Amanda's Story (9 page)

“You're telling me, sister,” Greenburg said under his breath. “I'm guessing that whatever this is has a variable presentation. Let's hope that he's at one end of the spectrum and we're at the other.” The small group nodded as the lieutenant began to moan again.

It took an hour to get everything organized and for the rest of Garcia's platoon to make it back into camp. Two more of the stricken six died before the remainder were left to die alone in the dark jungle. David Jorgenson and Mary Ecklers had both developed the tell-tale blisters, and along with Oso had joined Dr. Greenburg and Lieutenant Garcia in the large supply tent. Within minutes Greenburg had organized a poker game. Out of sheer luck it had been placed downwind of the rest of the camp, but that didn't stop Bernice from ordering everyone to wear surgical masks and cover as much skin as possible, even in the stifling heat and humidity.

“The lieutenant grabbed that man, remember?” Amanda asked Bernice, who sat the requisite ten feet away while waiting for the Honduran liaison to radio her back. The sun had gone down several hours earlier, and the air was filled with flying insects.

“I remember,” Bernice said. “It's been a long day, and it's going to be a long night,” she mused. “It's been several years since I've spent the night in the jungle. I remember the stars being brighter, but also the bugs being smaller.”

“You want to know a secret?” Amanda asked.

“This is going to be about sex, isn't it?”

“No!” Amanda answered.

“Good, because if you were about to tell me that you had a thing for Dr. Greenburg I'd have to get off this chair, come over there, and punch out your lights. That man is mine!” Bernice tried to keep a straight face but failed, and the two women started to laugh. She stood and began to shake her considerable bulk. “Cause I like my men big and jiggly.” She flopped back into her chair, barely finishing her pantomime through the laughter. “Oh God, I needed that,” Bernice said after the laughter had begun to die away.

“No, despite my secret attraction to Dr. Greenburg, I was about to say that this is the first time I have ever been out of the country.”

“I can't even remember how many countries I've been to. I've been all over the world. But I always like coming home the best. Maybe it's familiarity or convenience, but even with all its warts and worms I'll take the good-ole US of A.”

“Did we just make a beer commercial?” They both started laughing again, and as it faded they fell into a comfortable silence.

Amanda had become so relaxed that when the radio squawked she nearly fell from her chair.

The first part of the message was delivered in rapid Spanish. “Slow down; I can't understand you,” Bernice sent back. “This is the Red Cross camp in Tela, Honduras. I'm waiting for Dr. Leon Martinez.”

“Yes, this is Dr. Martinez,” a masculine voice responded in heavily accented English. “Is this Mrs. Scott?”

“It is. We have a situation here.” Bernice gave a concise summary of the condition of Tela, the camp, and the mysterious illness. “Everything we know about Tela comes from the soldiers in the jungle. None of us have actually been in the city, but we did get close enough to hear gunfire.”

“The military has had other reports of violence in the area. It is your belief that it is the rash that is causative?”

“I'm not certain I am being clear.” Bernice turned to Amanda and rolled her eyes. “It is my belief that whatever is causing this rash is also responsible for personality changes that can lead to violent behavior.”

“I understand now.” A short pause followed. “How can we help you with this?”

Bernice's eyes widened and she mouthed his last sentence with complete disbelief and frustration. “We need help. At a minimum the sick need immediate evacuation and someone needs to investigate what's actually happening in Tela.”

“Uh, yes. We do have a problem with evacuation. There is simply no place that will accept such patients.”

“I don't understand. You realize that we are an understaffed aid station short on supplies, with both of our physicians in quarantine. We are not capable of supplying medical care to anyone. Not even to ourselves.”

“All our hospitals and clinics are overwhelmed. There is no room for anyone,” he said in a distinctly bureaucratic voice.

“In the entire country?”

“Yes, in the entire country. We do not have the infrastructure that you Americans are used to.” His voice was now full of disdain.

“Forgive me, but I don't understand your attitude. We are here to help you …”

“Then why are you making yourself a bother?”

At first neither Amanda nor Bernice understood the question. “Do you want to talk to this asshole?” Bernice walked away from the radio and kicked a box, swearing at the top of her voice.

“Dr. Leon, this is Amanda Flynn, Mrs. Scott's assistant. I understand that your country's resources are strained, so is it possible to contact our government? We had heard that the US Navy was sending a hospital ship. I'm certain that they can render some assistance.”

