The moments in which the world made sense were precious and rare. They were worth marking down. They were worth celebrating.
This, however, was not one of them.
Heggy’s younger brother, Major General Vernon Marteneiss, had come to West Elpeck Medical Center, and was about to make a speech.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but on the off chance that film and television had lied to me (and they wouldn’t do that, now, would they?), weren’t generals supposed to address their troops before battle—or possibly after it—not during?
As chaotic as things had been, they only got worse once the convoy arrived. It was hard enough dealing with the patients we already had in the Garden Court. With each passing day, the Green Death had pulled every square inch of the hospital into its sway; first into other departments, then into the research facilities, then into cafeterias and balconies and the Hall of Echoes, and then into the Garden Court and the Undergreen Galleria directly beneath it. Though it hadn’t been clear to me at first, the initial panic we’d confronted consisted of people who were already here.
Now, add several truck-loads more of sickened, terrified civilians, fresh out of the apocalyptic urban hellscape.
It was madness.
It was war.
So many of us in Ward E and everywhere else were pulled into this battle, pushed to the brink as we struggled to accommodate the throngs of civilians the military had dropped into our lap. But not all of us. Some of us—read, Jonan, Heggy, and me—got “lucky”. We’d been chosen to assist General Marteneiss in setting up a massive impromptu teleconference, and by “chose”, I mean Heggy was insistent that her brother involved her in the process—which he did—while Jonan had volunteered to help with the electronics because, of the handful of the Central Wing’s IT technicians, all but one were either dying, dead, or otherwise unaccounted for.
i.e., Greg.
As for me, I had a special role all my own, one that had literally been thrust into my hands: delivering the mycophage samples to Dr. Skorbinka. A quick search through the staff directory on the WeElMed app came up empty, which wasn’t entirely surprising. I remembered that Brand had mentioned Mistelann was affiliated with the Cartin Center, rather than WeElMed, so he wouldn’t have been on the WeElMed app, and I didn’t have time to walk back to Ward 13 to get Greg’s help on the matter. Fortunately, I also remembered that, three days ago, Ani had been in a videophone with Mistelann, which was the reason why she’d arrived late to the meeting of Ward E’s CMT in the aftermath of Frank Isafobe’s horrific autopsy.
So, Dr. Skorbinka’s number was in her call history.
I spotted Ani (with Jonan) in a hallway while I was on my way to Ward E to oversee the General’s speech. He was exhorting her to stay away from the patients in the Garden Court—it was dangerous out there—and she was busy explaining why she had to be there, to help. Anyhow, one thing led to another and, after a particularly chaotic vidoephone call with Dr. Skorbinka, I was promoted from the plastic case’s delivery boy to its personal body guard, and had been charged with ensuring the safety of its contents while Dr. Skorbinka was busy sorting out some details regarding use and management of the matter printer plant down in WeElMed’s third basement level. Mistelann was adamantly opposed to me stowing the case in a locker or a refrigerator until it was needed, on account of him being petrified by the thought of something bad happening to the samples.
“You will have your eyes on it at all times, Howle Genneth,” he’d told me, with deadly seriousness. “You will wait until I defeat management craziness that stands between human race and salvation of human race.”
It was like that, “take care of this electronic doll to learn what it means to be a parent” assignment I got in my high school life skills course, except far, far more was at stake than just a couple points for my GPA. So, it was with the case—and Andalon—in tow that I entered the meeting room in Ward E, the very room we’d been using for meetings and discussions for Ward E’s CMT. Apparently, Vernon had chosen that room to use as the base of operations for his teleconference.
Small world.
I entered and took my seat on a stool by the table. Heggy smiled at me as I set the case down on the tabletop. I made a mental note to take out one of my many bottles of hand sanitizer and spray the seat and table before I left. Now that I was actively producing NFP-20 spores in my breaths, my perpetual hazmat suit was all that stood in the way of me infecting my friends and colleagues. I was not going to take any chances.
Would the sanitizer be of any help? Probably not.
Would my guilt leave me alone long enough to not feel compelled to disinfect my environment wherever I went? Probably not.
I wished I could tell Heggy the truth—I wished I could tell my colleagues about everything that had happened to me (even the multiple Angels bit), but I was in far too deep now. I didn’t want to think about what they would do if they found out, let alone how the realization of my deceptions and betrayal would make them feel.
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Andalon distracted herself by watching Jonan work with the General in setting up the communication technology.
“Let me guess,” Heggy said, nodding at me teasingly, “Dr. Skorbinka asked you to hold on to it while he goes and pleads to management?”
“It’s a fight over matter printer usage rights,” I said, “but, other than that, bullseye. How’d you know?”
“He asked me to get some food for ‘im,” Heggy said, “and to guard it like my life depended on it.”
“Same,” I said.
“The man’s paranoid as hell,” she said, though, “given the circumstances, I hardly blame him.” She nodded. “Anyhow, it’s good to see you’ve got somethin’ to keep you busy. If you were left to your own devices, I know you’d try to ask Vernon questions, and I don’t want you pokin’ the porcupine where it oughtn’t be poked.”
As usual, Heggy had read me like a book.
“If you want to say somethin’ to him,” she added, “pass it by me, first.”
“Noted,” I said.
Yes, it was patronizing of her, but I deserved it. These past few days had cemented my reputation as a troublemaker, at least as far as institutions and authority figures were concerned.
