At thirty-two, Veronica was younger than Greg but no less formidable. While hunkering down, she had shown him that she could hold her own, especially with a handgun. Her dark hair was tied back, and her face looked worn and tired. Some simple sunlight would do the trick given her paleness, but Greg didn’t think she was ready to go anywhere just yet. He was concerned that she was getting too skinny and tried his best to keep her eating.
“Good evening,” Greg said.
He thought of the odd circumstances that had brought them together. Veronica worked at a bookstore Greg frequented, and they soon developed a friendship. Greg wanted to help her and decided to take her in after the travel ban was put in place. She had nowhere else to go that was safe. Civil unrest, looting and rioting, plus fears of disease had turned a formerly picturesque Carson City into a nightmare.
“Hello,” she said.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled from behind the hood and face shield.
“Better,” she said.
Greg felt genuine relief.
“I'm gonna set this tray near your bed for whenever you’re hungry.” He paused and set it on a stand next to the plastic sheet that separated them. “You are hungry, aren't you?”
He wanted her to see her eat, knowing that loss of appetite was one of the signs of infection.
“Yeah, a little,” she said.
There was still hope just yet.
Greg took a seat on a nearby fold-out chair and tried to nonchalantly observe her through the plastic divider. She had the blankets drawn up to her waist and was wearing a hospital gown from Greg's grab-bag of emergency supplies.
“How much longer, Greg?” she asked. “It's been three days, and I feel fine. A little tired and bored, maybe, but I don't have Ebola.”
“Seventy-two hours is standard, but we just need to be sure. Don’t worry, you’re not missing anything. The news is still the same.”
“I know, it’s just, I feel fine. I really do,” she said.
Greg leaned in. “Veronica, you have to understand, there are serious ramifications here. If you're sick, I don't know how to treat Ebola. We'd have no other choice but to take you somewhere else.”
“You don't have to worry because I’m sure I’m okay.” She ran her hands across her face. “No open sores, rash, or red eyes. No fever. I feel like a million bucks.”
Greg nodded. He could understand her wanting to convince both herself and him that she was not infected, in order to avoid spending another day trapped behind plastic sheets in a stuffy garage.
“Tomorrow morning, I promise,” Greg said. “We'll do another checkup on you, and if you aren't showing any symptoms, I'll feel confident that you're well enough to go back in the house.”
Veronica placed her face in her hands and sighed.
“We're going to survive this thing,” Greg said.
“I know that.”
Greg's eyes looked down at the ground, noticing the purple ball again. For a moment, they sat in silence as Veronica followed his eyes to the ground.
“I miss him too, and I'm so sorry,” Veronica said.
He looked up at her. “At least he got a proper burial. A lot of people are going through far worse right now.”
“How bad is it?” Veronica asked.
“Out there?” Greg asked, signaling outside.
“Everywhere. Out there, in here. How's the house?”
Greg leaned back. They had some catching up to do. “I've made most of the repairs, and I did an inventory on all of our supplies. It's looking good, but there are some things that concern me.”
“Like what?”
“The water for one. It’s discolored. I don't even know if it's safe to use the shower. Something has happened that changed the color. It got me thinking. Maybe the water’s contaminated. Maybe that's how the disease spread so quickly.”
Veronica didn't want to even consider that thought. She stopped and looked at Greg's covered rack of five-gallon water jugs as he continued. “And if that's true, we're not going to have enough water to last us much longer. It's bad, Veronica, I'm not going to lie to you. There's many things to consider, starting with your condition.”
“What are they saying on the news?”
He wasn't sure if she would believe him. “Fifty thousand,” he said after a long sigh.
Veronica gasped. “Fifty thousand what?”
“People. That's how many they've reported have been infected. The entire state has been cut off. No one is coming for us. No one is going to save us, unless we go to the quarantine stations with the others. The disease is growing, and the more it grows, the worse things are going to get. We may have to wait this thing out longer than expected. Of course, without running water, we're in a really bad spot. I have some water filter devices, tablets and things like that. I even have some LifeStraws.”
