“Freedom Is Just a State of Mind”

By Ross

Part I.

Paramedics John Gage and Roy DeSoto exited Rampart General Hospital’s Emergency Receiving, stowed their medical supplies away, and then climbed wearily back into their restocked rescue squad.

John pulled his passenger’s door shut and then turned to face his partner.  “Man!  I’m glad we don’t have to pull double-shifts very often.”

“Yeah.  They tend to be brutal all right,” Roy conceded.  “Think we’ll make it back—this time?”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” his partner gloomily predicted.

The two of them had been trying—unsuccessfully—to make it back to their fire station for the past eight hours.

Roy started the truck up and began easing it out of its designated parking slot.

They’d only moved forward about five feet, when their radios began emitting the dreaded * bleep *  *bleep * sound.

The rescue vehicle’s completely exhausted occupants exchanged a pair of exceedingly pained glances.

“Squad 51…What is your status?”

“Do I hafta answer that?” John deadpanned.

His partner was forced to smile.  “I’m afraid so.”

Gage grabbed their dash-mounted radio’s mic’ and thumbed its ‘SEND’ button.  “L.A., Squad 51 is available at Rampart General on follow up…”

“10-4, 51…Standby for a response…”

Several seconds passed, then more bleeping ‘bleeps’ sounded.

“Squad 51…Respond to a vehicle accident with injuries…at the intersection of Mullen Ave. and Cheshire Blvd…Cross-streets: Gary and Oneida…The intersection of Mullen and Cheshire…ambulances responding…Time out: 07:28.”

“Roger that, L.A.,” John wearily replied.  “Squad 51 responding.”  He replaced the mic’, reached back over his right shoulder, snatched his helmet from its hook, placed it upon his head and snugged up its chinstrap.  “We’ve always said, we’ve been doing this for so long, that we could probably do it in our sleep.  Guess THEY intend to test that theory out, huh,” he lightly reasoned and flashed his equally exhausted friend a forced smile.

They reached the street entrance.  Roy flipped their firetruck’s lights and siren on.   “Could be worse,” he surmised, sounding equally insincere.  “THEY could a’ called us out—before we had a chance to restock.”

Gage grimaced at the gruesome thought. 

When it came to composing ‘worse case’ scenarios, no one could hold a candle to his partner.

Just as they were about to reach the accident site, their radios began emitting more annoying ‘bleep’s.

“Squad 51, cancel…Return directly to quarters…”

The rescue truck’s occupants glanced at one another again, this time, looking stunned.

John snatched their radio’s mic’ back up.  “L.A., Squad 51 is already on scene,” he reported, as his buddy braked to a stop and jumped out.  “We intend to follow through with the call.” He saw a police officer, with blood-smeared hands, motioning for them to hurry over to one of the three wrecked vehicles that were scattered about the intersection.  “We have badly injured people here—in need of immediate medical attention!”

“Negative, 51…” the dispatcher patiently came back.  “Cancel and return directly to quarters…Squad 16 has been dispatched to your location…”

“Fine, L.A.,” John responded, sounding equally cool and calm.  “Squad 51 will return directly to quarters—just as soon as our back-up arrives.”

“NEGATIVE, 51!” the dispatcher blurted back, much more assertively.  “It is imperative that you cancel and return to quarters—immediately!”

The paramedic stared down at their truck’s dash-mounted radio in both shock and disbelief.  “Negative, L.A.!  Whatever it is—can wait!  These people—can’t!” he practically shouted and started to replace the mic’.

“Squad 51, it is critical to the health and well-being of those people that you do NOT treat them!”

Roy was in the process of emptying their squad’s side compartments.  He caught that latest comment from headquarters and froze—right in mid-reach.

His partner re-thumbed the mic’s ‘SEND’ button.  “L.A., Squad 51.  What the heck is that supposed to mean?!” the paramedic demanded, sounding every bit as miffed as he now looked.

“Squad 51, cancel and return to quarters…and the ‘situation’ will be explained to you…Repeat, cancel and return to quarters—directly and immediately!”

Gage glanced up, as his partner suddenly appeared, just outside his door’s open window.

“I’m beginning to think that we’d better do as THEY say,” Roy regrettably announced.

John sighed in surrender and then thumbed the mic’s ‘SEND’ button one last time.  “10-4, L.A….Squad 51 canceling and returning—directly and immediately—to quarters.”

“10-4, Squad 51,” the dispatcher promptly came back, the relief evident in his voice.

John slammed the mic’ back onto its clip and whipped his helmet off.  The flustered paramedic stared off across the debris-strewn intersection at the accident victims so desperately in need of help—their help! 

A look of disbelief, closely followed by one of profound confusion, filled the patrolman’s face, as the firemen suddenly started driving off.

“We have to go!” the dark-haired paramedic called out to the completely overwhelmed officer.  “But another squad is coming!”

The cop remained confused, but nodded his acknowledgement of the retreating rescuer’s message.

Gage emitted an audible gasp of exasperation and slammed his left fist down—hard—on the back of their seat.  “Da-amn!”

DeSoto shot his flustered friend a nervous glance.  “What do you suppose it is?”

“I can’t even begin to imagine!” his partner angrily replied.  “How could THEY possibly figure that we would hurt those people back there more than we would help them?!”  The paramedic suddenly recalled his crack about the two of them working in their sleep. “Unle-ess…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless THEY think we’re too tired to work.”

“Do you think we’re too tired to work?”

“No.  We’ve both pulled double-shifts before…plenty of times.  Heck.  Once, we even worked 48 hours—straight, without any sleep, at all.  At least, this time, we were able to get one or two hours in…that first night,” John paused and turned to his partner.  “Do you think we’re too tired to be working right now?”

“If I thought—for an instant—that I was too tired to be working right now,” DeSoto declared, “I wouldn’t be working right now.”

“I know,” Gage whole-heartedly agreed.  “Me, neither.”

“You know that…and I know that,” Roy solemnly surmised.  “But do THEY know that?”

“If THEY don’t, THEY will,” John assured him.  “Just as soon as we return—directly and immediately—to quarters,” the peeved paramedic bitterly parroted.

The pair rode on in silence for a few blocks.

Until John suddenly had an even more horrifying thought. “Ro-oy?”

“Yeah?”

“What if that isn’t it?”

The two fatigued firemen exchanged a couple of extremely anxious glances.

Gage and DeSoto finally made it back to their quarters.

Captain Stanley was standing out front, by the flagpole.  Hank motioned for DeSoto to drive up the little alley that ran alongside of the redbrick building.

“What the…?” the Squad’s bewildered passenger pondered.

Its driver did as directed and pulled into the little alley that led to the parking lot behind the Station.

Roy turned the corner and braked to a stop.

The two paramedics sat there, staring out their rescue truck’s windshield at a white ambulance-type van.

Four men, wearing airtight white suits and self-contained breathing apparatus, were standing outside the van.

The two firemen slowly turned to face one another, but both remained too stunned to move or speak.

Roy pulled the Squad ahead and parked.

Two of the white-suited figures stepped up to the stationary vehicle and jerked its doors open.

“Firemen John Gage and Roy DeSoto?” one inquired, his solemn voice muffled by his air-mask.

Firemen Gage and DeSoto somehow managed to get their reeling heads to nod.

“Put these on and come with us, please,” their questioner prompted and passed them each a pair of disposable coveralls.

The firemen glanced down at the coveralls and then back up at each other.

“Somehow,” DeSoto dazedly remarked, “I seriously doubt that this has anything to do with THEM being concerned about the two us being overly tired.”

“Yea-eah,” Gage glumly agreed.  “What’s goin’ on?” he asked the white-suited figure standing beside his open door.  “What is ‘all this’ about?”

The guy pulled a small billfold from the front pocket of his haz-mat suit and flashed the fireman an official-looking photo I.D.. “Jerome Newlin.  Los Angeles County Health Department.  The two of you have been placed under ‘maximum quarantine’.”

“Maximum quarantine?!” the pair repeated, speaking in perfect unison.

“Why-y?!” John demanded.  “What do we got?”

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Newlin stiffly replied.  “But we are not at liberty to discuss the matter here.  If you will just slip into those coveralls and come with us, I assure you, all of your questions will be answered to your satisfaction.”

The quarantined firemen glanced nervously at one another and then reluctantly climbed out of their rescue truck and into their disposable coveralls.

The other two white-suited figures approached, carrying two more self-contained breathing apparatus.

The paramedics slid the coveralls over their uniforms and then slipped their arms through the straps of their SCBAs.  The pair got their tanks’ air flowing and their facemasks situated and sealed.

The four guys in the white haz-mat suits then escorted the two guys in the turquoise coveralls over to the van.

“Where are you taking us?” Roy wondered.

“To the Pacific Fleet Naval Base in the L.A. Harbor,” Mr. Newlin replied.  “The two of you are going to be staying aboard an aircraft carrier—the Fitzsimmons—in the same quarters that are used to house the astronauts, while they remain quarantined after possible exposure to unknown contaminants in space.”

The Fitzsimmons' ‘special guests’ glanced at one another again, looking completely overwhelmed.  The pair paused for an instant or two before finally, reluctantly, climbing up into the back of the van.  A bench had been bolted to the floor, in the center of its back cargo space.  They dropped down onto it.  The vehicle’s back doors were slammed and locked, and they drove off in silence.

Once they were well underway, John turned to their host and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Yes?” Newlin responded.

“Are ‘we’ at liberty to discuss the matter no-ow?” John hopefully inquired.

“Yes.  But I’d prefer to let Dr. Vandertine explain the situation,” Newlin begged off.

