Page 53 of The Man I Hate

Between them was a stretcher.

I rolled down the window. “He’s in the back.”

They loaded him onto the gurney and began taking his vitals. As one of the two men wheeled him into the hospital, the other pointed an electronic thermometer at my forehead.

“Stand still,” he said.

“I’m going with him,” I argued.

“You’re not going anywhere until I take your temperature,” he said. He paused, looked at the device’s screen, and then gave me a nod. “Ninety-eight-point-eight.”

I burst through the door and rushed toward the man who was wheeling my father down the corridor.

Two armed guards stepped in front of me. Both were wearing respirators. “Sorry,” one of them said. “No one is allowed beyond—”

“That’s my father,” I barked, pointing toward the rapidly disappearing gurney. “I’m going where he goes.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” the second one stated. “No one is allowed beyond the lobby.”

I had news for him. Neither of them was big enough to stop me. Armed or not, they weren’t going to intimidate me into leaving my father.

I cleared my throat. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. That’s my father.”

“Sir,” he said, raising the tone of his voice an octave. “If you venture beyond the lobby you will be arrested.” He placed his hand beside his weapon. “This hospital is on lockdown. For your, and for everyone else’s protection.”

I glanced at his hand. I met his cold gaze. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. My protection?”

“Believe me,” he responded. “It’s for your own safety. We’ve got the entire ICU filled with infected.”

I noticed the crown of an anchor peeking from beneath his shirt sleeve. I nodded toward it. “Military?”

He gave a curt nod. “Marines.”

“I was with the two-seven,” I said. “Twenty years.”

“Ooh-rah,” he said. “The three-nine.”

“Semper fi, do or die.” I glanced over each shoulder, and then stepped in front of him. “Tell me something, would you?”

“Sure.”

“Between two Marines.” I leaned close to him. “This is just you and me talking. Is this shit real?”

He seemed puzzled. “What shit’s that?”

“This COVID-19 bullshit,” I said. “It’s bullshit, right?”

His eyes responded long before he opened his mouth. He nodded his head. “This hospital is nearly at capacity, all from COVID-19. They’re losing 3-4 patients a day from respiratory failure. Patients are going from healthy to critical overnight. Young, old, healthy, unhealthy. It doesn’t matter. This disease doesn’t discriminate. It’s as real as it gets.”

I glanced the length of the corridor. My father was gone. With him went my certainty that all would be well.

I lowered myself into the nearest chair and did something I hadn’t done since the war.

I began to pray.

Anna

Day one.