Wiltz, Luxembourg, EU - Spring, Year 1
Lucian twisted the green and yellow neckerchief of his Scout uniform. Overhead the sky was a perfect spring blue with shy wisps of clouds promising good weather. Only a few more weeks of school and then…
A single engine plane, a Cirrus of some kind from the design, wobbled across the sky, leaving a trail of white smoke punctuated by puffs of grey. Lucian had completed his Aviation merit badge last summer and he was confident the plane was in distress. The boy rose, shading his eyes from the sun’s glare as he watched the plane’s limping progress. Where was it going? The nearest airport was south in Luxembourg City, not along the banks of the sleepy Wiltz River. Was the pilot trying for the airfield at Noertrange? The way the plane was bucking, Lucian doubted it would be able to complete the trip, let alone land safely.
Unconsciously, Lucian took several running steps forward, the plane’s cruciform shadow sliding over the hill and over the boy. It was growing bigger as the plane lost altitude. Lucian could actually see the pilot now. He was leaning out the open window, one arm flopping against the door. Had he suffered a heart attack or stroke? He wasn’t even trying to land the plane!
The engine coughed a final sputter and stalled out. The wings wobbled. The wind screamed as the plane increased speed, half-falling, half-gliding down.
Lucian didn’t think of the possible dangers as he charged over the hill following the plane. As if guided by a quest icon for a Search & Rescue merit badge in a Scout video game, his legs carried him on and down.
The plane made it past a small copse of trees in the field and then hit the ground with a crash, spraying sparks and dirt. It left a divot like giants had been golfing and bounced, propeller twisting first one way then the other. The second time the plane touched ground, it hit at an angle on the downward slope. For a second, Lucian dared hope it would settle back onto its wheels, but momentum won the battle with gravity and the plane flipped, landing with a metallic crunch as if someone had stomped on an enormous aluminum can.
Lucian panted across the field. He stumbled to a stop and braced his hands on his knees as he stared at the plane, trying to catch his breath with great gulping inhalations.
The gasoline smell of Avgas covered the scents of earth and the hazy crop of spring weeds that had sprouted in the fertile field. Under the smell of airplane fuel, Lucian detected something else, something meaty and sweet, like a butcher’s shop on a hot day.
The pilot must be hurt! Lucian took a last shuddering gasp of air and trotted forward. He should wait for adults, for proper emergency responders, but he had qualified for his first aid badge. If ever there was a time to put his skills to good use, it was now. Besides, if he waited, the pilot might succumb to his injuries or the fumes.
The pilot lay half out of the plane. Blood seeped from a cut on the man’s forehead, but other than that he appeared miraculously unharmed.
Fearing that the gas might ignite, Lucian hooked his hands in the pilot’s armpits and dragged the man free of the wreck. The pilot coughed and gasped, half-reached for his neck before his hands fell back. He clawed at the ground, digging into the soft soil as he twisted his body. He couldn’t breathe!
Lucian fell to his knees beside the pilot. He had never performed rescue breathing in a real-life emergency. His class had concluded with a turn on the practice victim, Franny. Franny had reeked of sterile wipes and her lips had been pliant and clammy.
The pilot reeked of sweat and rotting meat and Avgas. Lucian gagged and leaned forward. He reviewed the steps in his mind and tilted the pilot’s head back to clear the airway. As Lucian stuck his fingers in to swipe the pilot’s throat for obstructions, the pilot’s jaws snapped. Lucian nearly lost a fingertip. The pilot’s eyes rolled up, showing only the whites as he kicked, his back arching impossibly so he was in an almost perfect upside-down U shape. Dark bruises stood out on either side of the pilot’s neck. Had someone tried to strangle him?
“Please!” Lucian held up his hands. He wanted to restrain the pilot, to keep the man from hurting himself, but he was afraid of the man’s thrashing limbs, of the strange, dog-like growl the pilot was making. Lucian scuttled back out of reach and squatted, uncertain what to do, but thrumming with the desire to do something, to help.
It seemed like forever, but suddenly the pilot jerked and fell bonelessly to the ground. Lucian tentatively crawled over to him and listened. The man wasn’t breathing. Summoning his courage and relying on his training, Lucian began again. Position the head, visually check for obstructions, finger sweep the throat.
Nothing.
Lucian bent over, his lips hovering as if on the cusp of the kind of kiss he’d imagined with some as yet to be chosen girlfriend. The pilot remained still, unbreathing, dying.
Lucian pressed his mouth over the pilot’s and blew. Bloody snot sprayed across his cheek from the pilot’s nose. Lucian wiped his face frantically. He’d forgotten to pinch the nose closed.
He tried again. Nose closed; mouth sealed to mouth. Blow. Watch the chest.
It rose!
Lucian lifted his mouth, then gave another breath. The pilot’s chest rose again. Encouraged, the boy ducked his head and focused, counting each breath, everything else falling away as he concentrated.
At seventeen breaths, the pilot coughed. Before Lucian could pull away, his mouth was filled with bloody froth. For a second the boy froze, staring at the pilot as pink spittle drooled from his open mouth. He’d heard that victims might spit or even vomit into their rescuers’ mouths. Grimly, Lucian spit and spit again, wiped his tongue on the sleeve of his shirt, and spit again.
