THEWAC-25
by RQ
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The fluffy somberly looked out the back seat window from his car seat, and as the big white brick building appeared from behind the pine trees he began to whimper softly. “Huu huu… Huntew stiww nu wike doctow pwace. Nu wike sickie feews.”
The muscular, ruddy grey-haired man driving the pickup truck just nodded. “I know, buddy, I know. My grandmother didn’t like it either. But it’s the only way to make your cancer get better, or you’ll get ‘forever sleepies.’”
“Huu… Huntew knu dat. Huntew undastan’ dat bad sickie medson fow make cancew sickies gu 'way. Huu… Nu wan foweba sweepies daddeh. Huntew wiww be bwave fwuffy fow daddeh.”
“Good, that’s what I want to hear.” Mr.Graves, parked his shiny white four-door Ford F-250 in the lot, got out, and took Hunter out of his car seat. He walked into the Pineywood Veterinary Hospital with him n his arms. The fluffy matched his camouflage jacket. Hunter’s coloring was ideal for a masculine owner: dull brown fluff with a dull green mane, similar to the colors used for hunting gear.
The check-in process was routine and quick; they’d done this several times before. They sat down in the colorful waiting room and Hunter played “blockies” with three other fluffies who were there for either treatment, surgery, examinations, or some other advanced malady. Pineywood was one of only six places in the country equipped to treat fluffies for problems beyond what a standard veterinarian facility could do, in particular, aggressive and/or long-term illnesses, and one of only two in the country that had radiological therapy equipment. The later was the purpose of Hunter’s visit. He had pancreatic cancer, but in fluffies it fortunately could be treated with doses of radiation. Unfortunately, radiotherapy for fluffies was extraordinarily expensive and with so few facilities offering it there was a long waiting list.
Luckily Hunter was a family pet owned by Lucas Graves, an oil well engineer and Southern gent who made seven figures throughout much of his career and invested wisely. His wife wanted a fluffy, so he went out and bought one that he liked. The Graves’ and their kids all loved him. Graves had more than enough spare income to spend money on treatments for his fluffy. It wasn’t a matter of desperation, but a matter of want; he also owned an outdoor backyard grill pit pavilion with a roof, electricity, a working sink, retractable awnings, and a dishwasher, but it was something he wanted and could afford. So naturally, he sought the best treatment in the country for his pet. He even bought some property in Arizona, where the Pineywood Veterinary Hospital was located, to ensure a short and easy commute back to his home. It was also, of course, an investment and a beautiful vacation home with some acres of private land on which to go hunting. His kids were either grown or in college, so he and his wife were free to move about the country during vacations.
It wasn’t long before it was Hunter’s turn. A nurse opened the door and greeted them. “Hi there, Hunter!”
Hunter answered in monotone, “Hewwo Miss Wosie. Huntew am weady fow fewapy.” He raised his arms in the “upsies” pose, and Nurse Rose picked him up.
“Oh, you’re such a brave little fluffy!” she smiled. “It’ll be over before you know it, sweetie.”
“Huu huu, otay.”
The nurse took him to and exam room where she checked and logged his vitals, like weight and blood pressure, and next carried him to the therapy room on another floor. When Rose walked into the room with Hunter, the radiologic technician, Chris Handey, had just finished cleaning the treatment table down with disinfectant wipes, as he did prior to every patient’s therapy. Chris had done most of the work in getting this radiologic therapy machine operational, and was its primary technician.
The therapy room looked like a medium-sized hospital exam room. A flat metal slab table was at the center, and the radiology machine stood in front of it. It was a large white unit about the size of a food service grade refrigerator with a large think protrusion that bent forward from the top and pointed straight down, like a spotlight lamp. This is where the electron beam was emitted. It had a minimalist, brutalist, cold “retro” aesthetic, like something from a 70s science fiction movie.
