Page 92 of The Last Man on Earth
A white-coated doctor and a nurse in scrubs greet me, along with a translator who smooths over our words like a bridge. They guide me to a bed and begin examining me, asking me questions I don’t have the energy to answer.
Yes, I’m Ariana Williams.
Yes, I’m the only crew member who survived.
Yes, I’m pregnant. Obviously.
No, I don’t know if I have any diseases or infections.
It’s all so very irritating.
But when they bring out the heart monitor, and I hear my baby’s heartbeat, I can’t stop the tears of joy from streaming down my face. Relief, fear, and disbelief collide all at once.
“Where’s Vincent?” I ask, my voice cracking.
The translator asks the doctor, then answers, “He’s being examined.”
“I want himhere. He should hear this, too.”
They nod, assuring me he’ll see me once the protocols are finished. I’m eventually wheeled to a private room, where everything is stark and white, and the air is unnaturally fresh and dry.
“You’ll be quarantined for forty-eight hours,” the translator tells me.
“And after that?”
“The embassy will handle your transport home.”
My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, most of them about Vincent.
“Can I have my phone?” I ask. I’m so exhausted, I can’t even think.
The translator nods. “Once your examination is finished, I’ll check on that for you.”
But I don’t wait. The moment the room is clear, I close my eyes, and before he returns, sleep pulls me under into a deep, merciful escape from the chaos of the last several hours.
Chapter 47
Vincent
The hospital bed iscold and stiff. The fluorescent lights glare down at me like the sun on the island, only much crueler. My throat’s dry, my mouth’s dry, and my muscles ache like I’ve been in a fight.
A nurse checks all my vitals, giving the translator the play-by-play of all the shit I didn’t realize was wrong with me.
Dehydration. Heat rash. Salt sores, whatever the fuck that is. Mild infection in one of the cuts on my arm. Then a doctor comes in and rattles off a list of meds and treatments I’m about to be subjected to.
They hook me up to an IV, which I find pointless, but whatever. I’m hungry as fuck, but the translator says I need to drink a protein shake first.
If I was in my right mind, I’d be questioning all this shit, but the first thing I can think of, the only thing I can think to ask is, “Where is Ari?”
“She’s fine,” the man translates. “She’s being treated. Resting. You can see her tomorrow.”
My stomach twists at the thought of being away from her for a night.
“Where am I?”
“We are on a military base,” the translator says. “Ilha das Flores.”
“Wherewerewe? What island?”
