Infection Runs Deep

CHAPTER TWO: FAMILY HISTORY

I loved the airport. Sure, the crying kids and the crazy crowds were the worst, but the atmosphere was unbeatable. I felt so accomplished at the airport. Waiting for my flight made typing away at tedious charts more fun. Even as I typed away through dinner.

Okay, I take it back. Charting was never fun, but the airport made them a little more tolerable. It was the people watching that really makes the experience. The teenage girl in the corner was definitely heading to a soccer tournament and the man in the suit was on his way to a meeting that would make or break his career. Or not. It's the not knowing that makes it fun.

Today was different. The airport felt high strung, a rubber band on the verge of snapping. The people were chippy and terse, fighting over seats and spaces in line, even more so than usual.

I had a feeling. Not a good one.

God, I hate intuition.

The acrid scent of ozone brewed in the air, the tension swirling throughout the crowded terminals like the moment of silence before a lighting strike. I pushed my way through a ravenous crowd building up near Gate 26 where my flight had come in, fighting to get to the pick up area near the baggage claim—an almost impossible task.

I skirted right through baggage claim, not bothering to wait for the checked bags since I only had a few things to bring. My trip home to visit the family was for my brother's graduation from college, and I wasn't planning on staying for more than the long weekend. I had patients to see back in Georgia. And of course, Oliver.

Near the third ring of silver slats carouseling luggage, a fight broke out between two men over a dark blue suitcase with neat white stitching. I couldn't tear my eyes away from their aggression. The taller man, balding and dressed in a suit, tugged on the luggage, shouting obscenities. The other man simply drew back his fist and decked the first man square in the jaw.

I winced. That was a knockout blow. I had treated enough patients in my ER rotation to know what the worst alley-fight injuries were. But the man only staggered back, returning with more force. An almost hungry demeanor and a wicked glint in his too glossy eyes.

Airport security was nowhere to be seen. They were too busy dealing with the fights in the terminals.

I jumped back as a man lunged for me with a snarl. He blew past me, his shoes scarring the pale floor with black residue. Bubbling red lesions peppered his skin, some bleeding and others gushing green pus.

With a rash that severe, this man needed significant medical treatment. The pain should have incapacitated him, yet he barely slowed when the lesions on his arms scraped against others around him. Maybe he was drugged up on some serious pills, maybe even something stronger than opioids.

A yell echoed through the large baggage claim area, a cry of serious pain. It was too dangerous to stay, but how could I leave? Many others seemed to be seriously injured, clutching their arms to their chests or applying pressure to gashes. I could help them. I had to. I swore an oath.

It reminded me too much of what happened to me in the ER. I didn't want anyone to suffer the same fate as me. Luck was all that allowed me to escape with little more than a scar. These people needed more than luck.

I ditched my carry on near the exit, promising myself I would grab it later, and took off towards a woman with deep scratches on her face. She held her face gingerly, blood slipping through her fingers like delicate silk. When she withdrew her hand, she stared at the blood as if it were a foreign object, simply something unfamiliar rather than her vitality slipping away.

"Hi," I said to her, my hands splayed in a placating gesture. "My name is Elizabeth. I'm a doctor and it looks like you need some help. Can I help you?''