Hunter knew nothing about design, but he still didn’t like the machine. It was big and mean-looking and it always made him feel sick and weak. “Huu Huu… Huntew nu wike dus,” he said. “Buh-buh… Huntew wiww be gud fwuffy.”
It was, in fact, from the actual 1970s. The machine had originally been made in the 1970s or 1980s-- no one was exactly sure. The hospital had bought it a few years ago at a state auction, and most of its documentation was missing. Cancer treatment for fluffies was potentially lucrative, but hardly anyone had the sufficient capital to buy radiotherapy equipment for fluffy use. This fluffy vet hospital had gotten lucky and found this particular machine at a deep, deep discount. It was unbelievably old, but it still functioned and the one manual they did have explained what key commands were needed to run the machine. It was enough for their purposes. To prevent radiation leakage, there were no windows in the room but there was an intercom for communication with the technician room.
Chris smiled at the fluffy. “Hi Hunter! How are you today.”
“Hewwo Mistaw Chwish. Huu, Huntew feew gud buh haf scawedies.”
He patted him on the head. “Awww, that’s normal. It’s going to be OK. It’ll be just like all the other times. You made it through those, so you can do this too, right?”
Hunter nodded sadly. “Yus, Huntew wiww be gud fwuffy.”
“Good boy!” Nurse Rose affirmed. “Now let’s get you on the table. The sooner we get started the sooner you can leave.”
“Otay.”
The nurse and Chris strapped Hunter to the table with his front hooves above his head and his back hooves straight below him, like an “H” shape. Canvas straps had been added to the treatment table, which had been designed for humans, to keep fluffies in place. It was very important that the patient did not move much so that the electron beam would not apply radiation outside the target area and irradiate any healthy tissues. Delicate fluffies could also break their limbs if they fell from the table onto the hard tile hospital floor.
“Thanks nurse,” Chris nodded. “I can take it from here.”
“OK, Chris.” She smiled at Hunter. “I’ll be back for your soon, sweetie.”
“Huu, fankyu miss Wosie.”
The nurse left the room and Chris adjusted the electron beam position to target the area over Hunter’s pancreas. When he was ready, he patted the fluffy on the shoulder. “We’re ready to go now, Hunter. We’ll be done in a few minutes like usual buddy.”
“Huu… yuss Mistaw Cwish.”
The technician walked out of the treatment room and locked the door to prevent accidental entry while radiation was being emitted. He then went to a directly adjoining room, a booth about the size of a narrow closet. This was the technician room, where the radiotherapy machine was operated. It was dark and only contained a table covered in computer equipment and a desk chair.
He sat down in front of the computer console to the radiotherapy machine. He had specially wired it himself to display on a flat panel monitor using a string of display converters daisy chained together, and had done the same to plug in a standard PC keyboard. It had been an amazing but necessary feat; the console had originally been a type of PDP-11, and ancient mainframe minicomputer that had been around since the 1960s. Finding replacement parts for its input devices would’ve been too costly and probably impossible, so Chris used a PC that could emulate the PDP-11. The console Chris had improvised was a neat mess of cords and various converter boxes laid out in rows on a table with Velcro and zip ties, all ending at the monitor and keyboard.
It was a text-only interface, but it wasn’t all a command prompt, and displayed text menus where the operator could enter data for the treatment plan. He began to key in Hunter’s prescription: 20 Radiation Absorbed Dose. For a human 20 RAD was miniscule, but fluffies were small and it would both be as effective and as painful and nauseating. This was Hunter’s fourth treatment, and he was a good patient. Most of the fluffies at the hospital in general were good fluffies. After all, no one would bother to spend so much money on advanced medical treatment for a fluffy unless it was a a fluffy worth keeping.
After he was finished typing, he looked back over his entries and noticed that he’d accidentally put in the wrong type of electron beam, X-ray. Chris moved the cursor down to the “TREATMENT MODE” field and type over the incorrect setting, changing it to “E” for “electron” mode, the milder beam used for therapy. “There,” he said as he moved the cursor to the “Execute” feild and wrote in “P” to proceed.
