Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland by Jason Frost - Warlord 04 Page B

through their fucking heads,” Grub said. “That just leaves more for the rest of us.”
    “More what?” the doctor asked, baiting him.
    “More ...” Grub searched for a word, finally just throwing up his hands. “... stuff. More stuff for the survivors.”
    They entered the makeshift lab area. Modern equipment lined tables. Overhead, electric lights beamed.
    “Electricity,” D.B. gasped.
    “Generators,” the doctor explained. “If there’s one thing these men are good at, it’s scavenging. They got the drugs I asked for, plus a bunch I didn’t. Also, they brought me all this equipment. Some of it I still don’t know how to use. But it’s sufficient for the tests I need to run for this plague business.” His voice became very methodical as he rambled on, more to himself than to the others. It seemed to help his concentration as he moved around the room, adjusting equipment. “ Yersinia pestis is nonmotile at 37 and 22 degrees Celsius. The organism is usually negative for urea hydrolysis, but may be positive in freshly isolated strains. The oxidase, indole, and Volges-Proskauer reactions are negative ...”
    Eric stopped listening. He was thinking of Dodd now. Just down the hall, asleep. This was a perfect opportunity. The only obstacle: Grub. And maybe the doctor.
    “It’s pretty simple really,” the doctor continued. “The fleas bite you, suck the blood, then they vomit the blood back into your system. Only by now it’s picked up the plague. The incubation period is usually three or four days, but it could be as short as a few hours, as long as ten days. Starts with chills, fever, headaches. A palpable bubo may appear, preceded by pain and tenderness. Then it’s up for grabs. Nodal swelling in the armpits and groin. Insomnia, delirium, stupor, vertigo. That’s when the toxins hit the brain. Antibodies might form and clear the mess up by itself, or with some help from antibiotics. But if it gets into pneumonic stage within twenty to twenty-four hours after onset of illness, then you’ve got tachypnea, dyspnea, and coughing productive of bloody mucopurulent sputum supervene. If you aren’t treated effectively,” he sighed. “Meat wagon.”
    His talk had frightened D.B. “Why give us anything, you don’t even know if we’ve got it?”
    “I’ll run a test to make sure, but this is a kind of preventive medicine. Back in the 1940s they used sulfoamides and streptomycin but resistant strains started popping up. Now we use streptomycin and second, broad-spectrum antibiotic like tetracycline or chloramphenicol. Maybe kanamycin and co-trimoxazole.”
    “Let’s just get it over with, huh?” D.B. said.
    “Sure.” He prepared the injections. “Funny thing, swine are quite resistant to plague, did you know?”
    “Interesting,” D.B. deadpanned, screwing up her face in anticipation of the shot.
    Eric received his shot next.
    “That all, doc?” Grub asked.
    “Yeah. You’re due for a blood test again soon.”
    “Aw, shit, man. Next time, really. Only I gotta take this guy over to Thor now. Next time for sure, doc.”
    Grub turned and started for the door, gesturing for Eric and D.B. to follow. But just as he reached for the door, Eric looped the leash around his neck and drew the chain tight. Grub flailed out wildly, his hand smashing into a line of lab beakers, sending glass exploding through the room. Tiny slivers of glass stuck in his knuckles as he groped backward for Eric. Then he remembered his gun and grabbed for that. D.B. ran around him, twisted the gun from his bloody fingers as his eyes bulged and popped, his tongue flopping out of his mouth.
    The doctor merely watched. Eric released the chain, wrapping his left arm around Grub’s neck. Without pause, Eric flung his own body down to the ground, allowing his weight to pull Grub backward, but feeling the neck snap, the bones rattling as the skull and spine separated and Grub was launched into sudden death.
    Out of habit, Eric checked