Amanda's Story by Brian O'Grady Page A

Jorgenson pointed to the skin of the young woman’s neck, which moments earlier had been completely normal.
    â€œWhat the hell?” Greenburg said, watching her skin blister before his eyes. Instinctively, he checked for a pulse. “This is impossible,” he said and then backed away from the table. “I need some alcohol and Betadine to scrub this crap off of me.” He held up his arms and one of the nurses led him outside. She began pouring alcohol over his bloody arms. “Can someone find me some hydrogen peroxide?”
    â€œHow do you want to handle this?” Jorgenson asked Greenburg after his arms had been scrubbed raw. The body of the small woman lay unattended in the now off-limits tent.
    â€œNo way we can get this body out of here, huh?” Greenburg was sixty-eight and the senior physician by more than three decades. A retired internist, he had volunteered only to break the monotony of retirement. Jorgenson was a general surgeon who had just finished eight years in the employ of the US Army and was donating a month of his time to the Red Cross before starting a private practice position in Boston.
    â€œNot until the morning,” Jorgenson said as everyone looked up into the darkening sky.
    â€œThe lab is the one thing we have up and running, and I’d sure like to know what that shit is. How about I gown up and take some tissue?” Greenburg was asking for advice, but ultimately the decision was his.
    â€œSo long as we maintain isolation. I’d do skin scrapings only and reduce the risk of contamination. We might want to freeze some while we’re at it, and bring it back home.”
    â€œGood idea.”
***
    Ten minutes later, the lights around the compound began to come on, and the drone of the jungle was partially replaced by the hum of small generators. Lieutenant Garcia led the way into the clearing and four of his ten soldiers followed, with Bernice and Amanda bringing up the rear.
    â€œAre we just going to let those men spend the night in the jungle?” Amanda whispered to Bernice. They had had the first serious disagreement with the Hondurans over the fate of the six men, all of whom were clearly sick. Garcia had disarmed each man, then detailed six of his men to watch over them until his superiors could decide what to do with them.
    â€œWe could at least bring them to the clearing and give them food and water,” Bernice had pleaded.
    â€œThey are soldiers and have been trained to do without,” Garcia answered tersely. “My orders are clear: they are to remain where we found them.” His tone closed the door on any further discussion.
    â€œThey are sick and dying men,” Bernice said, stomping after the lieutenant. She fumed all the way back to the camp.
    â€œI’m glad you’re back,” Greenburg said, greeting Bernice outside of the large tent. The corpse and exam table had been removed. He filled her in on the last hour’s activities, and when he was done she shared her adventure. “So it’s not an isolated case; we’ve got some sort of outbreak going on.”
    â€œLooks that way. I’ll contact our people in El Progresso. Garcia has already talked to his superiors, who are busy pulling their puds trying to decide what to do with the six in the jungle. Can I see the slides so I can at least sound like I know what I’m talking about?”
    â€œAbsolutely. Any woman who talks about pulling puds can have anything she wants. Follow me; the lab is set up over here.”
    The pair walked to a smaller tent that sheltered the three small generators and an even smaller medical lab. Bernice noticed an odd collection of empty crates and boxes just past the arc of lights. “The body,” he said simply, and she nodded.
    â€œAfter you.” He lifted the tent flap to find David Jorgenson bent over one of their two microscopes. “Did you figure it out yet?” Greenburg said loudly,