In the other room, the fluffy just waited nervously. He knew the beam was going to start pretty soon. “Huu… Be gud fwuffy,” he told himself.
The screen scrolled up and showed and error message: “H-TILT / NO DOSE.” Chris sighed. “Oh, come on.” This error message was common enough that it was nothing more than annoyance. He set up the dose again and quickly type in all the correct parameters once more. After pressing “P” the screen paused for a moment, and then displayed a new error message: “Malfunction 54.” This was Chis’ least-favorite error. “Uuugh,” he groaned. There was absolutely nothing in the manual about it and in all the other times he’d checked, it seemed like the message had no meaning. He set up the treatment for a third time, and it finally worked and the screen indicated that the treatment was starting.
Out of the technician’s view, the beam turntable array finished moving into X-Ray mode and remained still. The turntable did not move the flattening filter into place over the beam cannon. The naked, unfiltered eye of the canon gazed up on the fluffy strapped to the table with its photon beam.
Hunter felt a hot, searing, pain on his hip. It felt similar to his usual dose at first and he tried to supress his urge to scream. “Huu huu… Huntew be bwave fwuffy… be gud fwuffy…”
But the heat and pain quickly intensified as the beam powered up. “SCREEEEEE!” he cried. “Huwties! WEAL BAD!!! HUU HUU!!!” The doctors and his mommy and daddy had told him when all this started that his treatments would hurt a lot but that they wanted to keep him from having forever sleepies. He figured that this was a part of all that. Yet it hurt so much. “HUU HUU!!! SCREEEE!!!”
Soon the beam reached its full power and the pain and burning soared into the stratosphere, bringing along with it a tsunami wave of nausea. “Hurk!” Hunter squirmed in his restrainsts, trying to relieve the pain by repositioning himself, but there was no escaping the deadly gaze of the beam."Uuuu-huu-huu! Haf wowstes’ sickes! Pwease! Stap! MISTAW CWISH!!! PWEASE!!!
SCCRRREEEEEE!!! EEEEEEEE!!!" The pain and sickness was intense enough that Hunter, depsite his weak intellect, could understand that this was not a normal part of the treatment. Something was going terribly wrong. “SCREEEE!!! HEWP!!! BUWNIES!!! STAP!!! STAP!!! WET FWUFF OFF UF MEANIE TABEW!!! SCREEEEEEE!!! TUU HAWT TUU HAWT!!! NU MOW NU MOW!!!” His pitifully weak weggies kicked and stuggled against the canvas cuffs, but his body only shook and remained stationary.
Chris could hear Hunter screaming over the intercom, and he’d heard it all before from fluffy after fluffy, although this was Hunter’s first freak-out. Chris pressed the “talk” button on the intercom. “Hunter, I know it hurts but we have to finish the treatment, OK buddy?”
“NUUUU!” Hunter screamed. “Dis tuu huwties!!! Dis nat wike oddew times!!! Haf buwnies an’ sickies!!! SCREEEEE!!!”
Chris sighed. “I know, I know, It’ll all be over in a little while.” He could tell Hunter was upset; he was apparently having a mental break from the stress of his illness, but there was nothing Chris could do about that.
“Nu, NU! Dis nat wike oddew times!! Dis nat wite! DIS NAT WITE MISTAW CWISH!!!” He scaredy-pooped from his anus like a super-soaker, but the stream hit the machine and most of it splashed back onto him. They hadn’t used a dummy suppository to plug him because he hadn’t had any history of bathroom accidents. Hunter was in so much pain that he did not acknowledge the “nu pwetty smeww” or bad poopies. There was nothing but pain.
The splorch and splash was quite audible through the intercom. Chris just shook his head. Fortunately, the machine’s chassis protected it from projectile patient excreta. “You’re just upset, Hunter. You’re weak and it just seems stronger to you now.”