The paramedic’s coverall'ed body stiffened and his blood suddenly ran cold.  “Eric Vandertine?” John numbly asked, once he’d gotten his ability to speak back.  “From the Center for Communicable Disease Control in Atlanta?”

Newlin seemed somewhat impressed.  “Why, yes.  You know Dr. Vandertine?”

John nodded, numbly.  “We met two years ago.  I was his guinea pig for about a week, while he was researching a new strain of viral influenza—” he stopped speaking and turned to his partner.   “Roy, if Eric Vandertine is involved in…this, we might be in for some trouble—some big, BI-IG trouble.”

Roy swallowed hard and suddenly looked even more worried than he’d already been feeling.  “Great!” he mumbled—er, grumbled back, sounding most insincere.

Forty-five extremely fretful minutes later, the van finally came to a stop.  Its back doors were unlocked and pulled open.

The paramedics stepped out of the van and onto Pier 11 of the U.S. Naval Shipyard, in L.A. Harbor.

They were escorted up a long walkway ramp and onto the deserted deck of an aircraft carrier.

The Fitzsimmons’ guests were ushered across the deck and up to an odd-looking, window-less metal cubicle, about 30’x20’ in dimension.

“This is it, gentlemen!” Newlin dramatically exclaimed.  “This quarantine cubicle will be your home for the next few days—or, until you’ve both been given a clean bill of health.  You’ll find that it has all of the modern conveniences—and more!  Color television, state-of-the-art stereo, well-stocked refrigerator, exercise equipment, well-rounded music and literary libraries, health and grooming items, two complete disposable wardrobes—you name it, it’s in there!  And, if it’s not, well, you just name it, and we’ll see to it that you get whatever it is that you need.  Dr. Vandertine should be along shortly.  So, why don’t the two of you go on in and get settled,” he ordered more than asked.  “We’re going to go get decontaminated now, but we’ll be back as soon as the doctor gets here.  Okay?”

His audience was only half-listening.  The two paramedics were pre-occupied with more important matters.  The two men were currently racking their brains, trying to recall ‘when’ and ‘where’ they might have picked up some potentially lethal virus.

“Okay?” Newlin repeated.

“Huh?” Roy reluctantly snapped back to cold, harsh reality.  “Yeah.  Sure.”

“Good!” their host determined.  “Decompress!” he told the naval midshipman who had accompanied them up to the cubicle.

The sailor nodded.  The young man then proceeded to pull a key from the front pocket of his uniform and place it into a special locking mechanism that was mounted beside the cubicle’s sealed door.

There was a low ‘hum’ and then a loud ‘hiss’ing sound, as the airtight seal around the door was broken.

The steel portal slid open and Newlin motioned for the firemen to step inside.  “Remember, gentlemen, neither of you will be allowed out until you’ve both been cleared.  So don’t even think of leaving, because you can’t.  This entire compartment is atmospherically controlled.  Once the seal has been re-established, you will—literally—be living in a ‘world of your own’.  If you have any questions about how to ‘run’ things, there’s a sheet of instructions posted on the wall, right beside the control panel.”  He stopped speaking and motioned, once again, for their guests to step into their new ‘home away from home’.

The firemen glanced uncertainly at one another, and then did as directed.

John drew his sagging shoulders back and boldly stepped across the quarantine cubicle’s open threshold.

Roy exhaled a resigned sigh and followed his friend inside.

The two ‘maximum quarantined’ firemen winced, as the heavy steel door ‘hiss’ed shut behind them and its automatic locking mechanism ‘click’ed back into place.  They gave the locked door a glum glance and slowly started sliding their self-contained breathing apparatus off.  They placed their facemasks on the floor and rested their air-tanks against the door and then had a little look around.

Appropriately, the compartment’s décor was ‘space age’.  Furniture was sparse and futuristic-looking.

The paramedics glanced at their surreal surroundings for a few seconds and then at one another.  The fear and uncertainty they were experiencing was reflected in their wide eyes.

DeSoto drew his shoulders back this time, and turned to the ultra modernistic communications device that was mounted on the wall beside the entrance.  “This must be the phone,” he reasoned and then stood there, carefully studying the complicated-looking contraption.  “I wonder how it works.  I wanna call Joanne.”

Gage continued to glance around the open-air compartment, in wide-eyed fascination.  “Forget the phone.  You’ll have plenty of time to call Joanne later on.  C’mon!  Let’s look around and get ‘settled in’, first.”

“I can’t get ‘settled in’.  This is all too unsettling.  Right now, I just wanna talk to Joanne.”

John left his partner to go ‘exploring’.  He found an open ‘Guest Book’ on a counter and began reading from it—aloud.  “Welcome to The Waldorf-all-starry-eyed.  This is a five-star hotel.  Our guests are from out of this world.” He whistled softly.  “The Guest Registry reads like a ‘Who’s Who’ at NASA.  Commander Alan Shepherd, Major John Glenn, Colonel Neil Armstrong.  The Colonel and Mrs. John Doe,” he stopped reading and snickered.  “Those astronauts obviously have a sense of humor.”

His friend was still trying to figure out the phone.  “They would have to have a sense of humor, in order to survive being ‘locked up’ in here—for weeks at a time.”

John stepped up to the quarantine cubicle’s main control panel and ran his right index finger down a long list of labels. “TV, stereo, lav, lab, lights, libraries, beds—” His mouth stopped moving and his eyebrows arched upwards.  He turned and took another long look around the open-air compartment.

There wasn’t a TV, stereo, lav, lab, light fixture, library or bed to be seen—anywhere.

The puzzled paramedic turned back to the panel and hesitated only an instant before bravely—or foolishly—pressing the ‘beds’ button.

There was a loud ‘cli-ick’.

Both of the hotel’s guests jerked, startled, as two panels in the compartment’s far wall slid open, revealing the undersides of a pair of twin beds.  There was another loud ‘cli-ick’, closely followed by a ‘whi-ir’ and a ‘hum’, as the beds glided gently down and then ‘cli-ick’ed into place.

“Far out!” the explorer declared, looking and sounding positively delighted.  John strolled over to where the beds had descended and then collapsed—face first and fully coverall'ed—onto one of them.  “Wake me when Atlanta calls,” he mumbled sleepily and promptly closed his eyes.

“Don’t go drifting off just yet,” Roy warned.  “We still have to talk to Dr. Vandertine.  Remember?”

His partner reluctantly rolled over and rested his head on his folded arms.

The compartment’s entire ceiling had been painted to resemble the view an astronaut might see out of the observation portal of his orbiting space capsule. 

“Far out!” John repeated.  The explorer noticed that there was another control panel on the headboard of his bed and sat back up, so he could play with—er, examine it.  He flicked the ‘overhead lights’ off and the ‘stereo’ on and turned the selector knob to ‘Easy Listening’.

The brightly-lit compartment immediately darkened. Soft, yellow light filtered down the sides of the walls and soft, gentle music filled the air, coming from eight different directions at once. 

“Far out!” John declared, for the third time in as many minutes.  “Dual quadraphonic speakers!” he reverently realized.  “This place would make an incredible bachelor pad!”  He spotted a cabinet in the wall beside the bed’s headboard.  The cabinet door had a medical insignia on it.  He gave way to his curiosity again and pulled it open.  The paramedic saw what the cabinet contained and let out another low whistle.

The space was filled with highly sophisticated cardio-vascular monitoring equipment.

“Wish the Squad carried stuff like that,” he realized aloud.  The envious explorer closed the cabinet. The fatigued fireman then fell back onto his bed and gazed glumly up at the breathtakingly beautiful painting on the ceiling.  “Man!  I never dreamt that I’d be sleeping on a boat again—so soon!” John suddenly realized something else and his gloomy countenance instantly brightened.  “They don’t get waves in L.A. Harbor big enough to rock this boat!”  He glanced around at the cubicle’s solid walls.  “And I don’t have to worry about having to sleep with the windows open, either!”  The paramedic recalled the seven extremely cold nights he’d recently spent aboard a thirty-foot cabin cruiser on Puget Sound, and shivered.  John snapped bolt upright on his bed, as he suddenly remembered something else.

Roy was still fidgeting with their new-fangled phone.  He suddenly recalled that same ‘something’ and turned to his partner.

“The sailor!” the duo declared—in perfect unison.

“Of course!” Roy quickly continued.  “That’s gotta be it!  That sick sailor, in that bar on the docks in Seattle!”

His friend failed to comment.

Roy gave his uncharacteristically quiet companion a questioning stare.  “I wonder what he has that THEY think we might a’ gotten?”

“What it is he had,” his partner regrettably corrected, employing the ‘past’ tense.  “Just before we left Seattle, I asked Swede about that Romanian sailor.  He told me that the guy had…died, earlier that morning…” the bad news bearer allowed his disturbing words to trail off.

Roy just stood there for a few seconds, in a state of both shock and disbelief.

Then, for the seemingly umpteenth time, the two quarantined firemen—er, friends swapped a pair of extremely anxious glances.

Roy and John both jerked, startled, as the funny-looking phone let out a pleasant ‘beep’ing tone.

John flicked the compartment’s overhead lights back on.

Roy turned back toward the wall and slowly and cautiously picked up what he hoped was the device’s mouthpiece.  “Hello?” he tentatively spoke into the ‘thing’.

There was no response.

Roy turned to his partner and shrugged.

John sprang up from his comfy bunk and crossed back over to the quarantine cubicle’s main control panel. “THEY say: When in doubt, read the directions…” There was a framed poster on the wall beside the panel and the paramedic began reading from it—aloud.  “Please activate video surveillance upon arrival.”  He located the video surveillance button on the control panel and pressed it.

Nothing happened.

