Motol Hospital, Prague, Czech Republic
November 28
The rear stairwell to the hospital was dark and dank, littered with junk that had accumulated over years of disuse. Down on the ground level, masses of biohazard canisters littered the floor, scratched and worn by staff that had left long ago. No one had been in this shaft for some time; the only lighting was the thin strip of red emergency beacons along the edge of the steps.
Anouma faced the Healer, his cold visage made demonic by the surroundings. She was exposed here, alone in a place where no one would find her body for weeks — if ever. Alone with a murderer. She grabbed the railing with a slippery hand, her handheld flashlight dangling from the lanyard around her neck.
“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice cracking, her French precise, tentative.
The Healer observed her for a moment.
“You know why I am here,” he replied, rough and distorted through his mask. “You have information about LS-411. You will tell me now.”
He took a step forward, and Anouma held out a warning hand, her jaw setting.
“I want to know what you will do if you find this strain. What are your orders?”
“My orders are to diagnose and contain.”
“Contain how?” she asked, lowering her arm but not breaking her eye lock.
The Healer didn’t move for a moment, except to twitch his head to the side.
“Containment requires the destruction of the host, usually by lethal injection. Sometimes incineration is deemed necessary, as well.”
Anouma nodded slowly, her eye twitching with fury.
“So you find the sick and kill them? They did not do this to themselves! The ones that infected them are still out there, and you let them go?”
The Healer was shaking his head at her.
“Euthanizing the general population is inefficient. It is not my commission. I contain only the vectors.”
“The vectors…”
“The hosts that infect the rest. The closer to the source, the better. These diseases tend to be built poorly. They lose virulent qualities as they pass each generation. The closer to the source, the greater the effectiveness of containment.”
“So if my patient is the vector for LS-411…”
“I will perform my duty.”
Anouma crossed her arms, shook her head.
“That is unacceptable. I cannot let you do that.”
The Healer stared up the stairwell, back at Anouma.
“You have confirmed the patient is here. Your permission is irrelevant.”
He turned and started up the stairs, a soft metal clang at every footfall. Anouma called after him as he reached the first landing.
“This is one of the biggest hospitals in Europe!” she said, her voice cracking with anger. “In this wing alone, we have seven usable floors, with a thousand patients per floor.”
The Healer turned around, stepped a few steps down, stared at her ominously in the red light. She kept her arms crossed, stood her ground.
“And I have not said if the patient is in this wing at all.”
There was a brief pause. A liquid dripped in the shadows, hit a pool amongst the biohazard containers. It sounded thick.
“What do you want?” the Healer said.
“You must promise you will not kill him.”
“That is not in my power to promise,” he said, shaking his head.
“Then I wish you good luck up there. Especially once I tell the police you broke in.”
The Healer made its way down the stairs again, moved quickly and silently towards Anouma, until he had her pinned against the railing. His mask hissed spent carbon dioxide into her face.
“I can get the information from you however I choose,” he breathed angrily. “I am not bound by your doctors’ ethics.”
Her expression didn’t change.
“But I am, so I will never tell you. Never, unless you swear to leave him alive.”
Without warning, the Healer grabbed Anouma by the throat, pushed her back against the concrete wall. His fingers tightened around her, but didn’t finish the job. Anouma held her breath, terrified, but didn’t betray any emotion.
They stayed frozen, neither one budging.
The Healer let her go.
“I will not euthanize your patient,” he said, stepping away. “But you must show him to me now. No more delays.”
Anouma rubbed her neck for a moment, then nodded and took her flashlight in her hand again.
“This way,” she said, starting up the stairs. He followed close behind.
There was a general grit to the steps that was slippery, yet rough. She couldn’t see what it was, nor did she see the glass that crunched harshly underfoot along the way. They moved slowly, cautiously, careful to avoid stepping on used needles. Mouldy pillows, shredded gowns, and a bloodstained sink lay cracked along the way.
“What is your name?” she asked as they passed the third floor.
The Healer thought a moment.
“We have no names,” it said, simply.
“Your French is better than I thought.”
There was a pause as they walked. The Healer sounded hesitant.
“We are trained to communicate with medical personnel.”
“You handle it well.”
“I… I have had time to practice.”
Another half-floor later, it spoke again:
“What is your name?”
“Dr Anouma,” she replied. “Fanta Anouma. Médecins Sans Frontières.”
“I know your colleagues.”
“And they know you, too. Here… wait here.”
She left him standing there on the steps and creaked open the fourth-floor fire door. She leaned into the hallway beyond, the pale light casting a soft shadow in the shaft next to him. He walked up behind the door, watched her carefully.
“Dr Anouma!” came a voice, a man, from the hall. Anouma jumped at the sound. She drifted further out, let the door slide closed behind her, held open just enough for her hand to peek through.
“Dr Laroche!” she said, failing to sound as calm as she wanted to be. “Is everything okay?”
Dr Laroche was close now. The Healer could see his shadow mixed with Anouma’s underneath the door.
“Fine, fine,” he said. “Just grabbing some supplies for the floor. Why are you using the back stairwell? It’s not safe there, is it? There are discarded needles everywhere.”
The Healer tensed, lay a hand on his machete.
“Oh, no. I was just… I heard a young patient on the fifth floor talking about a special fort he had built back here, and I thought I should check it out.”
“Really! The things kids dream up!”
“I know… it seemed silly to me, but—”
The door pushed open more, and Dr Laroche’s voice was near. The Healer unsheathed his weapon, held it ready.
“Did you find anything?” Laroche asked.
“No!” Anouma gasped. “No, nothing. Many discarded needles, as you said. I would not risk going in there. Who knows what people discarded.”
Dr Laroche chuckled to himself, but the door stayed open. The Healer did not move.
“Might want to get the boy checked for dementia if he’s coming up with imaginary forts in the darkness. Could be Waterloo or London-9. Wouldn’t want him cross-contaminating his roommates.”
“Certainly not, I agree. I will order the tests.”
A brief pause, and then the door swung shut.
“I’ll be down in the pit if you need anything!” Dr Laroche called, his voice getting fainter as he walked away. “Say hello to Adjobi for me!”
“I will!” Anouma replied, then waited quietly for a minute, not moving at all. She began to push the door open again. The Healer caught it with an impatient grab, shoved it all the way open, and pushed past her into the hall.
“You lie well,” he said, taking stock of the surroundings. “Which one is it?”
“This one,” Anouma said, leading the way into a room halfway down the hall. She came to a stop at the bedside of a sickly-looking African man, wired with a dozen monitors and IVs, breathing weakly under the pressure of his yellowed hospital blankets. His eyes were closed; they fluttered wildly in his sleep.
His skin sat on him strangely, like a man who was once full of life, round and happy, and whose joy had been chiselled away until he was nearly a living corpse. A shadow of better times ghosted in his face.
“This is the patient,” Anouma said solemnly. “My brother, Dr Adjobi Anouma.”
