“Ilzee’s gonna have a field day over this!” Marvyn said. The rugged young reporter’s eyebrows peaked with anticipation.
“Technically, we’re the ones having the field day,” Prehna said, smiling meekly, “but I get what you mean.” She ran her hands through her billowing dark hair. “Do you have the equipment?”
Nodding, Maryvn hoisted up the recorder he held in hand. “Yeah, yeah, it’s ready,” he answered.
The machine resembled a square-mouthed megaphone that had gotten a camera stuffed down its throat. The sights being filmed were displayed in miniature on a small screen that stuck out from the side of the recorder. Marvyn gripped the device’s handle like the handle of a gun—an over-the-shoulder rocket launcher, to be precise—only it was going to take in the truth, rather than spit out lies. Or… something like that.
The point was, this was the big scoop Marvyn had been waiting for.
The young reporter tightened his grip on the microphone in his left hand. A dark cable linked the recorder to the microphone, though that was to keep the two together; the data was sent wirelessly. Marvyn let the microphone dangle at his side as he briefly let it go and brought his hand up and pressed down on the creased crown of his dark brown, low cut felt hat. With all the people about, he didn’t want it to get knocked off while he and Prehna toured West Elpeck Medical.
I’d seen Marvyn Lupa and Prehna Medapalashamran on CBN. They were two of the brightest spots on the network’s slate of recent hires. Marvyn was also a boon for the network’s ratings. It wasn’t every day that the son of an action movie celeb extraordinaire of Chico Lupa’s stature decided to take his God-given good looks and devote them—sultry spice and all—to journalism, rather than acting or modeling. Marvyn’s father, mother, and older brother all flourished in showbiz, which made it all the more surprising that Marvyn’s life had played out the way that it did. It had been barely a year since the announcement, and I still recalled the way Pel, Jules, and Merritt had spent an afternoon gossiping about it in our dining room over some sparkling lemonade and slices of pecan pie, freshly baked by Mrs. Elbock herself. But, for Marvyn, the decision was common sense, pure and simple. He knew all too well what living in the spotlight was like, and he had long since decided that, as long as he had the power, he would make it his mission to turn that spotlight outward, away from himself, toward the dreary corners of the world that all too often got lost in the shadows.
Still… he hadn’t expected a war-zone. Not in the heart of Elpeck, let alone in the lobby of a hospital.
A maze of cordons and plastic barriers had been set up at WeElMed’s various entrances—such as the famed Hall of Echoes—along with other heavily trafficked zones. Were the complex not teeming with people, it would have looked like an art installation—ghosts of shattered buildings, haunting the hospital. The main lobby of West Elpeck Medical’s urgent-care admissions was stifling; far too many people packed far too closely together. Nurses and receptionists lingered on the scene, dressed like workers at a nuclear power plant. It reminded Marvyn of the eerie, defect-streaked photographs of the reactor meltdown in the Crownsleep Nuclear Power Plant, back during the Prelatory. The brave healthcare workers made their rounds, inspecting new arrivals, sorting them according to the type and severity of their symptoms, shunting them off to treatment somewhere else, no doubt hoping to stem the tide of new cases. Captions marched across the broadcasts on the wide-screen consoles on the walls, filled with news—and none of it good.
“This is awful, Marvyn,” Prehna said. “It doesn’t look safe.”
Maryn’s mother worked in television, and she had always impressed upon him that network executives who didn’t come from the artistic community inevitably destroyed everything they touched. Fortunately, even the CBN executives—as incompetently meddlesome as they often were—had recognized the dynamism that Marvyn and Prehna sparked in one another. Dynamic duos scored well with audiences, especially when they were naturally one another’s foils, as was the case with Marvyn and Prehna. When Marvyn threw caution to the wind, Prehna would be there to catch it for him. Plus, they were both people of color—though Marvyn could have passed for a pure Trenton if he wanted to—and had compelling immigrant stories in their family backgrounds, and both of those qualities were very much in vogue these days, scoring especially high ratings among the sacrosanct 18-to-35-year-old viewer demographic.
