"c242" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

7:58 A.M., Tuesday, February 22, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

Desiree hugged herself tight. She couldn't believe she'd let herself touch Jeremy after having handled the ciguatera bottle. How could she have been so stupid! "Pneumonia's more common in kids who've been on the vent for a while," Dr. Wiltshire said. "He's as stable now as he can be. We'll just have to wait and see. I don't think there was any damage to the brain, but we'll have to wait and see." Brain damage! Desiree couldn't tell if the professional detachment was meant to make the parents feel better (Desiree granted herself that a hysterical doctor wouldn't help matters) or merely to shield the doctors themselves from getting attached. Or maybe it was jealousy because Desiree could come and go as she pleased. No, no, Desiree banished those thoughts. She prayed. In all likelihood, this was a normal turn of events. God, please, not brain damage! "Are you sure it's pneumonia? I mean, under these conditions," she said, encompassing the room with her eyes, "it could be anything couldn't it? Even something weird? Like food poisoning or something." "Oh, I'm sure it's not food poisoning," the woman said with a smile. She brushed a strand of golden hair behind her ear. "He's getting the best formula we've got. And he hasn't vomited anything. It looks like pneumonia, but we can't run a culture. Normally we'd find out which bug it is and treat for that, but the lab has been pretty spotty recently. I've ordered vancomycin for 'im since we used nafcillin on the sepsis, but I don't think the dispensary has much of either. I hate having to keep using the broad-spectrum antibiotics, but they've pretty well raided our inventory. They don't think they need anything like antibiotics, they're for weaklings. Hmph. Disgusting pigs." Desiree didn't realize what the doctor was saying. She was staring out the window; something didn't look right. Then she realized the doctor had fallen silent. "Oh, what? Pardon me." "I was saying, you look knackered. Go on home, get some sleep. I'll tell Matty tonight if anything develops." Dr. Wiltshire squeezed Desiree's arm and walked away. Desiree wished that were an option. It seemed almost selfish to sleep, when everyone else was a hostage here, when so many people were ill. Fortunately it wasn't an option anyway, the going home part. Matty wouldn't be back to pick her up until Robert arrived, the engineer who relieved Sir Howard. Desiree had briefly clocked out at seven to meet Matty, and told her about Sir Howard's heart attack and Jeremy's relapse. Matty said she'd arrange with Robert to split Sir Howard's shift; she'd try to get Robert to arrive around eleven. Somehow they'd work things out. At least Sir Howard was in stable condition, she thought, staring out the window. Desiree felt like she was the cause of all the worlds' problems, though she logically told herself that wasn't true. Something nagged her about the view outside. It was the faintest little mental knock, as if to say, I know you have tremendously more important things to angst about, but... Desiree blinked, and focused on the scenery outside. The mid-morning sun was lighting up the trees, gorgeously green and uncaring about humanity's little problems. But there was something else. Something else green. A light. A stop light. The power was on! At least in one small corner of the city they'd done it! Civilization had returned! Desiree's first reaction was an upwelling of joyous relief, like an angelic chorus singing Beethoven's ninth, a glorious orange sunrise on Easter. Tears welled up. She hadn't felt like this since stumbling across the finishline of her first 10K race, muscles screaming, lungs bursting, but mind glowing, You made it! By God, you made it! Then she realized the implications and dried her eyes. The police said they'd move on the Strong quickly after the power came up. In her frantic state, she leaned closer to the window thinking she'd see a police barricade suddenly erected. Calm down, Desiree. They're not that fast. But if she was to watch the Strong scamper like roaches in the light, she'd have to put her plan into motion immediately. No think, just do. Matty would be here—when? It could be any time. Desiree slipped down to the kitchen, her hands in her pockets lightly clamped to the syringe and the vial. The kitchen was empty. A sign. She quickly tore open the syringe wrapper, fumbled the needle into the bottle, drew some out. Her hands were shaking. Tears welled up as she fought not to let the poison touch her hands. What to do with it? Hurry! Don't think. She found packages of white-wrapped steaks in a refrigerator. She gave each a quick shot through the paper. Cellophane-wrapped submarine sandwiches—in went the needle. Cans of pop? Definitely. They'd never given the hostages anything so enjoyable. Always some brackish water they must have found in an old rain barrel. In went the needle through the thin metal; near the top, to avoid it bubbling. Her mind was icy clear. A quick look over her shoulder. Nobody coming. A jab into ruby red apples. Flawless oranges. Papayas. Mangoes. The best they'd ever taste. On the counter, three pokes into each loaf of rye bread. Within five minutes, she'd emptied the bottle, wrapped the evidence in old meat wrapping, buried it deep in the trash, and strode purposefully from the kitchen into the nearest restroom. She took a ragged breath and began crying. Oh, God, she thought, have mercy on my soul.

