THE PANGEA CHRONICLES . BOOK 1.. 107.9°

101.9°

Princeton Baptist Medical Center

Birmingham, AL

14 June, 2019

1227 am.

"What is taking so long? And why do we keep getting skipped?" Desiree Parker was severely agitated with the way the ER had been running. One after one, she watched as new patients came in, got triaged, then jumped ahead of her and went to the back.

"Ma'am," the Registration Specialist grumbled, herself growing impatient, "I've already told you, we assign every new patient a number, based on the severity of their emergency. Now, forgive me for saying so, but your friend has the flu, and we just don't think it's as dire a situation as the family of four that just came in Life flight."

"Fine," Desi said, as she crossed her arms and stormed away. Any other time, she'd have stood her ground and argued her point until someone got off their butts and helped them. But she just didn't have the energy today.
The stress is wearing you down, girl. You worry so much for everyone else; might be time to take care of you, too.

Swallowing her frustration, she sat back down by her boyfriend, and began dabbing his forehead with the cloth she had been re-wetting every few minutes. Desiree felt helpless. Sammy had been sick before sure, and like all men, he was a big baby when under the weather.

But this.

Her eyes misted as the thought of life without her Haole sweetheart.

You stop that right now, Desi. He's going to be fine.

Looking in his pale blue eyes– now made to look hollow by the dark purple circles forming underneath–she's whisked back to the first time they danced. How lost she became in those eyes."Des," a weak voice whispered, barely audible above the droning waiting room television. Her heart sank as she watched Sammy's eyes affixing on the overhead light.

"Baby?" It was all she could do to get the word out, as his hands tightened in a twisted grasp of nothing. Desiree watched in horror, as the man she cared so much for jerked suddenly, and fell to the dirty waiting room floor. Sammy's jaw clenched shut, as the seizure tore through his fevered brain, causing him to bite through his tongue. Pulse after pulse of misfired signals twisted him this way and that, as his head began slamming against the chair he'd been sitting in seconds before.

"Jesus Christ, what's the matter with you people," Desi screamed through frightened tears towards the admissions window. "Help him! Please!"

The waiting room erupted in a din of activity, as orderlies ran out to assist. As security cleared the area around him, Sammy began to calm, allowing an opportunity for nurses to lift his now limp frame on to the stretcher.

"Just give us a few more minutes, ma'am, let us clean him up," the nurse said soothingly as the other staff began to wheel him away. For the first time since she brought Sammy in, she felt like someone cared. The woman with the lovely island accent seemed to have genuine concern for Desiree's situation. "You won't want to see him like dis."

Desiree nodded her acceptance, thanking the Nurse before the tears took her voice.

"Hey, he's in a good place, ok?" Althea placed her arms around the distraught woman, offering her compassion, but knowing it would do little to silence her breaking heart.

++++

16 June, 2019

8:00pm

"He was a mess, Dr. Crenshaw. His skin was dry and so hot. We took his temperature and vitals, and they were like no ting me ever seen."

Richard looked up from the notepad on which he was furiously scribbling, trying to keep up with the animated Nurse. "Alright, well, does the morgue have a terminal? You can download your notes there, and it will be a great asset when we do the exam with the ME."

Althea looked at both the doctors, as the light faded from her demeanor. Noticing the shock on her face, Warren laughed softly. "You can Relax, Nurse Timmons, we're not actually going to do the physical exam with you present. We just want all the information we can find beforehand, to help figure out what happened."

For a brief moment, Richard started to appreciate the man he was saddled with. He had an aura about him that screamed 'Trust me', and maybe there would come a time, he could.

But today wasn't it.

The elevator lurched forward, as Althea pulled the stop back out. Within seconds the doors opened in the bright, clinical nothingness that was the hospital Morgue.

"I don't need a computer for notes, Dr." Althea was relaxed again, content on not having to take part in any desecration of the dead. She pointed at her head, smiling. "All me notes, I keep up here."

Richard lifted his pen back to the pad, as she began to tell him her clinical observations. The accent he thought so beautiful melted away, and Nurse Timmons showed exactly what kept her in charge.

"When he went through triage, granted he was very symptomatic. Cervical lymphadenopathy was pronounced, and temperature was moderately high, at 102.9. We took blood, and ran a WBC panel, which was around 14.5k."

Dr. Crenshaw looked up from his notes. "What was his initial complaint?"

"Actually, Dr., Mr. Kehoe just sat there, silent. His symptoms were related second hand, through the girlfriend. He had been complaining chiefly of mild flu symptoms–lethargy, rhinitis, pharyngeal irritation, and an unproductive cough. Onset had begun approximately 12 days prior, with a typical flu-like progression. But upon day 13, she states, he lapsed into a deep lethargy, prompting her to bring him here."

"So basically, according to the girlfriend, he had the flu. She assumed the caregiver role, until the infection became more than home remedy could handle." Richard removed his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. "So how did we get to the point of mortality?" Pausing, he considered the question more for himself, than awaiting an answer from the Nurse. "We're any more tests done initially?"

Nurse Timmons leaned forward in her chair, and cleared her throat. "Yes, Doctor. Being as we suspected a more virulent strain of influenza, the Attending Physician ordered a nasopharyngeal swab taken, and it was tested using Molecular Assay."

"And have the results come back?"

"They have, yes."

Dr. Crenshaw looked up again from his notes, aware of her pause. Her face had lost all it's charming island light, and the shadow of fear faded her everlasting smile.

"And what were they?"

Her brow furrowed, as if searching for some meaning in all the last 48 hours had wrought. "It was Influenza, Alpha strain. But that's as far as we got."

Richard was becoming impatient, not understanding her sudden shutting down. "These tests, they're designed to type the strain, and are reagent to all known variables. It would have had a group of letters and numbers. H3N9, etcetera. Do you remember what it was?"

A flash of anger hit Althea; frustration at this Doctor's condescending tone. Her island accent returned full force, as she glared at both the men. "I been in dis a lifetime, I'm not some peasant farmer to stupid ta read. That report only had one more word, and it got me tinking, we may be in trouble."

"What did it say," Warren interrupted.

"UN-TYPABLE."