Chapter Text
Confusion.
That was his over-riding emotion.
It had been since he had opened his eyes and seen hazmat suits all around him. Strangers telling him to keep calm.
He had felt pretty calm. His limbs heavy, his eyelids drooping. For a brief moment he wondered whether he had relapsed. But there was something inside of him that knew that wasn’t true. Knew it wasn’t possible.
He must have passed out again as the next thing he knew he was being transported, a helicopter if his ears were not deceiving him, before darkness descended again.
His next moment of lucidity came in a hospital room. There were still hazmat suits. There was a drip above him, for fluids. Someone with a southern accent had explained he was being weaned off sedation. He’d tried to tell them he was in recovery.
“Rec…” he had started before realising that his vocal cords were not co-operating.
The slit in the hazmat suit above him showed him a furrowed brow and he tried again, “Re…reco…recov….” It was no use, he couldn’t get his words out, but he sighed in internal relief as the masked figure nodded.
“Recovery, you’re in recovery, that’s what you’re trying to say?” the figure asked.
He nodded.
“We know. We’re weaning you off without Flumazenil. It’s why you might feel a bit confused, we’re doing it gradually with sedation vacations. It’ll take some time.”
“Haz..?” he tried to ask.
Again the masked figure nodded in understanding, “You were exposed to an airborne virus, we need to ensure you are clear and that will take 10-20 days.”
“Ho…how…”
“How long? You’ve been here two days.”
He had been surprised, he had no memory of anything since the helicopter. The guy was right about the confusion.
The next time he had come around, he was alone and the room was fairly dark. He tried to recall his last clear memory before waking up to hazmat suits and came up blank. Had he been on shift?
Yes.
He’d definitely been on shift.
His team around him, the hoarders’ house. Had there been something in there? There had been plenty of traps, could one of the traps been some kind of virus? Sounded far fetched. But he also had memory of transporting the victims to hospital and then….nothing. Maybe it had been something from the garbage truck, he hadn’t been able to get that smell out of his nose all shift long.
Was the rest of the team okay? Fear gripped at his heart. No one had mentioned anything about them since he’d been here.
Eventually he heard the noise of an airlocked door and the corresponding whoosh. The door opened and another, smaller masked figure entered his room. The figure moved towards his bedside taking observations from the various machines monitoring his vitals.
“Wat…water…” he rasped and the figure turned in surprise.
“Oh! Sorry I thought you were still out for the count,” a woman’s voice said in response.
She held up a cup and straw for him to take a few sips, “Easy now,” she said, “Try not to overdo it.”
He gave a tight smile in thanks as she put the water back on the side table.
“How…long…?”
“Have you been here?”
He nodded.
“You were found six days ago,” the woman said kindly, “Gave us all quite a shock, but I cannot tell you how great it is to see you again.”
He looked at her in confusion. The hazmat suit made it impossible to know who the person was.
“Of course,” the woman laughed self-consciously, “Not exactly helpful to identify people these suits. It’s Roz. Dr Roz Hanbury. From the lab.”
His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He didn’t remember the name.
Her eyes widen in surprise, “You don’t remember me?”
He shook his head.
“I was part of the team working on the virus when your team arrived. You saved us.”
Their attention was distracted by the whoosh of the airlocked door again and another figure arrived.
“Everything okay?” the figure asked, and it was the voice from before when he had last woken up.
“He doesn’t remember me,” the woman said, an edge of worry to her voice.
“Hmm, not uncommon for the confusion to still be lingering but I would have hoped for some improvement by now. What’s your last memory, before the virus?”
“Shift,” he said, “With…my….team.”
“That’s good,” the doctor said, “Who is in your team?”
“Chim…Hen…Buck…” he rasped out.
Roz’s eyes seemed to widen in relief.
“So you remember your team, the 118?” she asked, hopefully.
He nodded.
“Oh that’s good, because they’re all here you know. Everyone tried to get them to go home but they’ve taken to being here round the clock in shifts. Apart from your wife that is. She hasn’t left.
Bobby’s stomach had eased when Roz had indicated his team were all okay and then sank again at her final sentences as bile raised in his throat.
“No…wife….” He ground out.
“You don’t want to see her?” the doctor asked.
“No….no wife…she…not here…”
“Oh she’s definitely here,” Roz muttered darkly, “She is making herself known quite well to everyone.”
His eyes filled with tears. What was going on? It wasn’t possible. His wife was dead. He’d killed her. She was lying in a grave, thousands of miles away.
The doctor was staring at him, as if figuring out some equation.
“What year is it?” the doctor asked.
For most people it would be a strange question, trouble was he knew why he was being asked and a knot of uncertainty formed in his already queasy stomach.
“2018,” he ground out and watched as Roz’s wide eyes turned to the doctor.
“Oh my god,” she whispered.
The doctor seeing Bobby’s distress laid a gloved hand over his, an attempt at a modicum of comfort despite the hazmat suit.
“Okay, it’s all going to be okay. It seems as if you are having a few memory issues. That’s normal and unlikely to remain. Try and keep calm.”
“What….year…is…it?” he asked, desperately.
“It doesn’t matter, we don’t have to get into this now…”
“What…year…is…it?” he interrupted, a steel to his voice that surprised even himself.
The doctor sighed.
“It’s 2026, Bobby.”
That was impossible. Because if it was true that meant he had lived for another 8 years that he had absolutely no memory of.
And he apparently had a wife.
That he also had absolutely no memory of.