Leaving the station in Philadelphia, Marissa took a cab to Abington, which turned out to be a far more expensive ride than she’d anticipated. Luckily she had some traveler’s checks tucked in her wallet, and the driver was willing to accept them. Outside the Berson Hospital, she was confronted by the police barricade pictured in the newspaper. Before she attempted to cross, she asked a reporter if the place was quarantined. “No,” said the man, who had been trying to interview a doctor who had just sauntered past. The police were there in case a quarantine was ordered. Marissa flashed her CDC identity card at one of the guards. He admitted her without question.
The hospital was a handsome, new facility much like the sites of the
Ebola outbreaks in L.A. and Phoenix. As Marissa headed toward the information booth, she wondered why the virus seemed to strike these elegant new structures rather than the grubby inner-city hospitals in New York or Boston.
There were a lot of people milling about the lobby, but nothing like the chaos that she’d seen in Phoenix. People seemed anxious but not terrified. The man at the information booth told Marissa that the cases were in the hospital’s isolation unit on the sixth floor. Marissa had started toward the elevators when the man called out, “I’m sorry, but there are no visitors allowed.” Marissa flashed her CDC card again. “I’m sorry, doctor. Take the last elevator. It’s the only one that goes to six.”
When Marissa got off the elevator, a nurse asked her to don protective clothing immediately. She didn’t question Marissa as to why she was there. Marissa was particularly glad to put on the mask; it gave her anonymity as well as protection.
“Excuse me, are any of the CDC doctors available?” she asked, startling the two women gossiping behind the nurses’ station.
“I’m sorry. We didn’t hear you coming,” said the older of the two. “The CDC people left about an hour ago,” said the other. “I think they said they were going down to the administrator’s office. You could try there.”
“No matter,” said Marissa. “How are the three patients?”
“There are seven now,” said the first woman. Then she asked Marissa to identify herself.
“I’m from the CDC,” she said, purposely not giving her name. “And you?”
“Unfortunately, we’re the RN’s who normally run this unit. We’re used to isolating patients with lowered resistance to disease, not cases of fatal contagious disease. We’re glad you people are here.”
“It is a little frightening at first,” commiserated Marissa, as she boldly entered the nurses’ station. “But if it’s any comfort, I’ve been involved with all three previous outbreaks and haven’t had any problems.” Marissa did not admit to her own fear. “Are the charts here or in the rooms?”
“Here,” said the older nurse, pointing to a corner shelf.
“How are the patients doing?”
“Terribly. I know that doesn’t sound very professional, but I’ve never seen sicker people. We’ve used round-the-clock special-duty nursing, but no matter what we try, they keep getting worse.”
Marissa well understood the nurse’s frustration. Terminal patients generally depressed the staff.
“Do either of you know which patient was admitted first?” The older nurse came over to where Marissa was sitting and pushed the charts around noisily before pulling out one and handing it to Marissa. “Dr. Alexi was the first. I’m surprised he’s lasted the day.”
Marissa opened the chart. There were all the familiar symptoms but no mention of foreign travel, animal experiments or contact with any of the three previous outbreaks. But she did learn that Alexi was the head of ophthalmology! Marissa was amazed; was Dubchek right after all?
Unsure of how long she dared stay in the unit, Marissa opted to see the patient right away. Donning an extra layer of protective clothing, including disposable goggles, she entered the room.
“Is Dr. Alexi conscious?” she asked the special-duty nurse, whose name was Marie. The man was lying silently on his back, mouth open, staring at the ceiling. His skin was already the pasty yellow shade that Marissa had learned to associate with near-death.
“He goes in and out,” said the nurse. “One minute he’s talking, the next he’s unresponsive. His blood pressure has been falling again. I’ve been told that he’s a ‘no code.'”