Previously on ER, some guy died, and Weaver told Carter to fill his void. Carter immediately went to Lens Crafters and then married his sister. Gallant and Pratt messed up when the latter insisted upon giving a thoracotomy despite lacking the authority to do so. Carter urged Pratt to toe the line. Later, Carter tried to drag Abby to an AA meeting, and he failed, but she did cup his face, so that's a bonus.
The phone rings in the ER. Susan stares at the board and wonders why a dog-bite victim is still here; Pratt says it's because he hasn't gotten his IV yet. This leads up to the reveal that the ER is short on nurses because half of them are in a training class. Susan hints that Pratt should get off his bum and do the IV, but he declines, saying he did his fair share of that stuff while interning at the VA. I wish very fervently that he'd shut up about the VA. Pratt puts the "Oh dear God PLEASE stop talking" into "annoying." Susan smirks at him and fake-lectures, "There's no 'I' in 'team,' Pratt." He glares. "People really say crap like that here?" he metas. Jerry interrupts to say that Weaver's on the phone with "a mouthful of marbles." Susan exposits that Weaver chipped her tooth in Barbados, so apparently, Mark's death did, in fact, spur her to take time off and put on a bikini. But we didn't get to see it, because we were too busy ogling a shirtless Mark. Where's the justice, Wells? Where is it? Is it on The Court? Wait, no, I forgot -- nothing is on The Court anymore. Abby, upon learning of Weaver's dental woes, snickers, "I told her to stop opening beer bottles with her teeth." She then turns to Pratt and asks him to toddle off into Exam Three. Carter drifts past. "Why Pratt?" he wonders. "I don't know," deadpans Abby. "He's got a cute ass?" Pratt considers this, and while the scene continues, he sneaks a peek at Abby's ass and appears to deem it acceptable, although one flavor short of bootylicious. Abby tells Carter that she's down three nurses, which prompts Gallant to offer some help. "The point is, why should we [help]?" sneers Pratt. Carter promptly shoots him, and they throw a luau. He then benevolently announces that they should all pitch in and help during this tragic shortfall. "All this because a nurse tells us to," Pratt condescends. Carter leans against the desk and simpers, "No, because Abby is the Obi-Wan Kenobi of nurses." And Carter has just the light sabre in mind to whip out at her. "So what's that make you? Yoda?" Pratt groans. "Learn from her you will," Carter nods. And go see Star Wars: Epsiode II - Attack of the Clones, which conveniently premiered right as this line was broadcast! Congratulations, George! Don't forget to sign my yearbook!
A paramedic wheels in two glaring people. One of them is played by Alison La Placa, on a break from cutting her terrifying, show-killing swath through pilot season. Alison and her fellow attorney -- who we'll call Chandler, since she was paired with Matthew Perry on the only show she's failed to kill ["though it killed her...her character, anyway" -- Wing Chun] -- have burns on the soles of their feet from walking on hot coals during a corporate bonding seminar. "Stupid idea," Alison grumbles. "If I could walk, I'd kick your ass!" Chandler snipes that it would've worked if she hadn't pushed him. "My feet were burning, you idiot!" she shouts. Carter tries to calm them down, but the Music of Impending Drama is kicking in, so obviously that's not going to work. Sure enough, he sniffs smoke and determines that something on the gurney is burning. Hysteria ensues. Chandler hops around screaming, Alison panics, and Carter starts beating the flame until it subsides. Abby grabs a fire extinguisher, points it, grimaces, and shoots -- and, ha ha HA, gets the...hee, it's so funny...gets the powder...it's too rich!...all over Carter. Bwa ha ha HA! Carter spits the white grime out of his mouth and thrashes around, confused. "Oops," Abby giggles. We fade into the credits wondering if this whole scene is a metaphor for their relationship, and if it signals any particular incompatibilities in the bedroom.
People hoping for the All Noah, All The Time credits are clearly disappointed, as here's Anthony Edwards rolling around in his chair.
Chen huffs through the hall, telling a regular patient -- Stan, who likes to sing -- that the hospital isn't a hotel. They inch toward Pratt, who is filling out some paperwork. Stan complains that he's cold. "I don't get no rest behind a dumpster," he wheedles. "I have the flu, and you don't see me in bed," Chen counters. "I'd like to," Pratt growls. Chen has him arrested for harassment, and they throw a luau. Stan grumbles about the "hippo oath" they took. Chen gives in, but then flippantly hands off Stan to Pratt. "Is this because I'm new?" Pratt complains. "No, it's because you're annoying," she grins. Stan turns to Pratt and calmly says, "I sure could use a rubdown, my brother." Mercy of mercies, the camera quits this scene.
Abby offers tetanus shots to Chandler and Alison. Carter tells them to come back tomorrow for a wound check. "I'd rather have my feet amputated," Chandler grouses. Abby points out that they don't need to return together. "What about showers?" Alison asks. "Don't have to do that together, either," Carter says under his breath. Abby quickly interjects the advice that it's fine to wash the burns, as long as they gently wipe them dry with a clean towel. Carter counters with a different recommendation. Malik, who overheard the whole thing, sarcastically tells Carter and Abby to "kiss and make up" because there's a few patients coming in from a multiple-vehicle accident. Abby and Carter smirk at each other, because they know it's only a matter of time before they lick each other.
The ambulance bay is a complete hectic mess. First up is Marge, a school bus driver. Marge is, as you might expect, large. It would seem we have some Pee-wee Herman fans on the ER writing staff. Marge was "altered" at the accident scene, but can breathe normally. Luka takes Large Marge and says that Carter should grab the patient. "She might have a subdural hematoma," Carter frets. "The one might be worse," Luka notes. Carter nods and moves on to Colin, who was in the car that the bus hit; he has a two-inch scalp laceration and he broke the steering wheel with his chest. Wuh? Can a torso do that? He must have a sweet-ass muscular chest. "Was he driving a Matchbox?" gapes Pratt, there to assist. "Worse," the paramedic snorts. "A Gremlin." Pratt whisks him off to Trauma Two as Carter yells for him to corral Susan. Our third patient is an old man whose arm was fractured in the crash. "How am I supposed to play the slots now?" he cranks. "Use the other arm," Carter advises. And finally, an Asian woman arrives with a cut on her face from flying glass. Her name is Lenore. "How old is she?" Carter asks. Lenore answers in fluent Mandarin, and Chen translates: "It's rude to ask a woman's age." Carter is self-satisfied when he notices that the ambulance bay is empty. "That might be it," he grins. The Jinx Fairy dances on Mark's grave. Sirens wail. "Or not," sighs Carter.
Abby staggers up to Reception with a mile-high stack of paperwork. They're her script notes; John Wells instructed her to take her feedback and ram it where the sun don't shine, so she's off to bury it to Mark. She impatiently asks Jerry whether he's yanked the nurses from their class yet so they can help with the workload. "I would, but they're all on a break," he shrugs. She's frenzied. "Get clerks or something," she orders. "We're dying down here!" She passes a horde of patients she's too harried to help, including Alison and Chandler, and an old woman whose colostomy bag is leaking and probably dribbling excrement all over the hospital floor. Very sexy. A visual and aromatic cocktail of bliss. Finally, Abby passes a distraught mother and father with two feverish children. "Someone will see them as soon as we can," Abby promises. "Okay, we were here first," he calls after her, worried.