“choke NUUUUU!!! DEWE SUMFINK WONG!!! SUMFINK WONG NAO!!! HEWP!!! RREEEEEEEE!!! NUUUUUU!!! STAP!!! hork blllearrgh!” Hunter hadn’t been fed before the therapy procedure, but the fasting diet didn’t mean he had nothing to throw up. He turned his head and bits of food and bile splashed onto the table. His esophagus and stomach were undulating with distress in a way he’d never felt before. “cough Huuuu cough huuu!!!” His insides squeezed and strained painfully as if he were a toothpaste tube. There was nothing left.
Chris rolled his eyes with exasperation. It wasn’t unusual for patients to vomit during therapy, but it was another thing he’d have to clean up. The custodial staff only did routine cleaning, but as a technician his equipment was his responsibility. He listened for Hunter’s coughing to stop to ensure that the fluffy wasn’t choking, and soon he just heard loud huu-huus. " It’s OK if you had ‘sickie wawas,’ Hunter. That happens a lot. Sorry buddy, I know it hurts," Chris repeated just before releasing the talk button. He then muted the intercom and sat back down by the computer.
Unaware that he was screaming into a void, Hunter continued his desperate pleas for release. “STAP!!! NUUU!!” He started to smell something burning. Straining to lift his head and look past his snout he saw the fluff on his left side turning dark brown-- different from the color and texture of his normal brown fluff. The center was almost black. “SCRRREEEEEE!!!” A wave of cold terror and adrenaline washed over his nerves, making him now so afraid that he became still and silent for a moment. It was a like a fire with no flame, his fluff hairs turning black and becoming light enough to blow away in the gentle breeze of the air conditioning. Soon the skin in the treatment target area was revealed, but it didn’t look pink and peachy like the skin on other fluffies in the clinic whose fluff had fallen out. It was dark pink.
“Huu! Huu-HUUUU!!! HEWP!!” Soon the nausea had grown a headache, one that throbbed and Hunter was on the edge of unconsciousness. His head fell back on the table, and his vison blurred and faded in and out.
He stopped screaming as much and started to be babble. “Chirp Huuugghh… peep Uhhhnnggnnn… Cheep Rrrr-rrrRRREEEEEE!” His backside felt a burning sensation just like the area on top, like he was being run through with a fiery lance.
His stomach rolled so much that he went beyond sick and to a new state of illness he’d never sensed before. He felt as though his body was falling down an endless shaft, a sick sensation of weightlessness with tingling needles radiating from the center of his body. He felt as though he was floating just above the table, though he knew that his back was still on it. In his mind he felt pure fear: not fear of death or fear of injury, but only unadulterated fear.
A few minutes later, a timer in the technician booth rang. Hunter’s exposure dose had been reached. When the technician opened the door to the therapy room he smelled something burning saw right away that the fluffy was extremely ill. He looked ragged and clammy, while only 10-15 minutes before he had been only somewhat sickly but well-groomed and neat. Hunter’s eyes just stared up at the ceiling, unfocused and only reflexively blinking. "chirp cheep Hewties… chiirrrrrr… "
The fluffy had 6-inch wide circle of fluff missing, right over the target area, and the skin was very red, especially in the center. Considering the size and shape and the color of the burn, Chris knew right away that there had been a problem with the radiation therapy machine. He looked up at the eye of the machine’s beam cannon and saw that it was in the “X-ray” position and its filter was not in place over it where it should have been. “Shit!” He dashed out of the room immediately, fearing radiation exposure. He took a Giger counter out of a drawer in the technician room and turned it on before entering the room again. Fortunately, the counter showed only minute amounts of radiation, very normal and typical for any environment. This meant that the machine was no longer emitting radiation. However, the fluffy itself was irradiated and the damage to the fluffy’s tissues had already been done. His body, and especially the burn, was showing far above normal, but not humanly deadly, radiation.
Putting on some thick rubber radiation-reducing gloves from a shelf in the room, Chris unfastened the table straps.