There was a wail of sirens and, from the road that curved around the field, blue lights flashed. Emergency responders rushed from the ambulance but paused at the sight of the upside-down plane, the supine pilot, and the bedraggled Scout.
Lucian didn’t remember a lot of what happened next. Someone had taken him to the ambulance. He couldn’t remember what he’d said, if he’d told them he wasn’t hurt, but they’d wrapped him in a blanket - odd on such a warm day - and taken his pulse. When they brought the pilot on a stretcher, Lucian had tried to get into the ambulance with the man, but the medic who was with the boy tugged him gently away. She took his phone and called his mother.
Somehow, he was home, still wrapped in the blanket from the ambulance, the field dirt under his nails, the sweet, meat smell of the pilot clinging to him, the feel of bloody bubbles lingering in his mouth. Momma sent him to bed, and he went without an argument.
Lucian slept through the day and night. He woke sweating, trapped in the furnace cocoon of the ambulance blanket and his duvet. The sun had yet to rise and shadows claimed the room. Lucian’s throat hurt. He reached up and felt his neck. The skin was hot and damp.
The Scout got up and tottered into the hall. Annchen, his older sister, poked her head out of her door and screamed. “Momma. Momma! Lucian’s sick.”
Lucian teetered and leaned against the doorframe. “I’m not sick.” His words were a croak, his throat was on fire. He was hungrier than he’d ever been. He wanted to lie down and sleep, but he wanted, he needed to eat more than he wanted to rest.
Lucian ground his teeth so hard he could hear the hinges click in the tiny bones of his ears as he shuffled down the hall, cannoning gently off the walls. Annchen paced behind him, her hands up to catch her brother should he lose his balance.
Their mother met them in the kitchen. She took one look at her son. “Go get the car, Annchen. We’re going to the hospital.”
#
In North Hospital Center, the nurses were worried. The pilot’s condition had worsened. His arms were deforming as if the bone had been absorbed leaving only muscle and fat and flesh behind. The limbs were also blackening. The pilot’s fever surged and ebbed like a tide, but he never regained consciousness. His tongue had shriveled. He ground his teeth and snapped his jaw hard enough to crack enamel. The bruises on his neck were echoed by spreading patches under his armpits. Clearly, something was affecting his lymph nodes. Tests were run, samples collected and sealed to be sent to labs in the morning.
Most worrying was the vomiting. The pilot seemed to have an endless supply of bloody vomit that had to be caught, contained, cleaned up, and disposed of. The biohazard bags were pressed into service to collect the bloody stew. There wasn’t enough space in the storage room and the bags piled around the bottom shelves.
“We just have to get through the night,” Dr. Yvea Milan-Pierre told the sober circle of staff collected outside the pilot’s room. She didn’t tell the staff that she had alerted the World Health Organization’s (WHO) Global Outbreak Alert and Response Network (GOARN) because she didn’t want to cause a panic. Near midnight, Dr. Milan-Pierre went home to catch a few hours of sleep. By the time she returned around five a.m., it was clear to her that quarantine would be unavoidable.
Dr. Milan-Pierre stood over her desk, a list of all the hospital staff and emergency responders in front of her. She would have to call everyone in. At least the plane had crashed in a field, not in the town. Thank goodness they didn’t have to worry about any of the townspeople being exposed. Containment was the name of the game at this point.
She glanced at the picture of her family she kept on her desk. Her wife would see the kids off to school. With luck and good barrier nursing, they’d never even have to know about the quarantine. It would scare Kamila and she still hadn’t recovered from Yvea’s humanitarian trip to the refugee camp.
#
Annchen slammed on the brakes as the family’s Fiat Panda rounded the corner into the hospital’s emergency room entrance. A police officer stood in the street, waving her to stop. As the officer approached the Fiat, she yawned and stretched.
Annchen had been practicing for her driving exam and hoped to pass as soon as she was old enough to take it. As the police officer arrived, the girl’s eyes widened. “Momma, I don’t have my-”
The officer motioned for Annchen to roll down the window and she did.
“I’m sorry, miss, but the hospital is closed,” the policewoman said. “Here is a list of clinics that will see urgent patients. If this isn’t an emergency-”
“It is!” Momma shouted, making Annchen jump. In the backseat, Lucian groaned and ground his teeth. He sounded like an animal. The hairs on the back of Annchen’s neck rose listening to her brother. He smelled like an animal, too, musky and sweaty, like spoiled meat.
“There is a quarantine. You’ll need to go to one of the clinics on the list.” The policewoman again held out a hastily printed flyer. Annchen took it, relieved the officer hadn’t noticed she was too young to be driving.
“My son is very sick,” Momma insisted. “He rescued the pilot. He’s a hero. He needs to be in a hospital.”
“I’m very sorry, but I can’t let anyone in right now. It’s for your own safety and your children’s. Please.” The policewoman held out a gloved hand as if inviting Annchen to turn the Fiat back into the narrow, cobbled roads of Wiltz.
“Let’s go, Momma,” the girl said softly. She felt a little dizzy and overheated, trapped in the car with the police officer staring at her.
The morning mist swirled and closed behind the car as the family drove away. The policewoman congratulated herself on saving that nice family from whatever emergency quarantine drill the hospital was undergoing.