“What are those?”
“Well, you stick the tube in any water source, drink from it like a straw, and the filters inside the tube purify the water.”
“That’s cool. How long do the filters last?”
“About twenty drinks or so. That’s why it’s good to have a lot on hand,” Greg answered.
Veronica nodded as her gray eyes glistened. Greg heard her sniffle.
“What is it?” he asked. “What's wrong?”
Veronica tried her best to hold back from breaking down. “Our lives will never be the same. I need to call my parents and let them know I'm okay. They're probably worried sick about me after what's been on the news.”
“Haven't been able to get a signal for the past two days,” Greg said. “But I'll bring your phone in here so you can try.”
“Thank you,” Veronica said, wiping tears away.
“We’re going to be fine,” he said.
She wanted more than anything to believe him. At that moment, however, the light in the garage flickered and went out just as the air filter wound down and shut off.
“What the hell?” Greg said, looking up.
“Power's out again?”
Greg got up. “Yeah, just another brownout, hopefully. I'll be right back.” He left the room and went inside. Standing in the living room, he noticed the power was out in the entire house The TV and other appliances were dead. He stood there, waiting, hoping that it was just another strange cycle, but nothing happened. And nothing would from that moment on.
Center for Disease Non-Control
The Center for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, Georgia, was a hotbed of activity beyond anything in the entire history of the agency. Originally conceived as a branch of the US Public Health Service in the 1940s, the CDC had been instrumental in battling malaria at the time in parts of the Southern US.
From initially controlling malaria, the agency expanded its focus to include sexually transmitted diseases, disabilities, environmental health threats, and terrorism preparedness. The rapid spread of Ebola in the United States had generally perplexed the agency, and they found themselves overwhelmed at all state and federal levels. It was that simple.
There was also speculation about whether or not the outbreak was related to terrorism, as a majority of Americans around the country believed it to be. Such rumors drew the FBI and Department of Homeland Security into the fray. With so many Ebola-related deaths in such a short time, the issue quickly became political. Politicians, pundits, and just about anyone else had an opinion. For some, the epidemic was a result of lax immigration laws and open borders. For others, it was budget cuts or the lack of funding for government agencies, particularly the CDC. And for others, who suspected terrorism, it was a combination of open borders and weak foreign policy on the part of the White House. Whatever the reason, people were dying at an unprecedented rate, and there wasn't much that anyone could do about it.
At the CDC headquarters, there was an important meeting taking place with top officials from various government agencies. The President was attending the meeting via conference phone fr
om the Situation Room in the West Wing, trying to understand how the outbreak had gotten out of hand so quickly.
The round conference table of the CDC meeting room was chock-full of directors, administrators, medical professionals, and military personnel. The walls on all sides held large LED screens displaying a map of the US featuring graphs, maps, numbers, estimates, statistics, and a running clock of different time zones. It was a packed room, and several people stood huddled around the table and against the wall.
The meeting had started with heightened anticipation. At the head of the table sat newly appointed CDC Director, Ronald Taylor, the first director of the agency not to have a medical degree. His hasty appointment was baffling to most, especially to former-Director Dr. Theodore Robbins, who was seated next to him. It was one of the last meetings Dr. Robbins would be attending, as his presence was simply to allow a smooth transition. Much of the public blame for the disastrous outbreak had fallen squarely on him, and his forced resignation was no surprise to anyone but Robbins himself.
Many changes had come to the agency overnight, and there was a lot of reshuffling, but for some reason, Taylor ascended to the top. Dr. Robbins knew that Taylor had been vying for his job since Day One. But he never imagined that things would turn out the way that they did. It seemed foolish to replace him in the middle of a crisis, but the changes were made despite his objections.
Taylor had connections. He knew people. What Dr. Robbins wasn't certain about was how much Taylor knew about controlling the epidemic at hand. Ronald Taylor was no disease expert, but he had qualities that appealed with the higher-ups, nonetheless. His shiny bald head gleamed under the overhead lights, and his thick glasses magnified his gaze.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the task before us is an enormous one, and there is much to be done,” Taylor began to the hushed room. He leaned forward to talk into the conference phone placed in the middle of the table.
