by Scott Sigler
Admiral Palmer rattled off a litany of bases. The biggest of them — Fort Hood, Norfolk, Fort Bragg, and a few others — were inoculating their own troops and already creating starter cultures for other bases. Within three days, five at the most, every soldier, sailor and airman on U.S. soil would be protected. That was, of course, if the infection wasn’t already spreading through some of those garrisons.
“We’ve also ordered all bases on foreign soil to lock up tight,” Porter said. “No one in and no one out. They’re already constructing their own culturing plants. As soon as starter cultures are available, we’ll ship them. We project eight to ten days until all foreign bases are fully inoculated.”
Blackmon turned to Nancy Whittaker, secretary of the Department of Homeland Security.
“Nancy, what’s the status of our domestic inoculation production?”
The military took care of its own logistics. For everything else, inoculation management fell to Whittaker. So far, she had been unflappable — it didn’t seem to faze her that the health and safety of an entire nation had somehow fallen into her lap.
“Trucks are already shipping finished product on the East Coast and in the Midwest,” Whittaker said. The former Georgia governor had never bothered to train away her drawl. “Seattle started brewing almost immediately — fifty thousand doses have already been delivered to final FEMA distribution points. In the next twenty-four hours, Madam President, we believe all participating breweries will at least be at fifty percent production capacity, and full distribution will be under way in all major cities.” Blackmon’s deadly gaze swept the room.
“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “How many Americans will already be infected by then?”
No one had an answer. Murray couldn’t even guess, so he stayed quiet.
Blackmon stared down at the table, stared so hard Murray had to wonder if the table could feel as intimidated as he did.
“We have to slow the disease’s spread,” she said. “Shut down air travel.”
All heads turned to a short, fat, bald man who stood in the corner of the packed Situation Room. As secretary of transportation, Dennis Shaneworth needed to be present but wasn’t important enough to merit a seat at the table.
“Right away, Madam President,” he said. “Chicago, Minneapolis and New York?”
Blackmon looked at him. “Shut it down everywhere. Cancel all civilian passenger flights immediately. Allow cargo flights only if they are needed to distribute the inoculant. Do it now.”
The room’s silence vanished as hands flew to phones and people scrambled to carry out her orders.
Murray felt a spark of hope. So far the only data they had was a run on drugstores for cough drops and pain reliever. Some politicians would have waited a half-day, maybe more, just to be sure a shutdown was necessary. He hadn’t expected Blackmon to move so decisively.
She again looked at Murray. She curled a finger at him, calling him over. Murray stood and walked to his commander in chief.
“Chicago,” she said quietly. “That’s the start of this?”
Murray nodded. “The word is epicenter, Madam President.”
She let out a slow breath. Up this close, he saw the fear in her eyes.
“Chicago is the epicenter,” she said. “Should I have Whittaker prioritize inoculant shipments there?”
“Yes,” Murray said. “As much as she can spare. Doctor Feely figures we’re in day two of the exposure. But” — he leaned closer, so only she could hear him — “Madam President, may I be frank?”
“You mean there’s a time you show restraint?” She closed her eyes, as if that might protect her from more bad news. “Yes, tell me.”
“According to Feely’s statistical models, the majority of Chicago’s population is either already infected, or will be before we can help. My honest opinion is that the city is fucked.”
Her eyes opened. The predator’s stare faded away, at least as much as it could for her.
“Find ways to increase production, Murray,” she said. “I want a list of any factory in the United States, Canada or Mexico that cultivates yeast, for any purpose. We’ll find a way. I won’t give up on Chicago.”
Blackmon sat straight, faced the room. That brief moment of genuine empathy vanished.
“I’m declaring a federal emergency under the Stafford Act,” she said. “I want SecHHS and FEMA to put together a task force to run this inoculation. Let’s get Congress and SCOTUS notified. Director Longworth” — she again turned to face him — “is Montoya safe to travel?”