Marge, ever large, is in Trauma Yellow. Luka figures she is fine in addition to being robustly large, so Susan continues into Trauma Green, where Pratt is treating Colin. Pratt's making the paramedic do what a nurse usually would, since they're enduring The Great Nursing Shortfall of Aught-Two because the show blew its budget on rubber babies and miles of Bounty paper towels. Susan rattles off a list of tests to order up. "The nurses usually call," Pratt shrugs. "I don't know the number." He acts like this is no big deal, and that the tests will find a way to magically order themselves, just like my foot will find a way to magically insert itself in his...OW! Stupid TV screen. Susan snaps that Pratt might find success by checking the phone list. She then finds a pelvic fracture and yells out more instructions while Pratt balances the phone with his other work. Pratt Ralph-Wiggums, "The chem panel goes in the red top, or the green top? And which one's 'oral'?" Susan begs an incoming Abby for help. Pratt is indignant, because Abby is not just a nurse, but a female, and therefore belongs in a kitchen with her shoes off and a bun in both ovens. Susan placates Pratt by sending him to see if Luka needs help.
Carter bursts in to find some Dopamine, and exposits that it's total madness out there because everyone has multiple things wrong with them, and old people have a very persistent odor. Some guy bursts in looking for the bathroom, because it's MADNESS, pure madness, and Carter extracts him from the trauma room.
The hall is swarming with senior citizens. Carter yells for them all to move into the admin area for injury assessment, throws a few elbows, and traverses the sea of wrinkles while yelling for Gallant to deal with this. "Everyone proceed to the north," Gallant yells, like a true military boy. "Where the hell is north?" crabs an old man. And a giant dish of pureed Word from me. I don't understand people who can walk outside and point out "south-south-east" in two seconds.
Carter bursts through the crowd and reaches Chen, who looks exhausted as she tends to Lenore. He presents her with the Dopamine, but by now, she's realized she doesn't need it. Carter's sort of surprised at her fumble; Chen is pale and looks exhausted. Lenore feels her forehead and prattles in Mandarin. Chen distractedly refers an eager-to-help Carter to an old guy named Mr. Meyers, who points to Lenore and bitches that she's a foreigner who needs her own bus. "It's probably what set the driver off," he bitches. "All that gibberish. Marge was twitching, she was so mad." Carter stops and digests this. It goes down like a year-old Wheat Thin. "She was twitching?" he chokes. "Like a Holy Roller," Mr. Meyers announces cheerfully. Carter nervously excuses himself...
...and bursts into Trauma Yellow to tell Luka that Large Marge might've suffered from a seizure while driving. "Before or after the accident?" Pratt asks. "Before," Carter says. Luka sends Pratt to check her belongings for a Medic-Alert bracelet. Shouldn't they have done that already? They've been treating her for half an hour. Gallant enters and nervously tells Carter that he needs to see a pair of sick kids. "I'm a little busy right now," Carter brushes him aside. Gallant shares that the kids came in with fevers a week ago, and have since developed nasty rashes. Carter's trying to check out Large Marge; Luka's all, "Remember how I've been doing this longer than you have?" So Carter reluctantly leaves and follows Gallant to the sickly family.
The Sick Family Robinson stares straight into the camera. There's the father, Craig; the mother, Robin (played by Heidi Swedberg, best known as George's envelope-licking fiancée Susan on Seinfeld); and the kids, Adam and Bree. They're swaddled in blankets. Gallant politely introduces Carter. The parents nervously explain that they had initially assumed it was chicken pox, but the disease then got too shockingly bad. Doom and Gloom in A Minor plays as horror washes over Carter's face. He has seen the future, and it looks like oatmeal. He asks to see Bree's chest; Robin confirms that her child has no torso rash. We then see Adam, whose face is sparsely covered in tiny wads of paper towel that we're supposed to think are pustules. Bree's face is worse; it looks like she face-planted in the Grape Nuts this morning. Carter learns that the "rash" -- which so obviously isn't a rash -- started three days ago. "How long have you been waiting?" Carter sputters. "Too long," snorts Craig. "We tried to tell the nurse, but she said she was busy." Carter turns to see that Craig is pointing to a far-off Abby.
Carter snaps into crisis mode, ordering Gallant to get them masks. Frantically, Carter dashes into the lounge in search of the informational posters sent monthly by the Department of Public Health. True to form, they're shoved away in the Things We're Required By Law to Have, But Don't Want Anyone To See cabinet. Carter unrolls one of the posters and chokes, "Oh, man." He is terrified. He must've found the Anatomy of a Female poster. Frightened, he runs back outside and tells Gallant to find Susan immediately. Carter then scoops up Bree and shouts, "Follow me, quickly!" The Twit Family Robinson trots behind him obediently, and in utter confusion. "Why are we running?" Robin chirps. Carter bursts into a private room and deposits Bree carefully on the bed. Kicky crisis music swells. Carter swoops out of the room, leaving the family alone and terrified and totally uninformed, because in times of crisis, you never say what's wrong unless you're about to go to commercial.
Carter finds Susan and drags her back to the window that peeks in on Adam and Bree. "I think I've got two cases of smallpox," he finally pants. "Oh my God," Susan replies boredly, with all the worry of someone who's saying, "In what universe is that haircut not hideous?" She acts like she thinks smallpox is a miniature and less-threatening variety of some mythical largepox. She sucks. Susan tries convincing Carter that it's just a lousy bout of chicken pox, but he rattles off a list of reasons why it can't be. Susan still doesn't absorb it. "We haven't had a case [of smallpox] here since the '40s," she points out. "It's airborne," Carter intones melodramatically. "We need to lock this place down." We fade to black wondering when Susan graduated from the Joey Tribbiani "Smell the Fart" School of Acting, and whether it's too late to send a congratulatory mylar balloon.
Front desk. Music of A Pox On You. The ER staff congregates to discuss handing the smallpox threat; security has apparently closed off the elevator, stairwells, and exits. Jerry notes that they're trying to lock the ambulance-bay door. Chen makes some dumb comment about fire hazards, as if that's as big a worry as a biological weapon. Susan leafs through a binder and scowls that she can't figure out which agency to call -- the city, the county, or the state department. "Check the emergency response plan," Carter suggests. She notes dryly, "This is the emergency response plan." Luka wants everyone to calm down, because frankly, smallpox is pretty far-fetched. "Have you ever seen smallpox before?" Carter says defensively. But that is the point Luka's trying to make. He figures the kids could have anything else -- scabies, impetigo, even herpes. And since they're, you know, eight, let's go ahead and add all the STDs on there, because kids today are just bangin'. Luka wants Carter to slow down and be sure he's right before going any further. "Want to risk exposure to the city?" Carter snots. Malik asks how bad smallpox is. "Killed half of Europe," Carter tosses back. Malik freaks. Gallant points out that the CDC has a vaccine, but it's in Atlanta, which wigs Malik out even more. Chen sticks up for Luka and announces that smallpox has, without doubt, been eradicated. The Jinx Fairy cackles and throws down a shot of tequila. "I heard the Russians have some [smallpox on] ice," Jerry says helpfully. "If a terrorist group got...." "Shut up, Jerry," Carter says flatly, but firmly. Susan gives the order to lock down the ER, saying that all the appropriate authorities are en route. "What do you want to do with the critical patients?" Luka asks, directing his question at Carter the Instigator. "You're asking me?" Carter asks innocently. Come on, Carter. Did Mark die in vain? Fill the void.
