"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"
Chapter Ten
The two 'maximum quarantine' ed L.A. County firemen whiled away the morning hours: John with his eyes peeled to his pretty Sign teacher, and Roy either on the phone with his wife and kids, or with his nose buried in one of their library's many 'action packed' adventure novels.
As time ticked slowly on, Roy noticed that his 'imprisoned' partner was becoming more and more restless.
Finally, his 'cooped up' companion turned his teacher off, slammed his Sign book shut, and slipped out of bed.
"I'm gonna go for a walk," Johnny announced.
"Don't go too far, huh," Roy taunted him. "Our lunch should be in the air-lock, any moment now."
The walker set their treadmill's speed to 'leisure stroll' and its incline to 'flat' and then stepped aboard. "If I don't make it back before then, send out 'Search & Rescue'," Johnny teased right back.
About five minutes, or less than a mile later…
Roy saw the air-lock's red light come on and quickly closed his book. "Food's here!"
His restless partner continued to walk, right up until the little red light went out. "We could really use one of these 'air-lock thingies' at the Station," John wistfully declared. He slid the compartment's glass door open and removed its marvelous-smelling contents. "Wouldn't that be cool?" he queried, as he carried their lunch over to the lab counter. "It'd be like having our very own 'Aladdin's Lamp'." The grinning paramedic placed the steaming hot Styrofoam food containers down on the countertop and his posterior down upon his stool. "We could just order whatever we wanted—whenever we wanted it. And then, when we're done eating, there'd be no mess to clean up. We'd just incinerate the dirty dishes."
Roy plunked himself down beside his broadly grinning buddy and gave the 'air-lock thingy' a thoughtful glance. "It's too small. Joanne and the kids would never fit inside there."
Johnny's broad grin slowly transformed into a sad smile. "How are things going on the home-front?"
Roy peeled the plastic lid off of his Styrofoam bowl. "Joanne doesn't mind being confined to the house. In fact, she claims the Health Department people are spoiling her rotten. They run all her errands for her and even deliver her groceries—right to the door, and never hand her a bill." His own smile did a disappearing act. "Christopher keeps asking if his Daddy is coming home for Christmas." He gave the quarantine cubicle's locked door an exceedingly glum glance. "Like I even have a choice in the matter."
Gage gave his glum chum a deeply sympathetic look, and then dug into his lunch. "Mmm. Mmm," he declared, upon sampling his still-steaming chili.
"Good, huh?" his partner pondered.
John nodded. "I believe this stuff may be even better than Blain's Red Dog."
"Nothing could be better than Blain's Red Dog," DeSoto quickly determined, but hesitated to sample his own steaming bowlful of chili. "You sure this is such a good idea?"
"Wha-at?" his partner pondered, around a partially masticated mouthful of 'hot'—er, really hot chili.
Roy glanced back over his shoulder, at their confined quarters. "Eating 'beans' for lunch."
Gage giggled delightedly. "Sure it is! This stuff is incredible! Besides, we can just turn the 'audio surveillance' off, slap some headphones on—and then 'toot' the entire afternoon away. And nobody will be any the wiser."
His 'full a' beans' buddy's light-hearted reply caused Roy to chuckle himself. He finally lifted his fully loaded plastic soupspoon to his lips and took a few cautious sips. "Say…this stuff is good. Isn't it."
John flashed his friend a smug smile. "Better than Blain's Red Dog?"
The chili connoisseur smacked his burning lips a couple a' times and took a careful poll of his 'lit up' taste buds. "Not bad. Not bad, at all. Certainly better than Chet's. But Blain's Red Dog is still the best."
John blew a breath out of his flaming mouth. Then he opened and began gulping down the ice-cold contents of one of the four milk cartons setting on the countertop. "Man! Talk about nasal decongestants!" he declared with a grin. "This stuff'll clear out your sinuses in a hurry! I bet I could a' tasted this stuff, even when I still had my head cold."
Roy returned his friend's grin and then stared thoughtfully down at his chili. "Hopefully, it's not as 'deadly' as that first drug cocktail…"
"I'll drink to that!" his grinning chum agreed and took another long, refreshing chug of his ice-cold milk.
Following their flaming lunch, and a dozen more vials of drawn blood…
The firemen's third slumber-less night in a row finally caught up with them. The pair ended up spending their second afternoon in NASA's quarantine cubicle sleeping, instead of 'toot' ing.
Roy was the first one to awaken and he immediately became immersed in a Western paperback.
Johnny woke up, about four chapters later. He blinked the remaining sleep from his bleary eyes and then rolled stiffly out of his bunk.
Roy glanced up from his open book. "Where yah goin'?"
"I wanna know how our counterparts in Seattle are doing," his partner replied, in mid-stride.
"There's a green button on your headboard," Roy reminded him, with a smirk.
"So I read." His buddy reached their videophone and glanced back over his shoulder. "Force of habit," he explained, sounding a wee bit embarrassed. He pressed the green button.