He shook his head. “Cheng quarantined the Coronado for two weeks, to make absolutely sure no one onboard is infected. Margaret needs to stay there.”
The president silently mouthed the word dammit. “Then get me Cheng. I want him here.”
She turned to Porter. “Admiral, I want the Joint Chiefs and the National Security staff to notify Congress of my intent and desire for a total mobilization of reserve forces.”
Blackmon took in a breath as if to make a grand statement, then seemed to remember something. She again turned to her chief of staff and spoke quietly, but Murray was close enough to hear.
“Get the speechwriters. In two hours I want to address Congress, and I want every network carrying it live. Prepare that footage Montoya sent of the sailors from the Brashear — people need to see what this plague does to the human body. Go.”
The chief of staff scurried off.
Blackmon put her shoulders back and her chest out — more true leader than pure politician.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if we don’t act now, we are quite possibly facing a worst-case scenario. The nation is counting on us.”
Murray started dialing: he had much do and little time in which to do it.
ALL CHANNELS
Jeff lifted his head from the pillow. “Dude, is that the president? Get that Republicunt off the TV, will you?”
Cooper nodded. His head felt heavy, full of the same goop that he blew out of his nose every five minutes.
He used the remote to change the hotel TV’s channel, from Channel 3 to Channel 4 — and there, again, was President Blackmon. Channel 5: Blackmon. Channel 6: Blackmon.
“She’s on all the big networks,” Cooper said. He tried ESPN, only to find the same thing. “Holy shit, dude — she’s on all the channels.”
“She’s a stinky, hate-filled, nasty—”
“Hold on a sec,” Cooper said. “This has to be something big.”
Jeff propped himself up on one elbow to watch.
“I already feel like a bag of assholes,” he said. “And now this? I hope it’s not another Detroit. Hey, Coop, you feel sick?”
Cooper gestured to the pile of Kleenex on the little lampstand next to his bed. “Yeah. I do.” He pressed the “volume” button.
“… an unprecedented threat upon our great nation, and one that requires unprecedented action. My fellow Americans, we are mobilizing a swift and thorough response. I am in constant contact with the world’s leaders. Every nation on earth is working together to win this battle.”
The camera angle shifted, panning across a half-bowl of applauding politicians. Was that Congress? Cooper could never remember if that was the House, the Senate, or if they all met in some special room for things like this. What he did know was all the politicians looked the same: rich fuckers who raped the system, the only differences between them being ties and dresses of red or blue.
A news ticker ran across the bottom of the screen:
… INFECTIOUS AGENT THAT RESULTED IN THE DETROIT DISASTER IDENTIFIED … SCIENTISTS HAVE DISCOVERED WAY TO INOCULATE AGAINST THE INFECTION … PRESIDENT BLACKMON CLAIMS “DISEASE WILL BE WIPED FROM THE FACE OF THE EARTH” …
“Holy shit,” Cooper said. “It is another Detroit.”
Jeff flopped his head back into the pillow. “Told ya. Holler if they say Chicago — otherwise, I don’t give a shit. I’m going back to sleep. I feel like I got face-fucked by a rabid buffalo.”
>
The applause died down. Blackmon continued.
“Even as I speak to you now, factories all over America are collaborating in the largest unified manufacturing initiative since World War II. Distributors, shipping companies and grocery store chains are all cooperating with FEMA to bring you the medicine that will keep you safe. Over five hundred corporate sponsors have signed up to fund this initiative. More join the cause every hour. We are faced with a challenge to not only our country, but to every person on our planet. With God’s help, America is taking the lead to protect the human race.”
The audience cheered again, louder this time. At least some of them did. Cooper didn’t follow politics, but it looked like only the Republicans were standing. The still-seated Democrats applauded politely.
Cooper looked at Jeff. “Protect the human race? Is this even bigger than Detroit?”
Jeff shrugged. He didn’t seem to notice the yellow bit of snot dangling from his nose.
The applause faded. Politicians sat back down. Blackmon continued.
