Robin Cook - Contagion

Jack was surer than ever that both his captors had the deadly strain of the flu. He didn’t know what his ethics dictated he do. The problem was his rimantadine, and the fact that it possibly could thwart the flu’s progress. Jack agonized silently over whether he should tell them of his exposure and talk them into taking the drug to potentially save their lives even though they were totally committed to ending his and were responsible for the deaths of other innocent victims. With that in mind, did he owe Terese and Richard compassion in the face of their callous indifference? Should his oath as a physician prevail?

Jack took no comfort at the notion of poetic justice being done. Yet if he shared the rimantadine with them, they might deny it to him. After all, they weren’t choosy about the way he died as long as it wasn’t directly by their hand.

Jack sighed. It was an impossible decision. He couldn’t choose. But not making a decision was, in effect, a decision. Jack understood its ramifications.

By nine o’clock Terese’s and Richard’s breathing had become stertorous, punctuated by frequent coughing episodes. Terese’s condition seemed worse than Richard’s. Around ten a markedly violent fit of coughing woke Terese up, and she moaned for Richard.

“What’s the matter?” Richard questioned lethargically.

“I’m feeling worse,” Terese said. “I need some water and another aspirin.”

Richard got up and woozily made his way into the kitchen. He gave Jack a halfhearted kick to move him out of the way. Needing little encouragement, Jack scrambled to the side as much as his shackled hands would allow. Richard filled a glass with water and stumbled back to Terese.

Terese sat up to take the aspirin and the water, while Richard helped support the glass. When she was finished with the water, she pushed the glass away and wiped her mouth with her hand. Her movements were jerky. “With the way I’m feeling, do you think we should head back to the city tonight?” she questioned.

“We have to wait for morning,” Richard said. “As soon as Twin comes we’ll be off. Besides, I’m too sleepy to drive now anyway.”

“You’re right,” Terese said as she flopped back. “At the moment I don’t think I could stand the drive either. Not with this cough. It’s hard to catch my breath.”

“Sleep it off,” Richard said. “I’ll leave the rest of the water right here next to you.” He put the glass on the coffee table.

“Thanks,” Terese murmured.

Richard made his way back to his couch and collapsed. He drew the blanket up around his neck and sighed loudly.

Time dragged, and with it Terese and Richard’s congested breathing slowly got worse. By ten-thirty Jack noticed that Terese’s respiration was labored. Even from as far away as the kitchen he could see that her lips had become dusky. He was amazed she’d not awakened. He guessed the aspirin had brought her fever down.

In spite of his ambivalence, Jack was finally moved to say something. He called out to Richard and told him Terese didn’t sound or look good.

“Shut up!” Richard yelled back between coughs.

Jack stayed silent for another half hour. By then he was convinced he could hear faint popping noises at the end of each of Terese’s inspirations that sounded like moist rales. If they were, it was an ominous sign, suggesting to Jack that Terese was slipping into acute respiratory distress.

“Richard!” Jack called out, despite Richard’s warning to stay quiet. “Terese is getting worse.”

There was no response.

“Richard!” Jack called louder.

“What?” Richard answered sluggishly.

“I think your sister needs to be in an intensive care unit,” Jack said.

Richard didn’t respond.

“I’m warning you,” Jack called. “I’m a doctor, after all, and I should know. If you don’t do something it’s going to be your fault.”

Jack had hit a nerve, and to his surprise Richard leaped off the couch in a fit of rage. “My fault?” he snarled. “It’s your fault for giving us whatever we have!” Frantically he looked for the gun, but he couldn’t remember what he’d done with it after Jack’s last visit to the bathroom.

The search for the pistol only lasted for a few seconds. Richard suddenly grabbed his head with both hands and moaned about his headache. Then he swayed before collapsing back onto the couch.

Jack sighed with relief. Touching off a fit of rage in Richard had not been expected. He tried not to imagine what might have happened had the gun been handy.

Jack resigned himself to the horror of witnessing the spectacle of a virulently pathogenic influenza wreaking its havoc. With Terese’s and Richard’s rapidly worsening clinical state, he recalled stories that had been told about the terrible influenza pandemic of 1918-19. People were said to have boarded a subway in Brooklyn with mild symptoms, only to be dead by the time they’d reached their destination in Manhattan. When Jack had heard such stories he’d assumed they had been exaggerations. But now that he was being forced to observe Terese and Richard, he no longer thought so. Their swift deterioration was a frightening display of the power of contagion.

By one A.M. Richard’s breathing was as labored as Terese’s had been. Terese was now frankly cyanotic and barely breathing. By four Richard was cyanotic, and Terese was dead. At six A.M. Richard made a few feeble gurgling sounds and then stopped breathing.

Morning came slowly. At first pale fingers of sunlight tentatively limned the edge of the porcelain sink. From where Jack was sitting he could see a spiderweb of leafless tree branches against the gradually brightening sky. He hadn’t slept a wink.

When the room was completely filled with morning light, Jack hazarded a look over his shoulder. It was not a pretty scene. Terese and Richard were both dead, with bloody froth exuding from their dusky blue lips. Both had started to bloat slightly, particularly Terese. Jack assumed it was from the heat of the fire, which was now reduced to mere embers.

Jack looked back despairingly at the drainpipe that so effectively nailed him to his spot. It was an inconceivable predicament. Twin and his Black Kings were probably now on their way. Even without the three thousand dollars, the gang had ample reason to kill him given his role in two of their members’ deaths.

Throwing back his head, Jack screamed at the top of his voice for help. He knew it was futile and soon stopped when he was out of breath. He rattled the handcuffs against the brass pipe, and even put his head in under the sink to examine the lead seal where the brass pipe joined the cast-iron pipe below the trap. With a fingernail he tried to dig into the lead, but without result.

Eventually Jack sat back. His anxiety was enervating, coupled with his lack of sleep, food, and water. It was hard to think clearly, but he had to try; he didn’t have much time.

Jack considered the faint possibility that the Black Kings wouldn’t show up as they’d failed to show the day before, yet that prospect wasn’t any rosier. Jack would be sentenced to an agonizing death from exposure and lack of water. Of course, if he couldn’t take his rimantadine, the flu might get him first.

Jack fought back tears. How could he have been so stupid to have allowed himself to get caught in such an impossible situation? He chided himself for his inane heroic crusade idea, and the juvenile thought of wanting to prove something to himself. He’d been as reckless in this episode as he’d been each day he’d ridden his bike down Second Avenue thumbing his nose at death.

Two hours passed before Jack heard the faint beginnings of the dread sound: the crackling of car tires on gravel. The Black Kings had arrived.