Catacombs Read Free Page B

rattles, and low groans. Those most badly off were in old-fashioned oxygen tents fed from tall, nipple-topped metal bottles. Buckets and bedpans wanted emptying, sheets changing; there was an acrid stench of insecticide and Lysol in the air. Erika's steps dragged as she searched the faces of friends for signs of improvement or further dissolution.
    "Erika."
    They'd found another bed somewhere and put it at one end of the aisle, beneath the windows, then extended it with a bench, but still his ankles and feet protruded, creating a bulge in the netting. He was at an angle in the narrow bed, pillows behind his back; his eyes were half open. His shirt was unbuttoned, and his chest was bare and sweaty. The first thing she wanted to do was bathe him.
    "Oh, Chips."
    He licked his lips with a slow tongue. "Under the weather," he said, smiling. His breath was bad, he had vomited, his beard was still matted. He waved her away as she was about to part the netting and sit beside him–as if it made any difference now. Only children were ilombwe . There was no sure way to avoid the fever–she would get it in due course. Now that Chips was sick she didn't care; she would just as soon die with him. They had long been partners in expeditions–Chekiang, Titacaca, Palenque–but lovers for only a little more than a year.
    Instead of sitting, Erika brought him a drink, a can of cool Pepsi from the little kerosene refrigerator beside the single sink in the ward. He was able to sip some of it through a straw.
    Chips had in one hand a creased, faded color photo of a tall young man, beardless but in his father's image: Toby Chapman. From time to time Chips glanced at his son's face, and his own face softened–with longing, with love and despair.
    To distract him Erika said, "I've been wondering about this bug. If it's something we brought with us from the Catacombs, why did it take so long to incubate? Some of us would have fallen sick while we were still there."
    Chips nodded. "Deliberately introduced once we arrived in Ivututu."
    "By whom?"
    "The only one of us–who's missing." It was difficult for Chips to talk; to swallow. The Pepsi ran out of a corner of his mouth as he pulled at the straw. He stopped drinking and with clumsy fingers tucked the photograph of his son into a shirt pocket. His hand lingered over his heart but he looked sternly at her, all business.
    "Erika, my being laid up doesn't change anything–"
    "What? Oh, no, you're not serious!"
    "One of us . . . still has to get out of here. Get help. When I realized how sick I was, I . . . talked to Bob Connetta. Told him just what to do to the plane while he was helping to unload it. Tonight you'll have a chance to get out of here. Odds don't favor you, but you have to make it. You're a damned good pilot, my lady. Take Bobby with you. Head straight for Nairobi. North northeast from here, maybe six hundred miles. Piece of cake in that Bonanza."
    "Leave you?" she said, too loudly, outraged by the suggestion.
    "Only chance, Erika. Do what I tell you." He looked past her, at the rows of beds. "Have another, look at them. Help you to make up your mind. Seven dead. Maybe tomorrow it'll be Vinnie, or Lennart, or Tsutomu."
    Erika bowed her head; she was shaking again. She pressed her long hands together. Most of the time she wore surgical gloves, despite the inconvenience and the humidity; she knew what could result from even a minor cut or an unnoticed pinprick. Defying the conditions under which she worked, she had stayed scrupulously clean and tried to see that everyone else did the same, though the fresh-water supply was a trickle and it was necessary to throw a bucket of scrub water into the toilets to flush them into the overburdened drain fields.
    She was determined not to shake Chips' morale by demonstrating nerves in front of him. She looked up, smiling. But Chips wasn't watching her; he had put his Pepsi down and was straining to clear his throat. Her own chest ached in response