Blue Plague, Red Redemption

Chapter 6: Damien Parnell

Parnell soon discovered that the quarantine center was at an old US Open tennis complex a short drive from the Brooklyn checkpoint where he and Hank were picked up. They had been taken there in separate ambulances and he guessed that would be the last he would see of his truck-driving acquaintance. The man was too old and couldn't possibly survive the worst of the symptoms. Hank hadn't shown any signs of the sickness yet--and hopefully wasn't infectious either--so he might still have had weeks, or even months before he succumbed. Parnell wondered if they'd send the man to one of the Pana Virus hospices he'd seen in one of his morning Terrafeeds, where the sick could live out their last days isolated from the rest of society and more comfortably than at a hospital while surrounded by three-meter high chain-linked fences.

They placed Parnell in a makeshift tent with opaque plastic sheets for walls, one of the hundreds that covered the floors of the tennis courts in the sprawling complex.

"Sorry," said Nica, as she walked him in, her voice a muffled echo coming through the plastic helmet. She was the only person he had contact with since the moment she tested him back at the checkpoint.

"All the indoor spaces are full right now," she said. "Here," she motioned to him and then poured a dollop of hand sanitizer into his hands. "Be sure to work this all the way up to your elbows. I'll go and check if they have any space heaters available. In the meantime, do you think you could change into the hospital gown while you wait and place your outerwear into the bin over there? We'll sterilize your clothes and get them back to you soon. And, please, don't let them touch your face when you take them off."

Parnell wanted to protest, but she walked off before he could think of what to say. It was late fall and he was already cold in his light jacket and pining for his overcoat. He never expected an adventure when he left for the airport in the morning, at least, not before getting on his Orbital Shuttle.

As he changed into the hospital gown and felt the cold air touch his bare skin, he silently agitated for his Bertier winter coat. All of his luggage had gone up into orbit weeks ago, shifted onto a solar-powered cargo tug, and by now was now waiting for him at Luna Prime Station in orbit around the moon. He sat there shivering on his cot, just centimeters off the ground. Maybe he'd get lucky and come down with pneumonia and die and be saved from all this Pana Virus nonsense. What a fine thought.

"Anton," asked Parnell, needing to occupy his mind with anything really. "When do I need to be at the airport to make my shuttle?"

"Sir, I estimate you would have to be there within the hour to have a 95 percent chance of making it on board before the gates close."

He was so close. He could probably call in a favor and get excused from this horrid place. But what then? Risk bringing the disease straight to Mars, the land of under-conditioned and radiation-compromised immune systems? He was almost sure that he wasn't infected. But then, he knew too much about the virus to take a chance on almost.

"Damien?" It was Nica again.

"Please, do come in. Not like I have much of a choice in the matter." Despite the sarcasm, he was genuinely pleased to see her.

"Thanks."

She gave him a soft, fragile look and handed him a blanket. It was hot, fresh out of the drier, or whatever they used to sterilize these things. Parnell relaxed a bit into the warmth.

"Thank you," he said. "Things aren't terribly brilliant, are they?"

"It's... no... they're not. I've sent a dozen people to the hospices in the past week. My worst week since I started this. But the ones that might make it pull on my heart the most. They and their families are stuck in this limbo for weeks, not knowing if they'll live or die or just how bad things will get for them."