Robin Cook - Fever

“Would you?” asked Charles. “Unless you’re an addict, it’s harder than hell to stick yourself in a vein. Also I want to tell you how to give me epinephrine if I need it. With the first intravenous dose of Michelle’s antigen, I developed some anaphylaxis, meaning an allergic reaction which makes breathing difficult.”

“Oh, God,” said Cathryn to herself. Then to Charles she said: “Isn’t there another way to take the antigen, like eating it?”

Charles shook his head. “I tried that but stomach acid breaks it down. I even tried sniffing a powdered form like cocaine, but the mucous membrane in my nose swelled unbelievably. Since I’m in a hurry I decided I’d have to mainline it. The problem is that my body’s first response has been to develop a simple allergy, what they call immediate hypersensitivity. I’ve tried to cut down on that effect by altering the protein slightly. I want delayed hypersensitivity, not immediate.”

Cathryn nodded as if she understood, but she’d comprehended nothing except the cold feel of the syringe. She held it with her fingertips as if she expected it to injure her. Charles brought a chair over and placed it in front of hers. On a counter top within reach he put two smaller syringes.

“These other syringes are the epinephrine. If I suddenly go red as a beet and can’t breathe, just jam one of these into any muscle and inject. If there’s no response in thirty seconds, use the next one.”

Cathryn felt a strange terror. But Charles seemed blithely unconcerned. He unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up above his elbow. Using his teeth to hold one end of the tourniquet, Charles applied the rubber tubing to his own upper arm. Quickly his veins engorged and stood out.

“Take off the plastic cover,” instructed Charles, “then just put the needle into the vein.”

With visibly trembling hands, Cathryn got the cover off the needle. Its sharp point glistened in the light. Charles tore open an alcohol pad with his right hand, holding the packet in his teeth. Vigorously he swabbed the area.

“Okay, do your stuff,” said Charles looking away.

Cathryn took a breath. Now she knew why she’d never considered medicine as a career. Trying to hold the syringe steady she put the needle on Charles’s skin and gently pushed. The skin merely indented.

“You have to give it a shove,” said Charles, still looking away.

Cathryn gave the syringe a little push. It indented Charles’s skin a little more.

Charles looked down at his arm. Reaching around with his free hand he gave the needle a sudden forceful lunge and it broke through the skin, impaling the vein.

“Perfect,” he said. “Now draw back on the plunger without disturbing the tip.”

Cathryn did as Charles asked and some bright red blood swished into the syringe.

“Bull’s-eye,” said Charles, as he took off his tourniquet. “Now slowly inject.”

Cathryn pushed the plunger. It moved easily. When it was slightly more than halfway, her finger slipped. The needle dove into Charles more deeply as the plunger completed its movement. A small egg rapidly appeared on his arm.

“That’s okay,” said Charles. “Not bad for your first time. Now pull it out.”

Cathryn pulled the needle out and Charles slapped a piece of gauze over the site.

“I’m sorry,” said Cathryn, terrified that she’d hurt him.

“No problem. Maybe putting some of the antigen subcutaneously will help. Who knows?” Suddenly his face began to get red. He shivered. “Damn,” he managed. Cathryn could hear his voice had changed. It was much higher. “Epinephrine,” he said with some difficulty.

She grabbed for one of the smaller syringes. In her haste to remove the plastic cover she bent the needle. She grabbed for the other one. Charles, who was now blotching with hives, pointed to his left upper arm. Holding her breath, Cathryn jammed the needle into the muscle. This time she used ample force. She pressed the plunger and pulled it out. Quickly she discarded the used syringe, and picked up the first one, trying to straighten the bent needle. She was about to give it to Charles when he held up his hand.

“It’s okay,” he managed, his voice still abnormal. “I can already feel the reaction subsiding. Whew! Good thing you were here.”

Cathryn put down the syringe. If she thought she was trembling before, now she was shaking. For Cathryn, using a needle on Charles had been the supreme test.

By nine-thirty they were settling in for the night. Earlier Cathryn had prepared some food while Charles worked in the makeshift lab. He’d taken a sample of his blood, separated the cells, and isolated some T-lymphocytes with the aid of sheep erythrocytes. Then he’d incubated the T-lymphocytes with some of his microphages and Michelle’s leukemic cells. While they had dinner he told Cathryn that there still was no sign of a delayed, cell-mediated hypersensitivity. He told her that in twenty-four hours, he’d have to give himself another challenge dose of Michelle’s antigen.

Michelle had awakened from her morphine-induced sleep and was overjoyed to see Cathryn. She’d not remembered seeing her stepmother arrive. Feeling somewhat better, she had even eaten some solid food.

“She seems better,” whispered Cathryn as they carried the dishes back to the kitchen.

“It’s more apparent than real,” said Charles. “Her system is just recovering from the other medicines.”

Charles had built a fire and brought their king-sized mattress down to the living room. He had wanted to be close to Michelle in case she needed him.

Once Cathryn lay down, she felt a tremendous fatigue. Believing that Michelle was as comfortable and content as possible, Cathryn allowed herself to relax for the first time in two days. As the wind blew snow against the front windows, she held on to Charles and let sleep overwhelm her.

Hearing the crash and tinkle of glass, Cathryn sat up by pure reflex, unsure what the noise had been. Charles, who had been awake, reacted more deliberately, rolling off the mattress onto the floor and standing up. As he did so he hefted his shotgun and released the safety catch.

“What was that?” demanded Cathryn, her heart pounding.

“Visitors,” said Charles. “Probably our friends from Recycle.”

Something thudded up against the front of the house, then fell with a thump on the porch floor.

“Rocks,” said Charles, moving over to the light switch and plunging the room into darkness. Michelle murmured and Cathryn made her way over to the child’s side to comfort her.

“Just as I thought,” said Charles, peering between the window boards.

Cathryn came up behind him and looked over his shoulder. Standing in their driveway about a hundred feet from the house was a group of men carrying makeshift torches. Down on the road were a couple of cars haphazardly parked.

“They’re drunk,” said Charles.

“What are we going to do?” whispered Cathryn.

“Nothing,” said Charles. “Unless they try to get inside or come too close with those torches.”

“Could you shoot someone?” asked Cathryn.

“I don’t know,” said Charles, “I really don’t know.”

“I’m going to call the police,” said Cathryn.

“Don’t bother,” said Charles. “I’m sure they know about this.”

“I’m still going to try,” returned Cathryn.

She left him by the window and made her way back to the kitchen where she dialed the operator and asked to be connected to the Shaftesbury police. The phone rang eight times before a tired voice answered. He identified himself as Bernie Crawford.

Cathryn reported that their house was being attacked by a group of drunks and that they needed immediate assistance.