I did not see where the litter went, but I was led across the road to a ramp on the north side of the building. From there we did not have far to go along a hallway until I was shown into a shower and blasted with Envirochem. I stripped and was blasted again with hot, soapy water. There were shelves of scrubs and booties, and I dried my hair with a towel. As instructed, I left my clothes in the middle of the floor along with all of my possessions.
A nurse waited in the hall, and she briskly walked me past the surgery room, then walls of autoclaves that reminded me of steel diving bells, the air foul with the stench of scalded laboratory animals. I was to stay in the 200 Ward, where a red line just inside my room warned patients in isolation not to cross. I looked around at the small hospital bed with its moist heating blanket, and ventilator, refrigerator and small television suspended from a corner. I noticed the coiled yellow air lines attached to pipes on the walls, the steel pass box in the door, through which meal trays were delivered, and irradiated with UV light when removed.
I sat on the bed, alone and depressed, and unwilling to contemplate how much trouble I might be in. Minutes passed. An outer door loudly shut, and mine swung open wide.
‘Welcome to the Slammer,’ Colonel Fujitsubo announced as he walked in.
He wore a Racal hood and heavy blue vinyl suit, which he plugged into one of the coiled air lines.
‘John,’ I said. ‘I’m not ready for this.’
‘Kay, be sensible.’
His strong face seemed severe, even frightening behind plastic, and I felt vulnerable and alone.
‘I need to let people know where I am,’ I said.
He walked over to the bed, tearing open a paper packet, a small vial and medicine dropper in a gloved hand.
‘Let’s see your shoulder. It’s time to revaccinate. And we’re going to treat you to a little vaccinia immune globulin, too, for good measure.’
‘My lucky day,’ I said.
He rubbed my right shoulder with an alcohol pad. I stood very still as he incised my flesh twice with a scarifier and dripped in serum.
‘Hopefully, this isn’t necessary,’ he added.
‘No one hopes it more than me.’
‘The good news is, you should have a lovely anamnestic response, with a higher level of the antibody than ever before. Vaccination within twenty-four to forty-eight hours of exposure will usually do the trick.’
I did not reply. He knew as well as I did that it might already be too late.
‘We’ll autopsy her at oh-nine-hundred hours and keep you for a few days beyond that, just to be sure,’ he said, dropping wrappers in the trash. ‘Are you having any symptoms at all?’
‘My head hurts and I’m cranky,’ I said.
He smiled, his eyes on mine. Fujitsubo was a brilliant physician who had sailed through the ranks of the Army’s Armed Forces Institute of Pathology, or AFIP, before taking over the command of USAMRIID. He was divorced and a few years older than me. He got a folded blanket from the foot of the bed, shook it open and draped it around my shoulders. He pulled up a chair and straddled it, his arms on top of the backrest.
‘John, I was exposed almost two weeks ago,’ I said.
‘By the homicide case.’
‘I should have it by now.’
‘Whatever it is. The last case of smallpox was in October I977, in Somalia, Kay. Since then it has been eradicated from the face of the earth.’
‘I know what I saw on the electron microscope. It could have been transmitted through unnatural exposure.’
‘Deliberately, you’re saying.’
‘I don’t know.’ I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. ‘But don’t you find it odd that the first person possibly infected was also murdered?’
‘I find all of this odd.’ He got up. ‘But beyond offering biologically safe containment for the body and you, there isn’t much we can do.’
‘Of course there is. There isn’t anything you can’t do.’ I did not want to hear of his jurisdictional conflicts.