So he pressed the audio surveillance button.

Again, nothing happened.

His partner exhaled an impatient sigh.

John gave up on the panel and returned to the directions.  “Activate video-phone by pressing the green button.”  He turned to his buddy.  “Green.  Try the green one,” he suggested.

There was a row of multi-colored buttons at the base of their ‘video-phone’.  Roy obligingly reached out and pressed the ‘green’ one.

Both men jerked, startled once again, as a panel in the wall beside the phone slid open, exposing a 36”x36” TV screen.  They gazed glumly at the blank monitor, but then brightened as the screen slowly brightened and three very solemn-looking strangers appeared beside Mr. Newlin out on the carrier’s deck.  Mr. Newlin was holding a hand-written sign saying: ‘Turn up the volume’.

Roy turned every knob he could find on the phone until—finally—Newlin’s ridiculously LOUD sigh of relief filled the cubicle.

Roy turned the last knob he’d touched back a little.

“HELLO AGAIN, GENTLEMEN,” Mr. Newlin greeted, at a decibel level that caused his audience to wince in pain.

Roy quickly turned the volume down quite a bit.

All four of the previously grim faces on their television screen now bore smiles.

“Drs. Vandertine…Kedzington…and McComas,” Newlin introduced and promptly stepped out of range of the camera.

“Hi, John.  You don’t look too happy to see me again,” Vandertine teased.  “We’re watching the two of you on a monitor.  Just like you’re watching us.”

Gage’s glum expression vanished and he and DeSoto began glancing nervously about the cubicle.

“The cameras have been cleverly concealed.  It helps the hotel’s guests feel less self-conscious.”  The ‘levity’ suddenly drained from Dr. Vandertine’s face.  “Back to business…First, allow me to apologize for all the ‘cloak and dagger’ stuff, and any other inconveniences this little ‘legal kidnapping’ may have caused.  But we simply didn’t have the time to be tactful and considerate.   We couldn’t explain the ‘situation’ any sooner because we didn’t want to run the risk of an information leak that could potentially cause a whole lot of ‘wild rumors’ and promote unnecessary panic.”  The doctor directed his gaze toward Gage’s partner.  “Mr. DeSoto, I don’t know if John has told you or not, but I am an epidemiologist on staff at the government’s center for disease control in Atlanta.  It’s my job to track down, isolate, and, hopefully, contain—and eradicate—potentially deadly viruses and bacterium before they can cause widespread epidemics.  I’m sure you recall the A-Cokey Strain of viral influenza that you and John were exposed to, two years ago.”

Roy managed a grim nod.

Dr. Vandertine looked equally grim and reluctantly continued.  “At approximately 16:23, on the afternoon of December 13^th, the two of you responded to a medical emergency with Seattle paramedics, Michael Norquist and John McKeese—”

“—We were dispatched to a little bar, down on King Street, called The Brig,” Roy numbly interrupted.  “The victim was a young sailor off a Romanian Freighter.  He was experiencing high fever, disorientation, muscle spasms and severe respiratory distress.  We sort a’ figured that had to be…it.”

“That young sailor is now dead,” Vandertine regrettably announced.

“So we heard,” John bitterly acknowledged.

“Along with seven of his shipmates,” the doctor grimly added.

Gage and DeSoto exchanged equally grim glances.

“That we hadn’t heard,” Roy quietly confessed.

“Forty-seven other sailors aboard that freighter have fallen ill,” Vandertine further informed them.  “Fortunately, a very ‘sharp’ young doctor, at Seattle’s Harborview Medical Center, suspected an ‘infectious’ organism might be involved.  He sent a sample of one of the lesions, that were found in the dead sailor’s lungs during autopsy, to our Maximum Containment lab, in Atlanta.

Within a matter of hours, we were able to identify the culprit responsible for the sailor’s death.  The Freon fingerprinting on the LIRA readouts showed a virus, quite similar to the anthrax strain MEDIA. 

What the readouts couldn’t tell us, is how the virus is transmitted—whether by physical contact or airborne particulates.  What its contagion rating is—severely infectious or just mildly.  What its incubation period is.  And how long two Los Angeles County Fire Department paramedics, who have been exposed to it, will remain carriers.  You guys are here, because we still don’t have the answers to those questions…yet.  I’m afraid the two of you will have to remain under ‘maximum quarantine’ until we do.  I’m terribly sorry.  But, for the sake of the general public’s health, that’s the way it’s gotta be.  And now, Dr. Kedzington, from L.A. County Health, would like to get some questions of his own answered.  Dr. Kedzington…” Vandertine waved to one of his colleagues and quickly walked clear of camera range.

Dr. Kedzington held up a pen and a pad of paper.  “I’m gonna need the names and addresses of everyone the two of you have had close personal contact with since the time of your exposure.  By ‘close personal contact’, I mean ‘holding hands’, ‘kissing’, ‘sexual intercourse’…stuff like ‘that’.”

The two firemen locked gazes with one another and stood there looking, and feeling, extremely uncomfortable.

“I’m gonna let you go first,” Roy determined.

“Thanks,” John insincerely said.  “Lou Chase and Greg Garnett,” the paramedic obligingly began, but then stopped as Kedzington’s lower jaw suddenly dropped.  John’s own bottom jaw fell open, as he realized what the good doctor was obviously thinking.  “I was Chase’s partner, on Wednesday, and Garnett’s partner on Thursday,” the fireman promptly explained. 

Kedzington’s eyebrows arched clear up into the middle of his forehead.

“Their paramedic partners,” John annoyedly added.  “We’re all paramedics.  I worked with them.  They drank out of my canteen.  In order to treat some of our victims, we had to have close personal contact,” the fireman stopped explaining and just stood there, frowning.  “You’ll have to get their addresses from the fire department.”

Kedzington suppressed a smile and recorded the two paramedics’ names upon his notepad.  “Is that everyone?”

“No.  I gave four victims ‘mouth-to-mouth’ resuscitation.  “A coronary, Mrs. Arthur—no, Archer.  Roy, what was the name of that kid that filled himself with the Christmas ‘spirit’ and then wrapped his Vette around that concrete overpass on the Ramona Freeway?” he bitterly inquired.  “Was it, Wayne Simms?”

“Duane Simpson…I think.”

“There’s a seventeen-year-old boy in ICU.  A drug over-dose.  I don’t remember his name.  There is also a little three-year-old girl, in Room 411, in the Pediatrics’ Ward.  Pammie.  Pamela Frazier, or Brazier, or something like that. You should be able to get the victims' names and addresses from the hospital.”

Kedzington copied the information down and then glanced back up.  “Is that it?”

John suddenly recalled his last ‘date’…and their ‘kiss’.  “No.  There’s one more.  Toni Gilmore,” he quietly replied and avoided his friend’s surprise-filled eyes.

“Tony who?” the doctor wondered.

“Gilmore,” Gage repeated a little louder and gave his partner a quick glance.

Roy was standing there, struggling desperately to not smile.   His bachelor buddy had been trying to get Nurse Gilmore to go out with him since early October.  His partner was nothing, if not persistent.

Kedzington quickly copied down the name. “And did you give him ‘mouth-to-mouth’, too?”

The smile escaped from Roy’s lips and he gave his now blushing buddy a questioning glance.

John ignored him and glared annoyedly up at their TV screen.  “Not T-o-n-Y.  It’s T-o-n-I.  Toni is a girl.”  The flustered fireman suddenly looked even more self-conscious.  “And we-e…sort a’ gave…each other…‘mouth-to-mouth’.”

Kedzington’s eyes sparkled with amusement.  “I see-ee.  Is that it?”

John’s eyes narrowed.  “Yes.  That’s it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.  I’m sure.  It was our first date, for cryin’ out loud!”

The doctor had everything he could to keep from chuckling.  “I meant, are you sure that there are no more names that you can provide me with.”

“Oh. Yeah.  I’m sure about that, too.”

Kedzington regained his composure and directed a questioning gaze at DeSoto.

“My Wife Joanne.  My Son Christopher, and my Daughter Suzie.  2711 Amber Drive, Charter Oak,” Roy informed the physician.

The doctor glanced up from his notepad.

“That’s it,” Roy assured him.  “I’m a married man,” he lightly added, but then immediately grew somber and silent again.  ‘I’m a married man,’ he mentally repeated.  Which meant that his exposure to the deadly virus could have far-reaching consequences for his…immediate…family.  The fireman swallowed hard and then stood there, staring sadly down at the tops of his shoes.

“Thank you, gentlemen.  I assure you that this information will be kept in the strictest of confidence.”  That said, Dr. Kedzington promptly took his leave.

Vandertine stepped back into view.  “You wanna draw those blood samples now?” he asked his remaining colleague.  “The sooner we ship ‘em off, the sooner we’ll have the results…”

His colleague nodded.

Dr. Vandertine turned his solemn face back toward the TV screen.  “Dr. McComas is NASA’s Contagion and Contaminant expert.  He’s the guy in charge of the quarantine cubicle.  I guess that makes him your ‘hotel manager’.  Dr. McComas is going to have you collect some blood samples from one another.  The samples will be shipped off to Atlanta.  The doctors in Atlanta will run them through the Chromatograph.  If the Chromatograph finds evidence of the virus’ presence, they’ll attempt to establish some blood cultures.  If the cultures come back negative, the two of you will be free to go.”

Roy glanced up. “And if they come back positive?”

“Let’s not go there,” Eric Vandertine suggested.  “Right now, let’s just try to think POSITIVE, and think ‘negative’.”

The hotel’s guests locked gazes with one another.  Judging by the fearful looks upon their faces, the two maximum quarantined firemen were not feeling very ‘positive’.

