USAMRIID
Inside the hot zone

Every time Colonel Benjamin Platt entered a hot-zone suite he was taken aback by how ordinary it looked. On the outside of the thick steel air-lock door it certainly gave the impression of entering something extraordinary, with the bright red biohazard symbol accompanied by DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT WEARING VENTILATION SUIT. The ID code looked like a digital keypad that could be a prelude to a flight deck. Entry required tapping in the correct code and going through a long list of procedures that when done correctly rewarded you with a voice and flashing green light that indicated YOU ARE CLEARED TO ENTER. All of this, including the gasp of air released from the lock, would insinuate something spectacular existed on the other side. And although the stark and sterile room should have been a letdown, Platt always felt a sense of reverence when he entered.

Yellow air hoses snaked out of white walls that were painted like a Jackson Pollock exhibit, thick clumps of epoxy splattered haphazardly. Similar gobs of white bulged around outlets and plugs, sealing any cracks. A strobe light hung from the ceiling, an alarm that automatically was triggered if the air system failed. Metal cabinets lined one wall, a long counter on another, and a third was a viewing glass to the outside world.

Platt grabbed one of the yellow cords and plugged in his suit. Immediately the roar of air filled his helmet and his ears. McCathy had barely looked up at him, not willing to take his attention from the work his double-gloved hands were finishing. He had prepared four glass slides and had four microscopes, side by side, ready to view each individually.

Finally looking up, McCathy waved Platt over next to him. He placed each slide in its respective slot. Then he checked with a glance down the eyepiece of each microscope, giving a twist, sometimes two twists, to focus.

“FROM LEFT TO RIGHT,” McCathy yelled over the noise as he stood back. Platt could see the sweat on the older man’s face, fogging up the inside of his helmet. McCathy pushed the plastic against his face, leaving a smear but it didn’t distract him. He pointed to each of the microscopes. “EBOLA RESTON, LASSA, MARBURG AND EBOLA ZAIRE.”

Platt nodded. McCathy had put the viruses in order from best-case scenario to worst-case. As much as Platt hoped it was Ebola Reston he knew that wouldn’t explain why Ms. Kellerman’s body was crashing.

“I’LL NEED TO HIT THE LIGHTS,” McCathy told Platt, holding up a remote-control device. “IT’LL BE BLACK AS NIGHT IN HERE. WE CAN’T RISK BUMPING INTO EACH OTHER.”

Platt nodded again. His heart was back to banging in his chest, almost louder than the air pressure in his ears. It wasn’t the impending dark that caused the banging, although he knew better scientists than himself who would never attempt the combination of claustrophobia, darkness and a hot zone.

“YOU STAND THERE AND LOOK IN THOSE TWO MICROSCOPES.” McCathy pointed at the two directly in front of Platt. “I’LL TAKE THESE TWO. THEN WE WON’T BE RUNNING INTO EACH OTHER.”

Platt stared at the microscopes. McCathy would have Ebola Reston and Lassa fever. He had Marburg and Ebola Zaire. Don’t let either of them glow. He would welcome total darkness.

“READY?” McCathy asked, holding up the light-switch remote.

Platt placed his hands on the edge of each microscope so he wouldn’t fumble in the dark. He nodded again.

The room went pitch-black. There was nothing that emitted light. Not a red dot on a monitor. Not a crack of filtered light. Not a single reflection. He couldn’t even see McCathy who stood right beside him.

He found the eyepiece of the first microscope and tried to look through. His faceplate made it difficult. He saw only black. And now his heartbeat pounded so hard he thought the vibration might be obscuring his view. The faceplate was flexible plastic and Platt pressed it down until he could feel the eyepiece of the microscope solidly against his eye sockets. Still, he could see nothing.

“ANYTHING?” McCathy yelled from beside him.

“NOTHING FROM THE FIRST ONE.”

“NOTHING HERE.”

Platt waited. Sometimes it took a few minutes for the serums to mix and cause a reaction. Still, there was nothing. He reminded himself: Marburg on the left, Ebola Zaire on the right. He pulled back, took a deep breath and positioned himself over the other microscope, repeating the process.

“NOTHING HERE,” McCathy yelled about his second sample.

Platt barely positioned his faceplate and he could already see it. It wasn’t a faint glow. It was bright. He sucked in air and shoved his eyes hard against the microscope. Below him it looked like a night sky with a glowing constellation.

“Holy crap,” he muttered. He jerked his face away and found the other microscope. Nothing there. Back to the other. Still glowing, even brighter now.

“WHAT IS IT?” McCathy yelled.

“I’VE GOT ONE GLOWING.”

“I KNEW IT. WHICH ONE?”

Platt had to stop himself. He had to slow his breathing. He needed to think. He needed to remember. Marburg, left. Ebola Zaire, right. The pounding in his heart was no longer a problem. It was as if all sound, everything around him had stopped, had come to a grinding halt. Everything except for his stomach, which slid to his feet.

“IT’S EBOLA ZAIRE.”