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Chapter 24.2

7:58 A.M., Tuesday, February 22, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

Desiree hugged herself tight. She couldn't believe she'd let herself touch Jeremy after having handled the ciguatera bottle. How could she have been so stupid! "Pneumonia's more common in kids who've been on the vent for a while," Dr. Wiltshire said. "He's as stable now as he can be. We'll just have to wait and see. I don't think there was any damage to the brain, but we'll have to wait and see." Brain damage! Desiree couldn't tell if the professional detachment was meant to make the parents feel better (Desiree granted herself that a hysterical doctor wouldn't help matters) or merely to shield the doctors themselves from getting attached. Or maybe it was jealousy because Desiree could come and go as she pleased. No, no, Desiree banished those thoughts. She prayed. In all likelihood, this was a normal turn of events. God, please, not brain damage! "Are you sure it's pneumonia? I mean, under these conditions," she said, encompassing the room with her eyes, "it could be anything couldn't it? Even something weird? Like food poisoning or something." "Oh, I'm sure it's not food poisoning," the woman said with a smile. She brushed a strand of golden hair behind her ear. "He's getting the best formula we've got. And he hasn't vomited anything. It looks like pneumonia, but we can't run a culture. Normally we'd find out which bug it is and treat for that, but the lab has been pretty spotty recently. I've ordered vancomycin for 'im since we used nafcillin on the sepsis, but I don't think the dispensary has much of either. I hate having to keep using the broad-spectrum antibiotics, but they've pretty well raided our inventory. They don't think they need anything like antibiotics, they're for weaklings. Hmph. Disgusting pigs." Desiree didn't realize what the doctor was saying. She was staring out the window; something didn't look right. Then she realized the doctor had fallen silent. "Oh, what? Pardon me." "I was saying, you look knackered. Go on home, get some sleep. I'll tell Matty tonight if anything develops." Dr. Wiltshire squeezed Desiree's arm and walked away. Desiree wished that were an option. It seemed almost selfish to sleep, when everyone else was a hostage here, when so many people were ill. Fortunately it wasn't an option anyway, the going home part. Matty wouldn't be back to pick her up until Robert arrived, the engineer who relieved Sir Howard. Desiree had briefly clocked out at seven to meet Matty, and told her about Sir Howard's heart attack and Jeremy's relapse. Matty said she'd arrange with Robert to split Sir Howard's shift; she'd try to get Robert to arrive around eleven. Somehow they'd work things out. At least Sir Howard was in stable condition, she thought, staring out the window. Desiree felt like she was the cause of all the worlds' problems, though she logically told herself that wasn't true. Something nagged her about the view outside. It was the faintest little mental knock, as if to say, I know you have tremendously more important things to angst about, but... Desiree blinked, and focused on the scenery outside. The mid-morning sun was lighting up the trees, gorgeously green and uncaring about humanity's little problems. But there was something else. Something else green. A light. A stop light. The power was on! At least in one small corner of the city they'd done it! Civilization had returned! Desiree's first reaction was an upwelling of joyous relief, like an angelic chorus singing Beethoven's ninth, a glorious orange sunrise on Easter. Tears welled up. She hadn't felt like this since stumbling across the finishline of her first 10K race, muscles screaming, lungs bursting, but mind glowing, You made it! By God, you made it! Then she realized the implications and dried her eyes. The police said they'd move on the Strong quickly after the power came up. In her frantic state, she leaned closer to the window thinking she'd see a police barricade suddenly erected. Calm down, Desiree. They're not that fast. But if she was to watch the Strong scamper like roaches in the light, she'd have to put her plan into motion immediately. No think, just do. Matty would be here—when? It could be any time. Desiree slipped down to the kitchen, her hands in her pockets lightly clamped to the syringe and the vial. The kitchen was empty. A sign. She quickly tore open the syringe wrapper, fumbled the needle into the bottle, drew some out. Her hands were shaking. Tears welled up as she fought not to let the poison touch her hands. What to do with it? Hurry! Don't think. She found packages of white-wrapped steaks in a refrigerator. She gave each a quick shot through the paper. Cellophane-wrapped submarine sandwiches—in went the needle. Cans of pop? Definitely. They'd never given the hostages anything so enjoyable. Always some brackish water they must have found in an old rain barrel. In went the needle through the thin metal; near the top, to avoid it bubbling. Her mind was icy clear. A quick look over her shoulder. Nobody coming. A jab into ruby red apples. Flawless oranges. Papayas. Mangoes. The best they'd ever taste. On the counter, three pokes into each loaf of rye bread. Within five minutes, she'd emptied the bottle, wrapped the evidence in old meat wrapping, buried it deep in the trash, and strode purposefully from the kitchen into the nearest restroom. She took a ragged breath and began crying. Oh, God, she thought, have mercy on my soul.


back | next home