To Ms. Medapalashamran’s credit, the duplicity and rank, self-serving disingenuousness of CBN’s corporate executives revulsed her at a physical level—it was one of the stressors behind her bulimia—but the system was simply too massive to be deconstructed and systematically rebuilt with any hope of success. Change had to come from within. People like Marvyn, Ilzee Rambone, Kirk Dempshire, and Nail Vethuba—and Prehna, herself, of course—could help make that change come to pass, one way or another.
Besides, Prehna thought, at least we’re not VOL.
The only reliable division of VOL News were their weathermen and their election reporters, though a not-insignificant minority of folks in the business were expecting those last bastions of unbiased fact to be co-opted any day now.
Up ahead, thermometer-brandishing nurses did the dirty work of turning away patients with minor or non-existent symptoms. Desperation filled the air. As did the sound of coughing.
Eyes glared at Marvyn and Prehna from across the marsh of nervous people. Both reporters adjusted the masks on their faces. Prehna’s low-heeled shoes clicked against the vinyl floor. She wore a light, almost businesslike brown jacket over a restrained red dress with brown and orange patterning.
A male nurse with fierce eyes walked up to Marvyn and Prehna. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“CBN news,” Marvyn said, pointing at his camera. Marvyn couldn’t help but compare the nurse to a soldier, decked out as he was in protective gear.
“Media or not, you shouldn’t be here.” The nurse shook his head. “Please, go home. Stay safe.”
Marvyn grabbed the microphone and stepped forward. “The people need to see this,” Marvyn replied, “the system, in all its broken, sordid glory.”
“Have those rebreather masks of yours been properly fitted? Are they HEPA?”
“High-efficiency particulate absorbing,” Prehna nodded, “yes.”
“F-99?” the nurse asked.
Meryvn glanced nervously. “Uh… I think mine’s 92?”
The nurse rolled his eyes and gestured with his gloved hands. “It’s your own funeral. Just keep your mask on, and don’t hyperventilate, and don’t touch your face, and… honestly, leave ASAP.”
“Thank you for your concern,” Prehna said, “uh…” She looked him in the eyes.
“Kevin,” the nurse said.
Prehnas pressed her hands together and bowed her head in thanks.
Marvyn stepped up to Kevin, brandishing his microphone. “If you don’t mind,” he asked, “would you give us a word or two about the situation here?”
“I thought pictures were supposed to be worth a thousand words.” The nurse sighed and shook his head. “Well, if you insist.” He looked out over the crowds of people, lined up in the hallways or alongside the seating areas. “There’s still so much we don’t know,” the nurse said, “there’s no diagnostic test for NFP-20 yet, so it’s hard to know what’s going on until things have already spiraled out of hand. The Mayor really should issue a curfew or a stay-at-home order—the Chief Minister be damned.” Being on the tall side, Kevin stooped over and looked straight into the camera’s lens. “Stay. At. Home,” he said. “Stay with your own household, and avoid contact with others. Wash your hands. And, if for some life-or-death reason, you do need to step outside your house, wear a mask, or two, or three.” His expression tensed. “Unless we clamp down on the spread now, it won’t be long before we’ll be out of the resources to treat those in need.”
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“Speaking of treatment,” Marvyn said, “how have you been dealing with treatment equity?”
One of the people in line to be examined by Kevin flung their arm out at the two reporters. “Enough! Get lost, fake news!”
Unfortunately, far too many others in the room grumbled along in agreement.
Marvyn locked eyes with the nurse. “Ignore them.”
Kevin sighed heavily. “There’s not much I can tell you, contractual obligations, and all, but… I can say that, a couple hours ago, there was a kind young doctor who was going around—against regulations,” he added, sympathetically, “she took people in to be treated even if they didn’t have a good SPN.” Kevin’s gaze drifted off to one of the hallways leading out from the lobby. “She hasn’t been back for a while.” Lowering his eyes, he tilted his head forward slightly. “I think someone finally got to her,” he whispered.
Kevin coughed softly, though, Marvyn thought, it might have just been him clearing his throat.