Chen, studying the chart, suddenly realizes that she treated Bree and Adam last Tuesday when they just seemed like flu patients. "I have a fever," she realizes, worried. Carter immediately tells her that she must be quarantined. "Slow down," Luka says, reaching out a stabilizing hand. And since everyone ignores him, Luka continues to stand there with his hand outstretched and nowhere to put it. It's very uncomfortable. If only I could just get my ass in there, he'd have a place to rest that precious palm. While Luka is frozen in the background, Carter turns to Susan and demands that she come up with a plan, because he isn't wearing his big-boy undies today. Did someone remove Carter's testicles? Did they shrivel up and die in a show of solidarity when the Walking Phallus passed away? Susan thinks nothing of this wussery from Carter, and calmly orders Jerry to check the patient schedule and staff list from the Tuesday. She wants Luka to put all the truly critical patients off to one side. "What about the kids?" Abby asks. Susan warns them to refrain from spreading rumors, and to adhere to the party line that it's all a routine thing, just another day to cherish in the ER. Luka nods toward the sliding doors. "Then you'd better tell them why the doors are locked," he suggests.
Too late. Alison and Chandler already noticed. They don't miss a damn thing.
Carter struts through the hall with the purposeful gait of A Hero's First Steely Resolve to Fill the Void. Abby chases him. "Do you know they sat in chairs for forty-five minutes?" Carter fumes. "They should've been isolated right away!" Abby defends herself, saying they would've been quarantined if she'd actually seen them. "Pretty hard to miss," Carter snaps, except the kids were so bundled up in blankets that we didn't see them at first, either. So pipe down, Righteous McSmarmy. Abby tersely reminds him of the nursing shortage, even as she dons the yellow ER trauma gown and gloves. "What are you doing?" Carter asks. Abby informs him that he'll need the help in there, especially if his diagnosis is right. "You could get exposed," he warns her, walking away. "I've already been exposed," Abby says in a small voice. She stares sadly after him for a second, then steels herself, dons the mask, and enters the Pox Zone.
Chandler leads a mob of angry patients anxious to confront Susan about why they can't go outside. One old woman screeches that she needs a cigarette badly, while a middle-aged man gripes, "Does this place even have a license?" Susan grabs the intercom microphone and decides to take matters into her own hands. "As you may have noticed, there are guards posted at all the exits," she begins. "This is because we have a potential public-health concern -- emphasis on the word 'potential.'" In Trauma Green, Luka and Pratt look up from Colin's body to appreciate Susan's enunciation. Chen angrily removes her lab coat as a security guard tapes a warning sign to the door of her room. "We don't have any conclusive evidence," Susan stresses. "Until we have more information, we ask that no one enter or leave the department." Carter, Robin, and Craig stare expectantly at the intercom, waiting for pearls of wisdom and drops of vaccine to pour out. Susan closes by reminding everyone that the lockdown is purely a matter of precaution, and thanking them in advance for their patience. This has the entirely opposite and predictable effect of rousing the rabble. One angry mob, coming right up. And since the ER has no demonstrably capable security forces, Susan has to elbow her way through the teeming crowd. In the background, Hooligan #1 jumps onto the back of a guard sealing off the ambulance-bay doors, and they fall to the ground in a tragicomic wrestling display.
Adam puffs away on an inhaler. "Do I look like [Bree]?" he whispers to Abby. "Not as bad," she reassures him. Robin frets to her husband that they stood out at all the embassies and upscale hotels in Central Africa -- it seems Craig works for the State Department, and took the family on one of his business trips. Carter asks when they returned; the answer is two weeks ago. "We need to keep you both in isolation," Carter realizes. "You could be incubating the virus. You probably both are." He gets excited in a panicky way, warning them to list all the places they've been since they returned, and basically leaving his bedside manner in the hamper with his dirty socks and his superhero spandex. Craig and Robin get wide-eyed and start gasping, but then they tone it down because we're still a few crises away from the commercial break, so it's going to get a lot worse before it gets better. Carter explains that they'll send smears to the CDC for diagnosis, and that they're being as careful as they can given that nothing's been confirmed about what's infecting Bree and Adam. Abby invents a bogus excuse to call Carter to Bree's bedside. "You're freaking them out," she hisses. "Slow down." Carter exhales and nods apologetically, bummed that he's not filling the void properly, but stoked that his hair is thick and bushy.
Gallant holds a mask to his face and checks in on Chen. "Biggest public-health emergency of the century, and I'm stuck here," she grumbles. Count your blessings, man. I'll never understand these people who like to be on the front lines. In situations like this, I prefer to live by the mantra of Disco Stu: "Back away, not today, disco lady." Stan enters the room and makes himself comfortable over Chen's loud groans. Apparently, he claims he was in the ER on Tuesday, and thus was exposed to the smallpox. Chen doesn't believe it, and figures he's just quarantining himself so that he can snuggle up in a warm bed. "They say this could be serious," she warns. "I've had gastritis, hepatitis, and pancreatitis," Stan pooh-poohs her. "It's not gonna bother me." Chen leans back and decides she just has the flu. As Stan starts singing "Fever," Chen tells herself, "It's not smallpox. It can't be." I don't really get why they're quarantining Chen, though, since she's been breathing on everyone -- and all over the hospital -- for a week now, and if anyone's gotten it from her, they've already been infected. But whatever. Obviously, they have nothing else for her to do, and the writers hate her.
A man snarls at Jerry, "You gonna pay me for the hours I miss of work?" Susan quietly asks Gallant how the seniors on Large Marge's bus are doing. "Mostly sprains and contusions," Gallant replies. Susan is relieved. Jerry exposits that the public-health officials are en route, and meanwhile, the Chicago police are staked out at the exits. She then catches Luka wheeling The Largest Marge out for a head CT. "Does she have a blown pupil?" Susan asks. Luka shakes his head. "Then she can wait," Susan decides. Luka frets that Marge is an older trauma patient and needs immediate care, but Susan insists that if she's not addled, then Large Marge can wait with the other non-criticals. "Ma'am, do you know where you are?" Susan shouts. "A hospital," Marge O'Large retorts. "A crappy one." Susan shrugs, "I'd say she's pretty lucid." Luka looks confused. He's not sure why Carter got smallpox, Mark got the surf, and Elizabeth got the week off, while he's here carting Ye Olde Large Marge through the ER and getting ignored by everyone. Poor guy.
David Torres arrives. He is Chief Public Health Official in Charge of Season Finale Disasters, Cliffhangers, and Other Contrived Plot Devices. He hands Susan a walkie-talkie so that she can be in the loop with his staffers, all of whom are trained crisis-amplification officers who know exactly when things are going too smoothly and need to be messed up. On cue, one such person radios down that the second and first floors share ventilation systems, so Torres orders that they shut off the air conditioning. "It's eighty degrees outside!" protests Susan. Torres turns to her and intones dramatically, "Welcome to the Hot Zone." Okay, whoever wrote that should be fired. And flogged. And forced to watch this episode three times in a row. Torres scowls and announces that he needs to see the children now.
Carter explains to Robin that her daughter's infection is in the bloodstream, which makes the lungs leak fluid. Robin is busy being racked with guilt. "We shouldn't have been there," she curses. "You could've stayed home," argues Craig. "Yeah, great, and [then] your children don't see you for a year," snipes Robin. Craig bites back a snarky retort and instead tries to comfort her by pointing out that if there had been an outbreak in Africa, they'd have heard about it by now. Torres peers through the window to ogle the paper-towel pustules. Right now, you could spill a carton of orange juice on Bree's face and it would soak right up. Robin screeches that their family was a massive and very easy target. "Some maniac is using this as a weapon!" she wails. The ER Promo Guy has a long orgasm.
Adam interrupts to point out that Bree's not doing well. Carter and Abby check on her and deduce that she's not getting enough oxygen. They sedate her and prepare to intubate; as Abby makes for Trauma Green to get a pediatric intubation tray, Carter yells for her to stop because opening the adjoining door puts Pratt's patient at risk. He leaves her with Bree and goes around outside, which -- by opening the hallway door -- would appear to put the rest of the hospital at risk. You go, Carter.
