The Lab
May 3, 2025 – Merriweather Medical Research Foundation, Virginia
The doors slid shut behind them with a muted whoosh. Amelia stood in the lobby taking it in—warm wood paneling, abstract art, interior windows revealing long laboratories that belonged in major research hospitals. Electron microscopes. Genetic sequencers. Equipment worth millions.
Amelia shivered.
Not a historical society. Not even close.
“Dr. Merriweather, sir.” The receptionist handed Elijah a tablet. “Dr. Thanakit is ready for you in Lab 3. Dr. Caulfield is expecting your call.”
They walked through corridors lined with more equipment, then took a lift to a basement floor. Amelia’s pulse quickened. She was really doing this.
Elijah swiped his keycard at a door marked “Lab 3 - Authorized Personnel Only.” Inside, a woman in a lab coat looked up from a workstation.
“Dr. Merriweather. And, this must be Dr. Everett.” She extended a hand. “Dr. Suda Thanakit, Clinical Pathology.How are you feeling about this? I’ve been ready since Elijah called the other day.”
Amelia smiled at the woman’s energy “Thank you for accommodating us on short notice,” she said.
“Are you joking? The chance to analyze specimens like these?” Dr. Thanakit gestured at Amelia’s research bag. “I’ve been excited since I saw the preliminary photos. But before I get carried away, I need to understand your current condition. Dr. Merriweather mentioned you have been showing symptoms already, but I’d like to hear directly from you.”
Amelia sat at the workstation Dr. Thanakit indicated. “Yes. It started about ten days ago. Fatigue at first—I thought it was travel stress. Then photophobia, severe enough now that I’m keeping my hotel room in complete darkness. Changes in taste and smell—most food feels wrong now, almost repulsive. Thankfully, coffee is still good.”
Dr. Thanakit made notes on her tablet. “Any fever? Night sweats?”
“No fever. Some sensitivity to the mid-to-lower temperature—I feel cold when I shouldn’t.”
“Sleep disturbances?”
“Difficulty getting to sleep at night. More alert after dark.”
Dr. Thanakit nodded, still typing. “And you’ve been handling the historical materials you found in the hidden room extensively? Letters, documents, biological specimens?”
“Yes. Well, no. For about two weeks I have been handling papers and objects from the estate, preserved but not hidden. More recently the papers from the room. Not so much the jewelry and the other specimens.”
“Alright.” Dr. Thanakit set down the tablet. “Let’s get your baseline readings then. I’ll need to draw blood for a full panel—pathogen screening, metabolic markers, genetic analysis. The genetic sequencing will take about forty-eight hours, but we can knock off some preliminary tests today.”
Amelia rolled up her sleeve. The needle pinch barely registered. She watched her blood fill vial after vial. Dark red, ordinary-looking. Nothing to suggest what might be growing inside.
Elijah had positioned himself at an adjacent workstation, his attention ostensibly on the monitors in front of him. But she felt the weight of his stare on her, when she wasn’t looking.
“Perfect,” Dr. Thanakit said, sealing the last vial. “These will take about twenty minutes to process for the preliminary screening. Meanwhile, let me get Dr. Caulfield on the line.”
She took out her phone and started a call, putting it on speaker.
“Dr. Thanakit. Elijah. Dr. Everett—good to continue our conversation.” The voice came out tinny from the speakers, but Amelia recognized Dr. Caulfield’s cultured tone. “I’ve been eager to discuss the specimens since we last spoke.”
“Dr. Caulfield,” Amelia said. “Thank you for making time for this.”
“Of course. The preliminary data Elijah sent is remarkable. I’ve reviewed the photos he took—the specimens’ integrity is extraordinary, for historical material.” Papers rustled. “If it holds up under analysis, we may be able to determine if this is the same pathogen we’re seeing in Europe. And if it is—if there’s evidence of how this woman’s body responded to infection—that could be invaluable.”
“Eleanor Caldwell survived,” Elijah interjected. “Based on Dr. Everett’s research, Eleanor was infected during the war but lived well past it. We found a documented property sale in her own name dated 1867, years after the reported infection.”
A pause. “A survivor,” Dr. Caulfield said, her interest sharpening. “And you think these biological samples have been taken during the infection period. That would be... extraordinary.”
