ASC officials as the top priority. ASC took a great deal of pride in supplying the antitoxin free. There was always a severe shortage.
John was on a mid-morning break checking news on the Internet. Although he knew the Internet was rife with bogus reports, it was more informative than ASC news. Network programming was nothing more than cloned presentations hour after hour. He cringed each time he heard of another ASC plan to “manage” the net.
The current buzz was a viral video of Ube Watabee, a Rwanda tribesman trapped by an airwar. The video showed Ube running and falling in front of an advancing airwar. Covered by black tentacles, he unmistakably struggled free without assistance. Although he had a few small scrapes from the fall, he claimed to have suffered no ill effects during his escape. The captivating portion of the video was a close-up of his skin showing no evidence of airwar stings.
John’s eyes turned from the computer monitor to the television screen. ASC spokesman, Glavin, was holding a press conference with Senator Snivaling.
“Yes,” said Glavin, “I can assure the press that the Ube video is a complete hoax. I’ll remind everyone this is an extreme violation of our airwar sedition law. Anyone forwarding or disseminating this video will be arrested and prosecuted.”
Glavin looked obsequiously at the senator, then stepped aside. Snivaling took the podium.
“ASC is offering a one-million dollar reward for information leading to the capture of the producers of this sham video,” she said, “I’m personally disgusted with the crimes committed. These criminals will be punished swiftly and severely.”
John’s eyes returned to the computer. A second video of Ube was now surfacing. This time an airwar passed over an upright Ube as he walked through the curtain of tentacles. Ube passed to the other side unscathed. Although John realized this was a hoax, other reports had surfaced with similar claims. Even though it was impossible, the thought of it made John feel good.
John’s attention shifted back to the television. Glavin returned to the podium. An aide handed him a red folder and whispered in his ear. Glavin nodded.
“I’ve just been informed in the last twenty-four hours, total human attacks on airwars decreased thirty percent with a corresponding decline in human fatalities worldwide. Even more exciting is the criminal, Ube Watabee, has been captured. He has fully confessed to the immunity hoax.”
A wave of disappointment passed over John.
Glavin continued, “Ube is currently being transferred to an ASC facility. There he’ll have psychological testing and a full confession tape will be available in a few hours.”
Senator Snivaling, who appeared smugly pleased, leaned to the microphone, “The capture of this horrible man is an important victory in the run, hide, and do no harm battle,” she said, “We must fight this as a collective society. One thought, one action, one world, one victory!”
“Dr. Long,” interrupted a triage nurse, “there’s a man who wants to see you.” John looked up from the television. “Says he knows you.”
The nurse maintained a stoic look. An unmoving detached countenance graced the faces of the hospital staff. It was the only way to cope with the daily horror.
“He’s got a boy with him,” she added, then glanced at the floor and shook her head, “He’s a stage eight.” Then she disappeared from the doorway.
John’s stomach knotted up. It was hard enough giving bad news to parents he didn’t know, but when he knew the family, he couldn’t disassociate himself from the event. It was always heart-wrenching.
ER personnel triaged airwar stings on a one-to-ten rating stage. Children rarely survived a stage five and none survived past a stage seven, even with antitoxin. Matter of fact, due to shortages, ASC protocols banned use of antitoxin on kids above stage six. John hated the rule, but he understood the practicality. On the other hand, government dealt with statistics and he dealt with real people. “For the good of society” rang hollow when dealing with a dying child and the eyes of the parents were on you.
John walked back into the triage area and saw a tall man who appeared to be about forty. He had salt and pepper hair, strands of which were pasted to his forehead from sweat. His white dress shirt was plastered to his body from perspiration, revealing a swimmer ’s physique. His clothes were disheveled and stained like he’d been rolling on the ground, but he was still wearing a tie. The man was holding a limp figure of a young boy, maybe seven or eight years old.
“Bob!” said John, and motioned to a nearby stretcher, “My God! Bring the boy here.”
John couldn’t remember Bob’s last name, but they both swam at the YMCA Aquatic Center with the master ’s swim team. John knew Bob and his wife owned a small gift basket business, Bob’s Baskets and Balloons. He visited Bob’s shop on a weekend a few months back. It was a small storefront in a strip mall near the hospital. Most of what he remembered of the shop was an animated, friendly, freckle-faced boy eager to assist him in his selection. Bob introduced him as his only child, Daniel, with pride only a father could emote.
“John!” said Bob, “I . . . please . . . Daniel needs your help.
John glanced at the limp figure. He was unrecognizable as the boy he met previously. Daniel was lifeless except for labored breathing. His face was red and bloated from stings, and there were large bruises on his swollen arms and legs. The father ’s eyes welled up in tears. John motioned him toward an empty treatment room. It was the only bit of courtesy John could offer in the busy triage area; just a moment of privacy. As they walked through the threshold of the treatment room door, John said quietly, “I think your wife should hear this as well.”
Bob turned now with visible tears running down his cheeks.
“Didn’t make it,” he said choking the words out, “I couldn’t pull her away. I could only save one of them.”
Bob sobbed as he gently laid the boy on the treatment table. The yellowed plastic covers over the fluorescent lights suffused the room with a yellow glow, making the ill boy’s skin look more sallow than it was in triage. John did a cursory look at the boy while taking his pulse, which was weak and thready. Sadly, John thought, he didn’t even save one.
John put his hand gently on Bob’s shoulder and looked directly into his eyes, “Bob, it hurts to say, but reality is, I can’t help your son. He’s too far gone. Antitoxin won’t work at this stage, but I’ll do my absolute best to make him as comfortable as possible.”
“I want you to transfuse him,” demanded Bob. His face looked as if it had turned to granite.
John, taken aback by the unusual request, paused, then said, “Bob, it doesn’t work that way. A blood transfusion wouldn’t benefit your son.”
“I want you to transfuse him with my blood,” said Bob unyielding, “We have the same blood type. Commingle our circulation; transfuse him into me and me into him.”
“Bob,” said John firmly, “not only would a transfusion not prolong Daniel’s life, the toxins in Daniel would certainly kill you as well. The absolute best option for your son is letting me make him comfortable.”
Bob responded by reaching into his pocket and pulling out a nine millimeter handgun. He aimed it at John’s chest. His hand was trembling. “John, you’re a good man, but I’ll start shooting if you don’t do this
