Pandemic (The Extinction Files Book 1)

by A. G. Riddle

  Millen had clicked the next headline.

  World Goes Into Lockdown as Two Separate Outbreaks Spread

  Though the WHO has stopped providing estimates on the number of X1 cases, experts project that at least 50 million, and possibly many more, are already infected worldwide. Nations around the world are resorting to drastic measures.

  The UK announced this morning that it would close its borders. Germany, France, Italy, and Russia quickly followed suit.

  Perhaps the most alarming and mysterious aspect of the X1 outbreak is the virus’s seemingly unlimited reach. Cases have been reported aboard military vessels on long-term deployment, in remote villages, and on cruise ships with little outside contact.

  The most deadly outbreak, centered around Kenya, has also finally forced the world’s hand. The Ebola-like disease, currently called the Mandera virus, has killed thousands thus far. Infection rates are not known. In hopes of containing the epidemic, an unprecedented alliance of Western and Eastern powers, including the US, UK, France, China, Japan, Australia, and India, has announced a full-scale blockade of all East African ports—from the Red Sea to South Africa.

  Details of how the blockade would be carried out were not immediately available.

  Despite an hour of searching, Millen hadn’t found the news he was looking for: an update on the search for the missing CDC and WHO workers, especially Dr. Shaw and Hannah. It seemed their abduction had been forgotten in the chaos sweeping the world.

  He had awoken Saturday morning to find Elim again walking around the tent complex, giving it his all. Dhamiria held his arm. They were both smiling and laughing. Their conversation was in Swahili, and although Millen couldn’t understand it, their body language told him everything he needed to know.

  He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. If the headlines from the previous night had told him anything, it was that tender moments and simple pleasures would be hard to come by in the days ahead.

  Later on Saturday, Millen had searched the headlines again:

  Kenya Burns as Ebola-Like Virus Spreads

  Rioting overnight gripped Kenya’s largest cities as crowds demanded that the faltering government act to combat the mounting death toll from the Mandera virus. The death count from the fires and fighting in Nairobi, Mombasa, and Garissa is unavailable at this time, but sources within the Ministry of Health estimate that over 40 thousand have died from the virus, and many more are infected.

  The crisis in Kenya’s largest cities caused an exodus as residents…

  Millen scrolled through the pictures. Bonfires at intersections. Overturned cars. Mobs pressing against police in riot gear. He decided not to show them to Elim or the villagers. They were having a good day—a day he didn’t want to ruin. Elim was learning to walk again. The four Africans were living proof that the virus could be survived. It almost felt like the whole world wasn’t falling apart.

  Millen felt hope. And a reason for faith.

  Elim had grown stronger with each session of his makeshift rehabilitation program. His naps grew shorter, and he walked on legs more sure and firm. After dinner on Saturday, he took Millen aside for a conversation the younger man had been expecting.

  “I’d like to talk with you about what happens when the plane arrives tomorrow,” Elim said.

  Millen wanted to spare the man from having to ask the question. “If she wants to stay, she should.”

  “She does,” Elim replied. “However, she’s made a commitment. An important one. Finding a cure is vital.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Millen said. “If we take enough samples from you and her, we should be fine.” He paused. “Or, there is another option.”

  Elim raised his eyebrows.

  “Come with us.”

  Elim shook his head. “My place is here. Now more than ever. My country needs me.”

  Millen was packed and ready when the call came on Sunday.

  “Dr. Thomas, we’re on approach to the Mandera airport.”

  “We’ll be there,” Millen said.

  At the airport, he led the two young villagers into the private plane, then returned to the SUV, where Elim sat behind the wheel, Dhamiria in the passenger seat.

  “Where will you go?” Millen asked.

  “Wherever we’re needed,” Elim said. “We’ll head south and take it from there.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I hope your friends and colleagues are returned safely, Millen.”

  “Me too.”

  A few minutes later, the plane lifted off. Millen gazed out the window at the deserted airport. It had been bustling when he arrived last week. Now it was dead—like the charred remnants of a bomb test in the desert. He wondered what he’d find in America. If the news was any indication, a lot of people were infected, and their fate might be the same as that of the residents of Mandera. He couldn’t let that happen. He hoped he was bringing home the key to finding a treatment.

  Chapter 56

  On Sunday morning in Atlanta, Elliott waited for the event he believed would change America forever. The news gave no clues of it. The people he called had heard nothing.

  The first hints had leaked the day before across social media. All military personnel, including the National Guard, were called in to their nearest base or a designated rally point. Staff at hospitals, as well as police, fire, and EMT workers, were also called in.

  Those without symptoms of the respiratory virus known as X1 were instructed to report first. Those who were sick were to arrive three hours later.

  The first responders called and texted their family and friends to say that they were being deployed for an emergency preparedness drill and wouldn’t be home for several days. Some noted that they wouldn’t have phone or internet access during the drill.