“I haven’t found any mention of the jewelry piece in the documents I already went through, which cover up to early 1862. It is possible that this was a gift made later. If that was the case, what would that tell us?” Amelia asked.
“Well, if the samples are in fact from an individual suffering from a chronic infection, and well enough preserved, we could establish the presence of metabolic markers determined by the exposure to the agent, or even genetic factors tied to the immune response, anything that explains survival.” Dr. Caulfield’s excitement was palpable. “Considering the high mortality rate we are observing in the European outbreak, understanding who survives, and how, could save thousands of lives. If we can isolate protective factors—”
Dr Caulfield kept speaking, but Amelia was not listening anymore. This wasn’t just about understanding the past. It wasn’t even about saving her own life. Well, not that alone. It was about finding a cure for people that were not even infected yet. Potentially.
Eleanor would have loved that.
“I’m going to start the chemical analysis,” Dr. Thanakit said, carefully removing Eleanor’s hair samples from the mourning brooch. “It’ll take approximately two hours. Dr. Caulfield, I’ll send you data as it comes in. We can reconvene when we have results.”
“Perfect. Dr. Everett—I look forward to discussing your findings. If the agent is the same, or very similar, the outbreak patterns you’ve experienced firsthand may help us understand transmission vectors.” The line went quiet for a moment. “And Dr. Everett? Keep documenting your symptoms carefully. They may be crucial data.”
The call ended.
The lab settled into focused work. Dr. Thanakit moved between equipment with measured efficiency. On a screen, Amelia could see Eleanor’s hair samples how they appeared under the microscope, their cellular structure impossibly intact for something so old.
Her phone buzzed. Her lawyer.
“I need to take this,” she said, stepping into the hallway.
The call was brief. The contracts were solid, protective of her interests. Equal partnership, full credit for any publications, right to terminate at any time. Her lawyer approved with minor notes.
“Sign them,” Amelia said looking back toward the others, a mere formality at this point. “I’m in.”
When she returned, Elijah looked up. “Everything okay?”
“My lawyer. Everything is signed.”
Something flickered in his expression. Relief mixed with something else. “No going back now.”
“No going back.”
The afternoon stretched into careful analysis. Amelia tried to read, to distract herself, but kept watching the equipment. Watching data scroll across screens in patterns she couldn’t quite follow. Watching Elijah, who’d positioned himself where he could monitor both the test results and her, his attention divided but intense.
It was late afternoon when Dr. Thanakit straightened from a monitor. “Oh. Oh, this is remarkable.” She reached for her tablet. “I need to call Dr. Caulfield back.”
Amelia’s pulse kicked up. “What is it?”
“Just—let me get her on the line first, so I can get through this just the once.”
The phone reconnected. “Dr. Caulfield? You need to see this. I sent you the prelim.”
“Just tell me what you found, I can’t look right now.”
“Chemical analysis of the hair samples shows mineral compounds throughout the matrix. Protein traces suggesting significantly altered metabolism. And chemical signatures I’ve never encountered in specimens so old.” Dr. Thanakit pulled up images on a shared screen, sending them digitally. “Her body wasn’t just breaking down under the infection. It was processing something, adapting to something maybe, if I have to be completely honest, it doesn’t look… normal.”
“Send me the full data set when you have it,” Dr. Caulfield said, voice sharp with interest. “These metabolic markers—are they consistent with active infection or post-infection adaptation?”
“Active adaptation during infection,” Dr. Thanakit said. “The markers suggest her body was responding to the pathogen in real-time when this hair grew.”
“Incredible.” Dr. Caulfield paused. “And the pathogen signature itself?”
“I’ll need more analysis to confirm, but the chemical markers are consistent with what we’re seeing in the European cases. Not identical—there are differences—but similar enough to suggest a related strain.”
“So it is the same family of pathogens,” Elijah said quietly. “Just separated by an ocean, and who knows how many years.”
“Dr. Thanakit,” Dr. Caulfield continued, “what about Dr. Everett’s preliminary screening?”
“Just finished processing.” Dr. Thanakit moved to another workstation, pulling up results. “There are signs of an infection–pathogen still unidentified, but they are mild, nothing to justify her symptoms. Dr. Caulfild—” She paused. “There’s something unusual in the metabolic markers. Similar to what we’re seeing in the samples, but... different.”
