a new peice of the puzzle...

His labcoat hung loose today. His hair was unkempt and tangled, apart from it’s usually slick and mild-tempered appearance. It was strange to see, such a professional man in such disarray. Even his shoes, while usually being neatly polished and laced, were barely staying on his quick feet.

“Doctor?” a voice from outside his office, “Doctor Weston?”

“What?” the doctor was short with his orderly, ill-tempered to say the least.

“I’m terribly sorry to inturrup…”

”Yeah, yeah… What do you need?” asked the doctor, not bothering to pause, even for a moment, amidst the tower of stacked manila folders in front of him.

“There’s a couple in emergency who have requested your service, the woman seems quite upset.”

“Tell them I’ll be there in five. Go. Now!” shouted the doctor, now looking deep into the young medical student’s eyes, burning, piercing.

The orderly rushed away, the doctor kept writing.

It had been some time since these two had been in, almost every other weekend it seemed. The husband would watch a news special on cervical cancer, and after dinner they’d be in, cause he thought he had cervical cancer. More times then could be counted on a hand, they had asked for doctor Weston specifically, and nobody could really, truly understand why, not even Weston. Some people are just drawn that way, or so the story goes.

“Can’t even get five minutes around here” Doctor Weston muttered.

He pushed aside the latest folder and started for the door. His day so far had been strangely busy. Way busier then it should have been, especially considering the circumstances.

He walked down the segregated office hallway. Most people didn’t even know this part of the hospital existed. Most Doctors tried to pretend the same, after all, it was such a hassle to try to pile paper work on top of being a hero. The windows in this hallway were as tall as Doctor Weston himself. He could see the snow rustling around the rear parking lot. Some kids were walking past.

Doctor Weston shook his head.

“Damn kids.”

He felt sorry for them, he felt sorry for most people, especially now, since yesterday.

Doctor Weston pushed through big green doors to the stretch of hallway that would lead him to the awaiting Mr. Kemph. Weston suddenly remembered the time Mr. Kemph believed he was suffering from cervical cancer, and laughed to himself. Childishly, he said,

“Probably thinks he’s a vaccum or something.”

As Doctor Weston and his smile walked through the door to room 67b, Mr Kemph was all but dead. Weston’s smile immediately turned sideways as he placed his middle and index fingers half way up Mr. Kemph’s neck. He looked to his waiting nurse and asked what Mr. Kemph’s vitals were reading.

“He’s got it.” The nurse spoke softly, her face pale.

“Got what…? Cmon!” The doctor, now visibly stressing, shouted at his nurse.

“A trace of Toxin U. We were given swabs today, at the front desk in emerg. I-if you swab under the tounge, and it turns bule, t-they’re in the final stages.”

Doctor Weston dropped his instruments.

“Shit… Get yourself to Washdown, I’ll be there shortly, where’s his wife?”

“Waiting room, sir.” Replied the nurse. Tears now forming in the bottom corners of her eyes.

“Mrs…?” asked the doctor.

“Kemph?”

“No, no… what’s YOUR name? Quickly now.” The doctor, now washing his hands, spoke assertively, and quickly.

“m-Mrs. Nader.”

“Well Mrs. Nader, you get downto washdown, I’ll be there soon. Everything will be fine, I promise. What contact did you have with the victim?”

“Almost none, I put my hand on his hand, and his shoulder.” Replied the shaken nurse.

“You make sure you tell them that, hurry now, off you go.”

The doctor followed the nurse out, shutting the door quickly behind them. He reached down to his cell phone, dialed a quick number and spoke clearly into the receiver.

“Room 67… b, Last stage victim, partner in waiting room… yes. Okay.”

The doctor closed the cell phone in his pocket and paused to exhale. He wondered, if this makes the paper…

The doctor knew it wouldn’t be long before he was introduced to the basement, as he had already begun coughing, and was finding it harder to hide in front of his co-workers.

He was walking quickly again, to meet with Mrs. Kemph, when he was greeted by two black-suited agents. Weston was relieved to be told that it was in act Mrs. Kemph that would be taken to quarantine. Quarantine, that dismal yellow room, where they don’t charge for death certificates.

His convesation with Mrs Kemph was quick. She was being her usual ignorant, flirty self. Weston made sure the conversation was brief and non-personal, he didn’t need yet another soul to plague his conscience with guilt. Mrs. Kemph was asking about sounds she heard from the basement. Funny, she’d soon get a first hand look at exactly what those noises were all about.

Weston could feel a coughing fit rising in his chest, and surrounded by new agents and co-workers, he would surely be taken for questioning at least. Weston made a jog out the back door, and lit a cigarette. Ironic, he thought, that people would see a doctor smoking. I wasn’t really his choice. After all, smoking makes you cough, right?