Dr. McComas cleared his throat.

The quarantine cubicle’s seemingly ‘entranced’ occupants broke their gaze and obligingly returned their attention to the television monitor.

The ‘hotel manager’ flashed both of his glum ‘guests’ warm, reassuring smiles.  “Roy…John.  My parents named me ‘John’, too.  But everybody just calls me ‘Jack’.”

The duo did their damnedest to return the amiable doctor’s smile.

“Your counterparts in Seattle have been hermetically sealed inside Harborview’s Isolation Ward,” McComas continued.  “Because of your medical backgrounds, and your close proximity to this facility, the CDC approached NASA and ‘made reservations’ for the two of you to be ‘contained’ here.  Now, if one of you will press the Lab button, we can get those blood samples drawn.”

John stepped back up to the control panel.  He shut the music off, returned the beds to their wall ‘hide-aways’ and then obediently pressed the Lab button.

Another wall panel opened up, revealing a well-equipped mini medical laboratory.

“The CDC has informed me that they will be requiring frequent blood samples.  So, the first thing you will need to do, is to start IVs on one another, using the special kits in that top, right-hand cabinet above the counter.”

Roy reached up and removed two of the ‘special kits’ from the designated cabinet.

“The catheters in those kits are the next best thing to PICC lines.  They are made of a special silicone polymer and are designed to be used by astronauts as they work and exercise in space.  So you don’t have to worry about moving your wrists around.  Now, which one of you wants to get ‘stuck’ first?”

The two men exchanged glum glances.  Neither of them wanted to get ‘stuck’—period.

Finally, the dark-haired fireman exhaled a resigned sigh and began freeing his left arm from the sleeve of his disposable coveralls.

His partner pulled two space-age looking stools up in front of the lab’s counter and then tore one of the ‘special’ IV kits open.  Roy was tremendously relieved to find its contents were similar to a ‘normal’ IV kit. 

His patient plopped himself down onto one of the stools.

Roy assumed his seat, tugged a pair of sterile disposable gloves on, and went to work.

McComas watched approvingly, as the blond-haired paramedic palpated a viable vein and then swabbed the insertion area with betadine. 

His ‘patient’ winced in pain, as the point of the catheter’s 18-gauge introducer needle penetrated the wall of his vein.

Roy pulled back on the hypo’s plunger and got a good venous return flow.  So he detached the syringe and began threading the ridiculously thin catheter through the embedded breakaway needle’s tiny, hollow tunnel.

“Insert the catheter a full four inches,” the doctor advised.

The paramedic did as directed.

“Got it fully inserted?”

Roy nodded.

“Good.  Now, withdraw the needle and squeeze it between your right thumb and forefinger, and it will snap in half—lengthwise.”

DeSoto did and the needle did.

“Great! Now fill that other syringe there with the heparin solution and flush the catheter.”

Once again, the paramedic did precisely as the doctor directed.

“The two of you will need to flush your catheters with the heparin solution after each use…and once every 12 hours, when not in use.”

Roy finished flushing the catheter.  He set the empty syringe down and then Steristrip’ed the embedded catheter in place.  The catheter’s hub was also secured to his partner’s left wrist, using a transparent sterile occlusive dressing.

“Well done, Roy!” McComas commended.  “Now, John, it’s your turn to ‘stick it’ to him.”

The two firemen were forced to smile.

Their hotel manager seemed like a really nice guy.

Ten minutes—and twelve vials of drawn blood later…

Roy and John were still seated at the Lab counter. 

The last of the samples was placed inside a special ‘airlock’, their catheters were flushed out and their catheters’ hubs were re-sealed with transparent occlusive dressings.

The two ‘drained’ firemen sighed in relief and started stepping down from their stools.

“Hold it, guys!” McComas requested.  “I’d like to get a physiological chemistry reading on the two of you.”

His guests glanced at one another, looking both confused and curious, and obediently plunked their bottoms back down upon their stools.

“Open that top left cabinet.”

John did.

“See those metal headbands and wristbands, with the electrode pads on them?”

The two men exchanged nervous glances and reluctantly nodded.

“Place them on your wrists and foreheads with the electrodes positioned over your radial and temporal arteries.”

The duo hesitated for a moment or two, but then obligingly began donning the wired metal bands.

“When was the last time the two of you ate or drank anything?”

“I’m gonna let you go first,” John told his buddy.

Roy looked thoughtful.  “Let’s see…I had a sandwich before going to bed—before ‘attempting’ to go to bed, at around 11:30 last night.  And I had my last cup of coffee at around 07:00 this morning.”

John suddenly realized that his partner had stopped talking.  “I think I ate something sometime yesterday afternoon.  But I can’t remember what it was.  I had my last cup of coffee at the hospital this morning, same time as him.”

“Good enough,” the doctor determined.  “Okay, you can go ahead and plug the ends of those cords into the Hematolographs…Those two black sinister-looking devices located on the wall at the back of the counter there,” McComas added with a grin, upon seeing his guests’ completely lost looks.

The still-puzzled pair hesitantly did as the doctor directed.

“All right,” McComas proclaimed, sounding tremendously pleased.  “Now, all the two of you have to do, is to just sit there and relax…for the next fifteen minutes…or so.”

Oh, how Roy wished he could ‘relax’.  The ‘wired’, overly tired paramedic slowly turned his metal-banded head and traded pained expressions with his equally unhappy partner.

Eighteen unbelievably boring minutes later…

“Okay,” McComas announced.  “We’ve got it.  You can remove the headbands and the bracelets.  Just leave everything out on the counter.  We’re gonna be running PC readings on you guys every 6 to 8 hours.”

“Oh. Joy,” John grumbled beneath his breath to Roy.

His quiet comment prompted his partner to smile.

The restrictive bands were removed and placed upon the counter.

“Ro-oy…It appears that you are in excellent health.  Your vital signs are all normal.  Your temperature is normal and all of your cell counts remain well within the normal ranges.  Except for a minor zinc deficiency, you are perfectly healthy.”

DeSoto appeared to be both relieved and pleased to hear the good doctor’s report.

“Jo-ohn…your red cell count is too low and your white cell count is slightly elevated…as is your body temperature.”  McComas glanced up from the computer readout.  “Your blood pressure could be a little higher and your cardiac enzyme and adrenaline levels could be a little lower.  You have obviously been under a great deal of stress lately.  You shouldn’t allow yourself to become rundown like this.  Your body’s defenses against—” the doctor halted his little lecture and promptly returned to his patient’s PC report.  “Have you ever had a problem with your spleen?”

“I was hit by a car five years ago,” the ‘rundown’ paramedic solemnly replied.  “My spleen was ruptured at the time, and had to be removed.” 

“That would explain the vitamin C deficiency. If you’ve lost your spleen, you should be taking a vitamin C supplement on a daily basis.  If I prescribe an iron, calcium and vitamin C supplement for you, will you take it?”

“Sure,” his exceedingly sullen patient replied.  “Thanks.  I, uh, got a slight head cold,” the slightly feverish fireman confessed. “From sleeping out on Puget Sound in a cabin-cruiser—with the windows wide open,” he annoyedly added.

McComas gave his slightly sick guest a sympathetic glance and then quickly changed the subject.  “If there is anything you would like to read…or eat…or drink, just name it.  As Mr. Newlin said, we’ll get you whatever it is you want.  All I ask, is that you keep a record of what you ingest, so we’ll know what changes to expect in your PC readings.”

“I’d like to call my wife,” Roy announced.  “And maybe get some breakfast,” he got a glimpse of the cubicle’s futuristic-looking wall clock. “Better make that ‘lunch’.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” their hotel manager promised and directed a questioning gaze in Gage’s direction.

“I’d like a big, juicy hamburger-stand hamburger, a large milk…and my Sign book,” John told him.

McComas’ gaze resettled upon Roy.  “Would you care for a hamburger, too?”

“Sure.”

The doctor smiled.  “We’ll send out for some then.  In the meantime, make yourselves comfortable.  Get to know how things work.  You may be here for several days and we want the two of you to feel as ‘at home’, as possible.  If you’re tired of those coveralls, you’ll find some very comfortable clothes in the closet.  If you guys need anything before I get back, just ring for ‘room service’.”

“Thanks, Doc,” his grateful guests simultaneously replied.

McComas flashed them both another smile and then stepped out of range of the camera.

The midshipman that had unlocked their front door for them came into view.  “Hi,” the young sailor greeted the cubicle’s occupants with a wave and a warm smile.  “I’m ‘room service’.  If you guys need anything at all, I’ll be right here.  Well, right there, actually,” he corrected and pointed to a chair off-camera.

The two quarantined firemen forced a couple of sad smiles. “Thanks, ‘room service’,” they gratefully acknowledged, again speaking in perfect unison.

John crossed over to the control panel and deactivated the ‘video surveillance’.

“Why’d you do that?” his partner wondered.

John pressed the ‘lav’ button.  “In case THEY employ a surveillance ‘person’, instead of surveillance guy,” he explained, on his way over to the futuristic toilet facilities that appeared from behind another wall panel.

Roy glanced glumly down at his disposable coveralls for a few moments.  Then he crossed over to the control panel and pressed the 'closet’ button.

“Ou-ouch!” his partner promptly exclaimed.

Roy heard his partner cry out in pain.  The button pusher winced and glanced back over his right shoulder.

Johnny was standing in front of a stainless steel urinal, clutching his left elbow.  His friend’s fly was still open and there was a grimace upon his face.

Roy’s wince turned into a full-scale grimace as well, and he went running up to his hurting pal.  “What the hell happened?!”

