Beautifully Dead - Chapter 17 (PART II)
An Immortal Affections serialized novel
The Call (PART II)
Sunday May the 4th, Fredericksburg Virginia
3:30 PM
Amelia's laptop screen displayed an impressive array of browser tabs, each containing another piece of Dr. Elise Caulfield's substantial academic footprint. She'd spent the full day since Eli's apology researching, giving his proposal the serious consideration it deserved. The additional time had also allowed her to process the implications of Eleanor's laboratory and the connections to contemporary disease patterns that were too significant to ignore.
The woman's credentials were, if anything, more impressive than Eli had suggested. Harvard Medical School, Johns Hopkins for her residency in infectious diseases, fellowships at the CDC and WHO, currently affiliated with the International Centre for Genetic Engineering and Biotechnology in Geneva. Her publication list read like a roadmap of emerging infectious disease research over the past two decades—SARS, MERS, Ebola, and most recently, a series of papers on "Novel Pathogen Emergence in Academic Populations."
The most recent publication, a preprint uploaded just six weeks ago to medRxiv, bore the title "Atypical Disease Progression in European Academic Medical Centers: A Multi-Institutional Analysis - Preliminary Observations." The abstract described symptom patterns that made Amelia's blood run cold: photophobia, altered dietary preferences, periods of confusion followed by enhanced cognitive function, and a mortality rate that defied conventional understanding. A note at the top indicated the paper was "under review" at The Lancet Infectious Diseases.
Dr. Caulfield wasn't just tracking the outbreak—she was one of the world's leading experts on the phenomenon, as much an expert as someone could become in three months, at least.
Amelia pushed back from the desk, rubbing her eyes against the laptop's bright screen. The light sensitivity had been getting worse all day, forcing her to dim the display to nearly its lowest setting. She'd attributed it to eye strain, but now, reading Dr. Caulfield's clinical descriptions, she felt a chill of recognition.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Elijah: Dr. Caulfield available for video call at 4:00 PM. Does that work for you as well?
Amelia glanced at the clock: 3:45 PM. The timing worked—late enough in Geneva that Dr. Caulfield would be finishing her day, early enough in Virginia that Amelia could still think clearly despite the fatigue that seemed to worsen each day.
She typed back: Yes. Send me the link.
The response came immediately, followed by a Zoom invitation marked "Confidential, Medical Consultation - E. Caulfield, MD, PhD."
At exactly 4:00 PM, Amelia clicked the link. Her laptop struggled to establish the connection, the screen flickering between "Connecting" and "Poor network quality" before finally resolving into a video chat window. But instead of a clear image, she saw only a bluish screen with a message: "Dr. Caulfield - Video disabled due to connection issues."
"Dr. Everett?" The voice that came through her speakers was cultured, carrying the slight accent of someone who'd spent years in international academic circles—not quite British, not quite American, but something refined that suggested extensive travel and multilingual fluency. "I apologize for the technical difficulties. Our internet infrastructure has been struggling under increased demand as more and more people move to remote operations."
"That's quite all right, Dr. Caulfield. Thank you for making time for this conversation." Amelia settled back in her chair, noting how the authority in the woman's voice immediately put her at ease. This was clearly someone accustomed to being consulted by colleagues, to having her expertise sought and respected, but not so fixed in their way as to be struggling with the new technology.
And the kind of woman that went straight to the point. "Eli– Dr Merriweather, has told me something of your remarkable discovery," Dr. Caulfield said. "Historical documents and biological specimens from the American Civil War period, preserved under what appear to be ideal conditions. In my current research, such materials could prove invaluable."
"He mentioned that you're tracking an outbreak affecting academic institutions. Could you tell me more about what you're seeing in Europe at the moment?"
There was a slight pause, filled with the ambient sounds of what might have been a busy office or hospital in the background. When Dr. Caulfield spoke again, her tone had shifted to the precise, clinical cadence of a physician discussing a complex case.
"The pattern began appearing in January at Oxford and Cambridge—faculty members and graduate students developing what initially presented as seasonal influenza. Standard symptomology: fever, fatigue, respiratory congestion. But within 48 to 72 hours, the progression diverged dramatically from expected parameters."
"How so?"
"Some cases develop severe photophobia, requiring complete darkness. Others acute auditory sensitivity that makes normal conversation painful. An alteration in taste also appears after a couple of weeks—patients refusing standard nutrition and showing cravings for iron-rich foods. In later stages, periods of apparent delirium followed by episodes of altered cognition that exceed their baseline capabilities as known."
Amelia felt her mouth go dry. "Exceed how?"
