Pandemic (The Extinction Files Book 1)

by A. G. Riddle

  Outside the lab, with his suit still on, Millen waded into the chemical shower that lasted three minutes. After doffing the suit, he showered his body, which was covered in sweat, and changed back into his clothes in the locker room.

  Many of the offices in the building had been converted to bedrooms where staffers like Millen now lived. He wondered how long they’d be there. Everyone at CDC headquarters was stressed and sleep deprived, but also incredibly focused. They all knew that the next few days would determine the fate of the world. For those like Millen, who had seen firsthand what the X1-Mandera virus could do, there was an added sense of urgency.

  Everyone working and living in the building had tested negative for the X1-Mandera virus. Some were CDC employees, but the vast majority had been assembled from the Department of Defense, Department of Health and Human Services, Homeland Security, and FEMA. There were a lot of new faces, and the place was chaos most of the time, but Millen was glad for the work. It kept his mind off Hannah—a little anyway. It was a losing battle though. He constantly came up with scenarios in which she was still alive. He imagined her escaping whoever had raided the village. Or that her captors had fallen sick, and now, being a physician, she was in charge; they needed her, couldn’t kill her. Above all else, Millen wished he could turn back the clock and take her with him that morning when he went to the cave. Or at least say a proper goodbye.

  He pushed the thoughts out of his mind as he entered the Emergency Operations Center. He needed to be focused for his shift. He signed in and walked past the giant screen that displayed all the cordon zones across the US. Real-time stats displayed requests for supplies and personnel.

  Not a single operator sat idle; a hundred conversations were going at once. They all began with, “BioShield Ops.”

  A shift supervisor was rerouting a transfer truck full of medical supplies from the cordon in Durham, North Carolina to the one in Cary.

  Riots had broken out in San Antonio; troops were being sent from Austin, and the CDC was routing additional medical staff with proper training.

  Near Tulsa, a barge carrying oral rehydration salts had sunk.

  In the conference room, the other shift supervisors were gathering for the mandatory meeting that took place an hour before their shift began. Millen braced himself for the updates; they were usually bad news. He sat down in one of the rolling leather chairs and waited.

  Days ago, he’d watched Doctors Shaw and Shapiro attend a meeting in the same conference room. He had sat in the auditorium then, watching the people at the long conference table discuss decisions that would affect thousands, possibly millions, of lives. Now he was in the same position, literally. The weight of the responsibility was daunting, but there was nowhere he’d rather be.

  The head of watch strode in and closed the door. His name was Phillip Stevens, and he was a senior epidemiologist at the CDC who had also been deployed to Kenya. Phil had led the contingent assigned to investigate the Mandera airport. His group had been evacuated after Millen’s team was attacked. He was tall, with short blond hair, and didn’t beat around the bush or mince words. Millen liked him.

  “Okay, I’ve got some important updates. First, we’re adding six new supervisors.” He pointed to the video camera at the back of the room. “Like each of you, they’ll have twelve operators. Their folks will work in the auditorium. IT has worked double-time to get it set up. That should ease some of the excess call volume.

  “Last watch recorded a sharp increase in X1-Mandera fatalities.” Stevens glanced at a page. “New York, Seattle, San Francisco, Chicago, and DC all report over four thousand deaths each. All told, at cordon sites nationwide, we saw over sixty thousand deaths in the past eight hours. There were only twelve thousand deaths during the shift before that. So we’re looking at the start of a potentially rapidly increasing fatality rate.”

  Stevens paused. “That, in addition to what I’m about to show you, requires us to change our current approach. In thirty minutes, at your own pre-shift meetings, you’re going to brief your staff on this decision. It may be the hardest conversation you’ll ever have to have. Some may refuse to carry out our orders. There’s a plan for that. The worst part is, you can’t tell them the full truth about why we’re doing what we’re about to do.

  “The truth is this: we have suspected for several days that the X1-Mandera pandemic was an act of bioterrorism. We know now that it was. We know who did it, and we know what they want.”

  Chapter 86

  Elliott stood in his study, watching the BioShield convoy creep down the street. They usually came every afternoon and distributed food and medicine. Today they were early, and they weren’t distributing food. They were taking people with them, loading them on yellow school buses as they had before. The National Guard, Army, Navy, Marine, and Air Force troops studied tablets outside the buses. They were apparently immune—they didn’t wear space suits, and they displayed no caution as they herded the people onto the bus, often touching and shoving them. Their warm breath came out in clouds of white steam as they worked.

  Methodically, they moved down the street. Families weren’t taken together; they picked members seemingly at random. A father in his forties; a mother with gray-streaked dark hair who was slightly older than the man; a teenage girl; twin boys who were no older than twelve.

  Elliott tried to see some pattern in it, but couldn’t. Had the genome sequencing revealed something? Were these people potential carriers of antibodies that might fight the virus? He wanted to be hopeful about what was happening, but he was far too rational to believe it.