“My government has declined the offer.”

“I'm not sure I understand. We were told that
Mercy
was being sent here.”

“Whether it was or was not, it is not now coming.”

“So we are alone here.” Bernice had been listening and motioned for Amanda to hand her the microphone.

“I need to speak to the Red Cross's international representative or to a representative of the United States.”

“Yes, I'm certain you do, and you have our permission to do so.”

“But we don't have any long range communications. It was all left in El Progresso; you're probably standing on it right now.” Bernice was beyond her boiling point.

“I assure you I am not. Perhaps in a few days we will be able to deliver your remaining equipment, and your government can assist you directly. If that is all, I must sign off as I am very busy.”

“Wait, can we speak to General Regara?”

“Once again I am sorry, but he is not here. Perhaps you should try in the morning. Good night.” If it had been a phone, Martinez's sign-off would have been punctuated by a loud “click.”

“Fuck,” Bernice screamed and threw the microphone at the radio console.

“Bernice, please don't break the radio; it's our only lifeline.” Amanda broke the isolation rules by retrieving the dangling cord.

“Life is cheap down here, and the lives of a few Americans and peasants mean nothing next to bruised egos. You were warned about this,” a voice said from the dark, and Eli Greenburg slowly walked into the light. He maintained his distance from the two women, but even from twenty feet away the change in his physical appearance was shocking. What little skin not covered in tense, blood-filled blisters had taken on a sallow yellow hue. His blood-shot eyes were sunken, and he was gasping for air. Both Amanda and Bernice jumped to their feet and after less than a moment's hesitation started for him. “Stop!” He demanded. “You can't help me, and I refuse to die knowing that I killed you as well. Just stay where you are and listen.” He staggered over to the chair that Amanda had been using and painfully lowered himself into it. Both ladies waited as his breathing slowed. “The civil government in Honduras is pissed off with the US government over the coup in 2010. You can't rely on them, and in fact you have to avoid them at every turn. Use the military; they're much more reasonable and pragmatic. Wait for the morning; try and get a hold of that general who sent us to this hell-hole, and get out. If you can't get a hold of him then take anyone who is not sick, go to Tela, find a boat, and get to the Barrier Islands or up the coast.”

“We're fine; it's getting you and the others out,” Bernice said.

“You're not fine, Bernice. I've known you for years, and if you were fine you could have schmoozed that jerk into driving here himself. Maybe it's just the stress, maybe it's not.” His dying eyes were fixed on Bernice. “Oso and the lieutenant are dead. Garcia had a knife, biggest God damn thing I ever saw. Did you know that they were Special Operations Group? Mary was stabbed in the arm and David in the neck. He's not going to make it.” He tried to laugh, but all he produced was a bloody cough. “Hell, I doubt any of us are going to make it.”

“We didn't hear a thing,” Amanda said, her eyes wide with shock.

“I was right there and barely heard it. The whole thing was over in less than a minute. Our Special Forces trained these guys, and they are really very good. I had a long talk with that Oso fella. Nice guy. His real name was Miguel. He had a family.” Greenburg sat in thought for a while. “Everyone around me is dying and all I can think about is how much I hurt. I think I'll go back to bed.” It took him thirty seconds to reach his feet. “Bernice, I need you to hear me. Get out of here as quickly as you can. If the general can't rescue you, then you rescue yourself. At some point somebody is going to quarantine this whole area, and if you're here when they do, you will die here. It has been an honor knowing and working with you.” He lurched to his left as his balance momentarily failed. “Good thing I'm not driving.” He tried to laugh again. “Amanda, I'm sorry your first trip had to be this one. Good luck.” He staggered back into the darkness.

“I never liked that man,” Bernice lied, with tears in her eyes.

Amanda sat on a fallen tree branch, avoiding her old chair, and watched as Bernice trailed behind the doddering Greenburg. Her mind was reeling and everything had an unnatural feel. It wasn't possible that they would be left out here to die alone and forgotten; people who cared about them knew where they were. There were expectations of contact, daily reports had to be filed, requests for more supplies were part of the routine, and without them red flags would go up all over. They had a massive, well-oiled machine behind them, and it was only logical to assume that in time that machine would rescue them.

