Quarantine Part Three
Rated: PG

When Pete visited MacGyver again after the drama to help him breathe was over, he looked even worse than he had before, his pale, ashen skin taking on a waxen sheen from heavy perspiration, seeming almost ghostly and transparent, his blue and purplish veins highly visible beneath the surface. A breathing tube was now taped to his mouth and the room was deathly silent except for the muted hiss of the ventilator and the rapid yet steady beeping rhythm of the heart monitor.

“It was close there for awhile, Mr. Thornton, I don’t mind telling you that. We nearly lost him before we prepared to intubate. Rarely have I seen a patient’s health decline so rapidly. We’ve managed to stabilize him for now, although his fever is still high and his pulse rate and blood pressure are slightly above the desirable limits,” Dr. Robertson said, staring down at his motionless patient through the mask of his protective suit. “We will try to do all we can to keep him that way, but since we’re dealing with the unknown and unpredictable here, his condition could change at any time.” He looked at Pete and gave him a sympathetic smile. “I’ll leave you alone with him for awhile,” he said.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Pete said quietly, watching MacGyver, hoping for any kind of response no matter how minor, holding his hand, still feeling the heat from his fever through the glove.

Dr. Robertson nodded politely and left the quarantined area, a buzzer indicating his exit.

Pete remained focused entirely on his friend, still watching him and holding his lifeless hand, waiting. It was heartbreaking for him to see a man who was usually strong and robust reduced to a fragile, emaciated invalid, looking so small and vulnerable.

“Come on, MacGyver,” he said, tears in his eyes. He gently squeezed his friend’s hand. “I know you can hear me. I’m here for you, and I won’t leave. Please…just give me some sign that you can hear me. Please…”

For awhile, all he received in response was the hiss of the ventilator and the electronic beep of the heart monitor, but eventually MacGyver did seem to acknowledge his presence. Pete felt slight pressure being applied to his hand and he noticed that MacGyver was weakly squeezing it. His dark eyes fluttered open to small slits, still looking glassy and unfocused as they stared up at him pleadingly, filled with pain.

“It’s all right, Mac,” Pete said, moving closer to him so that he could see him through the mask of his suit. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

MacGyver continued to stare up at him for awhile, making a gurgling sound through the tube. Then, with all his remaining energy reserves spent, the thin membrane of his eyelids slid shut and he slumped back against the pillow, slipping back into unconsciousness.

***

MacGyver felt something uncomfortable in his mouth, pressing against its tender tissues. In his fevered state his body became extremely sensitive, even the slightest touch causing him pain. His discomfort was brief when he felt the object being removed, accompanied by the sweet tones of a woman humming softly.

“One hundred one,” the woman said, interrupting her humming. “Well, it’s still high, and I don’t like it. You’re staying in bed until it comes down, and I don’t want to hear any complaining about it. You’re still a very sick boy.”

Looking up at the source of the voice, MacGyver saw his mother, examining a thermometer. He was back in his childhood bedroom, model airplanes he had made dangling overhead on the ceiling, swaying gently with a soft, warm, and pleasant breeze that came from a cracked open window. Pieces of electronic equipment in various stages of dismantlement lay scattered across his desk along with open textbooks and notebooks, his homework not quite finished, his interest and curiosity in the old radio he was disassembling distracting him from his studies and assuming priority.

“Mom? How…how are you…? How did I get here? I…I was just at the lake, with Dad…”

“Now, I want you to get some rest,” Ellen MacGyver said, oblivious to her son’s questions. “There will be plenty of time to play with the neighborhood boys later. Right now, the most important thing is for you to get better.” She smiled at him and brushed back his matted hair.

“Mom, don’t you hear me?” MacGyver asked. “I don’t understand what’s going on…”

“I know it’s boring for a normally healthy, active boy to be in bed all day, especially since the weather has been so unusually balmy lately, but you have to be patient. You’ll get better. You’ll recover and improve, but only if you rest, all right?”

“Mom, listen to me, please,” MacGyver said. “Something isn’t right. The last thing I remember, I…I don’t know what’s happened to me. I’m lost somehow…”

Ellen looked directly into her son’s eyes. “You won’t be lost forever,” she said. “You’ll find your way.” She smiled sweetly at him again.

“But Mom, I—

Ellen MacGyver vanished, leaving MacGyver once again alone.

***

After once again undergoing the tedious decontamination process after his latest visit with MacGyver in the quarantined area was over, Pete found Sandra in her office, staring with intense, deep focus at her computer screen. As he entered, her beloved pet dog Ace barked excitedly, running over towards him and jumping up playfully at him, seemingly happy to see him. He was the only companion she had in her lonely, isolated life as a researcher, cloistered for long hours in her laboratory, and his cheerful, innocent disposition seemed to provide the right balance to her severe, almost cold demeanor.

“Hello Ace,” Pete said, petting and rubbing the dog affectionately, grinning broadly like a large boy. “How are you doing, buddy?”

