Wednesday Evening
Death's messenger was a short, balding fellow with too pale skin and a barbecue stain on his white lab coat.
Sam Dalton stared at him for a long moment after he had finished speaking, then, "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I understand what you just said."
"Your daughter is dying," replied the doctor.
"I know that !" Sam answered hotly, the weeks of frustration and lack of sleep finally getting the better of him. Realising that his younger, larger frame loomed over the doctor's, he made a conscious effort to calm down, lest he frighten off his only source of information. He stepped back and ran a hand through his dark hair before continuing in a more reasonable tone. "What I don't understand is why."
The doctor's expression never changed. "She's infected with some kind of virus. Something new, something we've never seen before. We've had the best epidemiologists in the country looking at the samples we've collected over the last several weeks. None of them can make heads or tails of it. The disease, the virus, is attacking her internal organs at a cellular level, breaking them down from the inside out. Little by little the organs themselves are starting to decay. In a few weeks, her system will have hit a critical juncture and she will go downhill rapidly from there. Once she reaches that point, it will become a matter of days, maybe only hours. The destructive power of this thing is amazing."
A touch of awe had crept into the man's voice and Sam suddenly felt like strangling him. With a real effort he kept himself in check.
"Can't you do something for her?" he asked.
The doctor nodded, but his grimace was plain to see. "Yes, yes, of course we'll do what we can to make her comfortable with the pain. And we'll continue our tests, try and find the cause of the illness. But these things take time and that just isn't a luxury your daughter has right now. I'm sorry."
Sam sank into a nearby chair, his legs suddenly weak and unsteady. He'd been expecting the news, but hearing it spoken aloud was difficult, to say the least. He'd tried to stay positive, tried to believe that everything would turn out okay. Even when the days in the hospital had turned into weeks, he'd made sure to keep his game face on whenever he was around Jessica. But by now even she had to know that something had gone seriously wrong.
The last two years hadn't been kind. When Denise had been taken from them, he'd thought the world had ended. His grief had been overwhelming; his downward spiral had ended only when the bank had threatened to foreclose on the house after he'd lost his job at the plant. It had been Jessica, or rather her desperate need for him, that had saved him. Saved them.
Still, they hadn't escaped unscathed. Jessica had gone from a playful, inquisitive girl to a shy introvert who was afraid of anything new almost overnight. She'd cried herself to sleep for weeks after Denise's death, with Sam unable to do anything but hold her close and desperately wish he could do the same. He, too, had been affected. For months, he'd awoken in the middle of the night, suffocating from an overwhelming sense of impending doom. Something was coming for them. Something that couldn't be reasoned with, couldn't be bargained with, couldn't be avoided, turned aside or outrun. Sooner or later, it was going to get them, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Every night, he'd burst out of sleep, alone, slick with sweat, his heart racing madly in his chest as he frantically searched for whatever it was that was threatening them.
Then Jessica had gotten sick, and he'd finally understood.
Understanding hadn't done a damn bit of good, however.
The waiting area where he was seated was at the other end of the hallway from Jessica's room. Knowing she'd just had her nightly medication, Sam had no fears that his daughter could overhear what was being said, so he asked the tough question. "What happens next?"
"We'll keep pumping her full
Death's messenger was a short, balding fellow with too pale skin and a barbecue stain on his white lab coat.
Sam Dalton stared at him for a long moment after he had finished speaking, then, "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I understand what you just said."
"Your daughter is dying," replied the doctor.
"I know that !" Sam answered hotly, the weeks of frustration and lack of sleep finally getting the better of him. Realising that his younger, larger frame loomed over the doctor's, he made a conscious effort to calm down, lest he frighten off his only source of information. He stepped back and ran a hand through his dark hair before continuing in a more reasonable tone. "What I don't understand is why."
The doctor's expression never changed. "She's infected with some kind of virus. Something new, something we've never seen before. We've had the best epidemiologists in the country looking at the samples we've collected over the last several weeks. None of them can make heads or tails of it. The disease, the virus, is attacking her internal organs at a cellular level, breaking them down from the inside out. Little by little the organs themselves are starting to decay. In a few weeks, her system will have hit a critical juncture and she will go downhill rapidly from there. Once she reaches that point, it will become a matter of days, maybe only hours. The destructive power of this thing is amazing."
A touch of awe had crept into the man's voice and Sam suddenly felt like strangling him. With a real effort he kept himself in check.
"Can't you do something for her?" he asked.
The doctor nodded, but his grimace was plain to see. "Yes, yes, of course we'll do what we can to make her comfortable with the pain. And we'll continue our tests, try and find the cause of the illness. But these things take time and that just isn't a luxury your daughter has right now. I'm sorry."
Sam sank into a nearby chair, his legs suddenly weak and unsteady. He'd been expecting the news, but hearing it spoken aloud was difficult, to say the least. He'd tried to stay positive, tried to believe that everything would turn out okay. Even when the days in the hospital had turned into weeks, he'd made sure to keep his game face on whenever he was around Jessica. But by now even she had to know that something had gone seriously wrong.
The last two years hadn't been kind. When Denise had been taken from them, he'd thought the world had ended. His grief had been overwhelming; his downward spiral had ended only when the bank had threatened to foreclose on the house after he'd lost his job at the plant. It had been Jessica, or rather her desperate need for him, that had saved him. Saved them.
Still, they hadn't escaped unscathed. Jessica had gone from a playful, inquisitive girl to a shy introvert who was afraid of anything new almost overnight. She'd cried herself to sleep for weeks after Denise's death, with Sam unable to do anything but hold her close and desperately wish he could do the same. He, too, had been affected. For months, he'd awoken in the middle of the night, suffocating from an overwhelming sense of impending doom. Something was coming for them. Something that couldn't be reasoned with, couldn't be bargained with, couldn't be avoided, turned aside or outrun. Sooner or later, it was going to get them, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Every night, he'd burst out of sleep, alone, slick with sweat, his heart racing madly in his chest as he frantically searched for whatever it was that was threatening them.
Then Jessica had gotten sick, and he'd finally understood.
Understanding hadn't done a damn bit of good, however.
The waiting area where he was seated was at the other end of the hallway from Jessica's room. Knowing she'd just had her nightly medication, Sam had no fears that his daughter could overhear what was being said, so he asked the tough question. "What happens next?"
"We'll keep pumping her full
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