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.”
“Fuck me,” she breathed, then remembered Raj worked for a faith-based charity. “Sorry.”
“I had a similar reaction. No apologies needed.” He smiled behind his mask. “We’ve moved all non-essential equipment and personnel to the new medical building, which is being pressed into service a little earlier than scheduled. In fact, they haven’t finished putting the roof on yet. As of this moment, this infirmary is in quarantine. Nobody in or out without gloves and masks, no visitors, highest level of infection control enforcement.”
“Any idea what’s driven the numbers up so rapidly?”
“It could be the natural progression of the disease, or maybe one of the latest groups of refugees brought in a more virulent strain. We’ll get the cultures back tomorrow and know which antibiotic will work against this. In the meantime, we’re getting creative.”