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“Do you know the mechanism of the paralysis?”
“Not at this stage. None of the victims have sensory loss and can still feel pain, heat, and cold in their extremities. I’m truly puzzled. I’ve never seen such a quick onset of paralysis in a large group of people except from an unfortunate case of botulism at a family reunion.”
“Could it be a form of curare?” Juan asked. “Central American indigenous tribes using the poison in blow guns. It causes paralysis.”
“I don’t think so. We’ve tried treating the patients with a cholinesterase inhibitor, but it had no effect. The symptoms show both upper and lower motor neuron involvement, like a combination of cerebral palsy and Guillain-Barré syndrome. Functional MRIs have shown that the neurons have become quiescent but are not dead.”
“Is there a cure?” Eric asked.
“I suppose we might be able to synthesize an antidote if we could isolate the cause of the condition,” Thurman said. “But that could take months or years of research. Barring that, I’m sorry to say that the paralysis may be permanent.”
Thurman stopped at one of the rooms and gave a perfunctory knock as he entered. Murph was propped up in his adjustable bed in a hospital gown, and a young woman was sitting next to him with his right hand in hers. She looked at the new visitors warily, and then suddenly her expression changed.
“You’re Mark’s friends,” she said, then paused for a moment before continuing. “He says your names are Juan . . . Eric . . . and Doc Huxley.”
Juan noticed Murph’s finger tapping on her palm and recognized the cadence of Morse code.
“You must be Sylvia,” Juan said.
“I’m glad you came. So is Mark.”
“How are you two?”
“I’m fine. Mark feels okay. He’s just frustrated that he can’t move.”
Eric walked over to the bed. “Hey, buddy. Good to see you,” he said, trying to keep the mood light.
Murph grunted and Sylvia interpreted his rapid Morse taps. “He says, ‘I know I sound like . . . Frankenstein’s monster . . . but tell me I don’t . . . look like him.’”
Eric smiled. “I’m sorry to say you still look like you. I brought a surprise. You’ll be able to talk for yourself now. Sort of.”
He put on a pair of augmented reality glasses, walked over to the motorized wheelchair, and rapidly manipulated the joystick with his finger like he was playing a video game. A voice that sounded like Stephen Hawking’s halting robotic tone said, “I’ve modified the controls so that you can switch back and forth between operating the chair and speaking with the synthesizer app. The glasses let you see what you’re typing.”
“Don’t worry,” Eric added in his own voice. “That’s just one of the four hundred voices programmed into it. Max and I threw this together when we found out what happened. You can sound like Mickey Mouse, Samuel L. Jackson, Marilyn Monroe . . . anything that’s in there. I did, however, remove the Gilbert Gottfried and Kim Kardashian choices.”
“Wow. That’s amazing, Eric,” Sylvia said. “Mark says he wants to try it out.”
Dr. Thurman called for an aide to help get Mark into the chair, and while that was going on, Juan pulled Thurman and Julia into the corridor.
“We would like to take them with us,” Juan said. “It seems like Sylvia is uninjured, and Dr. Huxley has the resources and equipment to look after Mark.”
Thurman frowned. “They just arrived yesterday. I’m reluctant to let him go so quickly in his condition.”
“He isn’t a threat to anyone since he isn’t infected with a contagion,” Julia said. “Is there any reason to expect Mark’s status to worsen?”
“We don’t really know anything about what’s happening to him.”
“Can you do anything for him here that my hospital couldn’t?”
“I suppose not.”
“Then I’d prefer to have him in my care,” Julia said. “You did say that you were to show us every courtesy.”
“I’ll arrange with our State Department to authorize the transfer,” Juan said, which meant going through Langston Overholt.
“Fine,” Thurman said. “But I would appreciate you sharing any changes in his condition or progre
ss in finding an effective treatment. I will do the same.”