In the hall, he tears off his contaminated mask and gown, trashes them, and bolts into Trauma Green. Unceremoniously, he informs Pratt that he and Colin must move. "He could have a pulmonary contusion," Pratt bristles. Carter decides without checking thoroughly that Colin just has a mucus plug that can be cured with a little suction. "Then a vent, a neurosurgery consult, maybe even a burrhole...." Pratt lists, irritated. "And I've got a deadly airborne virus in there," Carter hisses, moving Colin out of the room. "He could crash in the hallway!" Pratt protests. Carter hops on the soapbox and snarks that Colin could also get smallpox. "A little girl needs an airway," he growls. "I need this room."
Weaver runs up outside the ER and tries to muscle her way inside. "I work here," she insists, showing no indication that any chipped tooth is impairing her speech. She's also in no apparent mouth-related pain. Can I borrow her dentist? A policeman informs her that the ER is closed, and that even her credentials as the ER Chief don't help. Haleh and Lily spy her and trot over, explaining that they had a class on the second floor and were prohibited from returning to the ER. Weaver gets on her mobile and phones Romano, screeching at whatever unfortunate receptionist accepts the call and threatens to put her on hold. Haleh gossips that she overheard the cops saying something contagious is rampant in the ER. "Like what, the plague?" scoffs Weaver. No. It's called The Hotness, it comes from Luka, and it's spreading like tear gas through the building, leaving women and men alike panting, moaning, and lining up for cold showers.
A young woman runs over and wails that she followed her fiancé's ambulance, but can't get inside the building to see him. Her fiancé is Colin, I think, which means she clearly didn't follow the rig too closely, since he's been in the ER for a while now. The paramedics unload a trauma behind them, having not gotten a radio message that County General is sealed off. They wheel out Marta, an eighteen-year-old with a gunshot wound. Colin's fiancée wails that he might be dying without her. I think we're supposed to feel tense for her, but since we barely care about Colin except to be sorry that Pratt's his doctor, well, I say we call it a day and go bowling. Weaver has other ideas; she realizes that Marta is bleeding into her chest, and gets worried.
Carter and Abby gown up. She wonders how long they'll be trapped, because dammit, she has an appointment with Mr. Walker -- Mr. Johnnie Walker. "Maybe a day or two," Carter speculates. He ties up her garment and impishly adds, "We might have to spend the night together." Abby is turned on by all the protective plastic and sweet talk. "You afraid?" he teases. "Of what? Smallpox, or waking up to you?" she snorts. Carter giggles and puts on his mask; Abby does the same. Nothing like a little sexual tension to spruce up a health scare.
Carter examines oatmeal-faced Adam. "Looking good!" he says, pleased. "He likes having his own room," smiles Craig. "Especially when Wilford Brimley sneaks in and tries to eat Adam's face for breakfast." Abby tries to engage Adam. "Do you like having a little sister?" she asks. This, to me, has a ring of "Because you'd better enjoy it while it lasts, baby." And it creeped me out. Just then, Bree's monitors beep themselves silly and Robin commences wailing. Carter tries to explain that low oxygen drops her heart rate, so this is all very normal, but then Abby loses Bree's pulse. Carter wants Abby to get Susan, because she's apparently Carter's mommy or something, but Abby sees Pratt in the hall and waves at him frantically. "What's up?" he asks, dashing in, and I have to give him credit for never hesitating despite being invited into a quarantined room. Although I imagine he just goes places in search of glory.
Weaver calls for a vascular clamp. Weaver's doing what she can to save Marta, the gunshot victim, while Weaver waits for assistance in getting Marta inside the hospital. "My children, they need me," whimpers Marta. Children? She's eighteen. Yeow. And suddenly, like a beacon of hope, The Shiny Bald Cranium of Salvation appears from on high. It's Dr. Robert "Rocket" Romano, and he's firing on all cylinders. "Did somebody say 'thoraseal'?" he calls out. No, but I will if you want me to, Rocket. He throws something down to the ground, where someone catches it and delivers it to Weaver. "Be careful," he shouts. "You break it, you buy it." Weaver yells up for him to toss some Vaseline gauze. "How about a two-ton safe?" he snarks. "Robert, I need to get this girl in surgery!" Weaver screams. Romano knows this, and tells her to meet him at the freight elevator, which Security is protecting.
News cameras assault Weaver as she continues to try to save Marta. "Is there a communicable disease in the ER?" the reporter asks. Weaver shrugs that there usually is. As the reporter fires off another question, we see Susan watching on the TV set in the lounge. "Who's that?" Torres whispers. "The chief of the ER," Susan replies, dread imbuing her tone. On-screen, Weaver is angrily insisting that it's premature to conclude that anyone in the ER is infected with anything dangerous. The reporter asks what manner of disease could spark the closure of the ER. "Don't say it, Kerry," Susan whispers to the television. Susan's scared the gathered masses will hear and flip out. Hey, I have an idea. It's revolutionary, but it just might work. You could...TURN OFF THE TV. Weaver simply continues with the "I don't know" answers that have served her well so far. As the reporter continues prying, Weaver is still trying to save Marta's life. I personally think she should wrap the microphone in her fist and jam it in the reporter's left ear. Susan breathes a sigh of relief that Weaver didn't utter the "s" word. But then the reporter does it for her: "Doctor, are you aware that the Smallpox Response Team...." Inside the ER, Susan tenses and laments her utter inability to romance the TV's "off" button. Pandemonium breaks out. "We're all sitting ducks!" quacks Yobbo #4.
Pratt commences compressions while Carter recharges the paddles. He asks for a particular amount of a particular kind of medication. "You want to give that to kids?" Pratt gapes. "I think she's lighter than that." Carter glares at Mr. Medicine Chest and ignores him. He shocks Bree again; no response. "Call someone!" screams Robin, flapping her arms in the background and sweating all the hairspray off her unfortunate Flowbie coif. Adam and Craig -- sitting in Trauma Green -- can hear the dulled sounds of Robin's wails. "I want someone with more experience!" she screams. "There isn't anyone," Pratt booms. Robin's eyes bug out. "What he means is, no one's seen this disease for fifty years," Carter amends.
The Mob of Manufactured Tension swarms the front desk. "Why aren't you telling us anything?" Bearded Slob #3 screams at Luka, who swears up and down that they're not sure it's smallpox. Which I'm sure is very comforting -- the whole aura of "We have no idea what we're doing, but have a seat and enjoy the view" will indeed have a great calming effect on these angry, angry people. A few demand masks. "You don't need masks," Susan calls out. "You've already been exposed." Oh, good, Susan. "To what?" shrieks someone. "We don't know," Susan answers pleasantly. Let's review. Scared mob? Check. Flippant treatment of scared mob? Check. Careless dropping of frightening tidbits? Check. Yes, well played, my girl! Well played. Everyone screams that they want to leave, and Gallant reminds them that the Chicago police will arrest them if they do so. Susan flees.
Bree is dying. She's had a heart attack, and the paddles aren't jump-starting anything. Pratt wonders if there's a loose wire in the charger. Robin looks hopeful. "No," Carter says briskly. "Everything is working fine. Clear!" Nothing. Bree's in asystole. Pratt suggests that Carter check for a pulse with compressions; if there is none, Bree should get a fluid bolus. He's second-guessing everything Carter does. Abby stares at Pratt, stunned at the sheer size of his balls, which have actually inflated and filled the room. "That's not the problem," Carter insists childishly. "Maybe it'll help!" Robin screams. Maybe it would help if you would LEAVE THE ROOM. They are TRYING TO SAVE YOUR CHILD. When's the last time you went to medical school, Robin, huh? Right! That's what I thought. So shut up. Why have they not made her leave? Carter grudgingly and perfunctorily grabs Bree's wrist as Pratt compresses her chest. "Good pulse," he says. "She doesn't need fluid." Pratt suggests a high dose of epinephrine to get her juices flowing. "I said that's it," Carter yells. Robin wails. "He had an idea!" she shrieks. "You have to keep going! You have to keep going! Oh God!" But they won't.
