondary light by the bedside. And, speaking of the bed, all the bedding had been replaced. There was no trace of Mr. Wognivitch.

My dead heartbeat quickened.

I was about to step out of the room when I realized I could solve my glove problem right then and there. I walked over to the counter and pulled out a pair of purple latex gloves from the dispenser and put them on.

But gloves alone wouldn’t be enough.

Hmmm…

On a hunch, I opened one of the cabinets above the counter.

“Yes!” I hissed in delight.

Several rows of unused hand sanitizer aerosol sprays stood right at the front of the cabinet. Each one was about the size of a stick of lip balm. I grabbed a handful and stuffed them in my coat pocket, but not before spraying myself down with one.

As I left the room, I caught a nurse in purple scrubs walking down the hallway. The ID badge on his shirt indicated he worked in Ward A.

Out of force of habit, I reached out to him, only to pull my hand back.

Gotta watch out for that…

“Pardon me,” I asked, “but… where is Aicken Wognivitch? The Dressfeldt shooter,” I said, delicately. “This is his room, right?”

“Was his room, Doctor,” he said. “Was.” He nodded vigorously. “And thank God for that!”

“What?”

“He died yesterday, Doctor—cardiac arrest.”

“He—he’s…?” I blinked. “Do you know the time of death?”

“It happened around lunchtime. He was in Room C8 when it happened.”

So, when I was unconscious…

And not just that, but right down the hall. I’d been in C5 after my panic attack.

Wait: why do I remember that?

“Angel take me…” I muttered.

“Is something the matter, Doctor?” The nurse cocked his head in a look of concern.

Last night, when I saw Aicken in the auditorium, the man himself was already dead. I’d been quite literally chasing ghosts.

“No, no… I,” I shook my head, “I’m sorry, I need to go.” I bowed politely. “Thank you for the information.”

I put him in you.

That’s what Andalon had said.

I save people. I won’t let them be lost.

A bolt of cold lightning shot down my neck and spine.

What I’d seen was nothing less than the spirit of a dead man, transplanted into me, courtesy of Andalon.