Blackwater
The doctor made his way down the elevator into the basement of the hospital. The first level was the laundry services and maintenance offices. The elevator continued. The second level was access to the parking garage and security office. The third level was the morgue and autopsy rooms. The final level was a quarantine zone, guarded day and night and accessible only by key staff members. He was accompanied by the hospital administrator, who used his keycard to unlock the doors.
"Right this way, doctor," he beckoned, leading him down a short corridor to a second set of security doors. A series of cameras followed their every move. Flashing his keycard over the pad, the heavy locks clicked open with a thunderous sound. He pushed the doors open and the two men entered a central office. The white walls shone brightly, with equally bright doors interspersed throughout – each with a number printed large in black at the top. "The most recent cases are in number six. The first two confirmed cases from two weeks ago have been in room two."
"What behavior do they display with one another?" Dr. Blackwater asked.
"Complete disregard," he answered. "They only seem to respond to activity – noise or motion. When they're left alone, they simply stand blankly, almost catatonic, regardless of how many of them we keep together. We only separated the first two because they seem to be in the worst condition physically, but..." he trailed off, hesitating. Dr. Blackwater looked him down, concern growing across his face. "Just... come see for yourself," the administrator finally urged, walking quickly towards the door marked #2. Slipping his keycard over the pad, the door slid open. Inside, two more men in bright yellow cleanroom suits stood in front of a two-way mirror. The administrator opened his hand towards them. The doctor approached the glass slowly.
Inside were two people – a man, apparently in his late thirties or early forties, stood near the glass. His pale skin was waxy, with dark spots appearing at his extremities. His eyes appeared to be glazed over and reflected a soft hue that almost appeared blue. His hair was thinning rapidly and had become a wispy gray. His condition had clearly aged him even further.
The woman standing in the room with him was in a similar condition – though with a more noticeable gaunt. Her cheekbones protruded from her face and her eyes sunk deep into the socket. Her fingers were barely more than skeletal. She stood facing the wall, her mouth slightly ajar. Hair had fallen out in clumps, which were littered on the floor.
"The toilet is spotless," the doctor noted.
"They haven't demonstrated any need for it thus far," the administrator replied.
"That doesn't make sense. No food nor water?"
"Nothing for nearly two weeks. We force an IV into them each day with varying degrees of success. We're currently seeking permission to attempt feeding tubes and medically-induced comas to keep them from wasting any further, but it's been difficult," he continued. The doctor glanced over at him, his face covered in skepticism. The administrator took note. "Watch this." With that, the administrator took a step towards the mirror and gently rapped on the glass. The man inside flinched and hissed loudly, taking a step forward and smearing his face against the glass. The woman turned from her position and also took a step towards the window and stared into it silently, cocking her head to the side.
"They're still responding to stimuli," the doctor noted.
"Yes," the administrator agreed. "However, they're both non-verbal and appear to forget about distractions such as this relatively quickly."
"Do they exhibit any signs of aggression upon interacting with hospital staff?"
"When we attempt to open the door to feed them or check them, we do require orderlies to hold them still. We cannot tell if they're attempting to escape, attack, or simply want assistance. We're not sure if we're dealing with fear or aggression at this point, but we did have a nurse who was bitten by one of them. It's been, so far, the only incident," he explained.
"Well," the doctor sighed with a chuckle. "As long as she hasn't turned into a zombie, I think we can rule that out." The two researchers shared a slight smile at the jest, causing the doctor to glance at them with a grin. "If you would, I'd like to see your more recent patients."
"Of course, doctor, right this way," the administrator confirmed as they allowed the two researchers to continue their work. Moving to room number six, the doctor found numerous people in various states of physical condition. Some were beginning to show the same dark spots and gaunt physical attributes of the original two, but most seemed to appear fairly healthy – if a bit pale and with eyes that appeared to reflect only a milky blue haze. Some of them strolled around leisurely in circles, calmly bumping into each other and changing directions as they did so.
"Are there any notable differences in the behavior of these subjects compared to the previous two?" the doctor asked.
"Aside from their penchant for pacing about, none. They become excited when we attempt to collect one for treatment, study, or to provide food or water, but when left to their own devices they simply ignore each other. It's as if some sort of neurological disorder has attacked their sensibilities," the administrator noted.
"Incredible," the doctor quietly mused. "We may be the first humans to discover a new disease."
"It certainly appears so," the administrator agreed. "Nothing in our records, or the records provided by Public Health has shown anything like this. Even the Citadel has yet to respond to our requests."
"The Citadel is barely a museum of antiquities," the doctor muttered. "If I wanted a history of family lineages from the medieval ages, I would call them. Precise medical science is best left to more... modern institutions."
"They do have one of the world's foremost surgical theaters," the administrator countered. The doctor nodded.
"I am well aware," he agreed. "I spent two years in residence there as a younger man." And it felt like two lifetimes. They continued staring at the group of men and women staggering around the small room. "I believe I've seen enough for now. I'd like to check their personal information, if you don't mind."
"Naturally," the administrator agreed. They exited the observation room and returned to the central office, where they found an empty desk. The administrator opened his laptop and slid it over to the doctor. "The files for each patient are here. I've made sure to give you access to our network drive from Higgart Central."
"I do appreciate it," the doctor thanked him as he opened the first file. "Let's see... Jacob Anderson, age 36 of Branton... A welder by trade... Licensed as a merchant mariner... Recently returned from Sand Island before showing symptoms?"
"We believe he may have contracted the disease there and returned with it. If that's the case, he may be patient zero or that individual may be on Sand Island still. So far, they haven't reported any sightings," the administrator explained.
"And the woman? How does she fit into this theory?" the doctor asked.
"They worked together," he explained. "She was a secretary at the construction company that employed Mr. Anderson."
"No other employees have shown any signs?"
"Not as of yet, no. They were kept in isolation here for 72 hours each before being discharged."
"Did they have a... personal... relationship?" the doctor carefully worded the question, but the intent was obvious.
"The attending physician who first admitted her asked if that was the case, but she denied it – vehemently." The doctor leaned back in his chair and furrowed his brow.
"Sand Island is quite isolated and undeveloped," the doctor considered. "If he's not patient zero, then they may still be there hiding in the jungle. Is the Director of Public Health aware of this?"
"Of course," the administrator answered with a few slight nods. "I believe he's going to send one of his investigators there tomorrow."
"Very good," the doctor replied, pleased at the information. "I'm returning to Higgart tonight with my assistant. We'll continue monitoring our subjects and keep you updated. Thank you for your time." The two men shook hands as they stood, only to have the administrator offer the doctor an alcohol-solution spray for his hands.
The doctor found himself in a taxi heading back to the aeroport as they crossed the bridge over the Blackwater River, his family's alleged namesake. The water was calm and dark, running deep. He lost himself in thought as to the implications of the infected. They look dead, he decided. They act like television zombies, minus the biting. His brow furrowed as he placed his thumb on his lip. Rabies? Distemper? Chronic Wasting Disease? The bridge ended, and his view of the river vanished.