Susan watches from outside the room. She is the Angel of Doom. She can smell an act-out a mile away, and the stench of this one reeks worse than the entire three-year run of Roswell. The good people from Clorox want to pimp something, so Susan clears her throat and picks up her walkie-talkie. "Tell the CDC we have our first casualty," she intones. We fade to black wondering if this was a parent-wide conspiracy, and if we children were right all along about the dangers of oatmeal.
Okay, that's the most manipulative midway point ever. I think my problem with it is that I'm totally not engaged in the story, so the ominous music and Susan's somber, overly dramatic line reading did absolutely nothing to chill my spine. My spine's so unchilled, it's actually in Tahiti getting a tan. I totally didn't care one way or the other whether the kid I'd never seen before lived or died. Shouldn't we have seen her come in "last Tuesday" and do something endearingly adorable before getting summarily dismissed as a flu patient? Then maybe I'd care. Ordinarily, I know the Patients of the Week just come and go, but when you're pegging a season-ender on this kid, it might've been nice to make it a kid in whom we're invested. I wish this show would sack up and just randomly decide to kill off one of its own, for no reason other than to shake up the show and freshen its chemistry. I'm kind of tired of comings and goings being dictated by discontent actors and expired contracts, and other exits that are highly publicized and suck the show dry of all surprise. Be daring. Fire someone for no reason. This episode, and this halfway mark, would've resonated a lot more if the show had the balls to (a) kill off a major or secondary character without it being a highly publicized exit; (b) have a major character at least present with the oatmeal pustules; or (c) write character-driven season finales instead of this horribly contrived disaster crap. ["I will say this, though: this is the kind of episode that makes me miss recapping ER -- lots of crazy disaster crap that's fun to mock, and very little boring story-arc stuff." -- Wing Chun]
Carter's miffed. He just lost a patient, he was second-guessed in front of Robin, and he's yet to see anything from Abby's lingerie drawer. In short, his boyish boxer-briefs are in a right wad. He storms out of ex-Bree's room, followed by Pratt. "What are you doing?" Carter seethes. "I thought I was helping," Pratt retorts. "You're not. When I call code, that's it," Carter states. "End of discussion." Pratt rails at Carter for overlooking the option of administering high-dose epi. Carter is still stuck on the eschewal of authority in front of the mother of the patient being treated -- yet another argument against letting family watch trauma cases being treated. I'm not sure in what universe that's a good idea. Perhaps some bizarro universe, where brussel sprouts taste like rum and new Cascade with sheeting action actually makes your dishes less clear and sparkly. Pratt swears his idea was worth a shot. "You're wrong," Carter shouts. "Now you'll never know!" spits Pratt. Carter rails that high-dose epi does not, in fact, pump up circulation or improve the chance of survival. "If you'd read the literature, you'd know this," Carter sneers. "Or you could teach me," Pratt practically pleads. This is total bullshit. Pratt doesn't want to be taught anything. Pratt just wants the credit for good calls and good excuses for the bad calls. Carter rails that he doesn't have time to stop what he's doing and patiently explain things to Pratt, despite the fact that this is a teaching hospital. I guess it's a fine line. Although Carter should be teaching, the middle of a severe crisis -- with a weeping, moaning mother bear growling at the foot of the bed -- is not the time to stop and quiz Pratt on what will and won't work. Nor is it the time for Pratt to shout out theories. He should watch and learn, and ask questions later about why certain paths would or would not have helped. Dumb-ass. "I don't have time, Pratt, to stop and explain things," yells Carter. "So I'm supposed to read your mind?" Pratt wonders. "No, you're supposed to shut up and follow my lead!" Carter rants. "Then LEAD!" shouts an exasperated Pratt. This scene is so obviously an attempt to make us root for Pratt even a tiny bit, but the net effect is that it makes both Pratt and Carter hard to tolerate. ["Although at least there is precedent for Carter sucking ass as a teacher." -- Wing Chun]
Abby interrupts to say that the health department wants Bree double-shrouded for extra protection. Like some sort of smallpox condom. Pratt heads over to do it, but Carter forbids him from reentering that room. "The mother still has questions," Pratt insists. "She trusts me!" Oh, whatever. I hate these people sometimes. Except, always. Carter suddenly stares at Pratt, and figures he's either feverish, or just really horny. Pratt claims it's just a hot trauma room. Abby whips out a thermometer and deduces that he's a balmy 101.4 degrees. "You always have to be right," Pratt snorts. Carter, with a definite edge of triumph and smugness, orders Pratt into quarantine, otherwise known as The Island of Misfit Characters Who Might Get the Ax.
Alison is in lawyer mode now, taking names and numbers and pretending to sympathize with the unwashed masses trapped in County General. She's brisk, efficient, and pissy. She even looks pointier than she did before. Unshaven Ruffian #46 asks Malik why he's absconding with all the oscillating fans, and Malik explains that it's because using them circulates the disease. Susan is on the phone screaming for some food to offset starvation and the subsequent onset of approximately one hundred foul moods. Chandler cheerfully informs her that he's instigating a class-action lawsuit for "false imprisonment with intentional affliction of emotional distress." Susan's like, "Afflict this, asshole," but the dulcet tones of a familiar voice distract her. She peers at the TV, confused. "History has shown that isolation of those with the disease and the vaccination of contacts can avert a widespread epidemic," the voice says. It's coming from the TV set, where a news anchor is chatting with a caller identified as Jerry. We know this by the black-and-white photo displayed in the top right corner of the screen, a picture that clearly came from Abraham Ben Rubi's high-school yearbook. Thanks, Abe's mom! Jerry tells the world that there's no need to panic, and that only those in extremely close contact with infected victims will need a vaccine. This rubs Susan the wrong way, because no one gave him the Leader Hat. She storms across to the ER phone booth, opens the door and yanks Jerry out. "Uh, I was just calling my mom," he lies lamely. "Uh, I love you, too, Mom!" But as he exits the booth, he and Malik swap delighted high-fives. Susan's suddenly all annoyed-but-charmed, and I can't figure out why we even needed to see this.
Abby and Carter start to seal Bree's shroud, but Robin protests when they begin to cover Bree's face. Sympathetically, Abby offers Robin a minute more to come to terms with the loss, because death is ugly and Bree is a Brawny kind of mess. Robin stares at Bree, then kisses her daughter's forehead and weeps. Craig reaches for her, but Robin stiffens and acts repelled, and Craig resigns himself to a bootyless night. He storms into Trauma Green for a good, hard sniffle. Carter follows, because he knows from good, hard sniffles. "My wife didn't want to come [to Africa]," Craig sobs. Carter reminds Craig that they've no idea why or when the kids fell ill. "It's my fault," Craig decides. Adam interrupts to ask if Bree was frightened when it happened. "She was asleep," Carter promises. Adam stares up betwixt the minefields of pus bombs and preciously asks, "Am I ?" Craig says no. Adam wants a promise. Carter fixes him with his best No, I Don't Just Say That To All The Dying Kids look and says, "I promise." Craig stares at his shoes. He knew the tassels would be his undoing.