Kevin eyed the line of needy patients. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ve got work to do.”
The reporters backed away. Marvyn took off his coat with one arm and slung it over his left shoulder, revealing his pale yellow buttoned-up shirt. He and Prehna knew a good story when they smelled it.
“Focus on the children,” Prehna said, under her breath, “And their parents.”
There was no bad news quite like bad news involving children.
Marvyn stepped aside to begin filming, but Prehna stuck out her hand. “Open with a shot of the children, but don’t dwell on them for too long, or Henrichy will call us propagandists,” she said.
Marvyn snorted, though the sound was muffled by his face-mask. “He’ll call us propagandists no matter what we do.”
Prehna glowered at him. “That’s no reason to stoop to their level. C’mon, let’s find the right angle and then get to work.”
This is the stuff that scandal’s made of, Marvyn thought.
At the time all of this was going on, I had been busy dealing with a Dr. Kloosterman, one of E Ward’s resident physicians. Kloosterman had stumbled across a patient exhibiting psychokinetic powers and had been having trouble coping with the revelations. He’d grabbed a gun and started threatening to blow his own brains out. Heggy had sent me to talk him down. Of course, just when I’d gotten him somewhat calm, orderlies that had been secretly waiting in the wings swooped in and sedated Dr. Kloosterman, much to my frustration.
Back in the lobby, the two reporters continued their work. They didn’t need to search very far. Suffering was playing out all around them. Pain reached out to them with a frail, pale arm. “You! Cameraman!” an elderly man barked. “C’mere!”
Dark bruise-like discoloration pooled ominously in the crook of his elbow. Filaments ran out from the edges of the dermal stain.
Turning the camera, Marvyn approached, holding up the microphone. “Do you have something to say, Sir?”
Prehna gasped. “Holy Angel…” She made the Bond-sign.
The old man was hunched over in his seat. His jacket’s thick collar crested around his head. The two reporters couldn’t take their eyes off the black lightning that had infiltrated the sagging skin of his neck. The fungal filaments’ gnarled branches had moved onto his face, reaching—fingerlike—toward his eye, like dead trees grasping at the Moon.
The old man shuddered as coughs wracked his body. “It hurts,” he moaned. His voice was raspy and frail. “It hurts so much.” He gasped. Sickening crunching noises echoed out of his throat. “I’ve broken my leg before—bone jutting out, slicing through the flesh—and that…” he wiped tears from his eyes, “I’d take that pain over the agony in my chest without a second thought.”
“Sir,” Prehna said, “are you…?”
“Keep that camera on me!” The man groaned. His gaze turned to the camera, bearing down with fear’s white-hot rage.
“If you can hear this, whoever you are, wherever you are… listen to me. You don’t want this. You don’t want this. Stay at home, hunker down. Lock yourselves in your basements. This thing… this nightmare… it—it makes you forget.”
“What do you mean?” Marvyn asked. His jaw went slack, and showed no sign of closing anytime soon. He had to straighten his posture to keep the camera steady.
“It takes you.” The old man’s fingers spasmed as he tried to clench his fists, but his limbs wouldn’t obey him. “It eats your memories. Steals your goddamn soul.” He trembled. “I don’t know how I got here, how long I’ve been here.”
The man pulled his console from his pocket. The thing was enclosed in a leather case that doubled as a wallet, which he opened and showed to the reporters. A family picture was slid into the photo-insert. He pointed at it, gazing at it with fear and longing.
“This is me, I can see that. But… the others,” his finger trembled. “I just don’t know anymore.” He shook his head. “I know I used to know… but—”
—He shuddered, gasping for breath, eyes fluttering.
The console fell to the floor with an ugly, leather-muffled thud.
“You two! Out of the way!”
The reporters stepped back as a pair of nurses came rushing toward them with a bed in tow, loaded the old man onto it, and swiftly rolled him away, abruptly dismissing Prehna and her concerns with a swoop of his arm.
“Prehna,” Marvyn said. “Let’s do the broadcast here. Now.”
She nodded.
