Mercy 6 by David Bajo Page B

their magazines, one a cigar, the other a men’s health. At first Mendenhall thought to take it outside. But it was the magazines, their sheen. And the surgeons, with their legs crossed, their eyes going from the shallow pages to her, the disheveled ER fool who might mess with a personal communication to the outside. Her aunt started with the dog again.
    My friend loves Cortez.
    Give him.
    That cold?
    Mendenhall clenched against a sad shiver, a hurt that dropped along her left side. The surgeon with the cigar magazine appeared to notice, recrossed his legs, and pushed his pages flat and away.
    Give.
    Wait.
    She had nothing, no reply. She looked to the surgeons, and they turned back to their magazines, the health one first, then, a second later, cigar.
    How are you doing?
    Surviving. Scratch behind his ears for me.

    She took the elevator to recovery, found an empty physical therapy room, took off her cap, changed into scrubs, and stepped onto the treadmill. She set the incline and pace, began her run. She closed her eyes and pictured the trails outside, orange-lit in the night, shadow-crossed, air something between cool and humid—but moving, brushing her face and neck.
    When she opened her eyes she was startled by how much time had passed. Next to the LCD recording minutes was her pulse, the rate higher than what she felt. Her legs still thrummed with energy, ready to begin, amplifying her sense of disconnection, the illusion that the body is not the self. That particular defense mechanism.
    Even the sheen of sweat was not hers; it was cool and cleansing.
    She had once had an arrival who had dragged himself with his elbows for more than a mile. In an advanced stage of alcohol poisoning—years of poisoning combined with one more final lethal dose—he had lost function in his lower body. He had dragged himself to her because he did not want to die alone. He remembered her but could not remember anyone else in his life.
    â€œHow?” she asked him. An athlete in his prime could not have done what this derelict had done. He looked at her as she pressed two fingers to his carotid pulse. She eased the pressure, let it be just a touch, the last thing he felt.
    She heard the door to the Physical Therapy room open behind her. She remained on the treadmill, waited to hear some nurse’s apology, the “Sorry, Doctor” that always grated on her nerves.
    Instead she heard Claiborne’s voice.
    â€œThose things never quite cut it for me.”
    She turned to him but stayed on the treadmill, surfing a little as it eased to a stop. “You need to find your inner hamster.”
    He had shed his lab clothes, stood straight in his shirt and tie, thin leather belt neat about his waist. “You have a much better imagination than I do.”
    â€œI dunno. Cannonball Man was pretty imaginative.”
    â€œI apologize for that.”
    â€œNo,” she said. “I deserved it. It’s your lab.”
    He let the door close. “Okay. Here we are on neutral ground.”
    He opened his hands to her.
    â€œHow did you find me?”
    â€œI asked Mullich.”
    â€œThat’s scary. He’s scary.”
    â€œHe guessed the surgeons’ lounge first. If that’s any consolation.”
    The ground did not feel neutral. The slant of the treadmill matched the tilt in her senses. She asked anyway. “What do you think it is? If you had to stop now, if all information stopped now?
    What would you say?”
    Claiborne crossed his arms, angled his waist to one side. “Virus.
    Hemorrhagic, fast like dengue HF, but obviously much faster. Not very contagious. Has to get into the stratum basale, start there, burst there. They got it in some weird way that isn’t being repeated.
    Mullich’s work is actually perfect for us here, centering on locale, degrees of separation among the four. DC taking the bodies is good. They can do much better work than I. They should reduce