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A cough raked up his throat and, from inside the observation room, everyone froze.
Stratt, most of all, looked tense. She straightened her spine as she jammed her finger into the comms and asked, “What was that?” Her voice crackled throughout Grace's little bubbled-in lab and, with him stuck inside his thick hazmat suit, he had to tilt his head down to glance at her over his glasses.
“A cough?” he offered lamely. Behind her, those dozen-or-so fancy officials bristled. Grace’s focus flicked back to her as he cleared his sore throat and said, “Really, it’s just a cough.” The generals muttered to each other behind the glass, one even smearing a particularly grim expression across his face when he looked at Grace. They were acting like he was going to die. He asked, “What?”
As Stratt’s frown deepened, she began, “Doctor Grace, you have been working with the astrophage for approximately twenty-four hours, now, yes?” Before he could answer, she barreled forward: “And you have now developed a cough.”
“I'm not following,” he huffed, lowering his pipette. At her silence, he asked, “You think, what? That the astrophage infected me?” Earlier that morning, he'd woken up stiff and exhausted with a weariness drilled deep into his bones. Coffee hadn't washed the feeling away nor had an energy drink and, so, when the scratch in his throat dug its way down into a full-blown chest cough, he hadn't been surprised. He was sick. So what? Shrugging, Grace said, “Look, I worked in a middle school up until only two days ago. I probably just caught a cold from one of my kids. It happens. Like, a lot. They're nasty little germ factories, so…”
Nobody was listening.
Gesticulating wildly, Stratt battled with the officials behind her. Occasionally, someone would sneer at him or jab a finger in his direction. Like a bug under a microscope, they ogled him as he stood and watched.
Grace sagged. “Hello?” he called, waving at them. “Are we talking about me when I'm literally right here, or–?”
“Doctor Grace,” Stratt whipped around, her face flushed with anger. At least, he thought it was anger; he couldn't read her yet. “We will be placing you into a quarantine zone for the time being until further tests on your condition can be run. Please stop your experiments.”
“Wait, what?” he squeaked. The officials spilled out of the observation room in a clumsy single-file line. He'd seen elementary students do it better than them. Shuffling as if their old lives depended on it, they were gone within seconds, leaving him to gawk at Stratt. “You're kidding me. It's a cough. It's the sniffles.”
“Effective immediately,” Stratt said. With that, she whisked out the observation room door.
Left with his mouth hanging open and his hands up, he groaned loudly and turned back around. How much time did he have? Five minutes? Less? There were still four open experiments running. The centrifuge behind him wheezed as it spun, and the petri dish in front of him practically glowed under the harsh UV light. “Okay,” he sighed. “Okay, okay. Right.” Moving quickly, he began to place things into fridges and warmers, moving as fast as his clumsy, double-gloved fingers would allow.
This was overkill.
He was fine.
Because, sure, he could sit and ponder the fact that he'd developed a cough only after interacting with astrophage. He could worry himself stupid about the risks and possibilities and, yes, the thought of having some alien disease made his heart scamper just a bit faster.
Because what if something from another world was infecting him?
What if he was seriously ill?
What if he developed a funky mutation?
What if he died?
What if–?
He snorted.
“Nah,” he said aloud, stacking the petri dishes as he scrawled his sloppy shorthand on them in Sharpie. “This is bonkers.” If he knew anything about biology - and he knew a lot, he'd like to think - then the risk of him being infected with the single-celled astrophage was unlikely. Beyond unlikely. Almost impossible. Because if astrophage could infect humans, it'd have to recognize a receptor on one of his cells, bind to it, get inside, hijack machinery that evolved on an entirely different planet–
Crossing species barriers on Earth was hard enough. Crossing planets? Yeah, no.
The decontamination room doors hissed open as four men in similar Tellytubby suits stepped in. Under that was even more PPE. Fine mist spat over them as they approached the lab airlock. “This is so silly…” Grace whipped around, facing the observation room Stratt had just left. “Hey, guys! This is really not necessary! I just have a cold. Rhinovirus? I'll be fine in like, three to five business days at most!”