"Problem-solving abilities, pattern recognition, memory recall—as though the illness were somehow stimulating certain neural pathways while disrupting others. To give you an example, our lab documented cases of graduate students solving complex mathematical proofs during apparent fever crises."
A chill went down Amelia's spine. She thought of her own recent experiences—the intuitive leaps in understanding Eleanor's research, the way she'd seemed to know where to look for hidden spaces in the house, the strange dreams that felt more like memories than imagination.
"What's the mortality rate?" she asked softly, though she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer.
"As of yesterday, approximately eighty-five percent among untreated cases. Those who survive often experience significant alterations in their sensorium—changes in perception, cognitive processing, physical capabilities. It's... difficult to categorize medically."
"That's..." Amelia struggled to find words. "That's remarkably similar to what I've been reading in Eleanor's documents. And we recovered some medical records I have yet to properly examine, but that at a cursory read seem to describe soldiers with severe fever, photophobia, and periods of delirium."
"You've found contemporary accounts?" Dr. Caulfield's voice carried both excitement and confirmation. "Eli mentioned you'd discovered historical documents, but I wanted to hear the details directly from you. First-hand documentation from that period, especially in the medical field, is extremely rare."
"There are letters of a personal nature between a Union chaplain and a young Southern woman, personal journals and medical accounts from at least one Confederate physician, official medical bulletins, field reports from medical officers to their commands, and some correspondence between military surgeons. It’s a mixed bag right now, and I haven’t had the time to go through it all yet. But the symptoms you're describing match the historical accounts almost exactly." Amelia's hands curled around the edge of the desk, her knuckles white. "Including the timeline"
"This is exactly what we hoped to find," Dr. Caulfield said, her excitement evident. "Our working theory is that an old pathogen was recently disturbed through archaeological excavations—specifically, bog body recovery work in Scotland and Ireland. Medieval remains that had been preserved in anaerobic conditions for centuries."
"And you think the same pathogen affected Civil War populations?"
"We believe so. The symptom profiles are too similar to be coincidental. Our hypothesis is that the pathogen has natural reservoirs in certain environmental conditions, and periodically emerges when those conditions are disturbed.
The bog excavations in Europe created one exposure event. But if the pathogen was also present in American soil during the 1860s—perhaps in battlefield areas or locations where the dead were hastily buried—then modern archaeological or historical research could trigger similar exposures."
Amelia's hand moved unconsciously to her research bag, where Eleanor's mourning brooch rested in its protective case. "What specifically would you be looking for in the samples?"
"Genetic markers, pathogen identification, evidence of immune system adaptation. We need to confirm whether the historical and contemporary outbreaks represent the same organism. If they do, understanding how some individuals survived the historical cases could help us develop treatment protocols for current patients." Dr. Caulfield paused. "The goal is to identify the biological factors that determine survival versus mortality, and potentially develop controlled exposure protocols that could improve outcomes."
"And you believe Civil War era specimens could provide those answers?"
"We believe they represent our best hope for understanding this phenomenon before the current outbreak spreads beyond the initial exposure sites." The gravity in Dr. Caulfield's voice was unmistakable. "Dr. Everett, the European outbreak began with archaeological teams working on bog body recovery. The pattern suggests the pathogen has specific environmental reservoirs and activation conditions. If American historical sites contain similar reservoirs, then researchers working with Civil War materials could face similar risks."
The implication hit Amelia like a physical blow. "You think exposure to historical materials is what's causing the current outbreak?"
"Partially, yes. As far as we have been able to theorize, the current outbreak began with an international conference on bog body preservation—researchers from universities worldwide attended presentations where newly excavated specimens were displayed. The Americans who became ill attended that conference and brought the infection back to their home institutions." Dr. Caulfield's voice grew more clinical. "However, we've also documented secondary cases among people who had no European contact but worked extensively with American Civil War materials. That suggests there may be multiple potential exposure sources."
Amelia thought of the past week—her hands-on examination of Thomas and Eleanor's letters, her time in the dust-filled study, her careful handling of Eleanor's preserved specimens.
"Dr. Caulfield," she said slowly, "what would you recommend for someone who's had extensive recent exposure to such materials?"
The silence stretched long enough that Amelia wondered if the connection had been lost. When Dr. Caulfield spoke again, her voice carried a weight of professional concern mixed with scientific interest.
"Immediate medical monitoring. Documentation of any symptom development. And if possible, controlled analysis of the exposure materials to better understand transmission mechanisms." She paused. "Dr. Everett, are you experiencing symptoms?"
