The Judas Strain - James Rollins [20]
“Dr. Cummings, I’m glad to find you here idling with nothing to do.”
Lisa bit back a retort.
Jessie snorted.
Lindholm glanced to the nursing student as if he’d been unaware of the man’s presence—then just as quickly dismissed him and returned his focus to Lisa.
“I was instructed to include you and your partner in any findings related to the epidemiology for this disaster. And as Dr. Kokkalis is out in the field, I thought I should bring this to your attention.”
He thrust out a thick medical folder. She recognized the logo for the small hospital that served Christmas Island. Staffed with only on-call doctors and a pair of full-time nurses, the hospital had been quickly swamped, requiring the more severe cases to be airlifted to Perth. But that became impractical after the full brunt of the biological meltdown struck the island. Once the cruise ship had arrived, the hospital had been the first to be evacuated.
Lisa flipped open the folder and saw the patient’s name listed as John Doe. She quickly scanned the history, the little that there was. The patient, a man in his late sixties, had been found five weeks ago wandering naked through the rain forest, clearly suffering from dementia and exposure. He could not speak and was severely dehydrated. He subsequently slipped into an infantile state, unable to care for himself, eating only if fed by hand. They sought to identify him by fingerprint and by searching through missing person records, but nothing had turned up. He remained a John Doe.
Lisa glanced up. “I don’t understand…what does this have to do with what happened here?”
Sighing, Lindholm stepped next to her and tapped the chart. “Under the list of presenting symptoms and physical findings. At the bottom.”
“‘Moderate to severe signs of exposure,’” she mumbled, reading down the list. The last line stated deep dermal second-degree sunburn to calves, with resultant edema and severe blistering.
She glanced up. She had treated similar symptoms all morning. “This wasn’t just a sunburn.”
“The island’s clinicians jumped to that conclusion,” Lindholm said with evident disgust.
Lisa could not blame the island’s doctors or nurses. At that time, no one was aware of the environmental disaster brewing. She again checked the date.
Five weeks ago.
“I believe we may have found Patient Zero,” Lindholm said pompously. “Or at least one of the earliest cases.”
Lisa closed the folder. “Can I see him?”
He nodded. “That was the second reason I came down here.” There was a grim waver in his voice at the end that disturbed Lisa. She waited for him to explain, but he simply turned on a heel and headed out. “Follow me.”
The WHO leader crossed the dining room to one of the ship’s elevators. He hit the button for the Promenade Deck, third level.
“The isolation ward?” she asked.
He shrugged.
A moment later the doors opened into a makeshift clean room. Lindholm waved for her to don one of the bio-suits, similar to the one Monk had taken to collect samples.
Lisa climbed into a suit, noting the slight body odor as she pulled the hood over her head and sealed her seams. Once both were ready, she was led down a passage to one of the cabins. The door was open and other clinicians were crowded at the entry.
Lindholm bellowed for the others to clear a path. They scattered, well trained by their leader. Lindholm led Lisa into the small room, an inside cabin, no windows. The only bed stood against the back wall.
A figure lay under a thin blanket. He looked more cadaverous than alive. But she noted the shallow rise and fall of the blanket, a panting weak breath. Intravenous lines ran to an exposed arm. The skin on the limb so wan and wasted as to the point of translucency.
She instinctively looked to his face. Someone had shaved him, but hastily. A few nicks still oozed. His hair was gray and wispy, like a chemo patient, but his eyes were open, meeting hers.
For a moment she thought she noted a flash of recognition, the barest startle. Even a hand lifted feebly toward her.
But Lindholm