“Mistaw Chwish… Uuu-huuu… haf buwnies… sickies… cheep wowstes’…huu…” Hunter continued to moan.
Chris gently turned the fluffy over, and felt around in the fluff on Hunter’s flank, directly behind the treatment target area. With little effort, the fluff fell away and revealed a pink rash mirroring the burn on the front side. “Oh shit. Fuck,” the technician loudly croaked to himself in astonishment. Indeed, this had to be a radiation burn, and it had burned right through the fluffy. “Fuck.” A bullet train carrying all kinds of thoughts and repercussions blurred through his brain. The machine was supposed to have built-in safety mechanisms to prevent that. Had something gone wrong with his emulation setup? Did an old part finally break? Was it an electrical surge? Could it happen again right now while he was here? For how much will the owner sue? Will he get fired?
Hunter made no attempt to stand up, remaining flat. It hurt to move. It hurt to stay still. It hurt to breathe. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. “Huuuuu… peep UUUuuu… huuu…”
Realizing that it could still be a danger, Chris hit an emergency power switch installed on the wall which cut power to the radiotherapy machine.
A moment later Nurse Rose opened the door and immediately froze in the door frame upon seeing Hunter. Chris noticed her and suddenly realized that he was supposed to be in charge of the radiotherapy lab, which meant acting like it. “Rose, there’s been an accident. Call ICU to wheel a bed right away, it’s an emergency!”
Nurse Rose was shocked, but knew to get going and not wait for questions. She pulled out her work phone and called the intensive care unit as she ran there, meeting with other nurses pushing a gurney bed towards her when she arrived.
While she was gone, Chris took out his work cell as well and called the hospital director. “Director Rawlings? I’m sorry but you’ve got to drop whatever you’re doing and come to ICU, there’s been a serious radiotherapy accident.”
“My God! Did someone get hurt?!” For being a middle-aged woman, Director Rawlings had a very deep, creaky voice.
“Well, yes and no, it’s a fluffy. The owner doesn’t know yet.” He didn’t mean to downplay Hunter’s suffering, but he only had time to give the Director the kind of information that would be relevant to a hospital administrator.
“Oh. Well, I’ll be there soon.” She hung up.
The fluffy was slowly getting his bearings as the shock waned. He turned his barf-spattered head towards the technician and moaned. “Huuu…uuuuh… peep Huntew su sickies… wai Mistaw Cwish huwt Huntew?”
It was the first time yet that someone pointed out that this could be in some way Chris’ fault. A wave of shameful panic flowed through Chris for a second, but he kept calm. He rubbed the fluffy’s head. “We didn’t mean to hurt you, Hunter. It was just an accident and we’re really sorry. The machine broke but I’ve turned it off now. You know what an accident is, right?”
“Ass-dent? Huuu… yuss… Huntew knu wat assdent ish… cheep Dat mean huwties nu awr meanies, buh dey… huuuu… stiww huwties… huu…”
“That’s right, Hunter.”
When the team got there Chris quickly explained that it was very likely a radiation burn and that although he wasn’t too badly irradiated, no one should touch his wearing directly or move him without wearing gloves. “Just limit your exposure for now.” They wheeled the nuclear bio-pet into the ICU and the doctors quickly tried to treat his burns as he continued to huu-huu. They knew it would be a challenge since they’d never seen radiation burns and poisoning in a fluffy before. No one ever had.
While the doctors worked on the fluffy, Chris and the Director stepped into the hall and Chris explained what happened, stressing of course that it was old equipment. She accepted Chris’ excuse, but also wanted him to immediatly investigate the cause of the accident. They both agreed to cancel all radiotherapy appointments that day, but she was unhappy about the downtime; the radiologic therapy machine was one of the hospital’s jewels and replacing it would be extraordinarily expensive, yet waiting for an installation would be expensive too.
“Work into the night if you have to.” She said evenly. “We’ve got to keep as many appointments as possible.”
“Right, yes.” Chris understood.
