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spider-web of tubes and wires,
while walled-eye George Hanley, her senior intern, stood by.
Felicity, totally refreshed by just two hours sleep and a quick
shower, paused at the door to listen.
    “We aren’t sure
why the coma is persisting,” George was saying. “A shock condition
probably—but as soon as she revives, she ought to be able to go
home.”
    Felicity might
have been listening to herself except it wasn’t the same patient.
The couple had flown in from Norfolk Island and were the parents of
the other girl from the helicopter crash, Lorna Simmons, who had
just a few cuts and abrasions. And unexplained coma...
    Shirley Benson,
the Head Nurse, was going by and Felicity caught her arm.
    “I thought you
went home,” Shirley said in a not very friendly way.
    “Not yet. Just
a couple of things I want to sort first. Tell me, how many of the
comatose patients are not under sedation.”
    Shirley scowled
and consulted the list in her mind. “A few.”
    “Which ones
exactly.”
    “Oh, um... Miss
Simmons, and Miss Rice. And Mr Solomon who was with them in the
helicopter but he has serious injuries...”
    “..but no head
injuries...”
    “CT was
negative.”
    “Who else?”
    “Mr. Wagner—the
American chap—multiple fractures to the lower limbs...”
    “But not his
skull.”
    “Yes, again CT
negative.”
    “Keep
going.”
    “Miss
Starlight.”
    “Is that really
her name?”
    “Apparently.
Um—Mr. Rogerson—the pilot of the helicopter. But he’s on a
respirator and not expected...”
    “Any
others?”
    “What are you
looking for? We still have thirty-one ICU casualties in the
building.”
    “CT scan
negative—no head contusion or other injury that justifies
coma.”
    “I see. Well, I
think that’s all.”
    By this time,
George had broken away from the couple and come to join the
discussion.
    “I want those
cases isolated to a single ward. Full quarantine,” Felicity was
saying.
    “You sure
that’s justified?” George asked.
    “No. But all of
these people are comatose and there isn’t any identifiable reason
why they should be. Maybe its some gas or some bacteria thrown up
by the volcano. I don’t know, but I think we’d better isolate them
until we do.”

*

    They reached
the chateau on the third morning after the eruption. There were
still hot spots everywhere and bubbling mud pools in the midst of
the grey moonscape. An eerie, acrid steam drifted across the whole
mountainside.
    The rescue team
looked at the chateau and saw what they already expected from
aerial photographs—that the building was completely flattened with
most of the debris scattered over a wide area and the whole lot
buried under several centimetres of mud that was the result of the
ash combining with the melted snow.
    There was no
hope of survivors by then—it became the morbid task of digging out
the forty or so bodies that they knew to be in amongst the dripping
wreckage. Twin-rotor helicopters lowered in excavation equipment
and the gruesome job began. The machines gnawed at the
ever-hardening wall of ash and the men came in behind, removing the
remaining fragments by hand. Within a few days, those bodies not
removed would be entombed in stone forever.
    The bodies they
found were charred, fragile remnants: it soon became apparent that
nothing recognisable was going to be recovered. They directed the
mechanical claw in ahead of them to hurry the job, but after about
an hour, a new tragedy almost occurred when the machine and its
driver broke through the surface and crashed into a hole. The
driver broke a leg and was evacuated and the machine had been towed
out only with great difficulty. As the men stood around the dark
chasm they had inadvertently opened, an unexpected odour reached
their nostrils.
    “Shit,” the
leader said. “We’ve broken through to the wine cellar.”
    Two men in
fireproof suits and breathing apparatus entered the hole, flashing
brilliant torches. They saw the cellar roof remained intact