This one goes out to ghostdoll and all my other fans. Enjoy!
Quarantine Part Seven
Rated: PG
Several Days Later…
“All right MacGyver, it’s time to take out your breathing tube,” Dr. Robertson said. “The congestion in your lungs has cleared, and I think you’re ready.”
MacGyver’s uncertain gaze moved between the doctor and Pete, still in their protective suits as a precaution. Pete took his hand to reassure him.
“Now I know you’re concerned,” Dr. Robertson said, noticing the worry in his eyes. “The tube has been successfully breathing for you, but now you’re going to have to assume control and breathe on your own again. You can do it. It’s going to be fine. It will feel unpleasant and uncomfortable at first, but then it will be completely gone. What I want you to do is exhale deeply as I gently and slowly remove the tube, all right? Can you do that for me?”
MacGyver nodded slightly. He blinked tiredly and then stared at Pete, seeking calm, support, and strength. Pete returned his stare with a warm, fatherly smile.
“All right. On the count of three. One, two, three…”
Pete could barely watch as Dr. Robertson extracted the tube from MacGyver’s throat. As he pulled on it, the tube seemed endlessly long and he wondered how it had managed fit in his friend’s throat at all. For MacGyver, the experience was no less unbearable, feeling the tube as it slid against the tender lining of his throat, inducing his gag reflex and causing him to momentarily panic, thinking he was choking, unable to breathe.
“It’s all right, just stay still,” Dr. Robertson said quietly in soothing tones as MacGyver writhed and squirmed beneath him. “That’s it. It’s almost out. Just keep exhaling…”
The tube was out, and MacGyver coughed and gasped, rattling, spasmodic, shuddering breaths coming from him. His body trembled weakly, and he collapsed fully onto the bed, sinking into it as he struggled to regain control of his sore lungs. Every part of him was sore, every part of him ached. He became fully aware of how weak he now was, the simple act of breathing on his own again thoroughly exhausting him and making him feel dizzy and faint.
“That’s it…that’s right…just continue to breathe normally,” Dr. Robertson said in his calming voice. “That’s it. It’s over now.”
Gradually, as his breathing regulated, MacGyver noticed a terrible taste in his mouth. It felt filmy and cottony and he moved his chapped lips, struggling to speak but finding he couldn’t, his mouth and throat completely dry.
“Here, let me give you some water,” Pete said, lifting his friend’s head up and supporting the back of it with his gloved hand, offering a small paper cup of water to him. “Sip it slowly, now. Not too much at once.”
MacGyver sipped on the water and looked gratefully at Pete as he did so. It upset Pete to see him that way, incapable of sitting upright on his own, so weakened and emaciated by the virus that even the weight of his head felt very light and fragile like an eggshell that he could crush if he were not careful. He could still clearly see his veins visible beneath the transparency of his pale skin.
For MacGyver, the water tasted wonderful and it refreshed him, but it also hurt him to swallow, the pressure the tube had placed on his tender throat causing slight inflammation of the surrounding tissue. When he was finished, he winced and pulled away from the cup.
“You’re done?” Pete asked.
MacGyver nodded and trembled, falling back onto the bed. “Thank…you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. He closed his eyes.
“Well, this is just another good sign that he is making progress towards recovery,” Dr. Robertson said, smiling at his patient. “His lungs are no longer congested, he no longer needs the breathing tube, and his body temperature has decreased. He’s now at 101 degrees, which is still a fever, but not as high as it had been. If he continues at this rate I see no reason he won’t make a full recovery and be out of quarantine soon.”
“That’s great news,” Pete said, gently dabbing at the water that was still on the corners of MacGyver’s mouth. MacGyver didn’t stir or object. “I’m tired of not being able to see him without putting on this bulky, cumbersome suit.”
“The issue now is to try to give him some nourishment and see if we can help him regain all the weight he lost. We’ll have to take it slowly at first, though, and see what his stomach can handle. I recommend simple, clear broths and liquid nutritional supplements and shakes first.”
Pete nodded. “What do you think, Mac? Do you think you’re up for some broth?” He asked.
“Sure,” MacGyver said, his eyes still closed.
Dr. Robertson smiled. “I’ll go get some,” he said.
After he left the quarantine room, MacGyver opened his clouded, glazed eyes again and focused them on Pete.
“It’s so good to see you getting well,” Pete said. “You really had me scared there for awhile.”
MacGyver smiled faintly, and then it faded from his thin, pale, almost bluish lips. “Pete,” he said, his voice still hoarse and barely audible. He swallowed hard and sighed, moving his head, struggling to say more, talking still requiring some effort.
“What is it?” Pete asked, taking his hand again.
“S-something happened to me…while I was asleep…I-I don’t know…”
“What?”
“If it was real or…I saw them…”
“Saw who?”
“People I knew…people…who died…”
At first, Pete couldn’t quite make sense of his friend, thinking he was babbling and raving nonsensically, perhaps still delirious, but as he continued to listen, he began to understand.