“I can’t stress this enough,” she said. “The surgeon general and the Centers for Disease Control urge you to cooperate with local distribution centers to get the treatment. The emergency broadcast system will be transmitting delivery days and locations. There will be enough for everyone. Until you receive your medication, limit contact with others and stay indoors as much as possible.”
Blackmon made a fist and banged it once on the podium. “All the naysayers who claimed that American manufacturing was dead are about to see how wrong they were. Other nations are following our lead, producing their own medicine, and what they are producing began here. American ingenuity is gone? I … don’t … think so.”
The Republicans stood. They roared their approval. Some of the Democrats begrudgingly stood as well.
Jeff let out a huff. “So the world is in danger, and she turns it into a campaign speech. This from a woman who doesn’t want universal health care? Whatever.”
Blackmon held up both hands, gave the crowd her trademark half-smile. She looked confident and excited, but not too much of either. The applause died down again.
“Let me say I do not fault my predecessor, or his party, for allowing things to come to this point,” she said. “These are exceptional times not only in the history of our nation, but also of the world. Together, we will forever end the greatest threat the planet Earth has ever faced.”
“Man, she’s good,” Cooper said. “Something new is happening and she still manages to imply that Gutierrez opened up Pandora’s box in the first place.”
“She’s been president for two years,” Jeff said. “Whatever happens now is on her.”
“Yeah, right. Four years into Gutierrez’s term, you were still blaming his Republican predecessor for the crappy economy. Give me a break, Jeff — with you, the Republicans are always at fault and the Democrats never do anything wrong.”
Jeff raised a hand, gave a thumbs-up. “Now you’re understanding how things work, bro. Turn that thing off.”
Turn it off? There was some kind of world-shaking shit going down, and Jeff wanted to nap?
On the TV, Blackmon grew more serious. More solemn. “Now, I must show you some very disturbing footage. This footage underscores the reason we must all work together in this inoculation effort. This is footage from—”
“Coop!”
Cooper jumped; Jeff had screamed the word. Cooper turned.
Jeff propped himself up on one elbow. “I told you to turn it off. You trying to fuck with me or something?”
His lip curled up, like it was all he could do to not stand up and smash Cooper’s head into the TV. Cooper didn’t know what to say.
Blackmon continued to babble, but Cooper wasn’t paying any attention. He used the remote to turn the TV off. “Dude, just take it easy, okay?”
Jeff’s lip returned to normal. He blinked a few times. The hate left his eyes.
“Oh, wow, man,” he said. “Sorry about that. This bug has me in a shit-ass mood, I guess.”
Cooper shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.” He felt a wave of relief — for a second, he’d thought his best friend was going to get out of that bed and come at him.
Jeff rubbed at his face. “No, it’s not okay. I can’t talk to you like that. Sorry.” He looked up and forced a smile. “So that shit they were talking about on TV, that medicine. When do we have to take whatever it is they’re passing out?”
“I don’t know,” Cooper said. “You want me to turn the TV back on?”
“No. Whatever it is, it’s not going to be here in the next six hours. I’m going to get some more sleep. Really awesome vacation in the Windy City, eh?”
“My kind of town. Old Blue Eyes was full of shit, if you ask me.”
Jeff laughed, which quickly turned into a heavy, ripping cough that curled his body into a fetal position. Cooper plucked a pair of Kleenex from the box and offered them. Jeff had his left hand over his mouth, but reached out with his right to take the tissues. He pressed them to his mouth as the cough racked him again. He rolled to his back.
“Aw, fuck, Coop — that shit hurts.”
Jeff pulled the Kleenex away from his mouth and looked at it. Amid a glob of greenish-yellow were bright streaks of red.
“Dude,” Cooper said, “that’s not good.”
Jeff balled up the Kleenex and tossed it away. He waved a hand as if brushing away Cooper’s thoughts.
