"That's all that happens? You get sick?"
Ford made no reply.
Tomlinson pressed. "You mean you've seen people die, that's what you're saying." Tomlinson was beginning to slip back into the pattern of shallow breaths again, getting anxious.
"No. I've never seen it. But I watched a physician save three people from dying once. He had the knowledge and he had the right antidote. Without it . . Ford shrugged.
"You're not telling me what I think you're telling me? You're not going to kill all these people, are you, Ford? You know the antidote, right?"
"I remember the name of the drug and the dosage."
"But what makes you think they have the antidote here?"
"Nothing—I haven't given it much thought."
"Even if they did, you wouldn't offer it to Zacul." Stated flatly in disapproval.
Ford opened the door and put the plates outside. "It's too bad the general forced that doctor off the cliff. He would have helped. In a way, Zacul killed himself and didn't even know it."
The oil lamp was out but Ford was still awake. They were both dressed, lying on their cots. He said, "Muscarine. That's the poison. It took me about an hour this afternoon to remember the name. I kept thinking mascara, like the stuff women wear. It's also found in certain mushrooms, only I don't know which kind—the poison, I mean."
Tomlinson said, "Next time I read some label with natural herbs and spices, I'm gonna be less enthusiastic." Then he said, "Sshhhh. What's that?"
There was the sound of a door slamming and loud voices. There was panic in the voices, and Ford felt the panic vibrate within him, adrenaline mixed with elation. Tomlinson said, "Someone's coming," and Ford swung his feet off the cot, waiting.
There was the heavy thud of footsteps outside: not the sound of someone running, but of someone trying to run, dragging his feet and stumbling. Then there was a banging on the door, rattling the whole fiberglass structure. The door flew open before Ford could get to it, and there stood Julio Zacul. The flashlight he carried was pointed at the ground, bathing him in a grotesque light. He wore only pants and his gunbelt, no shoes. His chest made shallow lunges, desperate for air, and he was bent at the waist, his free hand thrown across his bare abdomen in an attitude of pain. His face was contorted, oily with sweat, and his eyes were wide and wild as he said, groaning, "Something very bad has happened. Something very bad. You are a doctor, no? You must help me,"
When Ford just stood there, Zacul reached out to grab him and almost fell. Holding onto Ford's shirt, he repeated, "I need help! You are a doctor?"
Ford took Zacul's wrist and pushed the hand away. "I'm a doctor. So is this man. But we're not physicians."
Zacul moaned.
Ford said, "I thought we met a doctor when we were in your stockade. Why don't you get him?"
"No, no, he is gone. He can do nothing." Zacul's speech was labored, each word an effort. "I'm sick, can't you see that? We are all very sick. You must have some training. Do something!"
Ford took the flashlight from him and took him by the arm. "Do you have any medical supplies in camp?"
"Yes. A few. In my quarters."
"Then take us to them."
Ford and Tomlinson half carried, half followed Zacul across the grounds. The moon was over the mountains, three-quarters full, and by its light Ford could see that many of the soldiers had left their posts, gathering the way some people gather at car wrecks, fascinated with tragedy but nervous, too, standing in small groups, whispering.
"I am going to be sick. Let me go." They let Zacul fall to the ground and the soldiers shifted uncomfortably as they watched their general bark at the earth and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.
Ford heard one of the soldiers mutter, "See? He is dying. I have heard that some are already dead." But when Ford looked at the soldiers and nodded, they pretended not to see, averting their eyes.
"Let's go, Zacul. Let's get you inside."
Zacul and the other officers were billeted in a separate compound, a fenced grounds where a two-story block and wood house was surrounded by several fiberglass huts. Zacul led them into the main building, through a dark room with metal desks and the sharp acidic odor of a printing machine. The next room was much larger, an officers' mess and recreation room. There was a pool table, a bar with cheap plastic chairs, and, all around the room, dozens of candles had been lighted. There was the smell of incense, too; it was like walkipg into a brothel.
Judging from the magazines strewn around the floor, a brothel was closer to being what the room was used for. Tomlinson considered one of the magazines for a moment, then kicked it closed with his foot, a grimace of distaste on his face.
From somewhere a radio blared loud Latin music and on the long dining table were liquor bottles and smoldering ashtrays. Several of the bottles had been overturned and the gray carpeting below was stained. There were also two small bowls filled with fine white powder on the table. One of those had spilled, too, covering the table like talcum. Ford saw all of this peripherally, for the men who lay on the floor dominated the wreckage in the room.
It had been a party some would not live to remember. There were six men—no, seven. They wore only pants or were naked. Some sat staring blankly at the wall, trying to breathe over their thick, distended tongues. Others writhed on the carpeting in their own vomitus: eerie, contorted figures in the flickering light. Others lay deathly still, their knees pulled toward their chests, their eyes opened and fixed, but still breathing. Ford recognized Suarez as one of those still alive. He was on his knees, salivating uncontrollably. Only one uniformed soldier tended the men, wiping them with cloths. The others, apparently, had fled.
Ford asked, "Are the medical supplies in here?" Zacul, taken by another spasm, pointed at a box on the wall. As Tomlinson helped lift the box off its brackets, Ford whispered, "Start looking for Jake. He's got to be around here somewhere. And grab a weapon if you get the chance. "
"No guns, Doc. Sorry, but no way."
"Goddamn it, Tomlinson—" But the man was already gone, rushing off to search the building.
Ford put the box on the table, unlatched it, saying to Zacul in a louder voice "It looks like you guys got hold of some bad cocaine, General."
"Yes, yes, that's possible. Is there something for the pain? I can't stand the pain anymore."
Ford went through the supplies quickly. "There's no medicine in here, this is a first aid kit. I can't do anything with this."
Zacul yelled to the lone soldier who soon returned with an even bigger metal box. Ford put it on the table and opened it. The kit was Soviet issue, labeled in several languages and very well equipped. The drugs were packaged in groups according to specific need: shock, bacterial disease, cardiac arrest, field anesthesiology. Ford opened three of the anesthesiology packages, separated the syringe kits, and placed six vials of atropine sulfate on the table. He hesitated, then took out one vial of normal saline solution. "There are things here that'll make you feel better, General, but I don't know how to treat for cocaine overdose. I'm going to need help for that."
Zacul groaned again.
"Is there a doctor in Tambor?"
"No."
"Is there a phone in Tambor? A place I can call a hospital and get some advice on how to treat you?"
"Yes! That is what we must do. Go to Tambor!" Zacul was hunched on the carpet, his head between his knees.
Ford was drawing saline solution into one of the syringes, holding it up to the light. "Is there someone around who can fly those helicopters?"
"The Cuban, Arevilio. He is our trainer. The others are away in the city."