“I was there…with them…they…talked to me…”
“Well, that phenomenon is not unheard of,” Pete said. “Many people near death claim to see their departed loved ones.”
“My dad…” MacGyver said, tears in his eyes, his lower lip quivering. “Grandma…I couldn’t save them, Pete. I was in the car with them, and I still couldn’t do anything to stop it…they still drowned…everybody I knew still died...I…I couldn’t stop…couldn’t save…”
“Shh, it’s all right,” Pete said, feeling tremendous sympathy for him, looking so small and pitiful, his rail thin, sickly body almost disappearing inside the hospital linens that shrouded it. “It’s over now. You’re here. You’re back. You’re not going to die. I know you still feel guilt for what happened to those you lost, but there was nothing you could do to change it.”
“But…what does it mean, Pete? Why…why did I see those things?”
Pete shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Nobody really knows, I guess. It’s still a mystery, still unexplained.”
“Do…do you believe in…” MacGyver closed his eyes and swallowed again, another shuddering gasp expelling from his lungs. He opened his eyes again and looked at Pete. “Is it…real?”
“Some people think it is. Others believe it is all a product of the mind, a hallucination of some kind perhaps.”
“What…do you believe?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Pete said.
MacGyver managed another faint smile. A small trace of light returned to his otherwise dull eyes. “I don’t, either,” he said. “I guess someday we’ll know.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Pete said. “Maybe we will. Right now, I’m just glad you’re back.”
Dr. Robertson returned with the broth. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll start you on this chicken broth and see how you do. How does that sound?”
“Fine,” MacGyver said, staring at the bowl with desire, yet he didn’t feel hungry. He didn’t know what he felt, except tired and achy and hot.
“Here, I’ll do it,” Pete said, carefully taking the bowl from Dr. Robertson, the action made more awkward and clumsy because of their bulky suits. “Ready, Mac? Come on, I’ll help you sit up.”
Once again, Pete lifted MacGyver’s head with one hand and fed him the broth with the other. He knew it probably embarrassed his friend to be so dependent, being spoon-fed like an infant, but he said nothing, gladly accepting the liquid, slurping it from the spoon.
“Is that good?” Dr. Robertson asked.
“Mmm hmm,” MacGyver said between mouthfuls.
“All right now, just take it easy,” Pete said. “Don’t take too much all at once now.”
He continued to feed him, and MacGyver continued to eat.
“I don’t know how much to give him,” Pete said, looking at Dr. Robertson.
“I didn’t put much in the bowl,” Dr. Robertson said. “Let’s just see how much of it he can finish. He needs to get his strength back, and this is an important first step towards reaching that goal.”
At first, the sensation of warm, comforting liquid on his tongue made him feel restored and satisfied, but his stomach began to churn violently and protest, nausea overtaking him. Soon, he began to look on the yellowish broth with disgust, the very idea of taking another spoonful of it revolting to him. He pushed the bowl away and shook his head.
“Had enough?” Pete asked.
MacGyver shook his head and groaned. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he looked even more flushed than he had earlier.
“What is it?”
“Don’t feel…so well…”
Before any of them could react properly, MacGyver retched and vomited, some of it spraying on Pete’s protective suit. Dr. Robertson rushed in to help hold him up as he continued, his body heaving and shuddering, his sensitive throat burning from the acid.
“It’s all right, MacGyver, just relax,” he said, rubbing his back, feeling the prominence of his spine beneath the fabric of his glove. “Just breathe…that’s it…stay calm…it’s almost over…”
MacGyver spit up the remaining meager contents of his stomach and then collapsed back onto the bed, gasping and trembling uncontrollably.
“I guess he isn’t ready for that yet,” Dr. Robertson said, surveying the disgusting, soupy mess that was left behind in the room, covering the linens, the floor, and a part of Pete’s protective suit, dripping. He could smell its foul, vile, acidic odor even from behind his mask. “His stomach must still be too weak. At least he is still connected to I.V.s for nourishment so he won’t become dehydrated.”
Briefly stunned, Pete was unsure how to react, staring at the vomit on his suit.
“You’re going to have to go through special decontamination processes,” Dr. Robertson said, watching him. “I guess we both will. This room will have to be disinfected as well.”
Clearly embarrassed, MacGyver looked at both men and smiled sheepishly. “S…sorry…” he said.
“There’s no need to apologize,” Pete said, recovering from his momentary speechlessness and his own embarrassment. He dabbed at the corners of MacGyver’s mouth, wiping away the rest of the vomit that was beginning to crust there. “You’re sick. It’s to be expected.”
“In a way, this might actually be a good sign,” Dr. Robertson said.
“How so?” Pete asked.
“His body is trying to reject poisons through the process of vomiting. Perhaps allowing himself to do so also helped him get rid of some of the virus.”
“Pete?” MacGyver asked weakly, straining to keep his eyes open.
“Yes, what is it, Mac? Do you need something else?”
“Can I sleep now?”
It touched Pete to hear him ask. He sounded like a pleading, lost, and terrified child, completely vulnerable.
