Dawn of the Planet of the Apes: Firestorm - The Official Movie Prequel

15

The streets were nearly empty as Talia drove toward the hospital. She felt as if she was in a demilitarized zone. Garbage was collecting on sidewalks and streets. Wrecked and abandoned cars littered the freeway. What people she did see were almost shadows, scurrying in the periphery of her vision.

Just for the hell of it, she decided to try a pharmacy. It would be quicker, and as a doctor she could order the meds right there. But when she pulled into to the nearest one, she saw that the windows had been smashed in, and the lights were off. Suddenly feeling in danger, she wheeled out of the parking lot and hurried on toward the hospital.

She found the National Guard turning cars back more than four blocks out. A soldier waved for her to stop, then walked over.

“I’m a doctor,” she told the man, and showed him her ID.

“You can’t drive in,” he said. “There’s a back entrance for doctors. I can walk you there.”

She found a place to park the car, and then walked back to the guardsman, wondering what the hell he meant by “a back entrance.” Soon enough, however, she understood.

The entire block surrounding the hospital had been cordoned off, and guardsmen were busy putting up chain-link fencing. A huge line of people was being herded through an entrance in the fence into a sort of tent city that had sprung up like magic in the seven hours since she had left. Outside, buses were pulling up, from which people disembarked. A lot of them didn’t seem to be doing so willingly, as the guards had to prod them—and in some cases drag them along.

“What’s going on?” she asked her escort, more or less rhetorically.

“We’re setting up a quarantine here,” he said.

He took her to the doctor’s entrance, which was guarded by two men with rifles. They were wearing hazmat gear.

Inside the hospital it was chaos, as every available space was being made ready for the sick. Waiting rooms, offices, the lunch room, the chapel—any place vacant. She felt like she was in a war movie, except almost everyone here had the same problem, and it wasn’t a human enemy.

It was the retrovirus.

However, those sick with the virus were no longer being routed to the lobby of the emergency room. That was packed with people, and a glance told her that most of them were in critical or near-critical condition. Gunshot wounds, stabbings, head trauma, broken bones—more than ever, she felt like she was in a MASH unit.

The impression was completed when a middle-aged African-American man in army scrubs gestured toward her. She noticed than that there were several other people she didn’t know, all of them wearing similar dress.

“You there,” he demanded. “Who are you?”

“I’m Dr. Kosar,” she said. “I belong here. Who are you?”

“Dr. Kosar,” he said, more quietly. “Sorry for the tone. Thank God you’re here. I’m Captain McWilliams. I’ve been put in the charge of this ER. I have my hands full, as you can see.”

“I’m not on shift until ten,” she said. “I…” She looked again at the dying all around her. David would be fine for an hour or two. Then she would slip off with a course of antibiotics.

“Yeah,” she said. “Never mind. Let me get scrubbed.”

The next couple of hours were a nightmare. Triage consisted of deciding who she could treat, and who was beyond help. She had thought herself hardened to this kind of thing, but this was a whole other level.

McWilliams didn’t seem fazed. He was a more-than-competent doctor but, more importantly, he knew how to command. She suspected that, as an army surgeon, he had worked in this sort of chaos before.

After a length of time she couldn’t even begin to measure, Talia found herself becoming weaker, more tired by the moment. She realized that she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in hours, so she took a break and had an energy bar from one of the machines. It was the last one. She tried to drink some water, but after half a cup found she couldn’t get any more down.

Remembering David, she picked up some antibiotics. Their stores were nearly depleted, but there still was some cephalexin and ampicillin. She felt guilty for taking it, but David deserved treatment as much as anyone. She checked her phone and realized that it had been the better part of four hours since she had left him. That wasn’t good. If she had missed something—and there was a chance she had, given the tissue-damage in the vicinity of his gunshot wound—then he might be in trouble. She had patched him up in poor lighting, in her bathtub…

But there was nothing to do about it now. So she went to the lavatory and then splashed some water on her face.

In the mirror, she saw a dribble of pink, just beneath her nose. She reached up and touched it with her index finger.

It came away red.

“Well,” she said to the image in the mirror.

In the back of her mind, she had known this was coming. She had kept it back the way everyone did when confronted with mortality, by imagining she was the one who couldn’t get it, she was the one who wouldn’t die.

She closed her eyes. There was still so much to do, she thought. David was counting on her, Captain McWilliams was counting on her, and the desperate people in the next room were counting on her.

She opened her eyes, wet a paper towel and wiped her face again. She stuffed some wadded toilet paper up her nose and as soon as she was outside, she put on a mask.

Then she found Captain McWilliams.

“I have to go,” she said. “I’ll be back in about two hours, I promise.”

He nodded.

“Get a little rest,” he said. “You look tired.”

“Thanks,” she said. She hurriedly grabbed her things and started back through the hospital toward the physician’s doorway. She felt dizzy, and wondered if she would be able to drive. But she had to try.

If she was very careful, kept contact with him to a minimum, she could help David without infecting him.

Then she felt an itching in her sinuses, and started to run, hoping to make it outside, but she was still fifty feet from the door when the sneeze tore out of her.

One of the guards looked over. He was wearing a hazmat suit, without the headgear.