The men stepped into the lab and approached him. At the front, a beast double his size stared down at him as he said, “Come with us, Doctor Grace.”
And who was Grace to argue with such a fine young gentleman?
“Okie dokie,” he said. Setting his remaining materials down, Grace let the men bracket him on all sides as they guided him out of the lab. Their group waded through the decontamination process before stepping out and into the open hangar. Bodies bustled around them, scurrying left and right as they prepared for what Grace could only assume to be a makeshift lockdown of the hangar.
Truly unnecessary.
The men shepherded him towards a cramped, double-glass box fit with accommodations for a king: a flimsy cot and that was it. There was a chunky curtain that he suspected hid a makeshift bathroom. On top of his enclosure was a ventilation filtration system. It buzzed as it worked overtime to create his cozy negative pressure environment.
Lovely.
Leading Grace through a heavy door, the big boy at the front dropped him off in his box. Slamming the even heavier, bulkier second door shut behind Grace, the man trudged forward without looking back. Nice and impersonal. Grace began to peel off his suit, his body aching with the movements. A headache bubbled behind his eyes, heavy with his heartbeat. Did he drink enough water today? Probably not.
Shucking the legs of his suit off, he tossed it into the biohazard bag in the corner of the room. He twisted the top and looped it into itself–
“Doctor Grace?” He glanced up at Stratt standing in front of him behind the glass. Behind her, a plastic, transparent tent was being erected. “They will be placing me in quarantine as well, seeing as how I was around you for extended periods of time,” she said. Glancing down at the bag in his hands, she said, “We will need your clothing as well. Leave that open.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What, you want me to just, like, strip right here?”
“Yes.” At least Stratt had the deference to look offended by the idea. “There is a decontamination shower in the corner and clothing for you just there.” With a jut of her chin to the cot behind him, Grace hung his head and stared at the offending pile of blue scrubs.
Shuffling behind the curtain, he grumbled, “Awesome. So awesome.” He was slow in taking off his clothing–the curtain barely covered anything and humiliation burned his skin. But, from what he could see between the openings of the drapes, nobody seemed to care that he was completely naked. He moved fast to scrub his body down with the provided soap and rinse himself clean. Toweling off, Grace fished the scrubs from the cot and slipped them on before shoving his old clothes into the biohazard bag. At least he was nice and shiny for his five-star stay in Hotel Stratt a la Unnecessary Precautions.
They'd clearly prepared for this, after all. Giant glass enclosures with decontamination showers and bathrooms installed in them didn't sprout from the ground…
Across from him, now established in her tent - fitted with a walkie talkie, an intercom system, a laptop, a far comfier looking cot, and so much more - Stratt pressed the comms button and said, “Glasses, too, Doctor Grace.”
He drooped. “So I just…don't need to see properly, then, is that it?” he asked, eyebrow raised. “Blinding your enemy and all that. Art of War-style.”
Stratt’s expression stayed static. “You will live in a box for the foreseeable future, Doctor Grace.”
“Cool,” he said as he opened the biohazard bag again. She was right, he knew. After all, there'd likely be a dearth of reading material when in quarantine, but the eye strain wouldn't be fun. “All of this for a cold is insane…”
“It may not be,” Stratt interjected, leveling him with a stare from across their quarantine spots. “And if you are wrong, you are putting the entire world in jeopardy.”
Adjusting his glasses, Grace slapped a hand on his hip. “That seems a little dramatic, but okay.”
She looked down at the bag and then back up to him.
With a groan, he rolled his eyes and ripped the glasses off. Shoving them in the bag, he knotted it tight and proper before kicking it towards the door. “Glasses, gone,” he announced. Shuffling in his box for a moment, he glared down at the cot. Even with its ramrod stiff appearance and a thin blanket, it looked inviting as anything could when his body was this sleepy. Grace sat down on it and, when that familiar wave of exhaustion washed over him, he flagged. Listing sideways, he let himself drop onto the cot and deflate.
