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from the ceiling, an alarm that automatically was triggered if the air system
failed. Metal cabinets lined one wall, a long counter on another, and a third
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was a viewing glass to the outside world.
Platt grabbed one of the yellow cords and plugged in his suit. Immediately the
roar of air filled his helmet and his ears. McCathy had barely looked up at
him, not willing to take his attention from the work his double-gloved hands
were finishing. He had prepared four glass slides and had four microscopes,
side by side, ready to view each individually.
Finally looking up, McCathy waved Platt over next to him. He placed each slide
in its respective slot. Then he checked with a glance down the eyepiece of
each microscope, giving a twist, sometimes two twists, to focus.
"FROM LEFT TO RIGHT," McCathy yelled over the noise as he stood back. Platt
could see the sweat on the older man's face, fogging up the inside of his
helmet. McCathy pushed the plastic against his face, leaving a smear but it
didn't distract him. He pointed to each of the microscopes. "EBOLA RESTON,
LASSA, MARBURG AND EBOLA ZAIRE."
Platt nodded. McCathy had put the viruses in order from best-case scenario to
worst-case. As much as Platt hoped it was Ebola Reston he knew that wouldn't
explain why Ms. Kellerman's body was crashing.
"I'LL NEED TO HIT THE LIGHTS," McCathy told Platt, holding up a remote-control
device. "IT'LL BE BLACK AS NIGHT IN HERE. WE CAN'T RISK BUMPING INTO EACH
OTHER."
Platt nodded again. His heart was back to banging in his chest, almost louder
than the air pressure in his ears. It wasn't the impending dark that caused
the banging, although he knew better scientists than himself who would never
attempt the combination of claustrophobia, darkness and a hot zone.
"YOU STAND THERE AND LOOK IN THOSE TWO MICROSCOPES." McCathy pointed at the
two directly in front of Platt. "I'LL TAKE THESE TWO. THEN WE WON'T BE RUNNING
INTO EACH OTHER."
Platt stared at the microscopes. McCathy would have Ebola Reston and Lassa
fever. He had Marburg and Ebola Zaire. Don't let either of them glow. He would
welcome total darkness.
"READY?" McCathy asked, holding up the light-switch remote.
Platt placed his hands on the edge of each microscope so he wouldn't fumble in
the dark. He nodded again.
The room went pitch-black. There was nothing that emitted light. Not a red dot
on a monitor. Not a crack of filtered light. Not a single reflection. He
couldn't even see McCathy who stood right beside him.
He found the eyepiece of the first microscope and tried to look through. His
faceplate made it difficult. He saw only black. And now his heartbeat pounded
so hard he thought the vibration might be obscuring his view. The faceplate
was flexible plastic and Platt pressed it down until he could feel the
eyepiece of the microscope solidly against his eye sockets. Still, he could
see nothing.
"ANYTHING?" McCathy yelled from beside him.
"NOTHING FROM THE FIRST ONE."
"NOTHING HERE."
Platt waited. Sometimes it took a few minutes for the serums to mix and cause
a reaction. Still, there was nothing. He reminded himself: Marburg on the
left, Ebola Zaire on the right. He pulled back, took a deep breath and
positioned himself over the other microscope, repeating the process.
"NOTHING HERE," McCathy yelled about his second sample.
Platt barely positioned his faceplate and he could already see it. It wasn't a
faint glow. It was bright. He sucked in air and shoved his eyes hard against
the microscope. Below him it looked like a night sky with a glowing
constellation.
"Holy crap," he muttered. He jerked his face away and found the other
microscope. Nothing there. Back to the other. Still glowing, even brighter
now.
"WHAT IS IT?" McCathy yelled.
"I'VE GOT ONE GLOWING."
"I KNEW IT. WHICH ONE?"
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Platt had to stop himself. He had to slow his breathing. He needed to think.
He needed to remember. Marburg, left. Ebola Zaire, right. The pounding in his
heart was no longer a problem. It was as if all sound, everything around him
had stopped, had come to a grinding halt. Everything except for his stomach,
which slid to his feet.
"IT'S EBOLA ZAIRE."
CHAPTER
37
Saint Francis Hospital Chicago
Dr. Claire Antonelli stared at the image of Markus Schroder's liver. On the
desk in front of her were various other images and test documents. She had
gone over all of them more than twice. The man behind her was seeing them for
the first time and even he was quiet. In fact, Claire found it unsettling how
quiet Dr. Jackson Miles had become.
She glanced back at him. His deep-creased face was a perpetual frown. She
remembered him once calling his wrinkles "well-deserved life lines." He had
those life lines for as long as Claire had known him, even back when he
shepherded her through a tough residency, taking her under his wing when her
all-male class made it clear that she was their outcast. Dr. Jackson Miles
told her then that if he could become the first black chief of surgery then
she could certainly overcome the discrimination she was dealing with.
"The liver's enlarged," she said, obviously only as a prompt.
"But otherwise doesn't look unusual." He didn't take his eyes off the image,
studying it as if it was a puzzle."What about typhoid or malaria?"
"I've had him on antibiotics with no effects. Not even a break in fever."
"E. coli or salmonella?"
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