“Excuse me,” she said, pretending to scratch her forehead, hoping her hand would cover her face.

“Ma’am,” the young guardsman said.

She nodded and tried to keep going, but he placed himself in front of her.

“Ma’am,” he said, “I’m going to have to ask you to stop there.”

“I’m a doctor,” she said, tapping her ID.

“Yes, ma’am. But you appear to have viral symptoms. My orders are not to let anyone through this door unless I’m confident they’re clean.”

“You can’t just hold me against my will,” she said. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You are an active carrier, ma’am.” He sounded sure of it. “We are now under a state and federal quarantine and isolation order. You may appeal this—”

“Appeal it when?” she said, and she realized she was shouting. She took a deep breath. “Look,” she said. “I have a friend who has a gunshot wound. He needs antibiotics, and I’m taking him some. Then I’ll be right back. You can check with Captain McWilliams in the ER.”

The young man shook his head.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but it doesn’t much matter what he says. Even if he gave me a direct order, I couldn’t let you through this door.”

As he spoke, two more guards arrived.

“If you’ll just wait,” he said, “we’ll send for someone to evaluate you.”

“Please,” she said. “He may die without this.”

He hesitated, and she felt a moment’s hope.

“Ma’am,” he said, “I go off shift in an hour. If you give me the meds and the address, I can give them to him. That’s the best I can do.”

She studied his earnest face, then withdrew the antibiotics and the syringe from her pocket. “He needs a shot of this one,” she said. “These he takes by mouth.” She handed them over to them. “I’m trusting you,” she said.

“I’ll do it,” he promised.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m going back to ER now.”

“Ma’am—”

“I don’t need to be evaluated,’ she said. “I’m a doctor. Shoot me if you have to.” She almost hoped he would, because she knew what was coming. But she also knew she had a day or more before she lost the ability to function.

McWilliams shook his head when he saw her, and hustled her into the café, where they would have a little privacy.

“Are you okay?” he asked. He sounded genuinely concerned. That little bit of human kindness was all she needed to push her over the edge, and a soft sob crept out of her.

“Does it look like I’m okay?” she replied.

“I was starting to worry about you,” he said. “I thought you were showing symptoms. I’m so sorry I was right.”

For a moment, she couldn’t speak, and the tears began. McWilliams rested a gloved hand on her shoulder.

“You were going to let me slip isolation?” she finally asked, wiping her eyes.

“I knew you would be careful,” he said. “I thought you deserved to deal with this thing on your own terms.”

“Can you still get me out?”

“No,” he said sadly. “Not at this point. Now I can’t plausibly claim ignorance. Were you turned back by a guard?”

She nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I figured that. I couldn’t get you out even if I tried. Best go let them find you a bed.”

She imagined lying among the dying, waiting for the end. It wasn’t an appealing thought.

“Can I stay and work?” she asked. “I have some time, we both know that. The symptoms just started presenting. And I’ll be careful. I’m always careful.”

“I’ve seen enough of your work to know that,” he said. “But careful sometimes isn’t good enough.” He looked back at the waiting room. “On the other hand, most of them don’t have a chance in hell without you anyway. Slim is better than none.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll go scrub.”

When she got back to the waiting room, the only coffee that remained was instant, and as she poured the wretched stuff she realized she would never taste good coffee again. She wished that she had savored the last cup more. She wished she had gotten around to buying a grinder and some beans for the café.

Her reverie was cut short by a loud, dull, whump outside. The lights flickered and went out, and everyone began screaming. After a moment, the generators cut in and the lights came back.

Talia heard the staccato chatter of gunfire, and more screams. Through the glass doors of the emergency room, she could see a bright orange-yellow glow.

“What is it?” she asked McWilliams.

“I think we’re under attack,” he said.

“Attack?” The light seemed to go funny, as it did whenever there was an earthquake. Attack? Who would be attacking a hospital? And why? All of it seemed suddenly completely unreal, like a bad dream. She would wake up from it, and she wouldn’t really be sick, and none of this would be happening.

A guardsman burst in and exchanged salutes with McWilliams.

“What’s going on corporal?” he demanded.

“They threw firebombs into the quarantine, sir,” he said. His eyes seemed glazed by the same disbelief that Talia felt. “And into the back door. And we’ve sighted snipers with their rifles focused on the entrances. We’re not sure how many, but they shot Cain and nearly got Rodrigues.”

“Who are ‘they’?” McWilliams barked.

“I don’t know sir,” the corporal replied. “They didn’t exactly identify themselves.”

McWilliams absorbed that for a millisecond, and then turned to Talia.

“Get anybody in here who knows anything about burns,” he told her. “Do it now.”

“We have a burns unit,” Talia said. “I can see if anyone is there.”

She was hurrying down the hall, trying to think who might be available, when she met two men with a gurney. One it lay a man in a hazmat suit that had mostly burned off of him, and he himself had extensive burns—but not so extensive that she couldn’t see his face.

It was the young guardsman to whom she had given the antibiotics.

As she watched him go past, the feeling of unreality faded. The ground was under her again. This was a nightmare, and there was no waking up from it.

“I’m sorry, David,” she whispered, and continued on toward the burns unit. She could still hear the faint reports of gunfire outside.