There were fluorescent lights.
That's what really struck Andy first, lying on his back under a thin hospital sheet, his arms and legs strapped to a gurney. It was supposed to be "for protection," in case he was dangerous, in case he was one of them, in case they needed an easy target. Symptoms could appear anywhere from several seconds to several days after contact with an infected person, so despite his unbroken skin, it was still possible for him to be sick.
"Can you turn the lights out please?"
"I'm sorry, Mister Cartwright," the American nurse murmured, inspecting his blood sample visually as she finished placing a label on it and set it in a plastic tray on a metal countertop nearby. "I need the light to work."
"Well, when you leave, then?"
"We need to see you," she replied, her voice level rising as she moved further from him, apparently getting ready to leave.
She didn't say why, but he knew: We need to see how you act. In case you're sick. In case we need to kill you.
"Mister Cartwright?" she acknowledged him, suddenly at his side. He must have dozed off, somehow… "We'll need to ask you some questions later."
"Why not now?" Andy prompted, finally looking over at her.
She was fairly attractive; slender build, long, black hair, and intensely green eyes. If not for her accent, he would have taken her for Black Irish.
He didn't want to be alone.
She sighed, sitting down on a rolling stool beside his gurney, and flipped open his file, searching for a blank piece of paper and pulling a pen out of her pants pocket. She clicked it absently, staring at the empty lines in her lap, afraid to look back at him. She'd interviewed one patient before, someone who'd come in with Cartwright, and he was in very bad shape.
She was afraid to hear his story, to see the fear in his eyes and his voice, to make him relive that pain and know it was her fault for dragging him back to that time. But it was her job.
"I need you to tell me what happened to you," she said softly, those shocking green eyes locking desperately with Andy's. Her hand rested on his for a moment, fingers squeezing tight before falling back to her lap.
"…I…I survived," Andy said weakly, barely managing a smile, as if that would explain everything.
"…I need you to start from the beginning," she said, almost apologetically.
He looked pointedly at her now, brow furrowed, mouth slightly agape. He was afraid already, she could see it, but the animosity in the other patient was nonexistent here.
Sighing heavily, he began: "I used to have a moustache, you know…"