“Different how?” Amelia asked, unable to keep silent anymore.
“I’m not sure yet. There is a last test that we can perform today, it will give us a quick visual indication of the actual damage sustained by your cells.” Dr. Thanakit explained, turning to speak to her directly “It’s a chemical reaction that detects iron compounds released by damaged blood cells. A bit old fashioned, as far as lab tests go, actually, but still useful in this case.”
Amelia watched Dr. Thanakit measure drops of her blood into a glass dish. Add clear solution from a brown bottle.
“The darker the blue color, the more severe the cellular damage.” Dr. Thanakit continued, “Your labs came out inconclusive, the white are a bit raised, but it’s nothing that couldn’t be caused by a seasonal cold. Nothing like we are seeing with this new ‘Academic Flu’.”
“So I might actually be… fine?”
Elijah had moved closer. Not hovering, but near enough that she could feel his heat against her back.
Add a drop of acid.
The reaction was immediate.
Blue bloomed through the solution. Not pale—she’d read about pale results in James’s notes.
But not dark either. Not the black-blue of the dying soldier. Not the black-blue Eleanor’s blood had actually shown, before James switched the samples.
Somewhere in between.
“Well,” Amelia said, voice steadier than she felt, “not fine, then.”
Elijah stared at the result. His expression shifted—confusion, then calculation, then something sharper. Like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit where it should.
Dr. Thanakit was frowning. “The color is unusual. Given the symptoms and the timeline you described—ten days of progression, the severe photophobia, taste changes—I would expect a very dark result if you were progressing rapidly toward crisis.” She looked at the dish again. “This shade...”
“What does that mean?” Amelia asked.
“I don’t know,” Dr. Thanakit admitted. “I’ve never seen this particular pattern before. Dr. Caulfield?”
“Eli?” Dr. Caulfield’s voice, soft through the speakers. “ What are you seeing?”
Elijah was still staring at that medium blue like it was speaking a language only he understood. “Constitutional factors,” he said slowly. “It has to be constitutional factors affecting iron release despite the active infection.”
“Possibly.” But Dr. Caulfield didn’t sound convinced. “The genetic analysis will tell us more. If there are protective genetic markers, metabolic adaptations we haven’t identified—”
“In two days,” Amelia said. The blue solution sat on the counter, already beginning to settle. “We’ll know in two days.”
“Until then, document your symptoms. Try to rest. And Dr. Everett—” Dr. Caulfield paused. “Try not to worry. We’ll find answers.”
The call disconnected.
Amelia gathered her things slowly. Dr. Thanakit was photographing the blue solution from multiple angles, preparing slides for archival.
“Thank you,” Amelia said. “For everything.”
“We’ll call you as soon as we have results,” Dr. Thanakit replied. She glanced at Elijah, something unspoken passing between them.
The walk back to the truck was quiet. Too quiet. Elijah’s hand came up unconsciously to guide her around a curb, dropped away when he realized what he was doing.
“What are you thinking?” Amelia asked as they reached the parking lot.
He stared at the facility for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was distant. Calculating. “The progression rate doesn’t match the test result. Infected but not advancing rapidly. Like something’s... interfering with the normal course.”
“Interfering how?”
“That’s what I don’t know yet.” He unlocked the truck. But his hand shook slightly on the key.
Amelia climbed into the passenger seat. Through the tinted windows, she could see Elijah hesitating, sending a couple of texts in rapid succession. And she remembered that look between Dr. Thanakit and Elijah.
She remembered the softness in Dr. Caulfield’s voice at the end: “Eli. What are you seeing?”
Like she knew him well enough to read his silences across thousands of miles.
The truck engine started. Elijah backed out carefully, his movements controlled. But she caught his eyes, checking on her.
Protective.When he thought she wasn’t looking.
They drove in silence. That blue shade suffusing Amelia’s mind—not pale, not dark, somewhere in the terrible, uncertain space between.
And Elijah’s questions stayed too. About progression rates. About interference. About something he was figuring out but not sharing yet.
The afternoon light was fading, and she was starting to feel hungry—she always did as evening approached. It was still manageable, but maybe he’d know about a good place to stop at, along the way.
A good, open place.
She watched the trees blur past and wondered what the genetic analysis would reveal.
Two days.
She could survive two days.
She hoped.
-
to be continued…
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.