"I... possibly. Fatigue, light sensitivity, some nausea. But I attributed them to travel stress and overwork."
"The progression, when it occurs, typically accelerates after the first week of symptoms. If you're willing, I'd very much like to document your case alongside the analysis of your historical specimens. From a research perspective, having a subject with known exposure parameters could provide invaluable data."
The clinical detachment in Dr. Caulfield's voice made Amelia's skin crawl. She was being discussed as a "subject" and "case study" rather than a person who might be facing a potentially fatal illness.
"What exactly are you suggesting?"
"Collaboration with Eli's laboratory facilities for immediate analysis of both the historical specimens and your current condition. Regular monitoring, blood work, neurological assessments, the works.
If the historical materials do contain the same pathogen that's currently spreading, understanding your exposure could help us develop treatment protocols for others."
The video connection crackled, and Dr. Caulfield's voice became intermittent. "—connection is deteriorating—call you tomorrow to—coordinate next steps—crucial that we—"
The line went dead, leaving Amelia staring at a blank screen that reflected her pale, tired face back at her.
She sat in the sudden quiet of the hotel room, processing what she'd just heard.
Dr. Caulfield was clearly a legitimate expert, her research directly relevant to Amelia's situation. The outbreak she'd described was real, spreading, and potentially connected to the very materials Amelia had been handling for the past week.
But something about the conversation had left her uneasy. The clinical interest in documenting her case. The assumption that she would willingly subject herself to medical monitoring.
Amelia opened her laptop and began searching for more information about Dr. Caulfield's past research, looking for additional details about the European outbreak and any historical precedents for the kind of controlled exposure protocols she'd mentioned.
The search results led her down increasingly disturbing paths—papers on biological enhancement, historical medical experimentation, the ethics of deliberate pathogen exposure.
But it was an archived newspaper article from 1868 that made her blood run cold. The headline read: "Confederate Physician Accused of Human Experimentation During War Years." The article detailed allegations against one Dr. James W. Merriweather, formerly of Richmond, who was accused by several former patients of conducting "unnatural medical experiments" on Confederate soldiers and civilians during the war.
The article noted that Dr. Merriweather had vanished from Richmond in early 1869, shortly after the first allegations surfaced. Despite intensive investigation by both military and civilian authorities, no trace of him was found.
His medical records and research materials had also disappeared, leading investigators to conclude that he had orchestrated a deliberate escape with his documentation intact.
The charges were eventually dropped in 1870 due to lack of evidence and the general chaos of Reconstruction-era legal proceedings. The article's final paragraph noted that several witnesses had also disappeared during the investigation, leading some to speculate that Dr. Merriweather had maintained a network of associates who helped facilitate his escape and silence potential testimony.
Amelia stared at the screen, her hands trembling slightly as she absorbed the implications. The dates aligned perfectly with Eleanor's journals and Thomas's letters. The accusations of unnatural experiments echoed Dr. Caulfield's discussion of "controlled exposure protocols".
Her phone rang, the sudden sound making her jump. The caller ID displayed boldly: "Eli Merriweather."
She stared at the screen, her finger hovering over the answer button, as the implications of everything she'd just read crystallized into a single, terrifying question: What exactly had she agreed to help him find?
Her phone stopped ringing, only to immediately buzz with an incoming text: How did the call go? The Doc seemed optimistic about collaboration.
Amelia stared at the message, wondering how Eli had spoken with Dr. Caulfield about the call when it had ended less than five minutes ago. Either they had remarkably efficient communication, or they had been coordinating this conversation more carefully than she'd realized.
She typed back: Informative.
Amelia looked around the hotel room, at her packed specimens and half-filled suitcase, at the research materials spread across the desk. Every instinct told her she was walking into something more complex and potentially dangerous than a simple historical research collaboration.
But people were dying. If Dr. Caulfield's research was accurate, the outbreak was spreading beyond Europe into academic communities worldwide. And if Amelia was already infected—if her symptoms represented the early stages of whatever had killed so many others—then her best hope for survival might lie in understanding the historical precedents locked within Eleanor's preserved specimens.
She opened her laptop again and began drafting a formal agreement for collaboration with Eli's laboratory, specifying exactly what analyses would be performed and what rights she retained over the materials and findings.
Feeling almost silly about doing it, she added a clause at the end ‘in case of premature death’.
If she was going to risk this partnership, she would do it on terms that protected both her intellectual property and her personal safety.
As she typed, the mourning brooch caught the light from her laptop screen, Eleanor's hair visible through the glass, a strand of the past reaching into an uncertain present.
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.