  Elliott had expected his phone to ring. He was not only a physician and an epidemiologist, but a rear admiral in the Public Health Service’s Commissioned Corps. He was also a CDC employee; or he had been. His employment situation since he had leaked information about Peyton’s abduction to the news hadn’t been made clear. He was certain that he should be on the critical personnel list; perhaps multiple lists. But the call never came. His name had been deleted.

  He didn’t have to guess who had done it; he knew. And he had never been so angry in his entire life. For someone to play politics at a time like this, to pursue a vendetta against him when he could save lives, was unthinkable. But there was nothing he could do about it, and that bothered him even more.

  The remainder of Saturday had passed without event. In the family room, Elliott sat in the recliner, Rose in a pull-up chair beside him. Her symptoms were worse today. The cough was nearly incessant, though she suppressed it, and she left the room when it wouldn’t relent. Ryan and Sam were upstairs in the bonus room playing with their son, Adam. To all outward appearances it was the perfect Saturday after Thanksgiving: college football on TV (Elliott’s alma mater, Michigan, was playing Ohio State), their grandson playing, the entire family together under one roof.

  Elliott wondered how long the five-year-old’s childhood would last. Would it be measured in days, weeks? He knew what was coming. He feared it—for himself and for Rose, but most of all for his son, his daughter-in-law, and his grandson.

  Elliott watched the TV, wincing whenever news reports came on. Retailers were reporting record traffic at brick and mortar stores on Black Friday. Their stocks had taken a beating during the market’s short session on Friday, and they were no doubt hoping to prop up investor confidence for the market opening on Monday.

  Up and down Elliott’s street, parcels sat on nearly every doorstep, thanks to Saturday and now Sunday delivery. Neighbors shuffled outside in pajamas, coughing as they carried the boxes inside.

  The event Elliott had been waiting for happened at noon on Sunday.

  Cell phones began issuing a shrill alarm, similar to an Amber Alert or Severe Weather Bulletin. But this message was neither of those. It instructed
the phone’s owner to click a link or turn on their TV.

  A minute later, Elliott and his family sat in front of their TV, listening as the president spoke from his desk in the Oval Office.

  “My fellow Americans, today our nation faces a new kind of threat. First, I want you to know that we are prepared for this threat. We have a plan, and we are executing that plan. I’m speaking to you now because that plan will impact you and your loved ones. We will also need your help. Your fellow Americans will need your help.

  “Departments at the state and federal level have been closely monitoring X1, the low-intensity flu-like virus currently affecting millions of Americans. We have decided that X1 cases have grown to the point that they represent a danger to our nation. Therefore, I have activated a program called BioShield. BioShield is meant to do one thing: protect you and your family during this time.

  “Before I outline the steps we’re taking, I want to first assure you that these measures are temporary. They are also born out of an abundance of caution, and a desire to ensure that every American receives adequate care.”

  Elliott listened as the president detailed the BioShield program. As he’d expected, a state of emergency was declared, including martial law and a nationwide curfew beginning daily at six p.m. Every American was instructed to go home and stay there immediately following the announcement. Homeless individuals were required to report to the nearest shelter or subway, where transportation would be arranged for them.

  A combination of National Guard, military, and FEMA personnel cordoned off every major city. Checkpoints were established on every interstate and major road. Air, rail, and bus traffic ceased. Anyone outside a cordon zone would be directed to a series of shelters set up in rural areas at schools, sports arenas, and courthouses.

  The federal government also temporarily nationalized every company in key industries: telecommunications, internet hosting, shipping and logistics, power and energy, and health care.

  Around two p.m., school buses arrived on Elliott’s street. Anyone with symptoms of the X1 virus was instructed to get on. It was a bizarre scene, the convoy of buses loading up coughing adults, teens, and children on a Sunday.

  In his address, the president had warned that anyone who didn’t get on the bus would not be registered for essential services. In the coming days, the National Guard and military would be distributing food and transporting sick individuals to care centers. Anyone who refused to register would be denied food and medical care—and more, they would be detained and placed in a low-priority quarantine zone, a prison with only basic services. It could be a death sentence.

  Elliott stood at the front door, peering through the glass. The half-empty bus stopped outside their home, and the doors swung open.

  At his side, Rose held his arm. She whispered, keeping her voice too quiet for their son and grandson to hear.

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “We have to, darling.”

  Elliott turned to his son, who stood a safe distance away. He tried to sound casual, as if they were just going out for a movie. “We should be back in a few hours.”

  Ryan didn’t buy it. “Don’t go.”

  “They’re just trying to get a head count. They need to figure out what they’re dealing with. We’ll be right back.”

  Standing in line to get on the bus, Elliott could smell the chlorine wafting through its open doors. He made eye contact with several of his neighbors—those he had enlisted in his plan. Their expressions said, You were right.

  He was sorry that he was.

  The bus driver stood at the top of the stairs yelling for everyone to bring their cell phones with them, that if they didn’t bring their phones, they might not be able to get medical care and food in the future. Several people broke from the line and ran home for their phones.

  The seats were still damp from the germ-killing chemical mix applied to them, but Elliott and Rose sat anyway. He put his arm around her, trying to keep her warm in the late November chill.

