That night, Sophie found Anjali humming away in her new infirmary, setting up equipment. In the tiny lab, a tech was preparing agar plates for culturing.
“You got receipts for all this stuff?” Considering how quickly Anjali had obtained this material, Sophie felt sure that some of it had come through less legitimate channels. This was one of those “don’t ask, don’t tell” situations. “What the hell? They’re selling AEDs on the black market now?” Sophie picked up the tiny automatic defibrillator and examined it.
“Oh no,” said Anjali with a smile. “I bought that on eBay.”
“Unreal.” Sophie put the case down. “I see Meha is culturing. Is that the pneumonia bacteria?”
“Looks like it. I’m glad we decided to move on that because we had five more cases come in today. Two deaths from some earlier cases. Standard antibiotic treatment slows it down but doesn’t stop it, so we’ve got an exotic flavor on our hands. Once we’ve got it cultured, we’ll know how to kill it off.” Anjali finished assembling an IV pole and smiled with satisfaction. “It doesn’t help that these people are malnourished, weak, and suffering from hypothermia. Plus half of them have other illnesses.”
“Keep me posted, okay?”
“I will,” Anjali promised, casting a critical eye over Sophie. “As your physician, I’m ordering you to bed. You need more sleep.”
“Yes, Dr. Shah.”
Sophie went to her quarters, took half a sleeping pill, and fell into bed. She dreamed she was running through the camp, screaming Michael’s name. No one answered. It was deserted. The wind tugged at the plastic sheeting as she raced up and down the grid, looking for him, looking for anyone. But there was no response.
Chapter 6
February 10, 2014
Sophie developed the habit of working together in the Commandant’s office all day long now, to the chagrin of the exec team. They trusted Sophie, but expressed concern that Jaros might suddenly decide to sharpen his knife on her.
That was the least of her worries. The antibiotic-resistant pneumonia continued to claim a couple of victims each day. Every morning brought a handful of new cases to the already over-stressed infirmary. Fortunately, the executive team had convinced Jaros to move the outer fence back two hundred feet on the western perimeter, and the engineering staff had begun hastily constructing a temporary medical building on the newly claimed land. It would be in service in the next forty-eight hours.
The bacteria cultures would be finished by end of the next day. The answer had to be there.
The team had been registering newly arriving refugees since the day the coalition had set up shop, but now they began the monumental task of registering everyone who had been a resident before the coalition had arrived. This would allow them to determine who was in Parnaas (and convey that information back to the outside world, where anxious relatives waited), as well as distribute emergency aid packets including better bedding and cooking supplies. Plus, they could tally up special health issues, such as pregnancies. Anjali – whose specialty was obstetrics, although she no longer practiced it exclusively since becoming RCI’s medical director – and her team had delivered two babies since arriving. There were undoubtedly more to follow.
Registration was how they were most likely to find Michael. Sophie’s walkie sat at her hip, her ear always partially tuned to it. She hadn’t realized how much useless conversation there was between coalition members until she started listening more closely. Sophie scribbled a note to bring it up at the next exec meeting.
Commandant Jaros continued to quiz her throughout the day about ethical issues, methodologies she had developed for the camp, and the protocols the coalition followed. Sophie gave him enough truth to maintain credibility, and enough lies to keep him believing that she was a scheming self-promoter. In fact, they were having a conversation about immorality in government (a fairly global issue, it seemed) when her walkie crackled.
“Sophie, you there?”
“I’m with Commandant Jaros, Anjali. What’s up?”
“We’ve got a problem.”
Sophie arrived at the infirmary in ten minutes, the Jeep bounding across the rutted paths with her two Soviet soldiers hanging on for dear life. She slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. One of the doctors, Raj Patel, met her at the door, gloves and mask in hand. The soldiers stayed with the Jeep.
“Procedure, Sophie,” Raj said, snapping the gloves on her. They entered the infirmary together where she found organized bedlam.
“What’s the situation?”
“We have a sudden escalation of the pneumonia. When we arrived this morning, nearly twenty cases awaited us, most in critical condition. It’s now...” He checked his watch. “...two hours later, and we’ve received a further forty-four cases. All typical profile: elderly, infants, the very weak or sick. Which, in this camp, is just about everyone.”