Page 24 of Airborne
Lights from an incoming car ended the conversation. The taxi came to a stop near Chad and Agent Rivera. Once inside and after Chad had given the driver his lab’s address, he again navigated to the secure medical site on his phone. According to the doctor on board the aircraft, the order in which the symptoms appeared for each victim was systematic. No deviation for Chad to pinpoint an exact origin.
The aircraft had been cleared to land where people could be treated. Medi-Pro-Aire agreed with the pilot for CDC guidelines to take precedence.
Chad huffed. Good to read the organization had initiated a health focus instead of profit and loss. Those who were sick might live to thank Medi-Pro-Aire. The aircraft should have landed when the first victim succumbed.
He slipped his phone into his pant pocket. What virus strain had attacked these people? Anything was possible with today’s technology. A deadly mutant strain? Panic rippled through him. Was the virus contained to the aircraft or were other areas facing the contagion?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
QUIET PERVADED THE FERRY RIDE,similar to the lack of conversations on the bus. Heather knew she wasn’t the only person who choked in a thick fog of uncertainty. Nathan had been taken to Jamaica Hospital. Sad. Sad for all those sick.
Catherine might go into shock, and Heather stayed close by. The woman needed a friend, a silent presence to hold her hand. The two found bench seats on the lower deck with many of the others. Chains of doubt hung like the artificial light swinging above them. The FBI had trained Heather to face the unpredictable—yet she feared for her own sanity.
Normally she’d be on the deck searching the sky for constellations, but she didn’t care if any stars or planets filled earth’s ceiling. In the ferry’s belly, nothing expelled the shroud of uncertainty.
She texted Mom and Dad a simple message about her quarantine status. Phone alerts wakened them, but they needed to know she had so far escaped the virus. The media would gain access to the manifest, and it would devastate her parents to see her name.
Within five minutes, Dad returned the text.Glad you’re okay. Be safe. Praying for you and the others. Call us soon. Chad must be worried sick.
I’m sure he’s fine.
I’ll contact him.
Heather typed.Don’t please. I’ll explain when I talk to you.How would she ever tell them their marriage lay in the trenches?
She studied Catherine. “Are you managing? Do you need medical attention?”
“Just time, dear.” Catherine laid her hand in Heather’s lap.
“How long were you married?”
“Fifty-three years. I pray you never lose someone the way I lost my Roy.”
Catherine’s comment settled on Heather’s own dilemma. “Thank you. I don’t think we have a choice.” She’d read walking through a divorce was worse than death—in death, the deceased had no choice. Chad claimed she clung to him because of her archaic beliefs. At this point, his reasoning didn’t matter. She touched her stomach. She lived for what nestled deep inside her, and she’d do anything to keep her baby alive.
“I need to talk if you don’t mind,” Catherine said.
“I’m right here.”
“What we’ve experienced tonight will reshape our lives. We’ll never be the same. I intend to think more about others than myself.” Catherine breathed in deeply.
“How so?”
“Relationships that I’ve taken for granted. Roy’s cancer seemed inconceivable, and at times he comforted me more than I cared for him.” She shook her head. “High time I gave back, beginning with my sister, who isn’t getting any younger. And what will you do differently?”
“I want to find joy in small things. Never ignore a sunrise or sunset.”
“Roy used to say a silver lining is always behind a cloud. Maybe I’ll do hospital visits for my church.”
Twenty minutes later, the ferry pulled to a stop. Slivers of dawn crept from the eastern horizon. Toward New York, lights flickered signaling a new day. Heather stepped into a line of people with Catherine. With the weariness attacking her body, she craved a bed. Floodlights paved a gravel walkway to a compound. Two armed National Guard soldiers flanked each side of the line. Other soldiers held various positions. Procedure and guidelines were in place to protect the quarantined group and others onshore from contagion. Simply not the welcome she’d anticipated for her vacation.
They hurried to a concrete and steel building. Before entering, a man dressed in scrubs gave each person a new mask and gloves with the instructions to wear the protective gear. He pointed to a metal barrel to dispose of soiled items. Inside, they walked on gray concrete floors. The pale greenish-yellow walls reminded her of bile. The musty smell woven with the hint of unwashed bodies permeated the housing. But they could be in a plane hangar under a germ-free tent and exempt of privacy.
Or at Jamaica Hospital.
In a huge concrete cafeteria containing long functional metal tables and benches, an Asian woman wearing a mask and light-blue scrubs greeted them from a small podium.
“Welcome to Adam’s Island. My name is Lacy Skaggs, and I’m the director. Please, have a seat. First, I’m sorry these tragic circumstances have brought you here. While your luggage is unloaded from the ferry and carried inside, I’m here to give you a few instructions.
