A Pandemic is Made
At Community Hospital’s emergency room, there was a different struggle. Dr. Charity Simpson charted the latest stats of a gravely ill patient and kept a vigilant watch in the room filled with the continuous beeping of monitors. At once, the rhythmic tones stopped, replaced by one long, loud hum.
“I’ve got a code!” yelled Dr. Simpson. The room exploded with activity as doctors and nurses worked to save the dying patient. “Clear!” Dr. Simpson pressed the paddles of the defibrillator to the patient’s chest. Again and again, she tried to resuscitate the patient. As time passed, the staff knew what had to happen, but no one could seem to speak the words they all knew Dr. Simpson needed to hear. Finally, the silence was broken. A good friend and confidant, Dr. Sam Thomas, spoke out.
“Charity, Charity, it's no good,” he said.
Dr. Simpson was reluctant but then relinquished the paddles, facing the reality that she had lost another patient. Lately, she had had about all that she could take. When did this get to be so hard? All of this seemed so far from the days, helping her father in his small family practice. As a girl, she remembered draping her father’s large stethoscope around her neck, checking every patient she could find, even if that meant tending the neighborhood cats and dogs. She knew this was more than “playing doctor”; she would someday be a doctor.
She had accomplished her dream of working in the emergency room at a large metropolitan hospital, the real battleground of healthcare, a place where she could make a difference. Someday, in a far-off future, she would trade it all in for the picket fence, small practice, and hopefully a family, but for now, this was her life. However, “life” was taking its toll.
Professionalism went out the window as Dr. Simpson, tears flowing down her checks, retreated from the room. She made it to the employee lounge before a complete emotional breakdown. Upon entering the room, she threw her stethoscope on the table and kicked off her shoes. As she was getting a cold drink, Dr. Thomas arrived, hoping to console her.
Acknowledging her friend’s presence, “I’m tired of losing patients, Sam,” she said. I’m tired of people dying, and I don’t even know what’s killing them.”
Not knowing how to comfort her, Dr. Thomas remained silent, looking down at the floor. Before he could find the words to say, hospital pathologist, Phil Wannamaker, joined the two. Phil was known for his tenacity. If anyone could get to the bottom of what was causing this mysterious illness, it was Phil.
“I’ve got some results I want you to look at,” he said.
“What is it?” asked Dr. Simpson.
“I can’t tell you; I need to show you.” The three went to Phil’s lab, where he had a microscope set up with a prepared slide. “Take a look,” said Phil, pointing to the lens.
Dr. Simpson walked over, leaned down, and looked into the eyepiece. “I see the blood cells, but what is this other sample in the corner?” she asked.
“Blood cells,” said Phil.
“Those don't look like any blood cells that I’ve ever seen.”
“Exactly.”
“I don't understand.”
“The entire sample is from the same blood from the same patient.”
“But that doesn't make any sense; the samples don't match.”
Phil reached over to change the slide in the microscope. “Here look at this,” he said.
Dr. Simpson once again looked through the eyepiece. “Well, everything in this sample matches, but what is it?” she asked.
“Blood cells, or at least they used to be.”
“Okay, what are you trying to say?” asked the doctor.
“The last sample was from a patient who died. The first is from a patient that is still alive, but very sick. It would appear that as the disease progresses, the very structure, the DNA of the body's cells change. Once the metamorphosis is complete, life can’t be sustained; in other words, death occurs.”
“What's causing this?”
“That I can’t tell you.,” responded Phil.
“Make this your priority. We need answers.”
Chapter 5
We the People
It was another day on Capitol Hill, where deals too often were brokered far from the congressional chambers. However, one man, Congressman Jack Landon, hoped to stand his ground for a fight he believed was as important as the right to breathe air. Nevertheless, a more seasoned congressman waited, hoping to humiliate the fresh-faced representative in front of his colleagues, silencing his “arrogant” dissension forever.
“What kind of voodoo are you going to talk to us about today, Congressman Landon?” asked the older gentleman, patronization in his voice.
“It's not voodoo, it's called research. It just might save your life,” said Congressman Landon
“Some might call it propaganda.”
Ignoring the man, Congressman Landon continued to the front to testify before his fellow political leaders. At the podium, “I think we have to ask ourselves, have we strayed too far from the intent of our founding fathers?”
Before the congressman could continue his address, another member interrupted. He hoped to cut short the words from the freshman representative and echoed the same sentiment and snobbish demeanor as did the senior member previously.
“We've heard all this before,” said a congressman by the name of Bill Joste. He was a third generation of Jostes to make it to the governing halls of Washington. “Without some new argument, I say we are just wasting our time. I move we take a vote right now.” He hammered his fist on the table in front of him.
Frustration visibly starting to take hold, Congressman Landon turned to address the leader of the congressional body. “Madame Speaker, I haven't gotten to adequately present my argument to support an amendment to the government food bill.”
“Congressman Landon, I tend to agree with Congressman Joste. Unless you have some new information for us, I think it is time we took a vote,” responded the speaker.
“With all due respect Madam Speaker, I think the body needs to hear the rationale behind this amendment. This would give citizens a voice in a fundamental right that I feel is guaranteed in the constitution — the right to choose what kind of food they want to eat, to be able to grow their own food if they want.”