The monitor came to life and Naval Midshipman Cary Alan Greyson appeared. "Room Service…"
The quarantined fireman was forced to smile. "Yeah. Look, 'Room Service'…Is there a Doctor in the house?"
The young man's amused expression instantly sobered. "You wanna see Dr. McComas?"
"Yes, please."
"Hang on. I'll get him for you," the sailor promised and departed from view.
John rested his hands upon his hips. "I'd also like to know what the latest word from Atlanta is," he further explained, solely for his buddy's benefit.
Roy nodded, understandingly.
A few moments later, Dr. McComas appeared. "You wanted to see me, John?"
John directed his undivided attention back toward their videophone's TV screen. "Hi, Doc. Yeah. I was wondering how the two Seattle paramedics are doing, and if any more of those Romanian sailors have died."
"As a matter of fact, I just this minute got off the phone with Dr. Michelson, up at Harborview Medical Center. As you already know, McKeese and Norquist are being held—er, kept under maximum quarantine there, in the Isolation Ward. Both paramedics' vital signs are perfectly normal. They have not presented any symptoms—whatsoever, and they claim that they are feeling 'perfectly fine'. Except, of course, for being extremely restless and nervous—understandably nervous. They also inquired about your health, and were tremendously relieved to hear that you and Roy were both feeling 'perfectly fine', too. Except, of course, for being extremely restless and nervous—understandably nervous." The doctor's smile suddenly vanished. "I'm sorry to say that fourteen more sailors aboard that freighter have…succumbed to the virus. The others continue to show some minor improvement after being given a second dose of the CDC's new drug cocktail."
The dark-haired paramedic exchanged solemn glances with his partner. "Any word yet from Atlanta?"
"Dr. Vandertine called while the two of you were sleeping. He said that your blood cultures have been in the incubator for about 24 hours now, and—so far—there is no sign of any 'growth' in any of the mediums. He also said that it takes time for the virus to propagate—if it's going to propagate. The samples will need to be incubated another 48 hours, at the very least, before the two of you can be certified 'contagion free'. And he said it could even take a little longer."
"No it couldn't," the blond paramedic quickly countered. "We gotta be out of here by Christmas Eve. Christmas morning, at the very latest."
McComas gave the family man a deeply sympathetic look. "Then I certainly hope that proves to be the case."
John flashed the physician a grateful smile. "Thanks, Doc. That about covers everything."
The doctor returned the young fireman's smile. "I took the liberty of ordering you guys some dinner. It should be arriving shortly. Before the delivery guy gets here, I'd like to get a sixth PC reading on the two of you."
Roy obligingly began heading over to the lab counter, with his Western.
Johnny figured his fireman friend was onto something, so he snatched a magazine from their library's shelves before plunking himself down onto his own stool. He glanced down at his lap and was pleasantly surprised to discover that the periodical that he had randomly picked up was—Playboy. 'Oh. Joy,' he silently mused.
Another delicious dinner—and two PC readings later, both firemen were sprawled back out on their bunks…
John rolled onto his side and saw that his buddy's nose was still buried in his paperback book. "What time is it?" he groggily inquired.
Roy's reading lamp was the only light source in the cubicle. So he couldn't see their futuristic wall clock.
"You've got a watch," his reading buddy reminded him.
"Yeah," John agreed. "But I don't want to have to bend my bruised elbow…or crawl out of bed," his whispered words trailed off.
Roy was in no mood for interruptions. He glanced up from his open book and gave his unbelievably lazy buddy an irritated glare. Then, curious as to the answer to the time question, himself, he directed his attention to his watch. "It's just after midnight," he announced and waited for his partner to acknowledge him.
But Johnny failed to respond. He'd already drifted back to sleep.
Roy gave his dozing friend a final glare of extreme annoyance and returned to his Western.
The trail boss of a cattle drive was waiting for his Ramrod to give him some disturbing news.
The disturbing news turned out to be that several of the stray Longhorn steers that had joined their herd were down with 'hoof and mouth' disease—anthrax.
The local authorities were insisting that the entire herd be quarantined or destroyed, before they could infect other ranchers' livestock.
It was beginning to look like they would never reach the cattle yards in Sedalia.
Roy suddenly lost all interest in the story. He closed the book and tossed it aside. Then he turned off his reading lamp and blinked up at the cubicle's far from black ceiling in absolute amazement. Several of the larger luminaries were still visible, obviously having been created using 'glow-in-the-dark' paint. He lay there, staring silently up at the moon, and thinking negative…negative…NEGATIVE.
TBC
Author's note:
Once again, thanks for all your kind, encouraging comments and continued support! ((((((((feedback posters)))))))))
Thanks also for all the 'well wishes'. ((((((readers))))))) They worked. :D My sinuses are feeling a tad bit better. :)
Hope you enjoyed Chapter Ten. *fingers crossed*
Take care! *wave wave*
:)Ross7