Plague
Page 35
“We have to cool him down,” Dahra said. “Virtue? Hold down the fort here, okay? We’re going to the beach.”
Ellen and Dahra maneuvered Pookie into a wheelbarrow. The three of them made an odd procession down San Pablo Avenue to the beach.
Crossing the sand was the hard part. But finally they made it to the lacy surf and set the sick kid down. Water surged around him.
Not an ice bath, maybe, but close enough. She figured the cold salt water should drain away some of the heat inside Pookie’s body.
“There,” Ellen said. “Hopefully he can walk back on his own.”
Dahra flopped onto the sand beside Ellen. Ellen said, “You heard about Drake, right?”
“Him escaping? Yeah. Don’t worry, Sam will get him.”
Ellen shook her head. “Sam’s out of town. Albert got him to go off for water. Or something like that.”
“Sam’s gone?” Dahra looked nervously over her shoulder. No reason Drake would come after her. But Drake didn’t need a reason. “It’ll be okay. Dekka and Brianna and—”
Pookie coughed, coughed, doubled over, choked on sea-water, and then coughed so powerfully that it made a clear indent in the water.
“Whoa,” Ellen said.
Pookie sat up. His head lolled back and forth like a marionette with a loose string.
He coughed and the force of it threw him backward into the water with a splash.
Dahra ran to pull him up, but he’d done it on his own. He got to his feet, staggering.
He coughed and it was like an explosion. He flew backward. Like he’d been hit by a car.
“Oh, my God,” Dahra cried.
Pookie rolled over, on hands and knees, and coughed again so powerfully that sand flew. Something pink and raw was sprayed across the sand crater.
“No, no, no,” Dahra moaned and backed away.
Pookie coughed again and the force of it lifted him up onto his toes, bent him back in a C. Blood sprayed from his mouth and drained out of his ears.
With blank, uncomprehending eyes he stared at Dahra. And fell dead, facedown in the surf.
No one spoke.
Dahra barely breathed.
For several very long seconds Dahra stood paralyzed.
She blinked. “Ellen, quick, into the water. Get wet all over. Scrub off with your hands!” Dahra followed her own advice. She plunged in and submerged.
When she came up, she yelled, “Now stay away from Pookie’s body. Stay in the sun for a while. Until you’re dry. Sunlight is supposed to kill flu virus on your skin.”
“Oh, my God,” Ellen said and her face went pale. “He coughed his insides out.”
“Just do what I tell you! Face up to the sun, I have to go!”
She ran back across the beach, her insides churning, panic eating at her.
She spotted Quinn and the fishing fleet pulling wearily up to the dock down at the marina. She ran as fast as she could, waving her hands over her head to attract attention.
Quinn and some of the others saw her, they just didn’t understand why she was yelling. Dahra was sweating hard by the time she reached the dock.
“No! No! Don’t come any closer!” she yelled to Quinn.
“What the—”
“Pookie just died,” Dahra panted. “Flu. Maybe. But, oh, God. Just don’t come any closer. In fact, don’t get off the boats.”
“I already had the flu,” Cigar said.
“So did Pookie,” Dahra said. “Listen to me: it’s catching and it’s way bad.”
Quinn motioned for his people to stay in their boats. “What are we supposed to do, Dahra? We can’t just float around forever.”
Dahra sighed. “Let me think.”
“I have to go check on my—,” one of the fishermen said.
“Shut up, I’m thinking!” Dahra yelled. She had acquired a fair amount of medical knowledge since stupidly volunteering to run the so-called hospital. But that didn’t make her a doctor.
She remembered reading about flu, though. Nothing spread faster. Nothing mutated and adapted faster. Hand washing removed it, alcohol killed it, sunlight killed it a little, anyway. But once it was in your nose and lungs it could go crazy and kill you. Especially some new strain.
“Stay in your boats,” Dahra said. “We’re still going to need food. Throw your fish onto the dock. I’ll get Albert to send someone here to collect it. Then go back out, row up the coast a little ways, and camp out.”
“Camp out?” Quinn echoed.
“Yes!”
“You’re serious.”
“No, it’s my idea of a joke, Quinn,” Dahra snapped. “Pookie just coughed up a lung and fell over dead. You understand what I’m saying? I mean he coughed his actual lungs out of his mouth. Hah hah hah, it’s so funny.”
Quinn took a step back.
Dahra waited for him to make up his mind. She had no right to give orders. Except that she knew what was happening and no one else did.
“Okay,” Quinn said. “There’s a spot just up the shore. Tell Albert to send someone right away for the fish. We have a nice big catch here. We got a shark.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Dahra’s thoughts were already turning to her next move. The virus was the enemy: she was the general in this battle. But only two thoughts were really clear in her mind: One, Jennifer B had been telling the truth. And two, how could Dahra hope to avoid catching it?