Chen winces and groans and clicks the click out of her call button. She's frantic. She has a full bladder. She came back mid-season in a fit of indignant rage, and now she's sitting on a hospital bed quaking with the sheer desire to urinate. Yeah, that's money well spent. Chen bitches that she's been ringing for ten minutes; Stan says he rang for an hour, so presumably his bladder woes were chronicled in a delightfully droll off-camera segment. Stan leans over and offers her his urinal. Chen groans.
Disturbed people ask Luka questions. They don't know that he's a mere puppet. And an empty one. He can't even get a hand up his ass for assistance. The mob wants food now, and Luka escapes by pretending they might have crackers lying around. This does not sate the mob. The mob wants more. The mob wants nudity, I think. Come on, Luka. Don't be frigid.
Large Marge is playing craps with a few other patients, plus Alison, who you'd think would be on them about the illegality of it all. Luka cuts the game short and pulls Marge de la Large off to the side, quietly explaining that he's aware of her epilepsy. She blinks, her smile freezing in place while the glow in her eyes vanishes. "Just an occasional tic," she says through gritted teeth. "Haven't had a seizure in years." Luka then gently wonders where she's getting the Dilantin -- Mexico, perhaps, or on the internet. "Not gonna rat me out to the insurance company, are you?" she snarls. "You could've killed them all!" Luka booms, irritated. Marge scoffs that her passengers are all totally fine, because her concern about others is not nearly as large as Marge herself. Luka drags her to the window that peers into an exam room, in which Colin -- the guy she hit -- is suffering. Right as shock washes over Marge's face, Colin's sats drop and Susan screams for Luka in a totally non-sexual way.
Colin is hurting. His pressure is down. Luka wants some blood on standby for a transfusion, and Susan grumbles that she'd be fine with that if they could actually get to the blood bank. Luka pouts prettily.
Gritchy Rapscallion #72 accosts Abby and demands his due, his lot in life, his destiny: crackers. "I haven't seen any," she replies, as if that's the most innocent, normal question-and-answer in the world. The man yelps that he is plenty prepared to whoop some booty if he doesn't get some saltines. Abby escapes by entering Adam's room.
Carter explains that he's sedating Adam. The kid's upper airway is coated with smallpox lesions, and Carter is afraid to crike him because if he cuts through those lesions, it'll clog Adam's breathing even further.
Meanwhile, Susan, Luka, and Gallant diagnose Colin with a pelvic hematoma. His veins are collapsing quickly. Abby bursts in, flagrantly contaminating Colin, whose machinery bleeps in protest. She demands Luka's aid in giving Adam a surgical airway. Luka refuses to help, because Colin's innards are bathed in a sea of his own blood, so it's not quite the best time to ditch him. "What should I tell him?" panics Abby. "[To] do the best he can," Luka replies, harried.
So Abby bursts back into Adam's room and relays the bad news to Carter, who decides that he'll just go ahead and call for a surgeon to enter The Hot Zone and help out. "Get Romano," he intones. "I don't think they're letting...." Abby begins. "JUST GET HIM," bellows Carter. She does so. "How are things in the leper colony?" Romano asks cheerfully, just prior to being put on speakerphone. Carter yells that he needs to bring Adam upstairs for a tracheotomy. This from the man whose knickers wadded ferociously when Chen so much as broke a quasi-feverish sweat. Romano sensibly points out that transferring the patient will contaminate the entire building. He neglects to point out that the whole thing is more or less fucked already. "Why don't you come down here yourself?" Carter sasses. Romano wishes he could, but without his tights and logo t-shirt, he lacks the strength to move the elevator himself. Carter decides to screw it all and fill the void with just his wits, snazzy goggles, and a scalpel. He tells Abby to prep the neck. "You said a surgeon has to do this," Robin bleats. "I started out in surgery," Carter says. Robin doesn't like the sound of that. Abby loyally reassures Robin, "It means Dr. Carter can do this."
Jerry tries to distribute a case of soda to the enraged throng. "Dammit, people, we're not animals," he yells ineffectually. Ill-Tempered Scamp #12 complains of the odor and begs to open a window. Apparently, I misidentified him -- he's actually Irretrievably Stupid Ill-Tempered Scamp #436. Susan sprints through the ER, detained briefly by a woman who bitches that she can only drink diet soda and they didn't provide any of that. "A little sugar's not going to kill you," sighs Susan. Unless you're a diabetic, maybe, but Susan's far too busy exploring her own anus to think about such things.
There's blood everywhere on Adam. Robin is getting sick at the sight of all her son's blood pouring out of his throat and pooling in his collarbone. So get OUT of the TRAUMA ROOM, woman. Are they not hearing me? Am I not using enough capital letters? Carter freaks because he can't see the tracheal rings, and Abby desperately tries to suction out all the flowing blood so that Carter's view is unobstructed. But she's also bagging Adam and pumping oxygen in through his mouth, and she can't do both. So she asks Craig to get off his lazy duff and pump. Incidentally, that's exactly what Robin said the night Adam was conceived. "Pressure's dropping!" Abby yells. Carter tries desperately to complete the procedure.
Outside, Weaver deals with Colin's confused fiancée by promising to check on him as soon as she's allowed inside. We pan up to show all the emergency vehicles and news crews that have flocked to the area, and two new ones pull up. A Dr. Lutz -- presumably from the CDC or the public-health department -- leaps out and dishes out remarks like "no comment" and "no statement" and other two-word phrases that are crisis slang for "something is desperately wrong and we have no idea what to do about it, so we're going to pretend you believe that there's nothing to comment on, and we'll all go have a Coke and a smile." Weaver introduces herself as the chief of the ER and the head of County General's bioterrorism committee. Oh, please. She totally just thought that one up while poking around in Marta's bullet wound. But hey, whatever gets her inside the hospital. This tactic, however, fails. "We can only bring in necessary personnel at this point," Lutz says, pushing past Security. "This is my ER," Weaver insists emotionally. "Not anymore," Lutz says calmly. Weaver is left behind to contemplate what that might mean for her character season, and how many different pensive stares into middle distance she'll have to execute.
Adam's body is making the machines bleep loudly. Craig continues to squeeze the bag, occasionally sneaking a peek but mostly trying to stare at anything except the giant incision in his son's neck. "Bag faster," Abby urges. Carter is stressed -- he can't make the damn thing work. "Help him, please!" Robin screeches. Oh, okay. As soon as Carter's done trying to give your son the oxygen he needs in order to LIVE, I'm sure he will get off his hasn't-sat-down-all-day ass and "help." So until then, shut up or leave. Seriously, just go. Carter finally snaps and begs Abby to rip off his mask and goggles. "I can't see, I can't breathe," he panics. "Do it, do it, I don't care." Abby obliges, and Carter breathes the sweet air of death once more. "Come on, Adam," he wills his patient. Abby loses the kid's pulse. Robin wails so hard she actually turns into a banshee. Abby starts CPR. A shot of Adam's face reveals that all this bleeding and tension and hysteria has left his paper-towel pustules completely unharmed. That's some good product right there. Carter suddenly has a breakthrough, too, now that Certain Doom is circulating freely in his lungs. He completes the tracheotomy, and Adam is saved. For now. Craig casually thanks Carter and Abby. We fade to black wondering what brand of paper towel the prop department used, and whether it's tough enough to clean up whatever's hiding behind the commode.