“That’s a good idea actually,” Dr. Robertson said. “He’s been through enough today. While he’s resting, it will give us a chance to clean this area.”
Pete smiled at his friend and stroked his warm forehead, brushing back his matted, disheveled, sweat-sodden hair. “Yes Mac, it’s all right,” he said. “You can sleep now.”
MacGyver never heard him. He had already drifted off into unconsciousness.
***
Hours later, reviving from a deep, restful, febrile sleep, stirring and moaning, MacGyver felt a presence in the quarantine room with him and heard a rustling of stiff, thick suit fabric.
“Pete?” He asked weakly, his eyes not yet fully open.
“No, it’s Sandra,” a female voice said.
At last managing to open his eyes, he saw her standing near him, smiling slightly at him through the mask of her protective suit.
“It’s nice to see you without the breathing tube,” she said. “Your health is clearly improving. My vaccine must be effective, after all.”
“Yeah…Pete told me what you did for me, how hard you worked…thank you.”
“Well, don’t forget I also created the virus, and look at what it’s done to you.”
“I heard your apology the other day. I know you meant it.”
“What good is an apology when I was almost responsible for killing you?”
“The virus and the men who tried to steal it are also partly responsible, I suppose.”
Sandra sighed. “How is it that you’re so fair to me? Most everyone else around here blames me for what happened, and they weren’t affected by it the way you were,” she said.
“I don’t know,” MacGyver said. “I guess because I know that you didn’t intend to create a dangerous virus. You didn’t intend to make me sick. It just happened. It was an accident.”
He thought about how he sounded. It reminded him of what Pete had told him years ago, counseling him on the constant guilt he felt over his parent’s deaths. His thoughts shifted towards the hazy recollections of the visions he saw while in a deep state of unconsciousness, still pondering over whether they were real or not.
“I could have never created the virus in the first place,” Sandra said.
“That’s true, but you did, and now there’s no looking back. You have to live with the consequences of your actions and move forward, learning from your mistakes and errors in judgment.”
“You sound a little like Pete.”
“Well, Pete’s right. Science, after all, is a learning process. Consider this a well-intended but failed experiment. Now you know through trial and error where to improve, what to change for next time to produce the desired results.”
“I suppose I do,” she said.
Already in her mind she was formulating a plan whereby she would send her organisms into the isolation of space to see how they would alter and mutate, the impact on humans or any other life form on earth minimal. Now that MacGyver was recovering and clearly out of danger, she was relieved, but she was also not about to allow her ambition to rest. It was true that she had suffered a setback that nearly cost her a man’s life and her own career, but she couldn’t allow it to daunt her, to stifle her ingenuity, to reduce her confidence. She had to continue her work. Now, she knew that she could. Watching MacGyver, she saw that his dark eyes were staring at her, and it unnerved her for a moment. His eyes, even when glazed over and bloodshot from illness, were piercing, penetrating her soul, filled with wisdom and thousands of words left unsaid, words he did not need to communicate, one single, unsettling stare from him saying everything.
“Still, you are angry with me, aren’t you?” She asked. “How could you not be?”
“I won’t deny that I am, but what good is that going to do me? What good is that going to do either of us? Sandra, it’s time to move on.”
“Yes, I guess you’re right,” she said.
“I know you did everything in your power to help me, and that shows you care, that you’re dedicated to your work. If you were as unfeeling as some people suggest, you would never have worked all those long hours to produce a vaccine.”
MacGyver’s thoughts once again turned to those he knew in his life that had passed on, people he had encountered while he lay in a coma, deathly ill. He wondered if they would vindicate him the way he was vindicating Sandra, forgiving him for his perceived faults, for his absence or his irresponsibility or his inability to help them when they needed it. He supposed a part of what he was saying to Sandra was a cathartic exercise designed to purge him of his own guilt.
“Look,” he said to Sandra, “I won’t tell you that I’m not still confused and conflicted emotionally about everything that happened here, but I will tell you that this incident shows you what is possible, what dangers exist, and how to proceed with more caution next time.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I will have to work with more caution next time, but I will also have to think on a grander scale and be more creative about my methods.”
“That’s what science is about,” MacGyver said. “Creativity and exploration. A learning process.”
“I just wish I didn’t have to learn this way, by seeing other people suffer…”
“I know,” MacGyver said, thinking about all he had learned at the expense of others suffering around him. “Sometimes it’s a hard lesson. But you’re bright, you’re capable. Someday, you’ll move beyond all this and you will find something that will help humanity, not hurt it. You’re still young and have a long life ahead of you. You’ll accomplish what you want to.”
Sandra looked at MacGyver’s pale, emaciated form and shuddered in horror—not because of the devastating effects of the virus this time, but because she had a strange feeling, a vague feeling she couldn’t quite articulate, a sense that something else would go terribly wrong, but she couldn’t know when or what it was.
“I hope you’re right,” she said.
To be continued…
"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."
--Henry David Thoreau
brains+brawn+beauty+personality=MacGyver
Please do show my story to whomever you wish! I'm always looking to add new readers. 
