Read Online Pestilence: A Medical Thriller by Victor Methos - Free Book Online
Authors: Victor Methos
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with two intake sheets attached. He took the elevator to the quarantine unit on the top floor, which was really nothing more than a portion of that floor cut off from the rest.
The elevators dinged and opened , and he stepped off. The nurse behind the desk smiled at him, and he smiled back without greeting her. He walked the length of the corridor to a room separated from the others. He looked in on the patient through a glass viewing window.
Candice Montgomery was a twenty-four-year-old student at Napa Valley College. She was studying communications and had been a cheerleader for the football team. Deluge hoped she had not been to a game or practice before she’d been admitted to the hospital.
Her symptoms were, at first, i ndicative of the flu—fever, rashes, headaches, and vomiting. But, in a progression so quick that Deluge was left wondering if she’d been poisoned, her condition deteriorated.
First , she developed small pustules on her skin. Little bumps that looked like kernels of corn had popped up on her flesh. Then her eyes, throat, and nose became irritated and swollen. These symptoms were not entirely alarming to Deluge or the ER staff, but what happened next, they had never seen before.
She broke out in pustules so severely that they covered nearly ninety-five percent of her body. They even broke out inside her throat, on her tongue, and over her eyes. She had gone blind as the pustules ruptured the conjunctiva, iris, and pupil. Heavy scarring had occurred afterward, and he guessed she was permanently blind.
But a more alarming symptom had developed th at morning. Her skin appeared to be black. Though full barrier nursing was in place and the risk of infection from an airborne pathogen was low, two nurses and a phlebotomist had turned down his requests that they tend to her. Since he had to suit up and withdraw the blood himself every time, running many tests was difficult. The pustules had made injections extremely painful for her, as well, and she would thrash about whenever the needle went into any part of her body.
The blackness underneath her skin had spread over her entire body , and she appeared as though she’d been charred. One nurse, brave enough to examine her, had revealed to him that Candice’s membranes in her orifices were disintegrating. The soft tissue at the opening of her nose, anus, vagina, and eyes was slipping off her as if they had rotted away.
Candice had been at Saint Anthony’s for eight days, and it only took one day of her symptomology for Deluge to notify the Centers for Disease Control. They had flown out, improved the barriers to prevent further infection, and then left. The man that had been sent, a doctor by the name of Cheney, told Deluge that she was too far gone for treatment and that they should keep her comfortable for the next few days. Nothing else could be done.
Blood tests had confirmed the presence of smallpox, but in a form the hematologist didn’t recognize. The CDC had taken all her infected blood and the test results.
“There must be something we can do,” Deluge had said to Cheney as he was preparing to leave.
“This pathogen is a hundred percent fatal.”
“ That’s ridiculous. Nothing’s a hundred percent fatal.”
Cheney glanced at him and then handed him a sheet of paper. “Write down anyone that has interacted with her since she’s been in the hospital. Then speak with her family and see if you can find out who she’s interacted with in the five days before she was admitted here. If any of them are showing symptoms, they have to be admitted with a full barrier set up. If you have any concerns, here’s the number to our local office. They’ll send someone out to help you.”
With that, Cheney left, leaving Deluge to wonder exactly what the hell he had on his hands.
Nancy Claiborne had worked at Saint Anthony’s Hospital for thirteen years and loved every minute of it —even the horrible patients who yelled, threw up on
The elevators dinged and opened , and he stepped off. The nurse behind the desk smiled at him, and he smiled back without greeting her. He walked the length of the corridor to a room separated from the others. He looked in on the patient through a glass viewing window.
Candice Montgomery was a twenty-four-year-old student at Napa Valley College. She was studying communications and had been a cheerleader for the football team. Deluge hoped she had not been to a game or practice before she’d been admitted to the hospital.
Her symptoms were, at first, i ndicative of the flu—fever, rashes, headaches, and vomiting. But, in a progression so quick that Deluge was left wondering if she’d been poisoned, her condition deteriorated.
First , she developed small pustules on her skin. Little bumps that looked like kernels of corn had popped up on her flesh. Then her eyes, throat, and nose became irritated and swollen. These symptoms were not entirely alarming to Deluge or the ER staff, but what happened next, they had never seen before.
She broke out in pustules so severely that they covered nearly ninety-five percent of her body. They even broke out inside her throat, on her tongue, and over her eyes. She had gone blind as the pustules ruptured the conjunctiva, iris, and pupil. Heavy scarring had occurred afterward, and he guessed she was permanently blind.
But a more alarming symptom had developed th at morning. Her skin appeared to be black. Though full barrier nursing was in place and the risk of infection from an airborne pathogen was low, two nurses and a phlebotomist had turned down his requests that they tend to her. Since he had to suit up and withdraw the blood himself every time, running many tests was difficult. The pustules had made injections extremely painful for her, as well, and she would thrash about whenever the needle went into any part of her body.
The blackness underneath her skin had spread over her entire body , and she appeared as though she’d been charred. One nurse, brave enough to examine her, had revealed to him that Candice’s membranes in her orifices were disintegrating. The soft tissue at the opening of her nose, anus, vagina, and eyes was slipping off her as if they had rotted away.
Candice had been at Saint Anthony’s for eight days, and it only took one day of her symptomology for Deluge to notify the Centers for Disease Control. They had flown out, improved the barriers to prevent further infection, and then left. The man that had been sent, a doctor by the name of Cheney, told Deluge that she was too far gone for treatment and that they should keep her comfortable for the next few days. Nothing else could be done.
Blood tests had confirmed the presence of smallpox, but in a form the hematologist didn’t recognize. The CDC had taken all her infected blood and the test results.
“There must be something we can do,” Deluge had said to Cheney as he was preparing to leave.
“This pathogen is a hundred percent fatal.”
“ That’s ridiculous. Nothing’s a hundred percent fatal.”
Cheney glanced at him and then handed him a sheet of paper. “Write down anyone that has interacted with her since she’s been in the hospital. Then speak with her family and see if you can find out who she’s interacted with in the five days before she was admitted here. If any of them are showing symptoms, they have to be admitted with a full barrier set up. If you have any concerns, here’s the number to our local office. They’ll send someone out to help you.”
With that, Cheney left, leaving Deluge to wonder exactly what the hell he had on his hands.
Nancy Claiborne had worked at Saint Anthony’s Hospital for thirteen years and loved every minute of it —even the horrible patients who yelled, threw up on
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