But how much time?
she asked herself. She glanced up as Bernice returned to her chair. Bernice gave every outward appearance of being normal, but Greenburg's insinuation that she was not quite herself echoed in Amanda's mind. To be trapped here without Bernice was unthinkable.

“Any thoughts?” Bernice asked.

“I don't see that we have any choice. I agree with what he said; if we stay here I'm afraid we're going to die. I was just wondering if we should pack up now and head out.”

“It's too dark and dangerous. If we don't get shot we'd probably end up breaking a leg on a tree stump. What time is it?”

Amanda held her watch up to the light. “Eleven-ten.”

“Okay, I'm going to try and get some sleep for a couple of hours. I know that I should be checking myself every hour, but if we can't get out of here, what's the point?” Bernice rose, gave Amanda a weak wave, and disappeared into the darkness behind the radio tent.

Tiny alarm bells were going off in Amanda's mind. Bernice had always been mercurial, but never irresponsible. She put it out of her mind and decided to get some sleep as well. She moved her sleeping bag into a patch of darkness and slipped inside after quickly checking her skin.

Amanda listened to the sounds of the living jungle and wished that she had moved her sleeping bag closer to the small cluster of tents and people. Unlike the rest of the team, she had rarely slept outdoors and never alone, and she certainly felt alone now. Darkness and strange, eerie sounds enveloped her, and they intensified Amanda's free-floating anxiety.

“Go to sleep, MONA,” Amanda whispered to the night. When she was a little girl and certain that some unnamed evil lived in her closet or under her bed, her mother had warned her about MONA—Middle Of the Night Angst—a small, sneaky gremlin that worked its way into your sleepy mind and poisoned your thoughts and dreams with whispers of dread and doom. It had taken years for Amanda to fully appreciate the meaning of angst and MONA's ability to paralyze with unfounded fears, but on this particular night MONA's whispers didn't seem so very far from the truth. Three times Amanda's fitful sleep had been disturbed by heated exchanges in both Spanish and English. The team had been here little more than twelve hours and already two people were dead, at least three more were dying, and any cohesion between or within the two groups was falling apart. It was hard to be optimistic, and MONA was taking full advantage of their situation.

The sun broke over the horizon with such intensity that it ripped Amanda out of the only restful sleep of the night. She had been dreaming about her husband, Michael, and awoke with the familiar empty feeling when she found they were not in their bed with his arms around her. The emptiness was replaced by fear when she remembered where she was. She quickly checked her skin and was relieved to find nothing new. Her face was covered in dew, and she really needed a bathroom. It wasn't completely light yet so she quickly kicked out of her sleeping bag and ran behind the nearest thicket of jungle. No one had ever accused her of being prissy, but she never could get used to peeing outside.

Walking back to her sleeping bag, she realized that she hadn't seen her backpack since they left El Progresso. Her teeth felt furry and she was covered in dirt; she desperately wanted a toothbrush and some soap to wipe away the layer of grime on her face and neck. She angled towards the large pile of supplies that had yet to be sorted and spotted her pack about halfway up. Stephen, one of the volunteers, was standing just to the right of the pile, and it appeared to Amanda that he was appraising a task in front of him.

“Good morning,” she said from a safe distance. Stephen was one of the oldest members of the team, but remarkably fit for a man in his seventies.

“Well, hello young lady. I'm not so sure it is a good morning but it's always nice to see a pretty face.” He was a cross between a kindly grandfather and a disapproving college professor, and in their brief time together Amanda had found it hard to really understand the man. “I was supposed to make some sense of this mess, but I don't see much point in that now.”

It came to her in a flash that she hadn't thought about the three people still left in their form of isolation. “Have you heard anything about how Mary and the doctors are doing?”

He gave her a strange look that confirmed what she had suspected. “I'll be out of here in a moment,” he said, not bothering to go through the formality of answering her question.

Twenty minutes later Amanda felt better physically. She dropped her pack next to her sleeping bag and set out to find Bernice. She searched the upper portion of the small camp but couldn't find a soul. Reluctantly, she walked to the large pavilion and found several people staring at a prone figure just outside the large tent. “What's going on?”

“It's one of the soldiers; he just collapsed,” answered one of the other nurses.