“Pete,” Sandra said, not removing her eyes from the computer. “How is MacGyver?”

Satisfied, Ace trotted away after receiving enough attention and curled contentedly up on his dog bed, wagging his tail and biting his blue racquetball, chewing on it attentively. Pete watched the dog for awhile longer, finding him a delightful diversion from the crisis they now found themselves involved with, wishing he could be as entertained by simple things and not have to worry about unknown diseases and potential death.

“Not well, I’m afraid,” he said, sighing. “Dr. Robertson had to intubate him. There was simply too much fluid buildup in his lungs for him to breathe on his own. He’s stable at the moment, but his fever is still running high and his heart continues to have arrhythmic episodes. I’ve never seen anyone so sick before. He’s already lost a dramatic amount of weight, and he’s so pale that I can almost see right through his skin. His veins are prominent now. He looks so delicate that you could shatter his bones if you barely touched him.”

Sandra’s jaw twitched slightly, something Pete interpreted as her way of expressing sorrow and regret. She blinked rapidly as if trying to clear her eyes of tears.

“Any news on the thieves?” She asked, her voice cracking slightly as she fought to remain in tight control of her emotions, restricting them, trying to remain professional.

“No,” Pete said in disgust. “We have every known government agency at our disposal for the investigation since it is a highly classified national security matter, but so far they have found nothing. From the profiles we have on the men it’s clear that they were Phoenix men and not moles or double agents. They turned traitor on us out of pure, insatiable greed.”

“It’s a shame, but unfortunately that’s how it is in today’s world,” Sandra said. “Deadly viruses and bacteria can make war profiteers excessively wealthy in this dangerous climate, selling them to the highest bidder as material for biological weapons.”

“Yeah, well I’m just glad they didn’t get away with what is now afflicting MacGyver,” Pete said. “The effects of it are absolutely devastating. He’s just wasting away.”

Sandra inclined her head. “I take it that this is your not so subtle attempt at asking me how my research into the new virus is progressing,” she said.

“Well, how is it going?” Pete asked. “Have you found anything useful, anything that might help Mac?”

“I’ve been going over my notes on the virus for hours,” Sandra said, the weariness in her voice proving it. “It’s a complex structure and will require some time to understand all its properties.”

“Time is one thing MacGyver doesn’t have.”

“I realize that, Pete,” Sandra said, clenching her jaw. “I’ve been thinking about how I might create a vaccine.”

“That’s wonderful, but he already has the virus. I thought vaccines were supposed to protect someone from getting an illness before it infected them.”

“That’s true, and that is their most common use. However, vaccines can also be used therapeutically to ameliorate the effects of a disease. If we can inoculate MacGyver with an effective vaccine, we might be able to trigger an immune response that would help his body recover. There are several methods we could employ to do that. One of the most common is to introduce weakened microorganisms from the virus into his body.”

“Well, that’s great,” Pete said. “Why don’t we do that?”

“Pete, you don’t understand,” Sandra said, swiveling around in her chair to face him for the first time, her blue eyes glittering with intensity. “Vaccines don’t work like magic. They don’t materialize out of nowhere like some miracle. They don’t get developed overnight. It can take years, decades, before one produces the desired effect. Just look at how long it took for us to eradicate polio and smallpox. It requires testing before it can be introduced into the human body, or it could prove more fatal than the actual virus itself.”

“We can’t just sit around and wait or do nothing about it,” Pete said in frustration, beginning to pace her office, rubbing his bald head. “I mean, we have to try something before it’s too late!”

“I am in agreement with you, Pete, don’t misunderstand,” Sandra said. “I’m just trying to be realistic, here. I told you before there was a chance we may not be able to find a cure for this new virus in time to save him. I will do all that I can, but it’s going to require some hard work and intense effort. I’m going to need all available resources The Phoenix Foundation has at our disposal, from medical experts to microbiologists. If I could get a team working with me closely on this matter, perhaps we will be able to create something, something that will be safe enough to experiment on MacGyver.”

Pete paused and looked at her. “Why didn’t you ask before?” He asked. “If you need a team of scientists working with you, then you’ll have them. Anything you need. This is MacGyver’s life we’re talking about, after all. I’ll assemble them immediately.”

“I would prefer to choose who is on my team, if you don’t mind,” Sandra said. “Some find me temperamental and I would prefer to work with those who are not easily bothered by it.” She smiled slightly.

Normally, Pete found most of her demands outrageous, but with MacGyver’s life in peril he was willing to concede.

“All right,” he said. “Whatever you want.”

Loud sirens erupted over the speakers.

“Medical emergency, quarantine room five,” the announcer said.

Pete and Sandra looked at each other in alarm.

“That’s where they’re keeping MacGyver, isn’t it?” Sandra asked.

“Yes, it is,” Pete said. “Oh God, what’s happening to him now?”

***

“He’s seizing!” Dr. Robertson shouted. “Prepare to inject him with anticonvulsants!”