Chapter Fifteen
37 HOURS, 15 MINUTES
Ellen and Dahra maneuvered Pookie into a wheelbarrow. The three of them made an odd procession down San Pablo Avenue to the beach.
Crossing the sand was the hard part. But finally they made it to the lacy surf and set the sick kid down. Water surged around him.
Not an ice bath, maybe, but close enough. She figured the cold salt water should drain away some of the heat inside Pookie’s body.
“There,” Ellen said. “Hopefully he can walk back on his own.”
Dahra flopped onto the sand beside Ellen. Ellen said, “You heard about Drake, right?”
“Him escaping? Yeah. Don’t worry, Sam will get him.”
Ellen shook her head. “Sam’s out of town. Albert got him to go off for water. Or something like that.”
“Sam’s gone?” Dahra looked nervously over her shoulder. No reason Drake would come after her. But Drake didn’t need a reason. “It’ll be okay. Dekka and Brianna and—”
Pookie coughed, coughed, doubled over, choked on sea-water, and then coughed so powerfully that it made a clear indent in the water.
“Whoa,” Ellen said.
Pookie sat up. His head lolled back and forth like a marionette with a loose string.
He coughed and the force of it threw him backward into the water with a splash.
Dahra ran to pull him up, but he’d done it on his own. He got to his feet, staggering.
He coughed and it was like an explosion. He flew backward. Like he’d been hit by a car.
“Oh, my God,” Dahra cried.
Pookie rolled over, on hands and knees, and coughed again so powerfully that sand flew. Something pink and raw was sprayed across the sand crater.
“No, no, no,” Dahra moaned and backed away.
Pookie coughed again and the force of it lifted him up onto his toes, bent him back in a C. Blood sprayed from his mouth and drained out of his ears.
With blank, uncomprehending eyes he stared at Dahra. And fell dead, facedown in the surf.
No one spoke.
Dahra barely breathed.
For several very long seconds Dahra stood paralyzed.
She blinked. “Ellen, quick, into the water. Get wet all over. Scrub off with your hands!” Dahra followed her own advice. She plunged in and submerged.
When she came up, she yelled, “Now stay away from Pookie’s body. Stay in the sun for a while. Until you’re dry. Sunlight is supposed to kill flu virus on your skin.”
“Oh, my God,” Ellen said and her face went pale. “He coughed his insides out.”
“Just do what I tell you! Face up to the sun, I have to go!”
She ran back across the beach, her insides churning, panic eating at her.
She spotted Quinn and the fishing fleet pulling wearily up to the dock down at the marina. She ran as fast as she could, waving her hands over her head to attract attention.
Quinn and some of the others saw her, they just didn’t understand why she was yelling. Dahra was sweating hard by the time she reached the dock.
“No! No! Don’t come any closer!” she yelled to Quinn.
“What the—”
“Pookie just died,” Dahra panted. “Flu. Maybe. But, oh, God. Just don’t come any closer. In fact, don’t get off the boats.”
“I already had the flu,” Cigar said.
“So did Pookie,” Dahra said. “Listen to me: it’s catching and it’s way bad.”
Quinn motioned for his people to stay in their boats. “What are we supposed to do, Dahra? We can’t just float around forever.”
Dahra sighed. “Let me think.”
“I have to go check on my—,” one of the fishermen said.
“Shut up, I’m thinking!” Dahra yelled. She had acquired a fair amount of medical knowledge since stupidly volunteering to run the so-called hospital. But that didn’t make her a doctor.
She remembered reading about flu, though. Nothing spread faster. Nothing mutated and adapted faster. Hand washing removed it, alcohol killed it, sunlight killed it a little, anyway. But once it was in your nose and lungs it could go crazy and kill you. Especially some new strain.
“Stay in your boats,” Dahra said. “We’re still going to need food. Throw your fish onto the dock. I’ll get Albert to send someone here to collect it. Then go back out, row up the coast a little ways, and camp out.”
“Camp out?” Quinn echoed.
“Yes!”
“You’re serious.”
“No, it’s my idea of a joke, Quinn,” Dahra snapped. “Pookie just coughed up a lung and fell over dead. You understand what I’m saying? I mean he coughed his actual lungs out of his mouth. Hah hah hah, it’s so funny.”
Quinn took a step back.
Dahra waited for him to make up his mind. She had no right to give orders. Except that she knew what was happening and no one else did.
“Okay,” Quinn said. “There’s a spot just up the shore. Tell Albert to send someone right away for the fish. We have a nice big catch here. We got a shark.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Dahra’s thoughts were already turning to her next move. The virus was the enemy: she was the general in this battle. But only two thoughts were really clear in her mind: One, Jennifer B had been telling the truth. And two, how could Dahra hope to avoid catching it?
Chapter Fifteen
37 HOURS, 15 MINUTES