“Oh my goodness!” Amanda couldn't remember the woman's name and circled around the small group to get a better look. “Where is Bernice?” she asked, realizing that the young Honduran was dead, his upturned face covered in the now all-too-familiar lesions.

“She's in there,” the nurse answered, pointing into the dark tent.

Amanda's heart sank. “Oh my God,” she whispered and turned to face the woman, whose name continued to escape her. “Wait a minute. What are we doing? We can't have any contact, physical or respiratory.” Amanda backed away from the others.

“What's the point?” the only male of the small group answered.

“We're not here even one day and all of our training and discipline goes out the window?” Amanda scolded, but they seemed completely uninterested in her thoughts.

“It was a very bad day,” the nameless nurse said. “I'm going to see if I can find something to eat.” The others followed, leaving Amanda alone with the corpse. Reluctantly, she turned away, knowing that something should be done with and for the body, but having no idea what.

“Bernice,” she called, walking around the south end of the tent.

“I'm over here, Amanda.” A grey head bobbed among the boxes. “Are you all right, dear?” She sounded like her old self.

“I'm fine. Are you all right?”

“Depends on what you mean by all right.” She grunted. “Lift that up,” she said to an unseen assistant. “I don't think I'll be making that call to the general, Amanda. That task falls to you.” Her head popped up again and a taller, darker head could be seen just in front of her.

“What are you doing?” Amanda's question was half a plea.

“What I have to,” Bernice said, out of breath. “Stop here for now,” she said to her companion. She stood up to her full five feet two inches and Amanda could see the upper half of her face; small red blisters covered in sweat reached as far as the bridge of her nose. “What a difference a day makes.” She made eye contact with Amanda. “First thing, keep everyone away from here. Things got pretty messy last night. Second, get a hold of that general and have him get you and the rest of our people out of here. If that doesn't work, you get them out yourself. Third …” she stopped suddenly as the beating of an approaching helicopter echoed through the clearing. “Praise Jesus,” Bernice yelled.

“Thank God,” Amanda added.

“Don't stand here, child, go. Get our people home.”

Amanda ran back the way she had come and found eight people waving their arms at the approaching helicopters. Two of them started to hug and Amanda had to stifle a warning to maintain their distance. She craned her neck and found the helicopters just above the tree line, heading straight for their little camp.

“Six. seven, eight, of them,” Stephen, the grandfatherly professor yelled, and then waved as they made a close pass overhead.

“Look, there's more,” someone screamed. Amanda turned back towards the west to find another six helicopters approaching. The first group split into two, with four of the crafts banking left and the other four banking right. In less than a minute they had encircled the clearing. The helicopters' rotors were perilously close as they took up hovering positions, and Amanda said a silent prayer that there wouldn't be an accident just as they were about to be rescued. Ladders and ropes dropped from both sides of each helicopter and moments later soldiers began to rappel to the ground. The surviving Red Cross and Honduran platoon began to cheer as each soldier touched down.

“Why aren't they just landing?” someone yelled. The noise was deafening and Amanda couldn't tell who had asked the question, but it struck her as funny that they would risk the soldiers by having them rappel out of the craft as opposed to waiting until it landed.

“Maybe it's an exercise,” Stephen screamed back.

It took less than five minutes for the helicopters to empty, and one by one they banked out of the field. The second group of helicopters screamed overhead and Amanda expected them to perform the same maneuver, but they continued on towards the city. She looked back to the soldiers, but it took a moment for her eyes to adjust after the bright sky; she found that they had formed a ring around the perimeter of the clearing.
What in the world are they doing?
she asked herself.

“Attention!” A soldier with a bullhorn had taken a step into the field. “This area is a quarantine. Please stay where you are, do no moves and do no approach the military personnel.” The voice was very heavily accented and the English so poor that if the message had not been repeated Amanda didn't think she would have understood its meaning. Stephen walked beyond the perimeter of lights screaming that he was an American and demanded to see a representative of his government. He was answered with a hail of bullets aimed ten feet in front of him. The meaning of that message was crystal clear.

Amanda ran to the radio tent as the perimeter soldiers watched her intently. The bullhorn sounded again: “Please stay where you are,” but she ignored the warning. To be nearly completely without hope and then have what appeared to be salvation dangled in front of her—only to have it snatched away—enraged her.