God, he was tired. Everything hurt. It wasn't a sharp, painful hurt from a wound but, rather, a merciless ache. The ligaments and tendons in his body screamed as if overstretched. Every muscle seemed to throb. And his head–
“Hey, uh,” he called out, kneading the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “Can I get an ibuprofen or something?”
Static crackled in his box momentarily before Stratt’s choppy voice asked, ”Why?”
He huffed, “Headache. Maybe a migraine? I don't know.” Groaning, Grace turned into the crunchy pillow and peered across the hanger at the milling scientists and security guards. Some stared at him as if he were a fish in a bowl, while others seemingly paid no mind as if this were just another Thursday. Maybe for them it was.
Burrowing under the sheet they provided him, Grace strangled a pathetic whine between his teeth as a shiver ripped through him. In only the hour that he’d been identified as this diseased creature, he was already shaking. Was he feverish? Dang it, he was cold. Beyond cold. He glared up at the air vent above him, cringing as the breeze tickled the hair on his forehead.
At Stratt's silence, he asked, “So is that a ‘no’, or…?”
“That's a ‘no’,” she confirmed. “Ibuprofen will hide a possible fever and a doctor will be taking your vitals soon.”
Grace nodded hard.
His eyes slipped shut against his will. Breaths evening out, the pulse of sleep thrummed through him. Even with the clattering and chatting around him, he was drifting off.
Maybe a quick nap wouldn't hurt?
“Doctor Grace?”
He couldn't open his eyes. Not yet. As if a weight had settled over his body, even breathing took effort…
Maybe too much effort.
A cough punched him in the chest. Grace’s lungs burned. The itching pain doubled down, digging deep. Grace hacked hard enough to hurt, leaving him breathless and shaking as he peeled his eyes open at last.
Whatever sleep remained had been seized by the strain in his chest and the blinding light above him. Squinting, Grace turned his head into the pillows as the voice called out again, “Doctor Grace, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” Grace mumbled into the fabric. Twisting to look back up with an arm shielding his eyes, he stared up at heavy PPE obscuring a kind face.
The man above him smiled, his lips cocked sideways and eyes bright. Disregarding the hazmat suit, he seemed standoffish and gentle as he said, “How do you feel, Doctor Grace?”
“Awake,” Grace hummed. “Tired. Sick. I can go on.”
“Please do,” the man said as he turned and took a bag from another person swaddled in PPE. Turning back to Grace with a hard-shelled case, he clicked it open and began gathering the instruments for a blood draw. Flashing another smile, he said, “My name is Doctor Jason Kendrick, by the way. I'll be heading your case.” With a gesture behind him, he said, “And this is Doctor Cora Blazejack. She'll be assisting me.”
Behind them, Grace found Stratt in her tent, watching intently. How long had he been asleep? He couldn't tell. Nonetheless, Grace croaked, “Nice to meet you, all things considered.”
“I wish it were under different circumstances,” Kendrick said with a sour laugh. “After all of this mess is done, I'll grab you a beer, how's that sound?”
Grace couldn't help but smile back. “Sounds good.”
As Kendrick tied a band off around his upper arm, Blazejack pulled a pulse ox, digital stethoscope, BP cuff, and more from her bag.
Oh, great.
It was time to be a guinea pig.
Blazejack clipped the pulse oximeter to his finger and wrapped the cuff around his other bicep as Kendrick began, “You know, you're pretty famous around here.” A thermometer glided over his forehead with a soft announcement of, “101.4” from Blazejack while Kendrick continued, “I remember hearing that Stratt found this molecular biologist that was really…outspoken about alien life forms a couple years back.”
Grace cringed. “Did Stratt tell you about that? Or is word of mouth that powerful around here?” At the mention of her name, Stratt’s eyes snapped up to him. He turned away. “I always found that adults gossip more than my middle schoolers do.”