“Congressman Landon, have you forgotten why the government food program was developed?” rebutted the older congressman. “By eliminating all seeds, except for the ones we produce, we eliminate disease in the plants and produce better foods. If we let people have their own seeds, we run the risk of contaminating the food supply.”
A fourth man entered the discussion, hoping to offer what he believed might be some sort of resolution to the current standoff. “Madam Speaker, if I may interject something here.”
“Go ahead,” said the speaker.
“I have invited Ted Harris, with the N.F.S.A. If possible, I would like for Mr. Harris to share some of his thoughts about this matter.”
The speaker gave a nod of approval. “You have a few minutes, congressman.”
“Thank you, Madam Speaker,” said the congressman.
Ted Harris made his way to the podium to address the house members. “For those of you who don't know me, I am Ted Harris, director of the National Food Security Agency. I think it would be prudent for all of you to tour the plant facilities. See for yourselves the state of art production that is going on. I think this would put all your minds at ease and put to rest the debate about this innovative program.”
The room rumbled with conversation. “I think that is an excellent idea,” said the speaker. “Do I hear a motion to table a vote on Congressman Landon's amendment until this body has had a chance to tour the production facilities?”
“I make a motion to table a vote and tour the facilities,” volunteered an unnamed congressman.
“I second that motion,” said another.
“All those in favor raise your right hand,” said the speaker. A sea of hands rose throughout the c
hamber. “All those opposed?” Only three hands went up, including Congressman Landon’s.
“Looks like we’ll be taking a tour. This meeting is adjourned,” said the speaker as she pounded the official gavel. Noise and commotion erupted as the representatives left the meeting. In the far corner, Ted Harris knew he had just won a massive battle in the war. He grinned as he watched the “sheep,” he planned to shepherd with his very informative presentation.
Congressman Landon simmered, as the earlier frustration grew to a boil. Knowing he had been outmaneuvered, he headed to his office to lick his wounds. Across town, there was defeat of another kind. A woman stood in front of the receptionist’s desk, facing what was likely the end of the road for her hopes and dreams. Her well-coiffed auburn hair fell loosely around her shoulders. Designer clothes complimented her slim figure as her tender smile greeted the receptionist.
“Will you need to be scheduling another appointment?” asked the receptionist.
“No, not at this time,” said the woman. Known for her gracious hospitality, few would have guessed the pain she hid from acquaintances she met at various Capitol social events and while performing charity work. She turned to leave the office, walking past the window, which displayed the words “Serenity Fertility Services.”
In the hallway, she took out her cell phone. Oh, how she needed to hear his voice. Maybe this time, her husband would be different. She knew the pressures of work were taking their toll, but today she needed him. She dialed the number, blocking caller I.D. The phone rang in Congressman Jack Landon’s office as Maggie Landon waited on the other end.
“Hello, this is Jack,” he answered, knowing this had to be someone he knew. This was his private line.
“Hi,” responded Maggie.
“Hi, what did the doctor say?”
“Are the ears open?” she asked before answering. Maggie knew most likely, her husband was under surveillance. Some of his political positions, along with his outspokenness, had made many enemies and big brother seemed to be almost everywhere these days.
“Hold on.” Jack went to his laptop, typed in a code, and waited until the screen showed “line secured.” “It’s okay now,” said the congressman.
“There’s nothing else,” her voice shaking.
“I'm sorry.”
Tears streamed down her face. “Will you be home for dinner?”
“Don't wait up. It’ll be late. I have so much work to do.”
How could he not know how much she needed him — how much she wanted him to hold her? “Jack, staying away from me doesn't make this go away. Don't you think I would like to run away? But I can't. I CAN'T EVER GET AWAY from this empty feeling inside.”
“It's not that. I have work, Maggie. I've got to go,” he said as he hung up the phone. Why did he do that, he asked himself. He didn’t want to hurt her. Nevertheless, he couldn’t give her what she wanted. At work, maybe he could make a difference.
It all used to seem so simple. Back in the days at Silicon Valley, there wasn’t anyone better, and everyone knew it. He could see it now, the banner at his office going away party, “Washington or Bust,” displayed across the room. He had just wanted to do more, to make a real impact.
From a desk drawer in his Washington office, Jack pulled a wood and gold embossed plaque. It read, “Programmer of the Year, Jack Landon.” After a moment, the congressman flung the award into its former resting spot and slammed the drawer.
Chapter 6
Wolves and Men
At an undisclosed location, in a dark empty storeroom, a spotlight cut through the shadows catching a solitary figure in its crosshairs. The beam revealed a man sitting in a chair, arms handcuffed behind him. His hair was unkempt, and clothes soiled. He squinted because of the light shining directly into his face.
The man was John Clarkson, the farmer taken away by a government patrol. Not far from him stood director of the government food program, Ted Harris. Harris put his hands on the table in front of Clarkson, leaning closer to the farmer, determined to get some answers.
“Tell us who you’re working with!” said Harris.
“I don't know what you’re talking about,” said Clarkson.