The doctor and his suited staff fought to stabilize MacGyver, his body jerking and twitching violently in convulsions. The seizure was long and seemed ceaseless and uncontrollable, his limbs twisting and contorting into stiff, unnatural positions as he writhed, his muscles shaking and vibrating, pulled tautly so that it almost seemed as if every joint in his body would become dislocated. The tendons on his neck bulged as he strained, his head lolling back and tossing from side to side, a loud, inhuman moan pressing against the tube in his throat.

“I don’t understand…why is this happening to him? When did this start?” Pete asked.

“Mr. Thornton, you shouldn’t be in here right now,” Dr. Robertson said, glancing over his shoulder at him and then returning to his convulsive patient. “I have a medical emergency on my hands, here, and I have to work to stabilize him quickly or he could develop brain damage from the lasting effects of a seizure this prolonged and intense.”

“I can’t leave,” Pete said, his voice firm. “I’m not leaving him, not when he’s like this.”

He thought about the caution signs outside the quarantined area, how one warned those entering to wear protective suits at all times, and how another shouted in large, capitalized letters in loud, bright red paint that it was a restricted area, reserved only for authorized personnel. He felt he was one of those authorized. After all, he was Director of Operations. More than that, he was MacGyver’s best friend. He felt he had every right to be there, especially if he was dying. He had hurried to put on the bulky suit and all its accoutrements simply to be in the same room with MacGyver, and he hadn’t gone through all the trouble and hassle of doing so for nothing, the barrier separating them from all that extra clothing already causing a great divide, a rift where he felt helpless, unable to actually touch him, to feel the warmth and clamminess of his skin. The swirl of activity around MacGyver’s body as it continued to go into violent spasms and thrash around was the most movement he had seen from his friend in days, but it only indicated that his condition was worsening, not improving, the seizure a most unwelcome turn of events. His body strained and trembled as if being pulled and yanked by invisible wires, his limbs flailing and twitching. Gradually, the jerky movements slowed and then ceased, MacGyver’s thin, exhausted, pallid form collapsing back onto the bed, the rise and fall of his chest from the assistance of the ventilator the only indication that he was still alive.

“He’s stable, Doctor,” a nurse said.

“Oh, thank God,” Pete said, shuddering as if he were about to go into a seizure himself, breathing heavily through his mask, tears in his eyes. He approached MacGyver’s now still form and gently stroked the side of his face with his gloved hand, feeling how bony his cheeks had become, the thick material of the glove not able to disguise it. His expression seemed peaceful, almost death-like, and it was disturbing for him to behold.

“We’ve administered anticonvulsants,” Dr. Robertson said. “They seem to be taking effect. He’s stable again.”

“How did he have a seizure of that magnitude and intensity? I don’t understand,” Pete said, continuing to stroke his friend’s face.

“He’s still running a high fever, Mr. Thornton,” Dr. Robertson said. “That coupled with the other effects of his infection must have triggered the seizure. We will have to monitor the situation and make sure we are able to prevent the next seizure at its onset before it can cause any permanent damage.”

“What about now? Does he have any damage from this seizure?”

“We’ll have to run some tests to make sure, but I think he will be all right. Of course, that is all relative right now. His condition is constantly in flux, and anything could happen since we don’t have a convenient list of symptoms to accompany this virus. We don’t know anything about it, and unfortunately MacGyver has become its first documented victim. We will just have to constantly monitor his condition and look for any signs of either improvement or further deterioration and see if we can arrive at some established pattern. For now, this virus seems to behave unpredictably, taking a life and direction of its own course, which makes it increasingly difficult to diagnose and cure him.”

“Dr. Milhouse is working on that cure Doctor, right now,” Pete said, taking MacGyver’s hand in his. He was careful about squeezing it too tightly, the bones feeling light and brittle like those of a small bird. “She is an ambitious, proud, and determined woman, and I have no doubt she will do everything in her power to resolve this.”

“I’m sure she will,” Dr. Robertson said, staring gravely at MacGyver, listening to the alternating hiss of the ventilator and the beep of the heat monitor, “but I’m afraid he’s running out of options. I’m doing all that I can to keep him alive, but I don’t now how long I will be able to sustain him. Right now, he’s barely clinging to life, existing on borrowed time.”

To be continued…

This is all Sandra's fault to beging with!! Next time she should try her crazy inventions on herself! (eh, wait... she did and won't live to tell the tell. Well, she deserved it)

Another great chapter, MacsChick. Thanks for sharing with your rabid fans!! *glomp*

Look what she's done to my... er,... OUR Mac!!!

Stupid scientist! SNARRRRLLLLLLLLLL!!!! *Goes looking for Sandra* GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!
Let me get hold of her! Bet it wont take her years to develop a vaccine once I corner her....

*pat on head*
Very good, Kyrian. Remember that sharing is good.

My thoughts exactly. Sic 'er, girl!!