Kendrick snickered. “No, no, I read your paper all on my own.” His fingers moved fast despite the PPE, sliding a needle into the crook of Grace's elbow painlessly as he drew the first vial of blood. As it filled, the man switched it out for a second with practiced ease. Those bright blue eyes shone with endearment as he said, “And I was actually at the UNESCO conference, too. I remember you well, Doctor Grace.”
“Ah, God,” Grace groaned. The sound petered off into a round of violent coughs. As he struggled to catch his breath, he mumbled, “That's so unfortunate.”
Waving his free hand through the air, Kendrick said, “Don't worry. You were young and inspired. It was pretty fun to watch, that's for sure,” as Blazejack announced, “pulse 110 bpm, oxygen saturation 96%, BP 122/78”. Then, after a moment, she stacked on, “respiration rate 22” as Kendrick asked, “What was that, fifteen years ago, now?”
“Yeah, about that,” Grace said. When he sucked in a breath, he felt it crackling in his lungs. “I've had better days, that's for sure.”
“Well, I certainly didn't mind,” Kendrick said, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “It was nice to see someone so spirited in that stuffy old place.” As he continued to push through the vials of blood, Grace watched with a fuzzy sort of feeling building in his head. A shudder wracked through him. Kendrick continued, “You know, Stratt talked about you for a couple days before you came here. She seemed pretty excited to find someone like you. Everyone on my team thought you seemed–”
“Weird?” Grace offered with a bitter smile. “Out of place? Or maybe we’re going for avante-garde? I get that one a lot.”
Blazejack pressed the digital stethoscope to his chest underneath the scrub top, the cold metal a shock to his shivering system. She said, “Take a deep breath for me?”
Grace did.
It hurt as he dissolved into another coughing fit. “Sorry, sorry,” he wheezed.
She said, “Don't worry about it. Breathe normally.”
“No,” Kendrick continued casually. “No, actually, we were all really intrigued. No other scientist had figured out what astrophage was, but we figured if anyone could, it would be you, the kid who's been arguing about non-water based life for over a decade.” The man grinned when Grace squirmed at the epithet of ‘kid’. “A couple other coworkers of mine were also at the UNESCO conference. Biologists, and all that,” Kendrick said.
“That's a way to think about it,” Grace huffed.
He was freezing.
His teeth chattered as he felt the world swaying despite him lying flat. Dizziness left his stomach twisting into knots. As he squeezed his eyes shut, he heard Kendrick say, “Just one more. Almost done.”
Grace grit out, “It's fine.”
Or maybe he slurred it? Maybe it didn't make any sense because Kendrick asked, “Doctor Grace? Can you tell me how you are feeling?”
“Mm?” Grace asked. Opening his eyes left everything wobbling around him as nausea reared its head. He squeezed them shut as he trembled in a cold sweat. “I'm good. I'm okay.”
As he felt the needle slip out of his arm and a gauze pad pressed in its place, Kendrick said, “All done. Can you hear me, Doctor Grace?”
Yes, he could. But opening his mouth to say so would only leave him vomiting, he was sure. Instead, Grace ground his teeth together and breathed hard. Swallowing back a wave of thickness in his throat, he groaned.
Normally, he wasn’t a wimp when it came to routine blood collection. But, then again, six vials was a touch over the usual, oh, one or two from his general physician’s labs. Especially on an empty stomach. He couldn't force himself to eat earlier that morning and, now, regret splashed through his veins.
God, he was going to puke, wasn't he?
Swallowing again, he started, “I’m–” and cut himself off when a blast of heat ripped through his body. “Gonna be sick,” he choked out, struggling to roll onto his side. Hands manhandled him over as a bag was pressed to his mouth.
“You're okay,” Kendrick said. Grace's rebelling stomach said otherwise. He gagged involuntarily, tears beading in his eyes. “Better out than in.”