“I dunno.  I was in the middle a’ takin’ a pee, when this panel suddenly slides open.  Then ‘that’ thing,” Johnny motioned with his head in the direction of their clothes closet, “pops out and this damn door,” he paused to hit the offensive portal with his right hip, “flies open—and cracks me in the elbow!”

“Sorry,” his still-grimacing partner apologized.

John gazed at his apologizing friend in confusion.  “What have you got to be sorry about?  It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes.  It was.  I pressed the ‘closet’ button.  Here. I’d better have a look at your IV…”

John promptly pulled his injured arm out of his partner’s reach. “Relax, Roy!  It cracked me in the back of my elbow—not the crook of my elbow.  Besides, these are ‘special’ catheters.  Remember?  My IV is just fine.”

“Well, then let me have a look at your elbow,” Roy stubbornly insisted.

“My elbow is just fine, too.  So you can go do—whatever it is you were gonna do—and just let me pee…in peace.  Meaning in ‘private’,” John annoyedly added, when his guilt-ridden friend failed to leave him alone.

Roy glanced around their cramped, open-air quarters.   “If you’re looking for ‘privacy’, you’re not gonna find it in here,” he gloomily predicted, but then obligingly stepped up to their open closet, leaving his partner to complete his task—in peace.

Less than ten minutes later, in NASA’s quarantine cubicle…

Both paramedics had traded their disposable coveralls and uniforms for some surprisingly comfortable light cotton T-shirts and jeans.

John brought their beds down again and sprawled out upon one of them.

His pensive partner placed his hands in his pants’ pockets and began to pace—back and forth—in front of him.

John watched his pacing pal walk—back and forth—a few times.  “Think positive and think NEGATIVE,” he reminded his nervous friend.  “Chances are, we don’t even have the darn virus.  You heard Dr. Vandertine.  This is just a ‘precautionary’ measure…mostly.”

Roy halted, right in mid-pace, and aimed his worry-filled eyes in his optimistic friend’s direction.  “And chances are that we do have it…and that I might have given it to Joanne and the kids!”

John flashed his guilt-ridden friend back a deeply sympathetic smile.  No doubt about it.  His partner’s bags were all packed and he had already purchased his ticket.  His buddy was about to embark on one of his infamous ‘guilt’ trips.  We-ell, the least he could do, was to get up and see him off.  The paramedic swung his long legs back off the bed, stood stiffly up and crossed over to the cubicle’s control panel.

John ran his finger down the list of ‘gym equipment’ labels.  He found the button he’d been searching for and pressed it.

A panel opened up in the floor at the foot of Roy’s bed, and a treadmill appeared.

John crossed back over to the space-age looking piece of exercise equipment and pulled its hinged control bar up into position.  He turned the treadmill on, set its track’s incline to ‘steep’, its electric motor’s speed to ‘brisk walk’, and its timer to ‘five miles’.  “There.  If you must pace, pace on this thing.  That way, you can climb a five-mile-high mountain.  And, when you get to the top, if you should find that you don’t particularly like the view—or, if you still hate yourself—you can ‘jump off’ and ‘end it all’!”

Roy couldn’t help but smile at his partner’s completely ludicrous proposition.  He stepped up onto the moving treadmill, caught his balance and began walking—briskly.  “If I climbed…a five-mile-high mountain…at this pace,” he breathlessly announced, “I wouldn’t have to jump…because…I’d be dead…long before…I ever reached…the top!”

His humorous comment caused his already broadly grinning buddy to chuckle.

Their futuristic phone let out its pleasant ‘beep’.

John saw that the treadmill’s track was aimed right at Roy’s bed.  Before heading over to answer the call, he moved the motor’s speed to ‘run’.

“He-ey!” his partner protested.

Gage flashed his now running friend a wicked grin.  Then he crossed quickly over to their phone and pressed the ‘green’ button. 

The monitor’s screen brightened and ‘room service’ appeared, looking very somber.  “Mr. Gage, Dr. McComas has asked me to ask you guys to please turn your ‘video surveillance’ back on.”

“Oh.  Right.  Sorry.  I had shut it off so I could use the…facilities.”  The paramedic promptly re-activated the sealed compartment’s video-surveillance cameras.

The young sailor’s countenance brightened considerably as the quarantine cubicle’s unseen occupants suddenly became clearly visible again.  “Also, a relay has been established and Mr. DeSoto’s wife is now on the ‘blue’ line.”

“Thanks.” John pressed the ‘blue’ button at the base of their phone and then picked up what he hoped was its receiver.  “Hello?…Hi, Joanne…Yeah, he’s here…Uhhh, well, he’s running up a five-mile-high mountain right now.  But I believe I can convince him to come down and talk to you…Yeah, hang on.”  He set their phone’s funny-looking receiver down and stepped back over to where his breathless buddy was running on the treadmill. 

“Come on down!” John yelled.  “Your wife wants to talk to you!”

Roy gave his grinning partner an annoyed glare.  “Shut this…damn thing…off!” he breathlessly requested.

His friend’s already wicked grin suddenly turned even more evil.  Then he reached out and gladly did just as Roy had requested.

The treadmill’s track stopped moving, while Roy was still running, and he went flying—face first—onto his bed’s comfy mattress.  He shoved himself up and rolled slowly off the bed, all the while giving his gleefully giggling partner an icy, completely un-amused glare.

Which, of course, caused Johnny to laugh all the harder.  “Hey,” he somehow managed to get out between giggles, “at least…I didn’t crack you…in the elbow…with the closet door.”

The prank perpetrator’s little reminder caused Roy’s frowning mouth to form a smile of its own.  He hurried over to the phone. 

“Hi, Honey,” Roy greeted Joanne with an unseen grin—and a huge, but silent, sigh of relief.  “No…I wasn’t…running up a…five-mile-high mountain,” he assured his wife, still sounding a bit breathless.  “He did?…Yeah. Well. You know Johnny,” he gave his partner another irritated glare.

Johnny just stood there, gazing innocently back at him.  Then he smiled and went snickering over to his prematurely vacated bed.

The wryly-grinning paramedic collapsed back onto his comfortable bunk, and let out a long relaxed sigh. 

To provide his married partner with a smidgen of privacy, he pulled on a futuristic-looking pair of headphones, plugged them into the jack at the base of his bed’s control board and then turned their stereo on.

The completely exhausted, sleep-deprived fireman drifted off with a slight smile still playing upon his pursed lips and with the sound of soft, soothing music playing in his ears.

Roy was over a mile-and-a-half in to a three-mile walk, when their futuristic phone let out its pleasant ‘beep’.  He turned the treadmill off and hurried over to answer it—er, turn it on.

The enormous color monitor came to life and Dr. Jack McComas appeared.  “Hi, Roy.  I placed your lunch in the airlock.  You won’t be able to get it out until the red light goes off, though.”

“Thanks,” Roy told him.  “I’ll let Johnny know it’s here.”

Roy stepped up beside his sleeping friend’s bunk.  His partner looked so peaceful lying there, he hated like hell to have to disturb him.  He heaved a resigned sigh and then gave Johnny’s left shoulder a gentle shake. 

Johnny snapped awake and gazed dazedly up at him.

“Our lunch is here.”

His partner blinked the sleep from his half-open eyes and pulled his headphones off.  “Hu-uh?”

“Dr. McComas is here.  And so is our lunch.”

“Oh.  Okay.  Thanks.” 

Roy smiled, as his buddy lost his battle to keep his heavy eyelids raised.  “I’m pretty starved.  I could prob’ly put away two big…juicy…hamburger-stand hamburgers…”

His partner’s eyes immediately snapped back open.

Roy’s smile transformed into a grin, as his groggy—and perpetually famished—friend rolled out of bed and followed him over to the airlock.

“Sorry it took so long to get back,” McComas apologized.  “But I had a heck of a time finding a Sign book.”

Gage gave the monitor a groggy glance.  “Why didn’t you just send for mine?”

“Your apartment is under quarantine.”

“My Sign book is at our fire station.”

“Your fire station is under quarantine, too.  But don’t worry.  The lady at the book store assured me that this is THE Sign book.”

The two paramedics glanced at one another, looking stunned.

“Station 51 is under quarantine?” John incredulously repeated.

McComas nodded.  “So are your fellow firemen, and your firetrucks.  The red light just went off.  You can slide the airlock open now.”

The two firemen stared disbelievingly up at the monitor for a few moments.

Then Roy reached out and slid the airlock’s glass door open.  He removed two white paper sacks, four pint-sized cartons of ice-cold milk, a new Sign book—identical to the one his partner had back at their quarantined fire station, a prescription bottle and a bag of sunflower seeds?

McComas caught DeSoto’s puzzled expression.  “Those are for you, Roy.  Seeds are a good natural source of zinc.”

“Thanks,” Roy numbly responded and passed his partner his prescription.

John stared blearily down at the little bottle in his hand, still looking half-asleep.

“That’s the vitamin/mineral supplement I prescribed for you,” McComas explained.  “I’d like you to take two of those four times a day.  You’re slightly anemic.”

“Thanks, Doc.”  Gage got his first look at THE book and his groggy face lit up.  “Thanks, Doc!” he restated, sounding a bit more exuberant.  “This is the same Sign book I’ve got.”

“You’re welcome.”  McComas directed his gaze at DeSoto.  “Roy, did you get to speak with your wife?”

“Yes.  Thank you for arranging that for me.”

“You’re welcome.  I’m gonna sign off now, so the two of you can enjoy your meal—in peace.”

“See yah, Doc,” the cubicle’s occupants called out—in perfect unison.

McComas flashed the firemen back a smile and then stepped out of camera range.

John headed over to shut off their phone.