“Shoot me then,” she screamed. She threw back the tent flap and triggered the mic. “This is the Red Cross camp in Tela; someone better tell me what the hell is going on.”

More helicopters flew overhead and they began to drop large pallets, which the soldiers began to rapidly unpack. The rotor noise completely obscured any response from the radio, which only further enraged her. She started yelling into the near white noise of the helicopters and after two minutes of screaming a pounding in her head forced her into a chair and into a sullen silence. She was angry enough to want to reach through the radio, grab the officious Dr. Martinez by the throat, and tear the silly little smirk right off his face. She was certain that the petty bureaucrat was laughing at all of them. General Regara was probably with him, waiting for Amanda to radio back and plead for mercy. “Fuck you!” she screamed at the radio, and it dawned on her that this was the first time she had ever said that expression out loud. It felt good; it was empowering and liberating. She screamed it louder, and it got better each time she said it; only the exertion made her head hurt more.

The helicopter noise began to fade and she could finally hear the radio. “… Minister of Health. We will lift the quarantine once we have an idea …” Amanda didn't allow him to finish.

“I don't know who you think you are, but if you think you can hold us against our will then FUCK YOU!” She punctuated her point by banging the microphone onto the radio. A chip flew off and hit her in the face. “There! Do you assholes like that?” She lifted her arm to smash the vile piece of equipment again but an arm caught her on the down swing.

“Easy, pretty lady. We're going to need this at some point.” Amanda hadn't heard Stephen come in, and for a moment her anger flared and she nearly hit the old man in the face. He grabbed her other arm and they both saw a small patch of the cobblestone rash.

She pulled away from him and drew her arms close, suddenly regaining herself. “Oh my God, Stephen.”

“It's okay.” He pulled back his collar. “I've got my own.” He spun Amanda's shoulders towards the opening in the tent flap and retrieved the microphone. “You stay there for a minute and let me try and straighten this out.” Amanda nodded. “This is Stephen Hoyt; to whom am I speaking?”

“This is Dr. Leon Martinez of the Honduran Ministry of Health.” Amanda took a start at the radio as soon as she heard the name, but Stephen held up his hand, stopping her.

“Excellent. As I understand, you have quarantined this entire area.”

“That is correct.”

“I understand your predicament. Now I hope that you understand that under Honduran law and by international agreement, once you have declared a quarantine zone that includes foreign nationals, you are obliged to supply medical care, as well as—and this is critical—inform our government that we have been included.”

A long silence followed. Stephen turned to Amanda, waiting for Martinez's response. “In my earlier life I was an international relations lawyer. I helped draft the UN agreement.” He winked. Amanda smiled and had visions of Martinez frantically combing through a large legal book. A strong desire to tell him to fuck off welled up inside her, but Stephen's presence was enough to suppress it.

“Mr. Hoyt?” Martinez finally responded.

“Actually, it is Dr. Hoyt, Dr. Martinez.” Amanda nearly kissed Stephen for kicking this spic's ass. That was another term she had never used in a coherent thought before. It felt okay, but not nearly as good as any phrase that included the word “fuck.”

“Did you know the word ‘fuck' comes from an old English term? For Use of Carnal Knowledge. F-U-C-K. Fuck.” She sounded drunk and wondered when the last time was she had really been intoxicated.

“Amanda, honey, please sit down and let me finish with this man.” Stephen slid a chair under her and she obligingly sat.

“Spic. Not a man; a spic.” She felt sick and dizzy and was glad Stephen had found her a seat.

“We are having communication problems of our own but will contact your embassy as soon as we can.” Martinez's bureaucratic smugness seeped through his words.

“So long as that is within twenty-four hours, you'll be fine. And the medical care?”

“We are doing the best that we can. Hopefully, the situation will stabilize within a few days. May I ask where Mrs. Scott is? It was my understanding that she was in charge.”

“She is ill,” Stephen said, without offering details.

“How sad. We will try and keep you informed as much as we can. In the meantime, please comply fully with the rules and the military. I am afraid that they have been given a great deal of latitude in dealing with this most serious situation.”

Stephen dropped the microphone. “Prick,” he said under his breath.

“You kicked his ass,” Amanda said, smiling awkwardly.

“Unfortunately, all I did was win a meaningless argument. He still has all the authority. Why don't you come with me and let's go talk with Bernice.”