“I’ll deal with the owner and make him an offer. Do you think the fluffy has a chance?”
He shook his head. “Oh, no no. Hunter’s done for, absolutely. He’ll probably be dead in a day or two, and he’ll probably die miserably too.” He winced with regret.
“‘Probably?’”
“Well… yes ‘probably.’ As far as I know there’s no precedent for fluffy radiation injuries. I’m not sure what we’ll tell the owner.”
“Hmmm…” she put finger to her chin. “The truth. You leave that to me. I’ll make him a settlement offer straight away. Maybe he’ll sue, maybe he won’t. We’ll see. If we can get him to agree to something today, we’ll be able to focus on fixing this mess.”
The technician and the director came to the waiting area and then took Hunter’s owner to an empty examination room where they privately informed him of what had happened. Mr.Graves was very understandably upset: sad, but mostly angry, since he’d put so much effort into bringing the fluffy out there for treatment, and he was a perfect fluffy.
Director Rawlings offered him a 200% reimbursement of all of Hunter’s medical expenses, plus $5000 for the loss of the fluffy itself. Since its body was irradiated, they could not allow its return to the Graves family for burial. It was a good estimate; Mr.Graves was thinking of suing the hospital, but that was much more that he had imagined a lawsuit could garner. He accepted the offer, signed an anatomical gift agreement relinquishing the fluffy’s body, then a non-disclosure agreement, and they exchanged contact information to begin the rest of the paperwork at a later date. He soon left to go home and inform the family about the bad news.
The director and Chris assured Mr.Graves that the fluffy would be euthanized.
They did not specify when, however.
The medical team wore thick gloves and full surgical dress around Hunter at all times to minimize radiation exposure, as a precaution. Being sick and in agony was bad enough, but being surrounded by strange masked humans wearing not-fluff everywhere but their eyes was frightening in itself. He huu-huu constantly, and became more agitated as the day went on. Pain medications, intravenous nutrients, and rest made it easier for him to regain composure and speak.
“Huu huu… Wan daddeh! Wan mummeh! Huu… wai nu hewp fwuffy?.. pwese make owies an’ sickies gu 'way… huuu…”
The nurses and doctors lied to make him feel better, saying that daddies and mommies weren’t allowed in the ICU room but that they’d be coming to see him soon, when he got better. It would be too much to have to explain to him that he was very likely dying, and they assured him that they were trying to “fix” his “boo-boos.” In truth, they were trying but didn’t really know what could be done. The pain medications had to be mild because his condition was so fragile, especially for a fluffy. They documented his status, took videos and photos, and recorded his vital signs into a computer. His state demonstrably deteriorated hour by hour.
“Huuu… su scawy! Huntew nu wike dus! Nu wike!” He was in a constant state of sadness and terror, as if he didn’t know he was dying while his body did know.
The burn seemed to grow in size as the rest of the cells in his body sustained damage. The redness of the burn became a sickly yellow scab, and all the brown fluff on his body fell away in clumps. The leukocytes in his blood started dying off as the minutes passed, leaving him with no protection against other pathogens. He would die from infection if the radiation didn’t him first.
Though no one said so overtly to Mr.Graves, Chris and a few of the doctors at he hospital were also interested in observing the effects of such a high dose of radiation and such a serious radiation burn on a fluffy. Injuries of this type were very rare even in humans, but it had never been documented in a fluffy before. It would make an excellent article in a The Journal of Fluffy Veterinarian Medicine. The two other doctors would even give Chris equal authorship to theirs even though he only had a bachelor’s degree in Radiologic Technology. They all agreed that learning about the effects of radiation on fluffies would be crucial to treating future accidents like Hunter’s and that his suffering would not be in vain.