By the time John got back to the airlock, his partner had their lunch all laid out on the lab counter.  The famished fireman climbed onto his stool and picked up his big…juicy…hamburger-stand hamburger.  Instead of biting into it, he held it under his nose, intending to savor its delicious aroma.  A frown quickly appeared upon the paramedic’s watering mouth.

“What’s the matter?” Roy wondered, upon noting his partner’s unhappy expression.

“THEY say that most of the enjoyable flavor we get from our food comes from our sense of smell.  Well, my nose is all ‘stuffed up’.  So I can’t smell anything.  Nothing tastes good, when you have a head cold.  Nothing tastes—period.”

“Yeah.  Well, you’d better eat that anyway.  I don’t need you ‘passing out’ on me from low blood sugar.”

His extremely disappointed partner obligingly took a bite out of his burger.  His frown deepened.  “Why do THEY always have to be right?” he pitifully pondered, right in mid-chew.

Roy gave his frowning friend a sympathetic glance and then forced himself to ‘dig in’ to his own delicious burger.  Growing concern for the health and well being of his family, had caused him to lose his appetite, too.

John saw his partner attacking his own lunch less than enthusiastically and shot him a worried glance.  “Joanne and the kids okay?”

“Yea-eah,” Roy replied.  “The health department came by the house.  Quarantined it.  And took blood samples…from everybody.”

John turned toward their wall clock.  It had only been a little over two hours since he’d left.  “Man.  Kedzington didn’t waste any time.  Did he.” 

“Made Chris and Suzie cry.”

John winced.  “They were prob’ly more frightened than hurt.”

“Yea-eah.  That’s what Jo’ said.”

John racked his brain for some comforting thing to say, but couldn’t come up with anything.  So, in lieu of words, he simply reached out and gave his deeply troubled partner’s right shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Roy flashed his understanding friend a grateful smile and then reluctantly took another bite out of his burger.

Following lunch, the two overly tired firemen had collapsed upon their bunks. 

The pair then spent the entire afternoon catching up—er, trying to catch up on all their lost sleep.

Around six or so, that evening…

Roy was sitting up in his comfy bed with his face buried in a spellbinding science fiction novel he’d picked out of their quarantine cubicle’s ‘well-rounded’ literary library.

His partner was sprawled out on his bunk.  John had placed his open Sign book over his face, in an attempt to shield his sensitive eyes from the light Roy was using to read by.

Speaking of his reading partner…

Roy flipped the page. 

The crew of a starship had just beamed down to the surface of an unknown, never-before-explored planet, in search of their missing Captain and First Officer, who’d been captured by the sinister Heliun forces whilst trying to prevent said forces from kidnapping the son of one of the Triune governors of Galamos IV. 

Their tricorder suddenly registered the presence of an unknown life form in their immediate vicinity.

The landing party’s leader ordered phasers set on ‘stun’ and the starship crew advanced on an eerie, unusual rock formation.

An ominous shadow rose up from among the rocks and—

“Gah-ahhh!” Gage suddenly screamed in agony.

His partner’s completely unexpected cry had caused Roy to clutch at his erratically beating heart.  His racing heart skipped another beat or two, as his friend suddenly snapped bolt upright in his bed and then made a frantic grab for his left elbow.  Roy flew off his bunk and was at his hurting buddy’s side—in seconds. “What’s the matter?!”

John grimaced in pain and then gasped in exasperation.  “Nothin’.  I just rolled onto my sore elbow, is all.  Man!  Talk about ‘rude awakenings’.”

Roy’s heartbeat gradually returned to normal sinus rhythm.  He was just about to examine his ‘rudely-awakened’ buddy’s bruised elbow, when their phone emitted its pleasant ‘beep’.   He went striding off to answer it, instead.

Roy pressed the green button.

The monitor came to life and an extremely anxious-looking Dr. McComas came into view.  “Everything okay in there?”

“We’re fine,” Roy assured him.  “Johnny just rolled onto his sore elbow.”

“What did he do to his elbow?”

“I, uh, had a little run-in with the closet door,” Gage glumly replied.

“It was squeaking a little.  Turcoff must’ve oiled it.  Sorry ‘bout that.”

“No big deal,” John assured their host.  “Unless, of course, I roll onto it in my sleep,” he tacked on with a forced smile.

The good doctor’s facial expression remained rather somber.  “The Chromatograph results came back from Atlanta.  I’m sorry to say, the Freon fingerprinting on the LIRA readouts shows evidence of the virus’ presence in both of your bloodstreams.”

His quarantined guests exchanged exceedingly grim glances.

“The CDC’s lab people have already begun working on the cultures.  The minimum incubation period is seventy-two hours.  Hopefully, the lab tech’s won’t be able to get anything to grow in those damn Petri dishes, and in three days, you’ll both be free to go.”

“Yeah-eah,” Roy quietly concurred.  “Did they run Chromatograph tests on the blood samples that were taken from my wife and kids?”

“I don’t know.  But I’ll see if I can find out for you.  Okay?”

Roy nodded numbly. “Thanks.  I’d appreciate that.”

“No problem.  I’ll get right on it.  In the meantime, how ‘bout some dinner?”

“Sounds good,” John wistfully replied.

“And, while the two of you are eating, we can get some fresh PC readings on you.”

“Sounds boring,” John grumbled, just beneath his breath.

Roy gave their gracious host another glum, numb nod.  “Sure.”

“What can we get you guys?”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” John told him truthfully. “Since I won’t be able to taste it, anyway.”

McComas turned back to the dark-haired paramedic’s partner.  “Roy?”

“Doesn’t matter to me, either,” Roy realized.

“Wish all of our guests were so easy to please,” McComas lightly commented.  “We’ll be back with your ‘mystery food’ in just a few minutes.”

Roy numbly reached out and flicked their funny-looking phone off.

His ‘stuffed up’ friend exhaled an audible gasp of frustration and then flopped back onto his bunk.  “Ouch!” he involuntarily cried out, as his injured elbow connected with his comfortable, but firm, mattress.

DeSoto was at Gage’s side before the grimace could even leave his face.  “Let me look at your elbow.”

“There’s nothing to look at.  It’s just bruised.”

“Fine.  I’ll just have Dr. McComas relay a phone call to Cap—”

“—Fine.” His partner promptly proffered his left arm for inspection.  “Look.  But do not touch.”

The paramedic gave his suddenly cooperative partner’s injury a thorough ‘visual’ examination.

The tip of his friend’s left elbow looked both swollen and tender.

Roy winced. “That door must a’ cracked you pretty damn hard. Does anything ‘feel’ broken?”

“I already ruled out a break.  See.  I can fully extend my arm.” Johnny straightened his injured left arm out.

“Yes.  I see.  That’s very nice.  But you could still have an olecranon fracture.  I think your elbow should be immobilized.”

Gage grimaced—again—and groaned.  

“There could be a bone fragment floating around in there somewhere.”

“So-o?  Let it float.  It’s not like I’m gonna be doing anything with my left arm for the next three days.”

Roy looked pensive.  His partner had a valid point.  “Okay,” he relented.  “But at least let me apply a cushion over it.  Just in case you end up banging it into something else around here.”

“A ‘cushion’, huh…” Johnny flashed his caregiver a grateful grin.  “I guess I can live with that.  Thanks, Roy.”

“Your welcome.  You haven’t seen a First-Aid kit around here anywhere…have you?”

“Nope.  But, if it’s as futuristic-looking as the phone, I probably wouldn’t a’ recognized it, if I did see it, anyway,” Johnny grumbled, once again speaking beneath his breath.

Roy caught his friend’s quiet comment—er, complaint and was forced to grin.

There was a pleasant ‘beep’ inside the quarantine cubicle.

Simultaneously, its airlock’s red light came on.

Roy headed over to answer their phone.

His partner stepped over to the airlock, to retrieve their ‘mystery’ dinner.

The green button was pushed. 

Their videophone’s dark screen lit up and Dr. McComas appeared.  “I contacted the CDC.  They said that Samples D2, D3 and D4 have been slated for Chromatograph testing.  However, samples drawn from subjects having direct contact with the primary infection source have priority over ‘cross-infection’ cases.  So it may be some time before the lab tech’s can get to the samples that were collected from your family.”

Roy felt both disappointed and relieved.  Not knowing wasn’t always a curse, and knowing wasn’t always a blessing. “Thanks for looking into that for me, Doc.”

The physician flashed the family man a sympathetic smile and nodded. 

The red light finally went out on the airlock.

John slid the compartment’s glass door open and did a beautiful double take.  

Inside the airlock were a couple of plastic IV bags and two packages of IV tubing.

The paramedic removed the compartment’s contents and then turned toward the monitor. “This is our ‘mystery food’?”

McComas was forced to grin.  “Your dinner hasn’t been delivered yet.  That’s some sort of ‘drug cocktail’ the CDC concocted.  Apparently, several of those sick sailors have shown some slight improvement after being dosed with that stuff.  They recommend that it be administered as quickly as possible—strictly as a pre-emptive treatment.  The instructions are on the labels.”

The IV paraphernalia was placed upon the lab counter.

The quarantine cubicle’s infected guests obligingly dropped onto their stools.

Gage carefully rested his padded elbow upon the counter and then proffered his left forearm to his fireman friend.

DeSoto read the instructions on the IV bag’s label.  The paramedic tore one of the transparent packages open and attached one end of the clear, sterile tubing to the bottom of his patient’s IV bag. He opened the clamp at the base of the bag.  The IV solution drained down into the attached tube, effectively flushing all the air out.  The prepared tubing was then attached to the hub on his patient’s catheter and the IV’s drip was adjusted accordingly.

