They coded Ms. Augustine for nearly forty minutes. Not the longest code Dr. Castro had ever been a part of. But long enough.
Missy was in tears at the end of it. Held it together for the duration but the second Dr. Castro called time she was a bubbling, snotty mess. Took off her N95. So did Ellen as she wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Snot bubbled into Ellen’s scrub top. Dr. Castro watched it all with a cold emptiness.
On the one hand, he should tell them to stop. Put the masks back on. Get away from each other. Get away from the body.
On the other hand, they were all already dead.
Ms. Augustine had been admitted through the ER three days ago. All Dr. Castro knew was the flu was ‘impossibly’ contagious. He didn’t know why. If somehow a flu strain had become airborne, the usual surgical masks they wore whenever someone came in with respiratory distress wouldn’t do anything. It would be like to trying to strain rice with a fishing net.
Even if it was still spread around by droplets the masks weren’t enough for a very simple reason: Human nature. People get complacent. He’d seen it plenty of times before. Everyone, from the cafeteria folks who delivered to meals to the nurses to the doctors and even the respiratory therapists themselves, sometimes walked right past that bright yellow Droplet Precaution sign hanging from the door with nothing to protect their airways besides a layer of cilia and God. And he couldn’t blame any of them, because he did it, too.
The tray is by the door, I’ll dart in and grab it.
The IV pump is beeping, I’m not gowning up just for that.
Masks make my face itch, I’ll stand by the door as I talk to the patient.
They all did it. And years of occasionally doing it and not getting sick had bred the complacency. If it had been your average flu, probably none of them would have caught it.
This wasn’t the average flu. This flu was ‘impossible.’ Walk into her room, breathe in while she’s coughing, bam. Done.
All it would take was one person, one single person, to go in without their mask. Or even with their mask not quite sitting right. Then that person was infected. Within hours they’d be completely symptom free but sharing their infection with everyone they breathed on.
Hazel Augustine had been in the building for three days. They’d probably all been infected by the end of the first.
If Missy needed a hug from Ellen, who was he to stop them?
“She was getting better,” Missy sniffled. “We were planning discharge for the afternoon. Then it all happened so fast. I mean…it’s just the flu!”
“Underlying conditions, sweetheart,” Ellen said, patting her shoulder. “Some big bad was lurking inside her, something she probably didn’t know about.”
But when Dr. Castro went back to his office, Ellen was right behind him. He didn’t even hear her, didn’t realize she was there until she pushed open his closing door and softly put it in its place behind her.
Ellen was one of those veteran warhorse nurses. Short hair, stocky with a little pudge despite being on her feet all day, and seemingly in control of all things at all times. It was impossible for Dr. Castro to imagine she was ever a young new nurse like Missy. No, Nurse Ellen must have sprung from the caduceus fully formed, stethoscope in one hand and 5 cc’s of Haldol in the other.
She sat down in the seat in front of Dr. Castro’s office and only stared at him. Her mask was off. His was on. It was like getting soapy water over your face in the shower and squinting your eyes shut. Even after you’d rinsed the soap off there was that lizard-brain terror of opening them again.
It was a bad metaphor, because Dr. Castro was pretty sure the soap was already in his eyes. He took his mask off and stared back.
“I watch the news,” Ellen said. “They keep mentioning this new strain of flu. Off and on for a couple of weeks, now. The story never seemed to change so I figured they were just blowing something out of proportion for views. Until today, when you made us all put N95’s on. Until I saw your face. How bad is it?”
Dr. Castro tried to think of a sane way to phrase it but sanity seemed to have slipped. Luckily, he didn’t have to say a word. The truth of it was apparently written all over his face. Ellen leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and put her hands to her mouth.
“That bad, huh?” she asked. “I’m guessing Ms. Augustine was only the beginning?”
He nodded, focusing on how stiff the back of his neck felt when he did it. Like his head might snap off.
Ellen nodded back. Dr. Castro waited for the real reaction. Crying. Shaking. Questions. Questions Dr. Castro couldn’t answer.
Instead, Ellen took a deep breath. With a loud pat of her hands on her thighs she stood up and straightened out her scrubs.
“I’ll get the big packs of N95 masks out of storage and start handing them out. We have plenty after that last pandemic petered out, still sitting in the back closet. No one in the hospital without them.”
“What…” His mouth and throat had gone completely dry. Swallowing was like working through a mouth coated in sawdust. “What will you tell them?”
“I don’t know yet. Probably not the truth. Not the full truth, anyway. From the sound of it, the chances that the whole hospital isn’t already infected are slim to none. And we’ll need the help. Can’t imagine what we’ll do if everyone runs home and locks themselves in their houses.”
Ellen went for the door, pausing with her hand on the handle.
“She was staying at the Lodge, you know.”
With that she was gone. The phone was in his hand, already ringing, already reaching out to his daughter, before the door fully shut again.
High Urban Fantasy Jazz 