Through the speakers, Stratt ordered, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s fine,” Kendrick said, holding his free hand up. “Nausea isn’t abnormal after a blood draw given his condition–”
Grace heaved up watery bile. A whine slipped out of him as his guts clenched painfully tight. “Crap,” he groaned. “This–” He heaved again. Stomach acid burned the inside of his nose, carving a path up his throat as he spat it into the bag. A bout of shivers left him practically rattling under his blanket as snot and tears smudged his face. “”m good,” Grace mumbled on a sharp inhale. “Just peachy.”
“I can see that,” Kendrick chuckled as he pulled the bag away and eased Grace back down to lie flat. He offered a towel and Grace took it slowly, wiping his face. “Do you normally have a vasovagal response to blood draws?”
With a slow shake of his head, Grace said, “No…” He cracked his eyes open. “I’m pretty sick, huh?”
“Just a little bit,” Kendrick said.
Overhead, Stratt’s voice said, “Please give me your report, Doctor Kendrick.”
“In a moment,” Kendrick said smoothly as he focused his attention on Grace, checking him over and reviewing the vitals Blazejack took. Blazejack, meanwhile, packed up their materials and shuffled into the decompression station as Kendrick leaned down and asked, “How do you feel now?”
“Sick,” Grace confessed.
The man nodded, unpacking a water bottle before cracking the cap. “Take slow sips.”
Grace took the bottle in a shaking hand. Propping himself up on his elbow, he followed directions.
“If you need anything, you call for me, okay? I’ll be just over there–” Kendrick pointed off to the side and Grace’s gaze followed sluggishly. More cots lined the walls, absent of privacy but offering more comfort than his own. “And I’ll wake up if you need me.”
As soon as Grace was finished with the water, he clumsily closed the cap, set it down, and flopped backwards with a sigh. Behind him, the door hissed open and shut again. Once again, the hum of the pressurized air filter above him began to lull him towards a sleep his aching body so desperately craved.
He croaked, “Hey, Stratt.”
Silence met him.
Did she turn off her comms? Glancing over at her, she found her talking to Kendrick. Without his PPE, Grace could see the other doctor's age in his peppery grey hair and wrinkles skin. As they talked, Stratt's gaze cut to him for only a moment before she nodded at Kendrick's words and dismissed the man.
Then, stepping to her comms, she pressed the button and said, “What do you need, Doctor Grace?” Even from a few feet away, he could hear the exasperation in her voice. “Is this important?”
“Very,” Grace wheezed.
Stratt said, “Continue.”
“So, I'm stuck in this box,” he huffed, already breathless. “And I'm bored and I'm sick but I'm literally fine so just…let me go home. Sleep this off. Please.” She glanced over him as bemusement tightened her features. Was wanting to go home and sleep off a cold really that bizarre to her? He threw his hands up as he whined, “Come on! You know I'm right!” Taking a few hard breaths hurt his lungs. He wheezed, “Even if I'm not, microbes are specialized. These wouldn't have a way to infect a human body. And even if - a big, fat if - they had infected me, there's no way for them to be contagious. Like, I'm not–”
“Stop,” Stratt said.
“I'm not finished!” he cried.
His body decided he was done though as another round of violent coughs silenced him. He groaned, rolling onto his stomach as each one rattled his frame and sent his pounding headache burrowing deeper into his skull.
Pity washed over Stratt's expression as she said, “I can promise you that I do not wish to be doing this any more than you do. But we cannot afford for you to be wrong and, at the rate this illness is progressing, it may be serious.”
“I'm not wrong,” Grace choked, clearing his throat.
“You don't know that,” she murmured. “We’ve made first contact with an alien species. Anything could happen.”
Grace’s lip curled. “It's an alien species that eats solar energy and farts it out.” Patting his chest, he said, “I'm not made of solar energy! It wants nothing to do with me–!” His chest burned as more hacking shut him up. He coughed harder, wheezing between the seconds.
As the abuse subsided, he flopped back down with a gasp and burrowed as far under the blankets as he could.