Meanwhile, Chris had done some research throughout the day and evening, and discovered the fatal error that had caused the accident. On a whim he tried a historical newspaper database, and found the answer there. The machine they were using had been manufactured with a serious software flaw that could cause the machine to activate its electron beam while its filter turntable was not in place, exposing human patients to the full power of the electron beam. There had been several accidents identical to the one which Hunter had suffered. The machine had been programmed in assembly for Fortran and the program relied on a sequence of events to run. When Chris made quick corrections to Hunter’s treatment plan before proceeding, he did it so fast that the turntable had not finished rolling into the wrong position. This caused a “race condition,” confusing the program as to what position the turn table was set at.
Based on what the articles revealed about the radiotherapy machine, it was now apparent that Hunter had been exposed to at least 10,000 rads, far, far beyond the 20 rad dose of radiation he was supposed to receive. It was such a boneheaded programming mistake, one from the caveman-times of computing. Some software corrections and hardware fail-safe devices were eventually added by the manufacturer, but the machine that Pineywood Veterinary Hospital had bought at the state property auction did not have any of them. It had probably been de-commissioned due to its flaws and put in storage, but it had been nearly a century since then. Its documentation was lost, the company that had manufactured it vanished into dust, and the story about the horrific injuries it had caused was forgotten. The state did not know what it was selling, and as a buyer the hospital could not have known either.
Knowing that he was not at fault (and that he could prove it) took the elephantine weight from the technician’s shoulders. He prepared a report to show to Director Rawlings and the rest of the hospital administrators.
***
After almost all of his fluff had fallen out at the roots, all the skin on Hunter’s body began to turn yellow and the original target area turned black. In layers the skin sloughed off his body, starting with the epidermis, then the dermis, and finally the hypodermis. Within less than a day, his body became an ugly glistening mass of twitching meat that sort of looked like a skinned pig. Hunter shuddered and gasped for air every moment. His mind regressed and he still chirped intermittently, like a weanling.
“Huuu… wan…die… Nu haf fwuff… peeeep Nuf haf… Nuf haf… skinnie… huuuuuu cheep… Buh-buh… dat nat… chirrrr nat… huuuuu… daddeh… peep… …mummaaahhh… wai nu sabe… huuu…”
***
Chris, the Director, and the hospital administrators had an impromptu inquiry discussion early in the morning the day following the accident. The legal department resolved to look into suing the state government for selling the item without a notice informing them of the deadly software bug. Doing so would probably only garner a few thousand dollars since it had only been purchased for use on fluffies, but it would be better than nothing for such an egregious oversight. They hoped to get more by stressing the risk that the machine could have posed to human workers at the hospital, as well the levels of radiation to which the doctors and nurses tending to Hunter had been exposed (albeit low).
But in the meantime it was a serious defect and a grave danger to their patients. They all agreed that something had to be done.
The next day, action was taken.
…
Chris made a sticky note and affixed it to the makeshift Fortran console reminding all operators to wait over 30 seconds before executing treatment if changes were edited in beforehand. He added many exclamation points to the note, saying “VERY IMPORTANT!!!” to ensure that it would be noticed.
“There, that ought to do it,” he said affirmatively, before leaving the booth to set up the machine for a new patient.
***
By now Hunter’s eyes had rolled back into his head, and he only chirped and cheeped and shivered. About 35 hours following the start of the accident, Hunter finally expired. After myriad tissue samples were taken and recorded, his cadaver was sealed in a vacuum bag, frozen for preservation, and finally placed in a lead case within a specimen freezer.
Some months later, the research article that his sufferings had generated was published, but without publishing his name for privacy reasons. Researchers working with The U.N. found the case study to be enormously useful to their special bio-creature initiative “Project ‘Wikwidatew’” which was only in its preliminary stages. It was a prospective plan to use Hasbio technology to develop enhanced bio-creatures suitable to assist with further sealant maintenance at the Chernobyl disaster site, which was still so dangerously contaminated that electrical and digital equipment couldn’t function properly there. One of the scientists reading over the account of the Pineywood Veterinary Hospital nuclear accident noted aloud to the others how that unfortunate little fluffy could possibly have a hoof in saving us all.
END