  Sam and Adam were still in the basement. They had been rounded up along with Ryan after Elliott and Rose had been taken. Only Sam and Adam had come back. Adam had developed a fever yesterday. He was infected, and Elliott feared that soon Sam would be too. They were all doing their best to maintain a quarantine in the home, but he doubted it would be enough to protect her.

  The virus ebbed and flowed. For a few hours, Elliott would feel fine, or at least well enough to function, then it would hit him, overwhelming him and forcing him to lie down and rest until the fever and coughing passed. At the moment he felt pretty good—except for his nervousness.

  He checked his cell phone. He had completed every one of the daily surveys on the Rook Quantum Sciences operating system. He’d had to: the phone beeped and buzzed incessantly until he filled them out. But there had been no survey today. What did it mean? And where were they taking everyone?

  At the Dadaab refugee camp in Kenya, Elim Kibet sat in his office, listening to an official from the Ministry of Health. The man was sick. Elim thought he would probably die within five days. He coughed violently, and Elim stood, came around the desk, and offered him a bottle of ORS.

  The man waved him off. “It’s wasted on me.” He stared with bloodshot eyes tinted yellow from the jaundice. “Will you do it, Elim?”

  Elim leaned against the desk. “I will try. But it’s their choice.”

  “That’s all we ask.”

  “Will you stay?”

  The sick man shook his head. “I must travel on.”

  “And die by the road?”

  “If I must. I am dead either way. I will not lie here and wait for it.”

  Elim didn’t blame him. He had felt the same way; it was why he had gotten up from his hospital bed in Mandera.

  He showed the man out, watched him climb into his four-wheel drive and turn back onto Habaswein-Dadaab Road.

  Elim made his way into the Ifo II camp, which held all the surviving refugees. Three fires burned, the flames smaller than they had been. This morning, the camp-wide count had revealed 14,289 survivors. When the outbreak began, 287,423 people had lived in the camps; he had found the earlier counts in the camps’ records. The loss of life was staggering. And he was about to ask these people to see a lot more of it.

  He asked one of the armed men to gather the camp’s residents—at least, everyone able to rise from their beds—then he s
et about trying to find a bullhorn. It took almost an hour to get everyone assembled, but when they were ready, Elim climbed to the top of a box truck and stared out at the crowd that stretched across the rocky desert landscape.

  “My name is Elim Kibet. I am a doctor, and a Kenyan citizen. I was born in this country and educated here. I’ve worked here all my life.

  “Like many of you, I grew up in a small village. My parents were poor, and many nights we didn’t have enough to eat. Thanks to this nation’s generosity, I got an education. I served the people in my community as best I could. Fate led me here, to help you.

  “I know many of you are not natives of Kenya. You are refugees from neighboring countries. This nation took you in when you were in need, fed you, kept you safe, and put a roof over your head. Now the people of our nation need your help. We are the ones who are starving and dying. We are in need, and you can help.

  “Our government is not perfect. I have taken issue with much of what they have done in recent years. But its people—the people who payed the taxes that sent me to school, who fed and housed you and your family—those people are now depending on us. The government in Nairobi has collapsed. People are dying, not just from the virus, but from starvation and secondary infections.

  “Right now, Kenya’s survivors are scattered. That makes them vulnerable to armies large and small. War and famine may be the next enemies we face. To defeat them, we must come together.

  “Tomorrow morning, at dawn, I will leave for Nairobi. I will stop at every village and town along the way, gathering survivors. In Nairobi, we will save as many lives as we can. I believe it is the best hope of survival for all of us. I ask you to join me. If you remain here, I will do my best to send help back, but I can’t promise you anything. Together, I believe we have our best chance at survival. And we will save lives.

  “Meet me here, at dawn. I urge you. And I thank you.”

  Elim watched the crowd break. Many loitered to ask questions of the people who were effectively running the camp. There were no answers, no real plan other than to set out at dawn. He wondered how many would join him.

  He instructed the men to travel to Garissa, the nearest city, and bring back trucks. They would stop there first. Garissa had had roughly 140,000 residents before the outbreak—roughly half the population of the refugee camps—but Elim hoped they would find many survivors there.

  He returned to the aid agencies building, found Dhamiria, and took her by the hand. “I understand if you want to stay.”

  “You know me better than that, Elim. Wherever you go, I’ll go too.”

  In Hannah’s room, he inspected the young physician. She was stable, but the virus was advancing. Elim had been treating a secondary bacterial infection, which he was quite worried about. The gunshot wound that had gone untreated for too long was likely to blame. She needed IV antibiotics, but Elim had none to give her. She was asleep now, and he was glad; the rest was good for her.

  “Will we take her with us?” Dhamiria asked.

  “Yes. It’s her only chance.”

  Elim barely slept that night. It seemed like there were a million things to do. He wrote endless notes to the nurses who would assume his duties when he departed (there were still thousands of people too sick to travel). He inventoried the supplies on hand, dividing up what would go and what would stay.

  From the window in his small office, he watched the crowd gather at the trucks. They lined up, carrying sacks and backpacks and pushing carts with their belongings. Smoke from the fires rose into the sky, forming black clouds that hung over the camp and the mood of everyone within.