Across from him, Stratt's eyebrows dipped low. “Rest, Doctor Grace,” she ordered. “You need it.” Grace flopped onto his side, hugging his arms close to his chest as he shivered.
If she responded, he didn't hear it as his eyes fluttered shut.
He woke to darkness.
Something hissed to his right. Grace blinked blearily at Kendrick - suited in his hazmat PPE - as he adjusted an oxygen tank next to the cot. The man glanced over at him as he asked, “Hello, Doctor Grace.” It was then that Grace noticed his left arm was wrapped in medical instruments: the BP cuff, the pulse oximeter–Kendrick checked his temperature. When it beeped, the man frowned at what he saw. Nonetheless, he asked, “How do you feel?”
Grace made to blink, closing his eyes.
They refused to open.
A heavy hand settled on his heaving chest and Grace forced himself to look up at Kendrick. “I'm…” His voice sounded strange. Cold air tickled against his nose. Oxygen? Fumbling, Grace pulled at the thin, plastic cannula as he wheezed, “I think I'm pretty sick.”
Kendrick cracked a smile. Layering his hand over Grace's, he pulled it away. “You are,” he said. “So you need to keep this right where it is.” Reaching down, he tilted Grace's fingers towards him to display the oximeter screen and announced, “Your oxygen saturation is 93%, hence the cannula.” His eyes scanned Grace's face as he added, “And your fever is up. 103.3.”
Grace mumbled, “I can tell.”
“I bet you can,” Kendrick said softly.
A burst of coughing startled Grace into movement as he jerked upright to the sensation of suffocating. Kendrick’s arm stretched across the back of his shoulders, levering him upright, easing his suffering for only a second as more ruthless coughs stole his breath.
Oh God, he couldn't breathe.
He couldn't–
Coughing until he felt lightheaded, Grace’s stomach wrenched up as he doubled over the side of the cot, held up by Kendrick alone. The man shouted something and movement erupted behind him but he couldn't breathe. Tears sprung to his eyes. His chest screamed in agony. Ribs burning, Grace whined as he wheezed and hacked.
His lungs afforded him a crackling, weak breath.
Then another.
Grace sagged in Kendrick’s hold, going limp as he focused on every inhale. When he tried to haul himself upright, Kendrick said, “Don't strain yourself.” He maneuvered Grace onto his side. “Try not to move.”
“Where…” He choked on spit. “Where would I go?” Rubbing his eyes, he sniffled hard and rolled onto his other side. Through the glass, he watched as Blazejack rushed forward dressed in sweatpants and a loose fitting shirt for sleep. He'd have to apologize later for waking her up.
Blinking up at Kendrick, he wondered if the man had been woken up by his deteriorating condition, too. Because it was getting bad, wasn't it?
Maybe he had been wrong.
Oh, a horrendous death by an evil alien microbe couldn’t be too bad, now, could it? How fitting for a scientist like himself…
Grace groaned as his chest burned. He gasped, his lungs crackling loudly. One of his hands found his hair and made a fist, tugging hard as he ground out, “This sucks.”
Cold fingers curled into his tightening hold, easing them open. “Let's not do that, Doctor Grace,” Kendrick hummed above him. Glancing up at the man, Grace shuddered on a particularly sharp wheeze. He must've looked pathetic because Kendrick frowned deeply. “Can you answer a few questions for me?”
“Yeah,” Grace mumbled.
As Blazejack entered the decontamination room, Kendrick asked, “Can you tell me where you live?”
Grace gasped out, “12…27 South…” He coughed hard, each jarring movement sapping his consciousness away. Lamely, Grace continued, “South Hampden street.” He didn't have the energy to quip back or say something snarky as badly as he wanted to. The tension was strangling him. Nonetheless, he choked, “I’m…I'm in trouble, aren't I?”
“I’ll do what I can for you, Doctor Grace,” Kendrick said softly. “But let's focus on making you comfortable. Next question: how old are you?”
Blazejack stepped into the room, donning her heavy PPE. The two physicians worked together to prop him upright and start an IV. Grace huffed, “Forty-five.”