John could feel the IV’s icy solution entering his arm.  Less than an instant later, his vision began to tunnel out on him.  “Ro-oy?”

Roy glanced up and locked gazes with his patient.

“I don’t feel so goo—” the dark-haired paramedic’s mouth stopped moving.  In fact, his entire body suddenly went completely limp.

“Johnny?!” Roy alarmedly exclaimed as his partner’s dark eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched forward on his stool.  He caught his collapsing friend under the arms and immediately crimped off his IV’s tubing.  “What the hell kind a’ drugs did THEY put in their damn cocktail?!” he demanded.  He got the clear plastic tubing completely clamped off and then carefully lowered his unconscious buddy, and his IV bag, to the floor.

McComas stood there on the carrier deck and watched helplessly, as the nightmarish scene unfolded up on their monitor’s screen.  “I have no idea!  But your partner appears to be experiencing an ‘adverse reaction’ to one—or more—of them!  Is he breathing?!”

Roy saw his friend’s chest slowly falling and rising and nodded.  “Is there any medical gear in here?  I’d like to get some vitals on him.”

The doctor nodded.  “You’ll find a medical kit, with a BP cuff and stethoscope, in that center cabinet, directly above the counter, there.”

Roy sprang to his feet and started reaching for said cabinet.

The fair-haired paramedic found the medical kit and soon had a set of vitals on his comatose patient.  “BP is 115/83.  Pulse is 54.  Respirations are 8 and shallow.  Both lungs are clear.  Pupils are pinpoint and slow to react.  Request permission to administer 10-liters of O2.”

“Go ahead,” McComas told him.  “There’s some oxygen tubing and a nasal canula in that left-hand drawer.  Just plug it into that jack on the wall behind the counter and then turn the dial to ten.”

The vertical fireman got the oxygen flowing and was just about to slip the nasal canula into place, when his patient’s eyes fluttered open and his pinpoint pupils appeared.

Gage groaned and slowly started reaching for his throbbing forehead.  “What…What happened?”

“You went out on me!  That’s ‘what what happened’!” Roy made another attempt to slip his patient’s nasal canula into place.

His partner pushed his hands away from his frowning face. “Oh.  For cryin’ out loud, Roy.  I don’t need a ‘nasal canula’.  I just fainted.”

“You did not just ‘faint’.  You were knocked out—cold!”

“Yeah?  Well.  I ain’t knocked out no-ow.  So let me up.”  John suddenly realized something and drew a deep breath in—through his nostrils.  His frown quickly turned upside-down.  “Whatever that stuff was, it seems to have cleared out my sinuses.”

Roy just knelt there, giving his now-grinning patient a strange stare.

A restaurant delivery guy was escorted across the aircraft carrier’s deck. 

The visitor, and his sailor escort, approached the quarantine cubicle. “Somebody order two lobster dinners?” the guy inquired, as the pair came within camera range.

“Lobster?!” John exclaimed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and delight.  The famished fireman shoved his partner’s hands from his shoulders and started scrambling to his feet.  “C’mon, Roy!  Let’s eat—before my sinuses get all ‘stuffed up’ again, and I can’t taste anything.”

Roy gazed glumly down at the floor, where his patient had been lying just moments before.  The paramedic then turned and glanced helplessly—and hopelessly—up at their videophone’s monitor.

McComas couldn’t help but grin.  But then something suddenly occurred to the doctor and his smile did a disappearing act.  “Gawd!  I hope he’s not allergic to seafood…”

John caught the frowning physician’s comment.  “Not to worry, Doc.  The paramedic I stayed with in Seattle had his own boat and his own fishing lines and lobster traps.  We had salmon every night for dinner and lobster every morning for breakfast.  After about the third day, I got kind a’ sick of the salmon.  But I never got tired of the lob—”

“—Excuse me,” ‘room service’ suddenly interrupted.  “Dr. McComas, you have an urgent phone call—from Atlanta.”

“Thanks.”  McComas motioned to the firemen’s meals.  “See that our guests get their dinner, Greyson.”

“Yes, Sir!” the sailor snappily acknowledged.  Greyson grabbed the white boxes from the restaurant delivery guy and began heading for the airlock.

NASA’s contagion and contaminant expert stepped off camera and into the quarantine cubicle’s control booth to take his urgent phone call.

Dr. McComas reappeared in front of the camera, less than a minute later.  “Gentlemen!”

Gage and DeSoto directed their attention toward their videophone’s monitor.

“I have just been informed that the order for your drug cocktails was ‘phoned in’ to a pharmacy, right here in L.A..  An alert pharmacist at this local store realized that there had been a major ‘mix up’ in the formulation of your medication.  The pharmacist just contacted the CDC, and the CDC just contacted me.  Apparently, one of the pharmacist’s colleagues accidentally substituted Tetririzinol with Teterizole.  Atlanta now says that your ‘drug cocktails’ should be ‘immediately disposed of’, as they contain a lethal dose of Teterizole.”

John glanced glumly down at the innocent-looking solution in his IV bag.  “Lethal, huh?  That’s too bad.  This stuff would a’ made an incredible nasal decongestant.”

“A deadly nasal decongestant,” Roy quickly corrected and shuddered to think how close he’d just come to killing his partner.  The paramedic promptly detached the deadly drug cocktail’s tubing from his patient’s catheter, and then flushed its hub with the Heparin solution.

“Yeah.  Well.  At least the person would be able to draw their ‘last breath’ through their nose,” Johnny stubbornly—and insincerely—persisted, and finally succeeded in coaxing an ‘eye roll’ and a slight smile from his uptight associate.

“As soon as he saw you starting to ‘pass out’, Roy crimped off your IV tube,” McComas informed the dark-haired paramedic. “Probably saved your life.”

Gage flashed his fireman friend a grateful grin and then turned to face the monitor.  “He does that on a regular basis.”

Once again, NASA’s contagion and contaminant expert couldn’t help but grin.  McComas then directed his attention to the naval officer, who suddenly appeared at his side.  “Guys, this is Commander Paul Herrington.  Commander Herrington is the senior physician aboard the carrier.”

The cubicle’s occupants waved to the Commander.

The officer waved back.  “I just got off the phone with the doctors in Atlanta.  To avoid kidney and liver damage, the CDC recommends that the drug be diluted with IV fluids—NS—100 drops per minute, for the next 12 to 24 hours, dependent upon what blood testing reveals.”

John was just about to protest Atlanta’s proposed treatment plan, when the red light went out on the airlock.  The poisoned paramedic opened its sliding glass door.  The famished fireman smiled, as his nostrils—and the entire compartment—suddenly filled with their ‘mystery food’s’ enticing aroma. He picked the wonderful-smelling white boxes up and placed them down on the lab counter.  “I doubt that any treatment will be necessary, Doctor—er, Commander.  Yah see, my partner, here, crimped the tube off—right away.”

The Commander glanced down and began reading aloud from the pharmaceutical book in his hands.  “Drug: Teterizole.  Indications of overdose: Loss of consciousness—”

“—Check,” Roy solemnly interrupted.

“Pinpoint pupils…”

“Check.”

“Elevated blood pressure…”

“Check.”

“Decreased pulse and respiration rates…”

“Check.”

“Uhhh, guys?” the patient interrupted, this time.  “Other than a slight headache, I’m perfectly fine.  Really!”

“Describe your headache for me,” the Commander commanded.

The poisoned fireman finished laying their lobster dinners out on the lab counter. “I dunno.  It just sort a’ feels like I was wearing my helmet too tight, or somethin’.”

The doctor’s eyes dropped back down to his drug book.  “Constricting headache.”

“Check,” Roy regrettably repeated.

John gave his partner an annoyed glare.  “Will you stop saying that!” he ordered more than asked.

Roy turned to the monitor and locked gazes with the ship’s senior physician.  “Irritability?”

The Commander glanced down at his open book.  “Check.”  The physician stopped reading and turned to his colleague.  “We should probably get that IV fluid flush going right away.”

Gage gasped—in surrender.  “Fine!  Do what yah gotta do.  I just wanna enjoy my lobster dinner—while I still can.”  He plopped down onto his stool and then turned to his partner.  “Could you pass the tartar sauce…please?” he added, upon noting his buddy’s blank stare.

DeSoto directed his dazed gaze toward the monitor and then exhaled an audible sigh of resignation—er, make that exasperation himself.

Very early the following morning…

John Gage drew a deep breath in—through his nostrils.  The tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee caused his half-asleep brain cells to fully awaken.  Or not. The fireman opened his eyes and gazed blearily up at a rather puzzling view. 

A beautiful blue sphere was suspended directly overhead.

The fireman recognized the round object’s partially cloud-covered continents and suddenly felt even more confused.

For some bizarre reason, the earth seemed to be in orbit above his bed.

“What the—?” he managed to mutter beneath his breath, before it all came back to him. ‘Oh.  Right. The painted ceiling.  The quarantine cubicle.  The deadly virus.  The drug poisoning—’ He glanced back over his left shoulder.

There was no IV bag hanging from his bed’s headboard.

He lifted his no longer aching head from his pillow and looked down at his left arm.

There was no IV tubing attached to the hub of his catheter, either.

John allowed his heavy head to drop back onto his pillow.

His last blood test had apparently come back ‘clean’.

The no-longer-poisoned paramedic smiled up at his home planet.

Roy was seated on his stool in front of the lab counter, perusing the morning paper and sipping at his piping hot coffee.  He glanced up from the article he was reading, saw that his friend was finally awake, and called out a cheery, “Good morning!”

“Morning,” John mumbled back and reluctantly rolled out of bed.

“Sleep well?”