The two reporters got into position, Maryvn taking several steps back so as to get more of Prehna’s surroundings into the recording.
“Do you need a minute?” he asked.
Prehna shook her head. “No. You know I write in my head, on the fly.” She nodded. “Roll it.”
Maryvn silently counted down with his fingers.
Three.
Two.
One.
I stepped into the Lobby about half a minute after the two reporters had started filming, on my way back to Ward E. The sight and sound of journalists at work was an oasis of normality. It stood out in contrast to the surrounding chaos, absurd and, yet, somehow also beautiful. The Night was in full swing—it was already pitch black outside—yet these two intrepid journalists were still on the job.
I found myself standing still, listening to the broadcast as if it was some kind of miracle. And I was far from the only one doing it. All around, fraught faces turned to listen, whether they were slumped over in a chair or teetered back and forth as they stood in line.
“As you can see,” Prehna said, “West Elpeck Medical is already at risk of being overwhelmed. Mayor Joleston recently put out a statement recommending people only go to the hospital if they are experiencing severe, life-threatening symptoms, such as difficulty breathing, dark sputum—that is, dark cough-gunk—psychosis, or tumorous growths. Health experts like BHM Chief Dr. Stephen Thony assert that the most important actions the public can do at this time are to shelter at home as much as possible, and utilize F-99 HEPA face-masks and social distancing if and when the need to go outside or interact with people outside one’s ‘bubble’ happens to arise. Of course, the government has yet to fully endorse those positions, but, the science is out there. The Cartin Center has opened its entire biomedical and public policy digital libraries to the public. These can be freely accessed through the BookIt app. How well Elpeckians adhere to these recommendations remains to be seen, though, with any luck, if the public can pull itself together, we will be able to ‘lower the curve’ and lighten the burdens placed on our aching healthcare system by slowing and lessening the surge of new patient.” Prehna frowned. “However even if the situation improves, I wonder if the same can be said for the uninsured folks with bad SPNs who are already here at West Elpeck Medical Center, waiting for treatment.”
Watching them gave me an idea. I rushed up to the reporters.
“Marvyn!” Prehna hissed.
He turned to face me.
“Well, well,” Marvyn said, with a self-satisfied smirk, “look what we have here.” He brushed his microphone on his pale yellow shirt. “Would you like to comment, Doctor?” He smiled mischievously. “Or are you here to whisk us off the property?”
I fidgeted with my bow-tie atop my PPE. “Fortunately,” I smiled, “that’s not in my job description,” I said, “and I hope it stays that way,” I added.
The reporter’s eyes widened. His brow furrowed.
He was intrigued.
“And what do you mean by that?” he asked. Marvyn motioned with the recorder.
I nodded. “Hospital protocol demands that the staff get divvied up into Crisis Management Teams—CMTs. Pretty much everyone has been forced to take on additional duties to help deal with the influx of patients and to administer care to those suffering from NFP-20. We’re trying to do it all in as close to an orderly fashion as we can manage, but,” I scratched the back of my head, “I’m not going to lie, it’s been tough. We’ve been getting pushed into work that goes beyond the scope of our usual responsibilities, often significantly.”
Marvyn whistled, though his face-mask made it sound rather unimpressive. “Damn,” he said, “that’s gotta be rough. Things are crazy here.”
“You have no idea,” I said. I tried to chuckle, but it came out as a skittish whimper. I shook my head. “I’m out of my element… and in more ways than one,” I added. My thoughts turned to the tail stuffed into my pants-leg, and then to the specter I’d recently vanquished.
I sighed.
“To tell the truth, I’m not even a general practitioner, let alone an internal medicine specialist. I’m a neuropsychiatrist.”
Prehna cocked her head in curiosity. “We’ve been hearing reports of cases of significant memory loss among the infected. Would you happen to know anything about that?”
At that moment, I did something out of character: I smirked. Devilishly.
Maybe my bowtie had decided to finally start being lucky again.
“Actually, yes,” I said. “I do. But, first… I have an offer for you—strictly off-the record.”
Marvyn’s eyebrow flared up in attention.
“Oh?”