People gather at the television set, where the news is showing photographs of the last known smallpox cases. "That's horrible," one man decides. We pan across to Susan, who is examining Jerry's mouth with a flashlight. "It's the pox, I know it," he says. Susan grimaces that it's just a cold sore, and that its origins are something she hopes will remain a special, terrifying mystery. Suddenly, with a barbaric yawp the likes of which Ethan Hawke could never duplicate, Violent Idiot #4 -- Chandler, as a matter of fact -- breaks glass in the vending machine and starts raiding it. Because absolutely no one in the ER has change for a dollar, and dammit, he spent his last dime on that Twix only to watch it get bloody well stuck on the way down. Oh, your pain is mine, friend. Alison is psyched, and the two of them frantically stock up on munchies. Susan walks over there, the very image of bored annoyance. She absolutely refuses to react to anything, I think. Ninety-two percent of her facial expressions have actually gone on strike to protest their complete lack of use. Every morning, they throw tomatoes and raw eggs at her. "That is completely illegal," Susan sighs, picking her teeth and yawning. More or less. Alison quotes a Latin phrase that Chandler translates as "Necessity has no laws."
Pratt reclines in his little den of quarantined love. "You are just peeing in there, right?" he calls to an off-camera Chen. "Shut up," she spits. Stan woozily complains of being thirsty, so Pratt fetches him a glass of water and manages to toss in an amused remark about whether the running droplets have sufficiently activated Chen's bladder. "No," she brats. "Shy bladder, huh?" Pratt giggles. He's wearing a sleeveless vest so that we can all see his muscles. And they're very nice. Wow, gosh gee whiz, I feel completely differently about him now that I know he's one cut mofo. Chen pleads with Stan and Pratt to start a conversation. "Not exactly like we got a lot in common," Pratt says. Chen hopefully asks whether Stan feels a song coming on, but he's feeling poorly; Pratt, therefore, picks up the slack and starts singing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," which Stan picks up in a round. The camera pans slowly back to Chen, perched behind a curtain, singing along tensely before complete euphoria passes across her face and her head lolls backward. Sweet release. We hear peeing. Because this is an adult drama, and it doesn't get more adult than an audible urine stream.
Carter happily relays to Robin that her son's oxygen levels are high. She takes this to mean that he's flying high. "For now," Carter warns her. "[He has] lesions on the inside, too, and there's risk of organ failure." Robin figures Carter can prevent that, and Carter just looks at her in quiet fatigue before vowing to watch Adam very closely to predict any problems before they occur. Robin exhales shakily. She's also pretty beat, and Carter notices. "How are you holding up?" he asks gently. She's not sure. "How about your husband?" he presses. Robin stiffens. You can feel the giant antelope inching its way back up the anal canal. "I don't know," she sniffs. "Why don't you ask him?" This bothers Carter, who fixes her with one more long look before exiting the room into Trauma Yellow....
...where Carter finds Abby poring through a thick medical tome. He perches to her on the table. "The good news is, it's not the hemorrhagic form, which is 98% fatal," Abby says with little real relief. Carter's expression matches Abby's tone. He tears off his gloves and rubs his face, while Abby rests her chin in her hands. "Do you think it would've made a difference?" she asks, worried. "If I'd gotten to them sooner?" Carter meets her gaze. "Probably not," he says sincerely. A lot of people crucified Abby for that on the forums, but I think it's a completely natural reaction for her, and for anyone, to worry that she's worsened an already horrific situation. It's not so much her being selfish as her being a normal thinking, feeling human. Then again, speaking of Abby's humanity, if she's a huge off-the-wagon alkie, why isn't she jonesing for booze in a more noticeable way? I mean, she's handling this like a complete carefree, vice-free girl. I'd love to see a promo for a Very Special Episode in which Abby deals with the deadly grip of a nic fit. Gallant interrupts my thoughts by poking his head into the decontamination chamber -- which is now contaminated, thanks to Carter -- and telling Abby that Susan needs her help. So now Abby is at a higher risk, and she's about to spread that. Just before she does so, though, she hops down from the table and says, "Really nice save, Carter." They hold each other's stare for a second before she toddles off to answer Susan's call.
"Do you know what she wants?" Abby asks. Gallant shrugs that it's something to do with a vaccine clinic. "What does that have to do with me?" Abby snips. "I guess you're doing it," Gallant says. He bends down to take a drink at a nearby fountain, but pauses when Chen screeches out the door that she needs some Ativan immediately.
We cut into the Quarantine Chamber of the Worst Threesome Fantasy Ever. Stan is laid up on a bed while Pratt and Chen work away at trying to revive him. "He needs a drink," Pratt mutters. Chen scolds that Stan's having a very serious alcohol withdrawal seizure. "Like I said, he needs a drink," Pratt repeats. Don't we all. Pratt, concerned with giving Stan the best patient care possible, has stripped himself of that itchy, constricting sweater vest in favor of performing the procedure in his wife-beater. This gives him a better work-to-muscle-twitch ratio, thereby dramatically increasing the chance that viewers will suddenly love him, and in turn that the Powers That Be will boost his salary. But, Pratt, we're not that easy. Come back when you have an accent and can deliver complex monologues in an otherwise brittle foreign language. Then we'll mate.
Gallant pokes his head around the door -- holding a mask to his mouth and nose this time, despite having felt that wasn't necessary when dipping into Trauma Yellow to chat with the folks working on the really nasty outbreak. Sweet Gallant isn't the most powerful ship in the armada. He tosses the Ativan to Pratt just as Chen successfully inserts a central line into Stan; as Stan twitches and quivers, Chen yells, "Stan, dammit, you're not dying in here, you hear me?" Stan obediently stops convulsing. "Guess he heard you," Pratt grins. "Sats are up." Well, that was easy. The exhausted, feverish doctors collapse on opposite beds and get fetal.
Abby, Lutz, and Torres watch an instructional video on administering the smallpox vaccine. It involves pricking the skin fifteen times in a perfectly perpendicular fashion, within the same five-millimeter diameter. I knew the metric system would be this show's downfall. Susan appears to ask if they have enough space; before she can continue, a small faction of the larger (but sans Marge) angry mob storms into the room. "We took a vote," Idiotic Thug #24 booms. "They told us if we get the shot, we don't get sick," adds his cohort, Doofus Prickball #7. "We're ready." Susan politely explains that she can't start giving out the vaccine yet, and Lutz adds that they're waiting for official confirmation that it is, in fact, smallpox. Because God forbid we should accidentally vaccinate them for something that's bound to rear its ugly head in the ten years anyway. This upsets our wee faction, and they get boisterous. "It's hot as hell, we're starving to death, and you haven't done a damn thing!" shouts Idiotic Thug. They angrily yell that they'll just casually leave and wait at home for the ER to make some solid diagnoses. Torres tries to intervene, and gets shoved for his trouble. He's even called a "jag-off" by the Doofus Prickball, who is apparently also an Uncreative Doofus Prickball. He could at least have called him something interesting, like a crustwagon or a cumrag. Think, people. And incidentally, Microsoft's dictionary thinks "cumrag" should actually be either "coma" or "courage." So close.
Susan insists that she understands their frustration, but the faction doesn't want to hear her reasons why everything must inch along at such a snail's pace. She throws up her hands and flees. Torres wants them all to relax, then struts self-importantly into the vaccination room, chuffed that he got to use his Authority Voice today. The mob is quiet. Put firmly into its place. Chagrined, even. Until one of its own discovers a spare gurney and concocts the brilliant scheme of using it as a battering ram to break out of the hospital.