“Ain’t the first time I’ve coughed up a little blood, bro. Don’t worry about it.” He rolled to his side, rested his head on the pillow. “I’m going back to sleep. Turn off the lights, man. If you make any more noise, I’m going to hurt you.”
Cooper froze. Was Jeff joking, or threatening? It didn’t sound like a joke. Cooper stared for a moment, once again suddenly aware of the size difference between them. Jeff was bigger, stronger … and Jeff knew how to fight.
Cooper slowly reclined on the bed, careful not to make too much noise. Maybe he didn’t feel like he’d been face-fucked by a rabid buffalo, but he sure as hell didn’t feel like singing and dancing, either. He was exhausted; sleep would be good.
And maybe when he woke up, Jeff would be back to normal.
GUINEA PIG
Paulius Klimas sat at the SPA’s conference table. He stared at a blank screen, waiting for a call. Once the call began, he’d get one minute. Even that much was a blessing, a courtesy done for him by Murray Longworth.
Paulius had lost men before. Five so far, all on missions that had never been announced, never been recorded. Every one of those deaths had been hard. Each time he’d questioned his leadership abilities, wondered if he could have done something different to bring that man home alive.
But this was the hardest of all.
Longworth had needed a volunteer. Since Levinson couldn’t fight, Paulius gave the man first dibs. Levinson understood that if he didn’t go, another SEAL would go in his place.
So Levinson had accepted.
Now, Paulius was about to hear the results.
The screen flared to life. He found himself looking at Levinson: in a hospital bed surrounded by clear glass walls, but bright-eyed and smiling.
“Commander,” Levinson said. He saluted.
Paulius returned the salute. Some of his pent-up stress bled away.
“You look good for a lab animal,” Paulius said. “What have they told you?”
“Looks like that awful crap Doctor Feelygood brewed actually works. I’m eighteen hours in. If I was infected, I’d probably have a sore throat, fever and aches, but I feel fine. Other than where I was shot, I mean. That still hurts like a bitch. They said painkillers could mask infection symptoms, so this little piggy gets none.”
More of the stress eased. Paulius hadn’t realized he’d carried the pressure in his chest — it suddenly felt much easier to breathe. Levinson seemed fine. More than that, the mission to recover Feely, Montoya and their research had turned out to be critical after all.
Even though the infection had somehow escaped the task force, he and his men had made a difference.
The screen beeped: time was up.
Paulius saluted. “Your courage is immeasurable, Roger. If you don’t turn into a plant, drinks are on me.”
The wounded man returned the salute. “As long as it’s something besides what Feelygood makes, I’ll take you up on that offer.”
The image blinked out.
Paulius stared at the blank screen. He and his men had twelve more days of quarantine, as did Feely, Otto, Montoya and the Coronado’s crew. He’d given his men a few hard-earned days off, but no more — it was time to start combat drills.
He and his SEALs were immune. If the shit hit the fan, they might be called upon once again.
They would be ready.
DAY EIGHT
#TAKETHEMEDS
@DrDurakMerc
Don’t be a sheeple! Trust the government to give you your shots? Then you get what you deserve.
@ARealGirl
What the fuck is wrong with you anti-vaxers? This disease turns people into MURDERERS. Drink the fucking inoculant already, or you’ll kill us all.
@TwistahSistahBB5
I don’t get this hostility — if you want to take their drugs, take them, if I don’t want to, that’s my choice! It’s a Big Pharma trick.
@BadAstronomer
Hey, antivaxers, heard of a thing called “the news”? You know, those fancy moving pictures that keep showing what happened on the Brashear? #TakeTheMeds
@BootyHooty912
You don’t want to drink your gunk? Shit, dawg, give it here — I’ll put it next to my Glock, which you’ll see again when you change.
MANIPULATION
She had to find a way to control the men.
Margaret sat with her back against the mission module’s thin, metal wall, her thighs parallel to the ground, her feet on the floor — the chair position. Her thighs burned. A fight was coming: she needed to be strong.