“And where are you right now?” Kendrick asked as he tacked on softly, “Starting a one-liter saline.”
Grace coughed out, “No clue, not…not gonna lie.” He cracked a smile. “Stratt…never told me…”
Kendrick checked the bag over. “Good answer.” Then, with a sigh, he stepped back. “You need fluids and rest. Take a nap.”
Flashing a trembling thumbs up to Kendrick, Grace closed his eyes.
He drifted off.
Someone was talking to him.
Saying his name?
Why?
His ears were clogged tight, his eyes burning when he blinked them open.
He couldn't see clearly.
Grace frowned.
What was happening?
“Doctor Grace,” the voice called.
It sounded like–
“Stratt,” Grace heaved. His eyes shut against his will.
She screamed, “Kendrick! Get over here! Now!”
“What's happening?” someone called, their voice distant. Too distant, in fact, as if the person were submerged underwater. Or perhaps Grace was? Perhaps his head was being held under and that was why he couldn't breathe? “Grace! Doctor Grace!”
Something hissed.
A door slammed shut.
Louder now, Kendrick said, “Doctor Grace? Can you hear me?”
He hummed an affirmative.
Didn’t he?
Maybe not…
“He's losing consciousness,” Kendrick said. Cold hands cupped his face. Something glided across his forehead. “104.2–Shit, he’s deteriorating. He needs hospitalization. There isn't anything I can do for him here, Stratt.”
Voices trailed above him.
Floating and cold, Grace hovered in nothingness. He was numb and tired, and everything was hurting but he didn't feel it at all. Not really.
Not until Kendrick peeled his eye open and a light flicked to the left. “Right pupil reactive,” he announced. He mimicked the movement with Grace's other eye. “Left, equal and reactive. “Doctor Grace, can you hear me?”
A beat passed.
Kendrick called out, “Goddamnit, Blazejack, where's that test result? He needs a fucking hospital!”
Grace swallowed hard.
He was going to die, wasn't he?
It should've scared him, he knew. Instead, he felt floaty and odd. Nothing was making sense.
A slam rattled his cot.
Hissing followed.
Another slam, louder this time, and a female voice said. “Here.” Blazejack?
Something crinkled nearby and Grace cracked his eyes open at last. His stomach twisted. Did… Did someone have potato chips?
He was hungry.
Kendrick held something in his hands. Chips?
No, the man was reading the object over. Paper, maybe? Grace couldn't see right.
Behind him, Blazejack was free of her hazmat suit and dressed down in a KN95 mask and gloves. Grace blinked sluggishly at her.
Where was her PPE?
Did something happen?
Grace's eyes flicked over to Kendrick.
The man scanned what Grace's exhausted brain now recognized as, indeed, a piece of paper. No chips in sight. Wheezing hard, Grace tried not to cough. His feverish shivers left him shaking as he burrowed under the blanket.
“Doctor Grace,” Kendrick began, dropping to a kneel. His gloved hand scooped up one of Grace's and, with a smile, he squeezed gently as he said, “Your labs are back.”
Swallowing hard, Grace’s chest stuttered. It hurt to breathe. He groaned out, “What… What do I–?”
“IAV H3N2,” Kendrick said.
Grace blinked. “What?”
Chuckling under his PPE, the man said, “You heard me. You've got IAV H3N2. Influenza A.” As he squeezed Grace's hand again, he added, “But it's clearly developed into pneumonia. We'll be sending for an ambulance to get you to the hospital, okay?” He gestured to Blazejack. She slipped out of the quarantine room. “That's where she's headed. To call 911.”
“I have…the flu…?” Grace wheezed.
“You do,” Kendrick said. He turned around and Grace's eyes, while struggling to follow, caught Stratt's exhausted stare. With bags under her eyes and a sharp frown tugging at her lips, she inhaled sharply as she looked them over. Kendrick asked, “Did you hear that, Stratt?”
“I did,” she said.
