I met Crenshaw after lunch in the mess hall and she took me down a series of dimly lit corridors where I knew her office was, until we reached the door that led downstairs to the lab. There we were met by a woman wearing medical scrubs whointroduced herself as Dr. Aparna Godara. Middle-aged and of Indian descent, she had shiny black hair threaded with gray, pulled back in a low ponytail. She wore thick eyeglasses and conservative heels–church shoes, my mother would have called them–and like Crenshaw, she was careful with her words.
Dr. Godara unlocked the door to the medical wing with her badge and we followed behind her. My first observation was how different the lighting was down there, so bright I had to squint. The hallways were spotless with a faint chemical smell and the walls were bare–it more resembled a scientific lab than a hospital. All of the equipment I spotted along the way looked very high-tech. They must have had several generators running to make all of this electricity possible.
“How many patients do you have?” I asked Dr. Godara.
“Twenty to thirty at any given time,” she said as she led us down a long hallway with doors on each side. Each door had a small window and a whiteboard with the patient’s name written on it. Most of the “names” were a series of letters and numbers that I figured were meant to identify them. They probably didn’t know the names of the Rabids they brought in, but I hoped they’d used Cipher’s name and not just a number.
“Most of our patients have been infected with the virus for months, even years,” Dr. Godara told us as we slowed our pace. “Some of them expire in the process of administering the initial dose, simply from shock and trauma. We’re reluctant to infect healthy people just to test our treatments, so Cipher’s situation is an ideal one for our research purposes.”
Of course I wanted a cure for Rabbit Fever as much as the next guy, but I didn’t care for the way she made Cipher sound like some kind of test case.
“Does that mean he’s cured?” I asked the doctor.
“We’re careful about using the word “cured.” Cipher is no longer contagious or exhibiting symptoms of Lyssaviruscuniculus, but like most viruses, it’s likely lying dormant in his system. It may come back as another variant, similar to the way chickenpox can resurface as shingles. Unfortunately we don’t have enough data to know what might trigger a reactivation.”
The fact that Cipher might get sick again was not a comforting one, but he was alive and not Rabid, and that was an incredible blessing.
“Will he have to stay here for observation?” I asked as my brother’s words came back to haunt me. Cipher would hate being stuck in a lab.
“That’s to be determined. At a minimum, we would need to check his vitals and draw blood samples from him periodically. He may also need additional treatment. We’re continually making refinements to our pharmaceuticals as we get new data. There’s so much about the virus we still don’t know.”
She sounded excited by it, by the fact that there was a virus ravaging the human population, but maybe that was just the scientist in her. One man’s plague was another man’s Nobel Prize.
I sounded like Cipher.
We stopped in front of a room with “Cipher” written on the whiteboard outside of it. Dr. Godara reached for the door’s metal latch.
“Wait,” I said, suddenly in a panic, remembering the state he’d been in when I last saw him. He hadn’t known who I was or who he was. He’d been so out of it, desperate and wild, not to mention how I felt about my own inability to help him. “Is he… himself?” I asked the doctor.
Dr. Godara smiled in a kind way. “Cipher’s cognitive function doesn’t seem impaired, a miracle really, but there are gaps in his memory. You could probably help him with that more than we can, but you must remember to be patient and not overwhelm him. It’s best if he remembers things on his own, and if he seesyou getting upset, then he’ll likely get upset as well. He’s quite emotionally intelligent.”
“Yes, he is,” I agreed.
“You’ll have an hour with him. We’ll be monitoring you the entire time. It’s necessary, I’m afraid, until he’s fully recovered. If at any point you need to leave, just call out and we’ll unlock the doors.”
I nodded, trying to keep track of everything she’d said, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart as she reached for the door and opened it.
FIFTEEN
CIPHER
A young manentered my room; his hair reminded me of a fluffy cloud surrounding his handsome face. He looked nervous as hell and didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He tried stuffing them in his pockets, then rubbed them together and tamped down his hair. Finally, he dropped his arms and held them stiffly at his sides.
Happily, I now had free use of my hands and legs. The restraints had come off a few days ago, and I’d been walking around my room to bring back the strength I’d lost while sick and strapped to the bed. Godara said my physical therapy sessions would start soon, and I was looking forward to it.
Still, being stuck inside these four walls was a drag. I wanted to see grass and sunlight, check out the base and do a little recon. I’d been looking forward to this visit with my “friend” since Godara mentioned it the day before. I’d showered and washed my hair, even shaved the scruff on my face and neck. I’d also insisted on some real clothes, rather than having to greet him in that skimpy hospital gown. I probably still looked rough as hell but at least I was clean.
“Hi,” the young man said, giving me a timid little wave, still standing on the other side of the room.
“I’m not contagious,” I said. That’s what Godara had told me at least.
“Oh, that’s not why…” He took a few abrupt steps toward me.
“Are you one of the friends I keep hearing about?” I asked.
He laughed, just a little. Killer smile, that one. “Yes, my name is Joshua Perrin-Rogers.” He held out his hand, and I shook it. It felt good to hold his hand, familiar in a way I couldn’t pinpoint. The brief contact was over too quickly.
“Joshua,” I said, rolling his name around on my tongue, trying to see what memories might resurface. I’d done more than just memorize their names, I’d used them like a lifeline these past couple days, repeating them in my head while imagining who they might be. Part of me was afraid that my “friends” were simply an invention of the medical staff here to give me hope and help me get better, but this felt very real. Joshua Perrin-Rogers was somehow exactly as I’d imagined, and yet the name…