Hoping to ramp up the pressure, Harris threw pictures of the Clarkson family down on the table. The smiling photos of Janie and the kids starred back at John.
“Nice family,” said Harris, an unspoken threat in his voice.
“Leave my family out of this.” Clarkson glared.
“I'm afraid I can't do that,” said Harris, leaning ever closer, eyes pressed on his subject. “You don't want to play with me, Mr. Clarkson. We will find your family — and then we'll see how much you want to talk.”
After making his threat, Harris stormed from the room, but in the hallway, he leaned against the wall, visibly shaken. He could hear her voice. “Teddy, what are you doing?” As if almost in a trance, a smile crossed Harris’ face, remembering their last dance together. A scarf covered her bare head, her body frail. He didn’t notice. Ted only saw the beauty he fell in love with. He reached for her hand. She placed her feet on his as the two began to sway to the music. “Don’t forget my train,” she had joked as she held out her I. V. tube. Lost in the moment for a while longer, suddenly, it was back to reality. The smile faded from his face, replaced with an even greater look of determination.
Back at the Sanders’ farm, Chance Sanders gave his little sister, Casey, a ride for her life. Their laughter bubbled above the hum of the four-wheeler as the two enjoyed a bit of childish fun, a break from the reality the family too often had to fear. However, the moment was not to last. Lost in the excitement, Chance forgot the boundaries, driving too far off the path. The four-wheeler lurched to the right, throwing Chance and Casey to the ground.
Chance rushed to his sister. “Casey, are you okay?” he asked. His voice quaked. Casey lay dead still on the ground. In just a few moments, but what seemed like an eternity to Chance, Casey slowly opened her eyes. The commotion alerted Kyle Sanders, who was nearby fixing fence. Almost beside himself, Kyle ran to the accident scene.
“Are you guys okay?” he asked the two, turning his focus on his little girl.
“I'm okay, Daddy,” said Casey, still lying on the ground. The father reached down to check the small girl.
“It doesn’t seem like anything is broken,” he said as he scooped her up, holding her in his arms. Still cradling Casey, Kyle walked to where the four-wheeler lay on its side. One of the wheels was stuck in what appeared to be a hole in the ground. Now relief began to turn to anger as he looked to his 17-year-old son.
“What were you thinking? How many times have I told you to stay clear of here?” said the father.
“I'm sorry, Dad,” replied Chance.
“This is not a game, Chance!” Kyle Sanders continued to scold his son as he pushed the four-wheeler out of the hole. Once removed, a cavernous pit was visible beneath what appeared to be a flap covering the opening. The wreck had damaged part of the layer, revealing what Kyle knew must stay hidden. “Get the tools from the barn, he said. We’ve got to fix this fast!”
In the city, it had been a grueling day on Capitol Hill for Congressman Jack Landon. It was well past evening when he made his way to the parking garage. The congressman was almost to his car when he heard a voice coming from the darkness.
“You're not digging deep enough,” said a low deep voice.
Startled, the congressman began to turn to the sound of the voice.
“Don't turn around.”
Congressman Landon stopped, “Who are you?” he asked.
“Dead seeds,” said the voice.
“What?” asked the congressman.
“Search for the seeds to end it all,” the voice repeated.
“What does that mean?” The congressman was even more confused. However, this time, there was no reply. Jack Landon scanned the garage but still could see no one. Shaken up a bit, he hastened to his car.
Driving down the r
oad, he had an intense sensation that someone was following him. He turned on the next street. The same car lights were still behind him. He turned once more, the lights followed. He decided to make a quick left, this time the lights passed. Relieved, the congressman continued his drive home.
Chapter 7
The Accomplices
Morning came upon the small town of Mill Valley as Rex Gibson embarked on his weekly journey, a trip that would take him further than the miles would carry him. The older gentleman backed his truck from the driveway of his home. A white sign with black lettering on the side of the vehicle’s door read, “Purity Laundry Service.” The small truck scooted its way past the city limits (population 102) as “civilization” was replaced by miles of barren land. Rex kept a diligent watch in his rearview mirror. Tunes from the golden age of radio kept him company during the solitary drive.
After several minutes of travel, Rex turned down an even more desolate road, a farmhouse in the distance. Once he reached the home, Rex walked to the garage door, looked around, then, using the keypad, opened the door. He jumped back into his truck and pulled the automobile inside, approached a screen door, and gave it a knock. The owner of the home, Sarah Sanders, greeted Rex with a smile.
“Come on in Rex, Kyle, and the children are just packing up the last of the stuff,” she said.
Rex braced himself on the sides of the door’s opening as he took a small step up, entering the house. “Sarah, I just want you to know the whole town appreciates what you and Kyle are doin’ for us. We know you’re takin’ a risk. I just want to thank you.”
“Oh Rex, I figure the good Lord put us all here so we could help each other. And what about you and Elizabeth? You’re taking a big chance too.”
“It's worth it,” said Rex with a determined smile.
Not far from the conversation, an interior cellar door flung open, spilling children with bags of tomatoes, potatoes, green beans, and other produce into view. Their father, Kyle Sanders, was not far behind. Making his way out of the cellar, he spotted Rex standing in the kitchen.
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