Playing with Fire: A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)(10)
Victory tasted disgusting.
I got to wear one of the hospital’s fancy paper gowns while Professor Yale tried to educate a bunch of bright-eyed students about the glamorous reality of surviving a round in a glass coffin. Next time I’d remember to insist on a nurse inserting the catheter. While setting up an IV was an important skill for CDC qualified nurses and first responders, my arms did not appreciate the kid’s fumbling efforts. He got it in on the eighth try, and I suspected Professor Yale had picked him on purpose to make me suffer.
The catheter hurt like hell going in, but it didn’t compare to the misery caused by a bunch of young men and women eager to show they could handle injections to a professor renowned for demanding perfection. By the time they finished with me, I’d turned into a living pincushion. How the hell could anyone screw up a vaccination injection?
One girl had managed to stab through my arm twice before she got her three syringes emptied into me.
Unfortunately, one of the syringes contained enough active viruses to ensure infection and jumpstart my immune system. Once the viruses took hold, a doctor specialized in magic-aided recovery would work to mitigate the worst of the symptoms and coax antibodies to life so my body could do the rest on its own. Within a week, I’d be a functional human being again, and they’d release me from the quarantine ward.
“Since Miss Gardener required four days within the glass coffin, she will have a lengthy recovery process, requiring a full battery of antibodies plus treatments for dehydration and malnutrition. Any questions?”
Had the requirements for top-level containment at the CDC gone down since my certification, or was Professor Yale taking advantage of a live body for demonstration purposes? Probably both. Gorgon bile incidents happened often enough, but victims of standard petrification didn’t require contamination treatment. The dust, on the other hand…
Every last student raised their hand. Spiffy. I had either gotten the ultra curious batch or the green newbies.
“Go, Puck.”
Puck? Who the hell named their kid Puck? A girl in the front row bounced on her toes and lowered her hand. “Why is it called a glass coffin? Wouldn’t crystal containment sound cooler?”
Good God. Someone had named their daughter Puck, and she cared more about the name of the equipment than the lives of those who needed it for survival—or to prevent an outbreak.
“Miss Gardener, would you please address her question?”
Professor Yale truly loved me. Why else would he be so nice and give me the pleasure of knocking the ignorant girl down a few pegs? I struggled to keep from grinning. “Of course, Professor Yale. While ‘crystal containment’ sounds nice, it lacks one very important thing. Any guesses on what that might be?”
Every single student shook their head, and Professor Yale leaned against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and graced me with a smug smile.
I matched his smile and turned it on the girl. “Puck, what happens when someone has no access to water for seven days?”
“They get dehydrated.”
I prayed for patience. “Incorrect.”
“What? My answer is most certainly correct.”
“Incorrect.” How would she handle my direct challenge of her too simple answer? If she was like every other student qualified to join the CDC, she’d probably flip her lid—I’d done it more than my fair share of times before I figured out everything I knew about life was wrong when it came to preventing the spread of infectious diseases and handling dangerous substances.
Puck twisted around and glared at Professor Yale. “She’s just a victim. Tell her she’s wrong.”
Oh boy.
Someone had tried the same stunt when I’d been in his classes, and by the time Professor Yale had finished with him, he left with his tail between his legs and never returned. I wondered how the old man would take Puck’s attitude.
If he thought she was worth her spot in the class, he’d handle her gently. Otherwise, I doubted she’d ever show her face at a CDC education center again.
“Miss Gardener has top-level certification in six different branches of the CDC with exemplary performance records handling some of the world’s most dangerous substances in live situations. Do you know why she was in a glass coffin?”
The girl had enough sense to slouch and flinch at his words. “No, sir.”
“Miss Gardener, please continue your explanation on the purpose of glass coffins. I would appreciate if you forgave my interruption.”
Score. I had earned major brownie points from the CDC’s meanest professor. It wouldn’t buy me a cup of coffee, but I’d savor the moment later, using it as a reminder of my success when I was busy coughing my lungs out thanks to some infection. “In order to prevent any contagions from escaping, glass coffins are completely sealed. The masks used with them provide oxygen to the occupant. If the contagion isn’t neutralized, the occupant dies. If the mask fails, the occupant dies. If the neutralizer doesn’t scan clean within seven days, the occupant is left to die, however long that may take. Seven days is the typical limit. After death, the victim remains in that clear little box and is buried. That’s it, that’s all. When you put someone in a glass coffin, you’re waiting to see if they can be revived—if they can be revived, thus the word coffin.”
Every student in Professor Yale’s class either blanched or winced.