36. Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter thirty-six
Captain Valmir Zeqiri stood on the makeshift observation deck, a rickety metal platform that creaked every time he shifted his weight, and watched as the surgeon worked.
The Serbian journalist and her American husband were strapped to beds inside Doctor Kadare’s laboratory.
Zeqiri’s view was obscured by the thick plastic sheeting.
He rested his elbows on the railing and leaned out as far as he dared while the rusty metal grating groaned under him.
From here, he could reach out and touch the plastic barrier, but Zeqiri did not dare.
He didn’t know much about virology and didn’t fully trust the plastic curtains despite the doctor’s assurances that they were perfectly adequate to contain the virus.
In fact, the whole operation made Zeqiri uncomfortable.
He generally avoided the testing habitat, but he was particularly interested in this part of the operation.
This was the part that changed the doctor’s work from a simple tool of mass destruction to a gold mine.
And Zeqiri intended to cash in. He smoothed a hand over his thick black beard while he watched.
The husband appeared to be in much worse condition than the wife.
He struggled for every breath, air wheezing in and out of his lungs.
His throat had swollen to nearly twice it’s normal size.
It looked like he’d tried to swallow a rubber tire.
Dark black circles ringed tear-stained eyes and his skin looked like wax paper.
Thick snot dribbled from both nostrils. He had stopped talking hours ago.
The wife still had some fight left in her.
She still muttered beneath her breath, though Zeqiri couldn’t hear what she said.
Her throat had not swollen up nearly as bad and her eyes still moved in their bruised sockets, taking in the doctor while he worked.
Spittle dribbled from her mouth every time she tried to speak.
Both husband and wife had been exposed to the virus mere hours ago.
They’d showed the first symptoms after just thirty minutes.
The doctor’s latest strain went to work much faster than the previous iteration.
The villagers hadn’t started to show symptoms until nearly twenty-four hours after initial exposure.
A marked improvement, thought Zeqiri.
Doctor Arben Kadare moved around the lab environment, hindered by a bulky hazmat suit.
He made a notation on a clipboard, then filled a syringe and went to the American’s bedside.
First the doctor checked the man’s vitals on the hospital monitor.
From what Zeqiri could see, William Handley barely clung to life.
The pulse rate monitor was just a feeble electric green scribble.
Kadare injected the needle into an IV connected to Handley’s arm, then moved to prepare another syringe.
The process was slow and Zeqiri exhaled loudly while he waited.
Thirty minutes ticked slowly past while Doctor Kadare took blood samples and ran tests in between monitoring his patient’s pulse rate and breathing.
Zeqiri watched and tried to ignore the doubts creeping in. Had the doctor failed, again? Zeqiri glanced at the clock on the wall of the dilapidated old warehouse.
Forty minutes ticked slowly past before Kadare nodded to himself. He made a series of notes on his clipboard, then stepped over to the barrier. He had to raise his voice to be heard through the hazmat suit and the thick plastic sheeting. “It worked. Both patients are in recovery.”
Captain Zeqiri gripped the metal railing tight. They had a working antidote. “Well done, doctor. You are to be congratulated. You’ve done tremendous work. The world will be a better place for it.”
“I could not have done it without your help,” Kadare said. “Major Hoxha would be proud of you and your men.”
Zeqiri nodded. The Major would have been proud, had he lived to see it. But the Major was dead because of the journalist currently strapped to a bed behind a plastic barrier.
As if he could tell what the captain was thinking, Doctor Kadare said, “We’ll wait a few hours, to be sure both patients fully recover. We must be sure the antidote is successful, then you may exact your vengeance on them both.”