I slide off Bandit and hand the reins to Jasper, who has been lurking by the barn.
“Put him up,” I tell the kid. “Give him water.”
I run after Billy. Seth’s already in the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life.
We tear down the dirt road, kicking up a cloud of dust. The headlights cut through the gloom. We pass the orange tape, the white tents, headed toward the isolation zone where the calves are kept.
We see the lights before we see the animals. A cluster of flashlights and work lights bobbing in the dark.
We jump out of the truck before it stops rolling.
The smell hits me first. The sharp, coppery tang of blood. And something else, something sour. Like rotting fruit.
“Over here!” a voice shouts.
It’s one of the CDC vets, Dr. Miller. He’s wearing a hazmat suit and kneeling in the dirt.
We run over.
It’s a calf. A little black angus. One of the ones we separated yesterday.
It’s on its side, legs kicking feebly at the air. Its eyes are wide, rolling back in its head. Foam froths at its mouth, tinged with pink.
“What happened?” Billy demands, dropping to his knees. He touches the calf’s neck. The fur is soaked with sweat.
“It started seizing about ten minutes ago,” Dr. Miller says. His voice is muffled, stressed. “Temperature spiked. We’re trying to cool it down.”
“Is it the parasite?” Seth asks.
“We don’t know. Probably.”
Dr. Thorne arrives, his faceplate reflecting the light. “Don’t touch it directly,” he commands. “Use the gloves.”
Billy ignores him. He grabs a bucket of water and pours it over the calf’s flank. The animal shudders, a violent spasm that rattles its whole frame.
“Hold it still!” Billy shouts.
I drop down beside him. I wrap my arms around the calf’s head, trying to keep it from thrashing. The muscles are rock hard, twitching uncontrollably.
It’s hot. Unnaturally hot. Like holding a piece of the sun.
“It’s burning up,” I grit out.
“Get the ice packs!” Dr. Miller yells to a technician.
We work in a frenzy. We pack ice around the neck and groin. We pour water. We check the airways to make sure it doesn’t choke on its own tongue.
The calf lets out a low, mournful bellow. It’s a sound of pure pain. It cuts right through me.
I look at Billy. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. His hands are steady, checking the pulse, the breathing. But his eyes are wild.
“Come on,” Billy mutters to the animal. “Stay with me. Fight it.”
The calf stares at me. Its eyes are brown, liquid, terrified. I see the life in them. The will to survive.
And then, I see it fade.
The kicking slows. The body relaxes, but not in relief. In surrender.