Kendrick turned back to him. He said something warbling and quiet. Grace stared up at the man, watching his face twist up. He adjusted something on the oxygen tank before fiddling with his hazmat suit and pulling it off.
Grace saw his name form on Kendrick's lips.
He couldn't move.
His eyes fluttered shut.
Movement erupted around him.
Sounds, clattering and shuffling. Voices. “On three,” someone said.
A countdown.
More movement, his body jolting as he was lifted up. Over. Down onto something soft. Numbers were rattled off above him as he peeled his eyes open to Kendrick's tight glare. Next to him, Stratt hovered close, her normally impassive expression lost in something Grace had never seen.
Guilt?
Fear?
What was that emotion she was unabashedly wearing?
“Just keep breathing,” Kendrick said, leaning in close. “That's it. Nice and deep. Don't stop breathing just like that." Grace was moving, the ceiling shifting high above him. What was happening? Two other people stood on either side of him. “I'll meet you at the hospital, Doctor Grace.”
Grace closed his eyes.
Contrary to popular opinion, Grace preferred hospital pudding to store-bought crap.
The hospital stuff was always sweeter and better tasting despite being, well, store-bought crap. There was something about it being hand-delivered by a nurse that made it taste so much better, though. Or maybe it was because of the drugs he was on? The sickness in general? The sweet treat when he felt like his chest was being ripped open? Digging his spoon into the bottom of the plastic cup, Grace grumbled when the IV line and taped pulse ox got in the way of his pudding forging. The hospital bustled around him as nurses chatted and alarms occasionally beeped and blared. But his focus was undivided as he scraped the remnants of pudding up and onto the spoon.
“Maybe I shouldn't get you that beer,” Kendrick said, leaning back in the visitor's chair. “Maybe I'll just buy you another pudding and call it a day.”
“It's pretty darn good,” Grace said, offering him the empty snack cup. “You can lick it off the sides if you want to try.”
Kendrick chuckled, holding his hand up. “I'll trust you, Doctor Grace,” he said as he stood up and stretched. Gathering his coat and keys from the chair, he turned to Grace. Something warm and content washed over his expression, softening the years in his wrinkles. “Now that I know you're going to live, I need to report back to Stratt. She’s a busy woman, after all.”
Offering a sloppy little salute his way, Grace said, “Good luck.”
“I'll need it,” Kendrick huffed. Hesitating, he licked his lips before clearing his throat. “You know, she didn't say it, but I could tell she was worried about you. Especially towards the end, there.” The older man raised his head high. It didn't hide the furrow of his brows. “We all were, if I'm being honest. Influenza developing into pneumonia that fast isn’t common.”
Sighing, Grace shrugged. “Yeah, you can't lose a valuable microbiologist like me, huh?”
Something tense washed over Kendrick. “You are worth more than that factor, Doctor Grace.” Shrugging on his coat, he glanced around the simple hospital room. “You may not know me well, and I get that. But I've been following your work for fifteen years. I'm a bit of a fan.” As his gaze found Grace again, he smiled. “You're incredibly clever, Ryland. Don't let Stratt - or anyone, for that matter - make you think you're not.”
Grace swallowed hard.
He adjusted his glasses as he said, “I'll, uh. Keep that in mind.”
Kendrick said, “Good. That's very good.” As he crossed the room, he stopped in the doorway - catching Carl's attention - and added, “When you come back, don't forget to drop in and say hi. Blazejack will be happy to see you.”
“Sure, sure. Absolutely. Sounds good,” Grace mumbled, fiddling with his IV line to detract from his burning cheeks. He watched Kendrick turn and leave, the room now empty save for him and Carl stationed at the door.
Carl turned to him and looked him over. Finding a seat in Kendrick's chair, he began, “Hey.” When Grace glanced over at the young man with a hum, he adjusted himself casually, folding his hands in his lap. “You scared the hell out of everyone, you know that?”
Grace grinned as he said, “Yeah, well, I had the flu.”