"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

Chapter Seven

There was a pleasant 'beep' inside the quarantine cubicle.

Simultaneously, its air-lock's red light came on.

Roy headed over to answer their phone.

His partner stepped over to the air-lock, to retrieve their 'mystery' dinner.


The green button was pushed.

Their videophone's dark screen lit up and Dr. McComas appeared. "I contacted the CDC. They said that Samples D2, D3 and D4 have been slated for Chromatograph testing. However, samples drawn from subjects having direct contact with the primary infection source have priority over 'cross-infection' cases. So it may be some time before the lab tech's can get to the samples that were collected from your family."

Roy felt both disappointed and relieved. Not knowing wasn't always a curse, and knowing wasn't always a blessing. "Thanks for looking into that for me, Doc."

The physician flashed the family man a sympathetic smile and nodded.


The red light finally went out on the air-lock.

John slid the compartment's glass door open and did a beautiful double take.

Inside the air-lock were a couple of plastic IV bags and two packages of IV tubing.

The paramedic removed the compartment's contents and then turned toward the monitor. "This is our 'mystery food'?"

McComas was forced to grin. "Your dinner hasn't been delivered yet. That's some sort of 'drug cocktail' the CDC concocted. Apparently, several of those sick sailors have shown some slight improvement after being dosed with that stuff. They recommend that it be administered as quickly as possible—strictly as a pre-emptive treatment. The instructions are on the labels."


The IV paraphernalia was placed upon the lab counter.

The quarantine cubicle's infected guests obligingly dropped onto their stools.

Gage carefully rested his padded elbow upon the counter and then proffered his left forearm to his fireman friend.

DeSoto read the instructions on the IV bag's label. The paramedic tore one of the transparent packages open and attached one end of the clear, sterile tubing to the bottom of his patient's IV bag. He opened the clamp at the base of the bag. The IV solution drained down into the attached tube, effectively flushing all the air out. The prepared tubing was then attached to the hub on his patient's catheter and the IV's drip was adjusted accordingly.

John could feel the IV's icy solution entering his arm. Less than an instant later, his vision began to tunnel out on him. "Ro-oy?"

Roy glanced up and locked gazes with his patient.

"I don't feel so goo—" the dark-haired paramedic's mouth stopped moving. In fact, his entire body suddenly went completely limp.

"Johnny?" Roy alarmedly exclaimed as his partner's dark eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched forward on his stool. He caught his collapsing friend under the arms and immediately crimped off his IV's tubing. "What the hell kind a' drugs did THEY put in their damn cocktail?" he demanded. He got the clear plastic tubing completely clamped off and then carefully lowered his unconscious buddy, and his IV bag, to the floor.


McComas stood there on the carrier deck and watched helplessly, as the nightmarish scene unfolded up on their monitor's screen. "I have no idea! But your partner appears to be experiencing an 'adverse reaction' to one—or more—of them! Is he breathing?"


Roy saw his friend's chest slowly falling and rising and nodded. "Is there any medical gear in here? I'd like to get some vitals on him."

The doctor nodded. "You'll find a medical kit, with a BP cuff and stethoscope, in that center cabinet, directly above the counter, there."

Roy sprang to his feet and started reaching for said cabinet.


The fair-haired paramedic found the medical kit and soon had a set of vitals on his comatose patient. "BP is 115/83. Pulse is 54. Respirations are 8 and shallow. Both lungs are clear. Pupils are pinpoint and slow to react. Request permission to administer 10-liters of O2."

"Go ahead," McComas told him. "There's some oxygen tubing and a nasal canula in that left-hand drawer. Just plug it into that jack on the wall behind the counter and then turn the dial to ten."


The vertical fireman got the oxygen flowing and was just about to slip the nasal canula into place, when his patient's eyes fluttered open and his pinpoint pupils appeared.

Gage groaned and slowly started reaching for his throbbing forehead. "What…What happened?"

"You went out on me! That's 'what what happened'!" Roy made another attempt to slip his patient's nasal canula into place.

His partner pushed his hands away from his frowning face. "Oh. For cryin' out loud, Roy. I don't need a 'nasal canula'. I just fainted."

"You did not just 'faint'. You were knocked outcold!"

"Yeah? Well. I ain't knocked out no-ow. So let me up." John suddenly realized something and drew a deep breath in—through his nostrils. His frown quickly turned upside-down. "Whatever that stuff was, it seems to have cleared out my sinuses..."

Roy just knelt there, giving his now-grinning patient a strange stare.


A restaurant delivery guy was escorted across the aircraft carrier's deck.

The visitor, and his sailor escort, approached the quarantine cubicle. "Somebody order two lobster dinners?" the guy inquired, as the pair came within camera range.

"Lobster?" John exclaimed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and delight. The famished fireman shoved his partner's hands from his shoulders and started scrambling to his feet. "C'mon, Roy! Let's eat—before my sinuses get all 'stuffed up' again, and I can't taste anything."

Roy gazed glumly down at the floor, where his patient had been lying just moments before. The paramedic then turned and glanced helplessly—and hopelessly—up at their videophone's monitor.


McComas couldn't help but grin. But then something suddenly occurred to the doctor and his smile did a disappearing act. "Gawd! I hope he's not allergic to seafood…"

TBC

Author's note:

Again, I apologize for posting such a short part. Just thought I'd squeeze a few scenes in between loads of corn. :)

Speaking of loads…

We've had five semis come so far, or about 250,000lbs. of high-moisture corn. *faint*

The corn gets unloaded into an auger that dumps it into our roller mill. It drops through the roller mill, getting crushed up as it does so. (Crushing it makes it easier for the cows to digest.) Then it gets augured into a blower that whacks and blows it fifty feet up in the air and into the top of our big, blue, airtight, glass-lined steel Harvestore silo.

My job is to make sure that the unloading goes 'smoothly', and to shut all the machinery down the instant something messes up. It really keeps you on your toes. lol

Each truck takes between two to three hours to unload. The weather has been extremely cooperative—for a refreshing change. lol In fact, yesterday and today were downright hot.

Oh well, gotta get this posted. Another semi will be coming any minute now.

Once more, you guys are amazing!

Thanks sooooooo much for taking the time to read and comment on this E! fic'!

I promise, Chapter Eight will be MUCH longer. lol

Take care!

:)Ross7