The tech work Jonan was doing for the General was mostly arcane manipulations of the hospital’s console network, to which I could contribute nothing. For the most part, I kept to myself while we waited, never letting the mycophage case out of sight or reach, thought-speaking answers to Andalon’s questions, of which there were many.
“Who’s Ver-non?”
“What’s Dr. Jo-Jo doin’ with the glory boxes?”
And so on.
Andalon’s answer as to why she called Jonan “doctor” yet didn’t do the same for me was a perfectly innocent, perfectly useless, “because you’re Mr. Genneth.”
Hopefully, the General’s explanations would be better than Andalon’s.
Eventually, the conference began in earnest. Those Wards—both Number and Letter—that cared enough about the military’s incursion into WeElMed’s affairs had designated representatives who’d been granted permission to ask the General via consoles while he made his speech. Meanwhile, everyone else was to keep doing what they’d been doing.
I didn’t know how many patients were listening—or even cared—but, for those that were, I couldn’t begin to imagine how strange it must have been for them. Here they were, sick and dying, the Green Death washing away their memories like mud in the rain, and, out of the blue, all across the hospital, all the non-essential consoles suddenly start showing the live feed of a decorated General in a black hazmat suit coming up to speak.
I desperately wanted it to be a victory speech, but when Jonan explained to me that the General’s speech wasn’t going to be broadcast to patients’ rooms, I realized, no, this was not going to be good news.
It was a surreal experience, to say the least. Then again, nowadays, pretty much all of my experiences were surreal.
General Marteneiss stood in place as he spoke, never deviating from it, never leaning or swaying, not even a little bit.
Talk about discipline!
“Ahem,” he began by clearing his throat. “By the power vested in me by the people of Trenton through their elected government, and with the coöperation and gracious assistance of the DAISHU Corporation, I, General Vernon Marteneiss, have been granted full control over West Elpeck Medical Center. As of this moment, WeElMed is under martial law.”
In addition to playing out on our consoles, the handy-dandy projector poking out from the conference room’s ceiling was projecting the live footage of General Marteneiss’ speech onto a nearby wall. This made it easy to see the indicators lighting up at the bottom of the footage—the signal that one of the Ward representatives wished to speak.
Vernon tapped one of the icons on his console.
Since this was all being done through the WeElMed app, the lower, right-hand corner of the screen identified the current speaker for us: a Dr. Briskholm from Oncology.
“So, what,” Dr. Briskholm, said, “now the government is going to tell us who to treat and how to treat them?” A vicious cough punctuated his words.
“No,” Vernon replied. “I’m not a doctor—though I happen to know one very well.” He glanced at Heggy. “At the moment, I’m fortunate to be standing in the same room as my older sister, Dr. Heggy Marteneiss. She’s one of you. And, just like I know my sister, I know the kinds of decisions you folks have to make. I know the stakes you’re laboring under. Believe me, I know. I have my orders, you have yours. Let me say now, once and for all: I have no intentions on dictating treatment. Our men in arms are here to protect you, and to serve however they can. We will be setting up a secure base of operations on these premises—a safe zone, if you will. Soldiers will be stationed throughout the hospital, for everyone’s benefit.”
Once more, the icons stirred. Vernon tapped another speaker in—a Dr. Betty Ishigami.
“Why?” she asked. “A hospital is the last place you want to be during a pandemic. We’re knee-deep in plague.”
Vernon nodded. “You’re right, it is. But we’re here because we need your help, and it’s not just with finding a cure for this damn thing. It’s bigger than that, now.” Sighing, he shook his head. “I’ll be blunt: ladies and gentlemen, the world has ended. It’s over. It’s in tatters. What we do now will determine what, if anything, will be left over for us to rebuild.”
The icons fluttered. Vernon tapped another speaker in.
The name Dr. B’zool appeared on the bottom of the screen as the image shifted to showing Dr. B’zool, bedecked in PPE. Her hair was frazzled beneath her hair net, and her eyes were wired and bloodshot.
She coughed repeatedly.
“What’s your question?” Vernon asked.
“Are we finally going to talk about the monsters roaming the streets?”
General Marteneiss tapped his console screen again, taking back the feed. “Yes.” He sighed. “Across the country, Trenton soldiers are working in conjunction with what remains of local law enforcement to try and set-up safe zones to isolate the remaining uninfected from the rest of the population. The same efforts are being made all across the world. The world has turned savage. And yet…” Here, he paused. “That isn’t what scares me. It’s as Dr. B’Zool says: there are monsters roaming the streets. Fungus-made monsters, many of whom are, or were, your fellow citizens.”
“Do you think he’s going to talk about the transformees?” Jonan asked, softly, from where he stood off to the side.
Briefly, the General locked his gaze onto Jonan. It was an intimidating glare, and it spoke volumes.
“Right now,” Vernon continued, “institutions are in free-fall. Telecommunications are starting to break down. Things are going dark. Even if you brave men and women manage to find a way to combat the Green Death, we’re still looking at the near-complete devastation of national and international economies. The law that rules will not be the rule of law. But even these dangers pale in comparison to the newest threat.” Vernon shook his head. Pointing at the console screen, he glanced at Jonan. “This is the button for the footage, right?”
Dr. Derric nodded.
The General looked back at the camera. “Those of you with more sensitive constitutions might want to look away. What I’m about to show you isn’t pretty. And don’t let the picturesque beginnin’ fool y’all.”
He pressed the button. The footage began to play.