Read Online THE VIRON CONSPIRACY (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS #4) by Lawrence de Maria - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence de Maria
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larger facilities in Assam. Where, unfortunately, the same damnable 30% mortality rate still prevailed.
Dr. Venkataraman bent forward and ground his Marlboro into the mud. Then, he pulled out his cell phone and called his boss, Dr. Chitrabhanu Bhargavahis, the 72-year-old Director of the Gauhati Medical Center. For the next ten minutes, he brought Bhargavahis up to speed on everything his team had done.
“Well,” Bhargavahis said when he finished, “the good news is that there have been no similar outbreaks elsewhere. It seems to be limited to Thakkar. And there has not been one transmittable case here or in any other hospitals where we’ve sent patients.”
Venkataraman respected his superior, who was not only open to the most modern medical techniques, but who had also taken the younger man under his wing. But he was not comforted.
“I’m not even sure it’s viral or bacterial,” he said. “What do the toxicology screens show.”
Both men were acutely aware that in addition to nature’s biological wrath, there were man-made disasters affecting the population. A few months earlier, 14 children in Alipurduar, a city in West Bengal, died after eating lunch in a school where the food had somehow been contaminated with fatal levels of phosphorous, which in India is used to preserve various grains.
“Not a damn thing that would account for the symptoms,” Bhargavahis replied. “I mean, there are traces of various pesticides and other chemicals, but not in amounts significant enough to cause distress. You and I probably have as much crap in our systems.” The old man laughed. “If you sent in a blood sample, Sati, they would probably clap you in the hospital because of the nicotine levels.”
“I’m trying to cut back,” Venkataraman said, as he lit another cigarette. “What about the autopsies?”
“The same. It’s easy enough to tell what organ failure killed these people, but not what caused the disease process. Some victims had lesions in the brain. Others in the heart, lungs, liver, etc. No pattern. Very strange. We are sending off some tissue samples to Atlanta. The C.D.C. has more powerful instruments. Hopefully, they can find something. You know, maybe it’s not a virus. Was it Mad Cow Disease that is caused by a protein?”
Venkataraman was always impressed by how agile the old man’s mind remained. Bovine spongiform encephalopathy was a degenerative disease that affects the central nervous system of adult cattle and has been transmitted to humans who ate infected meat.
“Yes. It’s caused by an abnormal version of a protein normally found on cell surfaces called a prion. The damaged prion destroys the brain and spinal cord. But I hardly think cows would be a vector in India, especially here. The people consider them sacred and do not eat them.”
“Pity. I like a good steak. They don’t know what they are missing. But perhaps it is something similar in another food.”
“If it is a prion, the C.D.C. may be able to isolate it.”
A goat trotted over to Venkataraman. He watched in amazement as it bent its head and started eating the accumulated cigarette butts at his feet, filters and all.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“So, what should I tell New Delhi in the meantime,” Bhargavahis asked.
“Pray.”
My poor India,” the old doctor said. “When will she stop suffering?”
“Perhaps, it will not be too bad this time,” Venkataraman said, trying to cheer his mentor up.
He closed his cell phone. The goat was looking at him, chewing the last cigarette butt, the tip of which was sticking out its mouth.
“What? You want a light?”
Venkataraman stood up and the animal cantered away. I’ve got to get some rest, he thought. I’m talking to goats. He was suddenly ravenous and started walking to the mess tent for some coffee and a balushahi, the Indian pastry made with maida flour, deep-fried in clarified butter, then dipped
Dr. Venkataraman bent forward and ground his Marlboro into the mud. Then, he pulled out his cell phone and called his boss, Dr. Chitrabhanu Bhargavahis, the 72-year-old Director of the Gauhati Medical Center. For the next ten minutes, he brought Bhargavahis up to speed on everything his team had done.
“Well,” Bhargavahis said when he finished, “the good news is that there have been no similar outbreaks elsewhere. It seems to be limited to Thakkar. And there has not been one transmittable case here or in any other hospitals where we’ve sent patients.”
Venkataraman respected his superior, who was not only open to the most modern medical techniques, but who had also taken the younger man under his wing. But he was not comforted.
“I’m not even sure it’s viral or bacterial,” he said. “What do the toxicology screens show.”
Both men were acutely aware that in addition to nature’s biological wrath, there were man-made disasters affecting the population. A few months earlier, 14 children in Alipurduar, a city in West Bengal, died after eating lunch in a school where the food had somehow been contaminated with fatal levels of phosphorous, which in India is used to preserve various grains.
“Not a damn thing that would account for the symptoms,” Bhargavahis replied. “I mean, there are traces of various pesticides and other chemicals, but not in amounts significant enough to cause distress. You and I probably have as much crap in our systems.” The old man laughed. “If you sent in a blood sample, Sati, they would probably clap you in the hospital because of the nicotine levels.”
“I’m trying to cut back,” Venkataraman said, as he lit another cigarette. “What about the autopsies?”
“The same. It’s easy enough to tell what organ failure killed these people, but not what caused the disease process. Some victims had lesions in the brain. Others in the heart, lungs, liver, etc. No pattern. Very strange. We are sending off some tissue samples to Atlanta. The C.D.C. has more powerful instruments. Hopefully, they can find something. You know, maybe it’s not a virus. Was it Mad Cow Disease that is caused by a protein?”
Venkataraman was always impressed by how agile the old man’s mind remained. Bovine spongiform encephalopathy was a degenerative disease that affects the central nervous system of adult cattle and has been transmitted to humans who ate infected meat.
“Yes. It’s caused by an abnormal version of a protein normally found on cell surfaces called a prion. The damaged prion destroys the brain and spinal cord. But I hardly think cows would be a vector in India, especially here. The people consider them sacred and do not eat them.”
“Pity. I like a good steak. They don’t know what they are missing. But perhaps it is something similar in another food.”
“If it is a prion, the C.D.C. may be able to isolate it.”
A goat trotted over to Venkataraman. He watched in amazement as it bent its head and started eating the accumulated cigarette butts at his feet, filters and all.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“So, what should I tell New Delhi in the meantime,” Bhargavahis asked.
“Pray.”
My poor India,” the old doctor said. “When will she stop suffering?”
“Perhaps, it will not be too bad this time,” Venkataraman said, trying to cheer his mentor up.
He closed his cell phone. The goat was looking at him, chewing the last cigarette butt, the tip of which was sticking out its mouth.
“What? You want a light?”
Venkataraman stood up and the animal cantered away. I’ve got to get some rest, he thought. I’m talking to goats. He was suddenly ravenous and started walking to the mess tent for some coffee and a balushahi, the Indian pastry made with maida flour, deep-fried in clarified butter, then dipped
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