Cut to members of the crowd running it down the hall, announcing their presence and their evil plan with a chorus of bellows. Clever. People flee from the gurney's path. The Battering Ram of Renegade Justice is on the move. Luka leaps in front of it to try to save the day, but unfortunately, God doesn't let people save the day if they're dressed in khaki slacks that are pulled up to their armpits. Luka's summarily flung aside. He shakes off an assailant and sprints anew after the gurney. "One, two, three!" the faction shouts, plowing the gurney at the ambulance-bay double doors. They jiggle a little, but don't do much else. The cop on the other side turns his head curiously, as if to say, "Silly rabbits. The application of force can't break anything!" The faction backs up and plows the door one more time; Luka grabs onto the free end of the gurney and tries to steer it away, but he's restrained by slightly-less-proactive- but-no-less-angry bystanders. Alison and Chandler watch with interest from their prison -- a pair of waiting-room chairs, to which they've been bound by yards of yellow police tape. Luka flings himself at the battering ram one last time, but his righteous wedgie intercedes and weakens his attempt at heroism. Luka's olive-green faux-Polo is still tucked tightly into his trousers. Who accidentally put Luka in Anthony Michael Hall's wardrobe? Was it Yosh? Because, come to think of it, Luka's look here feels an awful lot like the scene in Sixteen Candles when Grandpa describes the missing Long Duck Dong's clothing to the police, pauses, and then scoffs, "No, he's not retarded!"
Robin peers out into the hall. "What is going on out there?" she sighs, annoyed that other people are trying to usurp her moment of pain. Carter exits into the chaos, ducks, and dives behind the front desk. Jerry is already there. "Where's Abby?" Carter asks. Jerry shrugs. Carter wonders why Jerry isn't trying to stop any of the madness. Or, perhaps, why the ER only has indoor security guards at convenient times. Jerry waves his hand flippantly. "I tried," he blahs. The mob bashes the door one more time, and the door looks poised to give.
Sirens blare as more cop cars screech up to the hospital. "Something bad's happened," Haleh decides. Weaver tries calling inside, but her phone's dead. Suddenly, the cop pushes everyone across the street, claiming that this relocation is a simple safety precaution. Weaver struggles with him, but he won't budge. "Doctor, if I were you, I'd go home and be glad I didn't come in to work today," he says.
Grunting. Banging. Shoving. The gurney hits the doors again, and still they stop short of flying open. But the police tape snaps, and that's a plus. Stuff comes off the ceiling. A man is thrown behind the front desk, and Jerry wrestles him away from the scene of the banal inanity. Carter has had enough. It's time to seize the most phallic thing he can find and raise it aloft in the name of Mark, the Phallic Void That Dares Not Go Unfilled. He grabs the intercom microphone, stands on the desk, and holds it up to the speaker in the ceiling. The whiny, piercing feedback stops everyone, and they all turn to watch this lunatic who just...might...be the only sane one here. Chandler looks like he's wet himself. Possibly, he realizes that Carter -- after being so anal about quarantining people and wearing masks -- just strolled out here after exposing himself to the virus and is now possibly infecting all of them.
"This morning, a little five-year-old girl came in here with a rash that looked like smallpox," Carter begins, correctly differentiating Bree from all the very large five-year-olds with elephantitis who come in and tower over everyone. "She died quickly," he adds. "Her older brother is still critical. We don't know what it is, and we don't know how they got it, but it's here and it needs to be contained." Everyone listens. Luka looks around as if to confirm that, yes, Carter's words are magic balm soothing the souls of the oppressed. "This is not about denying your civil rights," Carter stresses. "This is about protecting you. If we let you go, you could carry the disease home to your families. So please, stay here, help us, and we'll all get through this." He gets down and hands off the microphone. Music swells, the mob cheers and hoists Carter onto its shoulders, and they win the World Series in a four-game sweep. It's luau time.
Lutz chats with the CDC while Luka, Susan, Gallant, and Torres wait expectantly. Lutz hangs up and announces that the cultures show this is a brick-shaped virus. "An orthopox?" Luka asks. "So it is smallpox," Susan infers. Lutz says it still might be something else, and that further tests must be performed before any conclusions are drawn. "Make yourselves comfortable," she says dryly. Gallant sighs. "What now?" he asks. "Well, we can watch ourselves on TV," Susan metas. They turn to watch the newscaster report a smallpox sighting at County General "in Chicago." They must be watching CNN, except it looks an awful lot like a local newscast that wouldn't, therefore, need to identify the city. Whatever.
Abby enters Trauma Yellow and says, "Fifty ccs of urine output in an hour." We presume she's referring to Adam, but the way this episode went, she might be referring to Chen. Carter and Abby commiserate about how tired and drained they are. Torres enters and delivers the news that the virus is an orthopox of an as-yet unspecified nature. "We need to limit contact," he says. "Haven't we been doing that?" Abby gapes. Torres inhales sharply and then babbles something perfunctory about what a marvelous job they're doing, and how grateful the department is for their hard work. "You're welcome," snarks Carter, aware of what's coming. Sure enough, Torres confines him and Abby to Trauma Yellow. "Why?" Carter challenges. "We're not infectious." But you've been exposed, haven't you, hence the brouhaha about removing your mask during Adam's tracheotomy? I am confused. Am I supposed to be? Abby wants Torres to give them the vaccine so that they're not quarantined and can help out elsewhere. He promises they will -- as soon as they've confirmed that it's smallpox. Carter's pretty sure it is. He hates being wrong. Torres regurgitates the party line about how it's been more than fifty years since the last documented smallpox case, so they're being extremely cautions until all the fine points are handled and everything's above board. "It won't be much longer," he lies. "Thanks, guys."
Carter and Abby gape after Torres. "How much does this suck?" Abby metas. She is so singing my tune right now. "The department would like to thank you, but we can't bring you a fan," Carter mocks. He's drenched in sweat. Concerned, Abby moves to feel his forehead, but Carter flinches and laughingly swears he's fine. She mothers him, making him sit down while she whips out a thermometer and confirms that he's okay. He won't comply. "Just stick the thermometer in your ear," she scolds, fetching an ice pack. Silence. "Today started out like a normal day," he muses, fondly and silently remembering when she doused him in fire-extinguisher powder, and how normal that is. The thermometer reads 99 degrees, so Abby is content to crack the ice pack and apply it to Carter's neck. "You're still hot," she husks. She slings the ice pack around him and holds it to the nape of his neck, while he closes his eyes and moans in delight. No joke. He does.
While Carter revels in the cold-pack treatment, Abby stares off into space. "Worst of this is over, right?" she frets. Carter raises his head and they stare at each other. Abby keeps her hands on the ice pack. "Tell me we're going to be okay," she whispers, looking less scared than flirtatious. She seriously doesn't seem bothered by any of this. Carter searches her face, then leans forward and kisses her plainly. No fireworks explode. No earth quakes. No pulses race. Some paint does peel off my wall, but that's about it. Nothing moves for a few full seconds -- not Abby, not Carter, and certainly not their lips. When Carter pulls away, Abby tilts forward slightly, as if chasing his mouth before regaining her senses. Carter slowly stands up, and Abby leaves her hands around his neck. Suddenly, Abby seems very, very small. Carter's dwarfing her with his manhood. He's filling the Mark void by sending us down the path of another chemistry-free pairing. Except this one had some promise, right up until Noah Wyle was required to use his tongue and feebly declined AGAIN. "We're going to be okay," Carter repeats twice before leaning in for more. Maura Tierney looks suddenly very frightened, as if knows a terrible secret about Noah Wyle's oral hygiene. They kiss again, this one blocked as if it has more intensity, but in actuality it's as lackluster as the first. I swear to God, Carter, PUT YOUR FUCKING TONGUE IN HER MOUTH. You won't regret it. It's not just for licking stamps any more. And don't try to pretend that you're worried about giving her smallpox, because baby, that's not your problem here. Still, Abby leans in against him and slides her hand down his arm, "melting" into the "kiss" as if she's enjoying it. Which she might be, if she wasn't kissing a piece of wood wearing Carter's clothing.
We fade to a four-month-long blackness as we wonder why all relationships on this show have the chemistry of bacon and shoe leather.
Thanks for a fun season, everyone. See you in September.