  The roads were empty. The bus joined a convoy of other buses that barreled through Atlanta, past parked cars and empty sidewalks where bits of trash tumbled in the wind. Parked police cars with flashing lights blocked them from taking any other route. Police in riot gear lined the streets, yelling and pointing at anyone on foot. It was a bizarre tour of a city on lockdown, a city that a few hours ago had been free—and was now something very different.

  After a few turns, Elliott knew where they were headed.

  The FEMA tents outside the Georgia Dome confirmed his suspicion. The facility, home to the Atlanta Falcons football team, had been the largest domed stadium in the world when it first opened in 1992. It still ranked third.

  It was also, however, no longer state-of-the-art. For that reason alone, the city was erecting a shiny new high-tech stadium right across the street—aptly dubbed the Mercedes-Benz Stadium. It was due to open in the next year.

  Elliott would have expected the towering cranes to be still on a Sunday afternoon, but they were working feverishly, hoisting up parts of the stadium’s retractable roof. It appeared they were trying to finish it, and quickly.

  In so many ways, downtown Atlanta was the perfect place to conduct a quarantine. With Phillips Arena across the street, the authorities had three large stadiums in which to separate the population. Elliott imagined FEMA tents covering Centennial Olympic Park nearby, operations stations and administrative quarters set up in the Omni Hotel, and a command center at the CNN Center. The massive covered parking decks in the area were perfect for staging supplies. And if it was needed, the Georgia World Congress Center—the third largest convention center in the US, with nearly four million square feet of floor space—was also near, as were the Georgia Aquarium and the College Football Hall of Fame.

  Ahead, a figure wearing a positive pressure personnel suit, or space suit, stood outside a FEMA tent directing traffic. It was unnerving to see someone wearing the suit in downtown Atlanta.

  The line moved slowly, the buses ahead releasing their passengers in waves that flowed out until they were empty. When Elliott and Rose’s bus came to a stop, along with six others, seven suited figures emerged from the tent and entered the buses. The man who entered Elliott’s bus wore army fatigues under his suit—Elliott could see the top of his uniform inside the helmet.

  In front of the FEMA tent, a man held up a red flag.

  The man at the front of the bus spoke via a speaker, giving his voice an unnerving, Darth Vader-like tone. “If you have been infected for seven days or more, please raise your hand.”

  A few hands went up slowly. The suited man’s eyes darted across the bus, seeming to mark the people in his mind. He squinted as if something was wrong.

  “Please, this is important. We need to know how long you’ve been infected to give you proper care. If you had a cough or were sneezing last Sunday, raise your hand now. This is very important.”

  That’s odd, Elliott thought. A few more hands went up.

  From his peripheral vision, he saw Rose raise her hand.

  He was about to stop her, but the suited figure had already seen her hand go up.

  Outside, the man by the tent lowered the red flag, as if calling for the start of a race.

  “Okay, if your hand is raised, stand up and exit the bus. They’ll direct you outside.”

  Elliott saw fear in Rose’s eyes. The suited figure remained at the front of the bus, watching, making sure everyone who had raised their hand disembarked.

  Elliott stood in his seat. “Can you tell us—”

  “Sir, please sit down.”

  “I just want to know—”

  “Sir, your questions will be answered inside. If you don’t sit back down I’ll have you removed and placed in quarantine.”

  Elliott sank back down into his seat.

  To Rose, the suited figure said, “Ma’am, please come forward.”

  She stared at Elliott.

  He gave her his bravest fa
ce. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Go ahead.”

  Outside the bus, the entire cohort was ushered into the Georgia Dome.

  When the last person cleared the FEMA tent, the figure outside raised a yellow flag.

  The suited soldier spoke again.

  “If you are over sixty years of age, or if you are unable to walk without assistance, please raise your hand.”

  Elliott was sixty-three, and he didn’t look especially young; his time at the CDC had been rough on his body. But he kept his hand down. For her sake.

  The soldier eyed him with blatant suspicion.

  Elliott shrugged.

  “I’ve got a stressful job. It ages you.”

  The man shook his head but let Elliott keep his seat.

  When the over-sixty cohort had exited, the soldier left without another word. The suited figure outside held up a green flag, and to Elliott’s surprise, the bus pulled away.

  His head turned, and he stared past the white FEMA tents and the suited individuals milling around. His eyes were fixed on the entrance to the Georgia Dome, where Rose had gone in. Where he feared she might never come out.

  The bus stopped at a giant parking deck. The doors opened, and the driver yelled for everyone to get off.

  The passengers filed out, bewildered looks on their faces.

  A woman in a space suit directed everyone to take the stairwell to level five. The people walked past her in silence, but inside the stairwell, whispers erupted, frightened voices asking questions.

  Why one week? Are those people going to die?

  They’re not going to let us go home. I knew it!

  We should run now.

  A booming voice from the landing above silenced the chorus.

  “Keep moving.”

  A suited man leaned over the rail, his muscular, unsmiling face ominous behind the helmet.