“No.”  Between having to empty his bladder every two hours, and having to get his blood drawn every four hours, John had hardly ‘slept’, at all.  And, thanks to him, neither had his cheery chum.  He flashed his blood-drawing buddy a grateful smile. “But thanks for asking.”

Roy returned his smile.  “I left the shower out for you.  You should probably use it before you sit down.”

“Coffee smells delicious.  I think I’d rather drink it while it’s hot.”

Roy’s eyes sparkled with amusement and he promptly buried them behind his paper.  “Don’t worry about your coffee.  You’ve got plenty of time to shower before it gets cold.”

John scrutinized his suspiciously behaving buddy for a few seconds, but then obligingly stripped and stepped into their ultra-modernistic-looking shower’s open stall. 

There was a plastic placard fastened to one of the ridiculously tiny stall’s walls.  It read: Place both feet upon the footprints and close your eyes.

John’s eyes widened and he decided to place both feet outside of the stall, instead.  He started to step back, but the stall door slid shut behind him, and he couldn’t get it to open back up.  So he very reluctantly covered the footprints with his bare feet.  He heard a loud ‘cli-ick’ and was just about to close his eyes, when a powerful jet of water hit him in the face.

The spray ran down the entire length of both sides of his body—and then stopped.

He snorted the water from his nose, shook it from his hair, and was just about to wring it from his eyes—when he was hit by a powerful blast of soap bubbles.

The bather snorted the foamy bubbles from his nose, blew them from his lips, and was about to swipe them from his stinging eyes—when he got sprayed in the face by another strong stream of steaming hot water.  ‘The rinse cycle,’ the frowning fireman figured, as the spray flushed the soapy foam from his body and sent it swirling down the drain.

Nothing happened for a few seconds, so he cracked his still-stinging eyes open—and got hit, full force in the face, with another powerful blast—of hot air.  The hot air blow dried his hair and then blew down the rest of his body.  The strong gust of heated wind reached the fireman’s bare feet, blew them both dry—and then stopped.

There was a final ‘cli-ick’ and the stall door slid open.

John's still-smarting eyes slowly opened and narrowed into annoyed slits.

Roy looked up from his newspaper. “So.  What did you think of your ‘shower’?” he innocently inquired.

His partner stomped out of the stall and over to their open closet.  “That wasn’t a ‘shower’!” he crankily corrected.  “That was a ‘human car wash’!”  He grabbed a fresh change of clothes from the closet and stepped up beside his bunk.   The frowning fireman donned a pair of blue cotton boxers and an ash-grey T-shirt. He slipped some socks on his blow-dried feet and tugged a fresh pair of jeans on.  Before crossing over to the counter, he went stomping up to the cubicle’s control panel and pressed two buttons, particularly hard.

Roy saw his peeved partner smile in satisfaction, as the ‘killer closet’ and the ‘shower from hell’ simultaneously retracted into their cubbyholes and then disappeared behind their respective wall panels.

“This place is just full of ‘rude awakenings’!” John further commented—er, complained, as he finally came stepping up to the breakfast-laden lab counter.  He picked up his Styrofoam cup, removed its plastic lid and held its still-steaming contents under his still-uncongested nose.  “Ahhh,” he sighed, upon savoring the coffee’s rich, delectable aroma.  The sniffer took a cautious sip.  His satisfied smile reappeared and broadened.  “And ‘pleasant awakenings’.”

Roy returned his no-longer-peeved partner’s smile and then directed his attention back to his newspaper.

Their videophone ‘beep’ ed.

Since he was still standing, John crossed back over to the thing and hit the green button.

Their hotel manager’s smiling face appeared.  “Good morning!  I see the two of you still haven’t read over all of the ‘instructions’.  Your videophone can be activated from practically anywhere in the cubicle.”

“It can?” the two of them incredulously—and simultaneously—came back.

The doctor grinned and nodded.

Both firemen promptly put ‘Read all of the instructions’ at the top of their ‘to do’ lists.

“There’s something in the airlock for you, John.”

John crossed over to the airlock and slid its glass door open.  He removed several black, plastic-encased rectangular objects, and then stood there, staring down at them in confusion.

“Those are video-cassette cartridges,” McComas explained.  “I visited UCLA’s Language Center this morning.  Go ahead. Turn your TV on.”

John exchanged a puzzled glance with his partner.  “I thought our TV was on…”

“So did I,” Roy confessed.

John stepped back up to the control panel and pressed the TV button.

A panel slid open in the wall directly across from their beds and a 4’x4’ television screen appeared.  The TV’s color screen lit up.

“Stick one of the video-cassette cartridges in that slot at the base of the TV and then press ‘Play’.”

John did as directed.

An attractive young lady appeared and began to speak to him—using American Sign Language.

John stared at the scene playing upon their television’s enormous screen in complete and utter disbelief. “Far out!” he declared and flashed their hotel manager a grateful grin.

His benefactor grinned back.  “Let me know if you like them, and I’ll bring you some more.”

“Thanks, Doc!” the sign language student gazed dreamily up at his gorgeous, larger-than-life teacher.  “I’m sure I’m going to love…them.”

Dr. McComas swapped ‘eye rolls’ and smiles with the ‘smitten’ student’s partner, and then stepped quickly out of camera range.

Roy glanced around and finally spotted a green button on the wall behind the lab counter.  The fireman fearlessly reached out and pressed it. 

Their videophone’s monitor went blank.

“Far out,” Roy quietly declared, and calmly returned to his reading.

The quarantined firemen finished munching on the last bits of their breakfast.

John opened his prescription bottle and dumped two of the tiny capsules it contained out onto the lab counter.  He recapped the bottle, but didn’t pop the pills into his mouth until he’d pinched both nostrils shut.  “THEY say that most of the awful taste we get from our medicine comes from our sense of smell,” he explained in a nasally sounding voice, upon noting his partner’s strange stare.  He washed the awful tasting tablets down with the last of his milk, and then smiled.  “Darned if THEY aren’t right—again!”

Their videophone ‘beep’ed.

Roy gave his buddy one last strange stare before reaching across the counter to press the green button.

Dr. McComas appeared up on their phone’s monitor.  “If you guys are through eating, we’d like to get a new set of PC readings on you.”

The two men shoved the debris from their meal aside and obediently began attaching the Hematolograph’s metal bracelets to their bodies.

Fifteen boring minutes into their latest physiological chemistry ‘reading’…

Roy was gazing glumly down at the countertop, looking lost in thought.

John caught his companion’s trance-like stare and realized something must be weighing heavily on his mind.  “Wanna talk about it?” he quietly inquired.

“I don’t even wanna ‘think’ about it,” his bummed buddy replied, without even bothering to look up.

Several silent seconds passed.

Then Roy exhaled an exasperated gasp.  “We treat the ‘sick and injured’, so we occasionally get sick, or injured.  It’s just an ‘occupational hazard’.” He glanced up and locked solemn gazes with his silent partner.  “Right?”

John didn’t quite know what to say.  So he simply nodded.

Roy’s sad, solemn stare returned to the countertop. “Collateral damage,” he quietly continued.  “That’s what we called it…over there.”

John realized his friend was referring to his ‘medic’ days in Vietnam, a time in his life Roy never—ever—talked about…unless something was deeply troubling him.

The ex-Vietnam medic exhaled another audible sigh of extreme exasperation.  “It’s one thing, to put our lives at risk.  Hell, we do it—willingly—every damn shift!”

Several more moments of somber silence followed.

Roy locked gazes with his partner, again.  “I guess I just never realized, until now, that by putting our lives on the line, we are also—unwillingly—endangering the lives of everyone around us.” 

“I know what yah mean,” John gloomily agreed.  “My brain can’t seem to wrap itself around the fact that I might a’ given some beautiful young woman the…‘kiss of death’.”  He gave his really bummed buddy’s right shoulder a reassuring squeeze.  “All the more reasons for us to think POSITIVE, and think ‘negative’.”

“All the more reasons for us to ‘pray’ that those cultures come back ‘negative’,” Roy promptly reworded.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” McComas suddenly interrupted.  “We’ve got the readings.  You may remove the bands.”

The gentlemen eagerly began removing the wired metal rings from their wrists and foreheads.

“The only significant change is for the better,” the doctor reported and glanced up at Gage.  “Your body temperature is now perfectly normal.”

The no-longer-feverish fireman flashed his glum friend a slight smile.  “Must be where the phrase ‘kill or cure’ comes from.”

“Which reminds me,” McComas reluctantly continued.  “There’s something in the airlock for you.”

John stepped down from his stool and slid the airlock’s glass door open.  “Speaking of ‘kill or cure’…” He picked the compartment’s contents up and then retook his seat at the counter.  “Care for an ‘after breakfast cocktail’?” he sarcastically inquired.

Roy stared distastefully down at the labeled IV bags and the clear plastic packages of tubing.

“Atlanta figured that you guys would probably be leery of that local pharmacy,” McComas explained.  “So those two batches were shipped ‘overnight air’, directly from the CDC.”

Unfortunately, that fact failed to make the firemen any less leery.

“Let’s just get it over with,” John resignedly suggested. Once again, the dark-haired paramedic placed his padded left elbow on the counter and, once again, he bravely proffered his catheterized forearm. 

But his blond-haired buddy didn’t budge.  “If we’re gonna try this again, let’s start with you already lying down,” his partner counter-proposed.

“Works for me.”  Gage snatched up one of the CDC’s drug cocktails and a package of tubing.  Then he stepped down from his stool and started striding off across the cubicle.

DeSoto stepped down from his stool and reluctantly followed his fireman friend over to his bunk.

To be continued in Part II.