  Dhamiria pushed the door open and walked to Elim’s side. “They’ve loaded her up.”

  He nodded and rose. “Are you sure?”

  She kissed him and squeezed his hand. “Let’s go.”

  Outside, Elim surveyed the crowd. It was amazing: over half the people who had gathered yesterday were here. Elim guessed there were four thousand people standing ready to join him.

  To the nearest driver, he said, “We’re going to need more trucks.”

  Chapter 87

  In the conference room at the CDC’s Emergency Operations Center, Millen and the other shift supervisors listened as Phil Stevens stood before the large flat screen and briefed them.

  “Two hours ago, the United States government, as well as governments around the world, were contacted by an organization that calls themselves ‘the Citium.’ The heads of watch were briefed an hour ago. We requested, and were granted, permission to play this message the White House received.”

  Stevens sat and worked the touchpad on his laptop. A recording began playing over the conference room’s speakers.

  “The Citium is a group of scientists and intellectuals dedicated to improving human existence through science. We have watched in horror as the X1-Mandera pandemic has decimated the world. We can stand by no longer. We have developed a cure for the virus—an antiviral that we have tested and used to cure thousands in our trials. We offer that cure to you and your citizens.

  “In return, we ask only that steps are taken to ensure a similar global catastrophe never occurs again, and that other threats to humanity are removed. We seek a world with no militaries, no borders, no discrimination, and where every human is treated with decency and fairness. We are committed to this world; in fact, we demand it.

  “In return for doses of X1-Mandera antivirals, we require that you take the following actions. Your congress or parliament will pass a law that places all government agencies and functions under the direction of an international oversight board called the Looking Glass Commission. The law will also place the power grid and internet under the commission’s control. You will use the Rook Quantum Sciences application to allow your population to vote directly on the law, referendum, or constitutional amendment—whatever your system of government requires. It will be your job to persuade your population to approve and ratify the law.

  “If you enact the Looking Glass laws, our first task will be to distribute the cure.

  “Some governments may reject our help. Others will join us in creating the world humanity deserves. If you or your population deny our help, millions will die needlessly. We don’t want that. We hope you join us. We look forward to working with you to create a better world for all of us.”

  The recording ended, and Stevens stood. “This group, the Citium, doesn’t explicitly take credit for releasing the virus, but we all know antivirals take longer than a week to develop—and even longer to mass-produce.”

  Millen spoke: “How did the White House respond?”

  “They asked for a sample of the cure. That request was denied.”

  “They assume we might try to reverse engineer it.”

  “Correct,” Stevens said. “The White House then insisted they wouldn’t agree to the terms without a demonstration of the cure’s effectiveness. I’m told that demonstration is to occur within the hour.”

  That shocked Millen. “So they’re going to agree to the terms? Hand over the government, military, internet, power grid—everything to these terrorists?”

  “No. We’re going to fight. The White House is hoping to glean clues about the cure and possibly where it’s being stored. The demonstration is an intelligence-gathering opportunity.”

  Another shift supervisor spoke—a slim black woman with graying hair who had worked in the EOC since before Millen joined EIS. “What are other governments doing?”

  “The UK, Australia, Canada, Germany, Japan, and Russia have all committed to fight the Citium to the very end. France and Greece have made no comment. We believe both nations have already surrendered.”

  The conference room fell silent. Millen felt that the entire situation had changed now. War? On top of the pandemic? It was unthinkable. He wondered what would be left of the human race when this was over. And what kind of world they would inherit.

  Stevens took a deep breath. “The US is reaching out to China, India,
Indonesia, Brazil, Pakistan, and Bangladesh. Roughly half the world’s population lives in those six countries. If India or China join the Citium, or even if a few smaller nations join, the die will be cast. They’ll have overwhelming numbers in a war.”

  “We have superior weaponry,” a supervisor said.

  “And very soon,” Stevens said, “we’ll have almost no one trained to use it.”

  Millen knew where this was going. The other supervisors seemed to sense it too. They waited for Stevens to continue.

  “As such, the White House has ordered the CDC and all agencies under the BioShield command to begin preparing for the possibility of a conventional war here on American soil.”

  “Preparing how?” Millen asked.

  “As we speak, BioShield forces are collecting individuals believed to have a high probability of surviving. Going forward, resources will be allocated only to these individuals.”

  Millen couldn’t believe it. “And what about everyone else?”

  Stevens stood staring at the shift supervisors. “This is the reality we face. If we can’t field an army, the United States will soon cease to exist. If we accept the cure, the United States will effectively be conquered by the Citium.”

  Millen thought about his mother and father in Cleveland. He knew they were inside the cordon there. Neither was in a critical job role.

  “What about our families?”

  “They’re on the list. Everyone’s immediate family members—spouses and children, parents, siblings, and siblings’ spouses and children—are on the list.”

  So they had thought of that too.

  “What I just told you was very hard for me to hear an hour ago. I know it’s just as hard for you to hear now—and it will be even harder for you to explain it to the operators working under you. If you don’t think you can do that or carry out the orders that are about to be given to you, I need to know before you leave this room.”