Gregg Hurwitz - Minutes to Burn

Up ahead, sitting on a crude bench built from log segments, sat a man. He stared down at the tortoise enclosure beyond the walkway, his hands dangling between his knees. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, his head cocked slightly to one side.

He was covered with dried blood.

A man entered Samantha's room through the crash door, his movements slow and labored in his blue space suit. Samantha rose to her tiptoes and peered through his mask. "Who are you?" she asked suspiciously.

"Martin Foster. Infectious Disease." The doctor extended his hand. "I'm cross-covering from Hopkins."

Samantha shook the gloved hand, feeling slightly ridiculous. "Samantha Everett."

"Yes," he said. "I know."

"How are our patients?"

"Besides you?" Dr. Foster shook his head. "Going downhill. The pilot started with GI symptoms this morning."

"Goddamnit," Samantha said. "It's so frustrating having the anti-serum right here in our hands and not being able to…" She grimaced. "Because of legal ramifications."

"Well," Dr. Foster said, removing a needle, "you are showing antibodies as well as antigens. If your body hasn't rejected them by tomorrow morning and the absolute viral count is decreasing, we'll get clearance to use the antiserum on the others." He smiled. "There was something of a public outcry."

Samantha's face lit up, almost comically. "Are you serious?" She held out her arm, clenching her fist to give him a good vein. He bent over, concentrating. Samantha couldn't wipe the smile from her face. "You know," she said, "they say a space suit puts ten pounds on you."

Dr. Foster looked up. "I thought that was a TV camera," he said dryly.

"That too." Samantha leaned over, glancing at his rear end. "Christ, no wonder I never get dates."

Dr. Foster finished drawing, pinching the needle off with a cotton ball. Samantha held the cotton ball in place, bending her arm and elevating it. "Is Tom in yet? He's been off cavorting-I haven't been able to get ahold of him."

"It was really irresponsible for him to take off Christmas Day," Dr. Foster said with a slight smile, speaking loudly so that Samantha could hear him through his mask. "Maybe you should speak to his superiors."

"I am his superiors. And when you're the world's leading viral elec-tron microscopist, you shouldn't take Christmas off." She pounded her fist into her hand, imitating a drill sergeant. "There are responsibilities that come with this job. Sacrifices. That's why I haven't had a date in forty years."

"I thought it was the space suit and the ten pounds."

"That too."

"And your intimidating demeanor."

"All right-don't push your luck. I just need Tom to run a sample under the EM. I'd do it myself, but they won't let me out."

The tremendously exacting electron microscope, hypersensitive to minute vibrations and electromagnetic interference, had to be bolted into the concrete basement floor and surrounded with layer upon layer of copper mesh. There was no way they'd release Samantha to go down there herself, but she was anxious to get micrographs of the sample from Sangre de Dios.

"I'll have him paged," Dr. Foster said. "I'm sure he'll come in for you."

"Thanks. And get here early tomorrow to draw on me so we can get the antiserum into the patients."

"Assuming your blood work comes back fine."

Samantha waved him off. "Assume away. Just move your ass."

Dr. Foster paused on his way out, looking at her with concern. "Are you all right with all this?"

Samantha smiled. She pointed to the test tube that Donald had sent over, lying on its side on the counter. "Already on to the next thing," she said.

"Well," he said. "Maybe when you get out of here, we could go and get a cup of coffee. Or maybe see a movie."

"Don't you mean 'if I get out of here?'" Samantha asked.

"I'm comfortable with 'when,' " Dr. Foster said. "And you're avoiding the question."

"Well, there's a lot going…I don't really…" Samantha was worrying her bangs with her hand. She stopped, looked at her hand, and lowered it. "Yes," she said. "I'd like that."

Cameron inched forward on the walkway's rickety planking. She called out once, but the man did not reply. His face was streaked with blood, his clothes smeared and stiffened with dark patches of crimson. In places, even his hair was matted down with blood.

Derek and Cameron eased up to him, signaling Savage and the two scientists to hang back. Derek's hand rested lightly on his pistol. As they came up behind the man, he pointed down at a giant tortoise. It lazed under a crude shed roofed with corrugated metal. In the foreground stretched a small wall built of gray stones, and a tall Opuntia, its lower pads chewed off. "Solitario Jorge," the man said without turning around.

"I'm sorry," Derek said. "I don't…"

"No comprendemos," Cameron said.

The man switched to perfect English. "Lonesome George. Last of the Geochelone elephantopus of Pinta Island. His entire species was wiped out by feral goats in the 1960s. There's no one left for him to mate with. When he dies, the species dies. He grows older and older." He raised a blood-crusted hand to scratch his cheek. "Take a close look. We're wit-nessing extinction before our very eyes."

He turned to face them, and Cameron sensed immediately that he was not dangerous. With a dark band of a mustache, high cheekbones, and deep brown eyes, he exuded a dignified, almost princely air, even in his current state. He extended a hand. "Diego Rodriguez," he said.

Cameron pointed at his hand, and he looked at it, as if noticing the blood for the first time. "Oh," Diego said, wiping his hand on his shirt, though the blood didn't come off. "Pig blood. Ran out of bullets."

Cameron grimaced.

Rex stepped forward. "Where's the seismology department?" he asked.

Diego laughed. "Got me."

"Is there anyone here?"

"Anyone here?" Diego leaned forward, still laughing. "I'm here."

"That's not particularly helpful, my friend," Juan said. "We are in need of the scientists here."

"I'm Acting Director of the Station," Diego said, with exaggerated gravity. "And the only remaining scientist. Oh wait, that's not quite true. Ramoncito is still here." His laughter quieted down and he wiped his eyes.

"Who is this Ramoncito?" Juan asked.

"He's the supplies boy. About fourteen. Very dedicated. You may have met him on his way to town."

"This is not a joke!" Juan barked.

"No," Diego said. "It isn't."

"We need to get to Sangre de Dios," Rex said.

"Best of luck. None of the local boats go near there anymore." He raised his hands, wiggling his fingers. "It's haunted."

"I'm outfitting the island with geodetic equipment," Rex said. "I was supposed to meet with the seismologists here to get the telemetry gear in place, and they were going to arrange a transport for us."

"They did have a boat arranged. They took it themselves to the main-land. Wisely, might I add." Diego sighed. "The last of my scientists."

"We need a boat," Rex said.

Diego glanced them over. "How many are you?"

"Nine," Derek said. "And supplies."

"Well, you're properly fucked, as the expression goes. Most boats have already struck out for the continent. The only one remaining that's big enough to get you all there in reasonable fashion is mine. And I retired."

"When?"

"About two minutes ago."

"What has happened to the Station?" Juan said, his voice growing angry. "Why are you in charge?"

"Why was I in charge?" Diego's knee was bouncing up and down, his foot resting on the planks. He stilled his knee with his hand. "Because I was the only one willing to stay. We haven't had grant money. No one was getting paid."