“Mr. President, are you there?”
“I'm here, Ron,” the President said. “Let's get this thing moving.”
“Very well, sir.” Taylor looked up to address the people around the table. “With recent administrative changes, we're going to push forward full-speed and contain this thing once and for all.”
Each person seated at the table had a large binder in front of them. Taylor promptly opened his.
“Now if I can, I'd like to go over the latest plan as well as our current numbers and stats.”
He glanced over at Dr. Robbins and extended his hand toward him.
“I'd also like to take a moment and thank former-Director Dr. Robbins for temporarily staying on as an adviser.” He turned toward Robbins, adding, “We know it's been a rough couple of weeks for you.”
Dr. Robbins nodded. Taylor looked back to the group, folded his arms within his expensive suit, and began.
“The Ebola epidemic spreading throughout the US is an unprecedented natural disaster. In the past, this agency has combated the spread of disease—including malaria, smallpox, swine flu, and several others with great success. Some of the best and brightest minds in the country have worked together to consign these diseases to footnotes in history.
“The challenge before us now is monumental. Since the earliest Ebola case reported in the US, only a short year ago, we have had the disease under control. However, in the past few weeks, something has happened. Researchers say that the virus strain has changed. They say that it's developed and advanced against conventional treatments. We've also discovered that it can be transmitted through limited skin contact. Prior to that, it was only transmittable through direct contact with bodily fluids.
“Given these findings, we've since seen the Ebola virus expand into something none of us thought imaginable. This is a pivotal moment for all of us. Our predictions estimate that, if unchecked, the virus could wipe out a third of the population of the US, and potentially, it could spread across the Canadian and Mexican borders. From there, it has the potential to spread into South America on and on.”
Taylor stopped to take a breath as those in the crowded room went quiet absorbing the grim predictions. One of the screens on the wall displayed a map of the US with areas in Florida, Texas, Nevada, and California all in red. A screen next to it displayed the new CDC protective guidelines for Ebola. There were also images of the infected, displaying their rash-covered bodies. Some had only giant, pus-filled sacs in place of eyes. Many were covered in what looked like popped boils oozing blood everywhere.
The screens then displayed images of large quarantine facilities filled to capacity and overwhelmed treatment centers and hospitals—hundreds of beds of sickly, infected patients clinging to life. With such images, there was no escaping the reality of the situation.
“I know you've heard some numbers in the media, but I'm going to give you our current status. This may come as a shock to some of you.”
Taylor took another deep breath and continued.
“Tampa, Florida: 87,000 documented cases. An estimated 20,000 deceased. Dallas, Texas: 120,000 documented cases. An estimated 63,000 deceased. Carson City, Nevada: 30,000 cases reported. An estimated 13,000 deceased.”
Taylor paused. The room was completely silent, following some quiet gasps.
“Los Angeles, California. As of today, 1 million documented cases.”
The room gasped collectively. Taylor could hear a similar reaction coming from the speaker phone in the Situation Room.
“How did you get these numbers?” the President shouted over the phone.
“Our state agencies are doing their best to provide accurate info to us, sir,” Taylor answered. “They've had a very difficult job from the get-go.”
“So these numbers are based off estimations? Could they be more, or could they be less?”
Dr. Robbins wanted to cut in on the call and tell the President that the numbers were irrelevant and that the focus needed to be on immediate relief, but Taylor was already providing an answer.
“It's our best assessment of the situation on the ground,” he said.
The President went silent on the other end. They could hear him mumbling with his advisers off the phone.
Taylor continued. “So now that we have our numbers and a clearer picture, I'd like to move on with the plan.”
“Please do,” the President said.
“Anyone looking at this epidemic would say that it's simply unstoppable, but we know that’s not true. We've seen success in West Africa, and we can do the same thing here. Granted, we're dealing with an advanced Ebola strain, but this is a national emergency that can be fought on a series of major fronts.”
Taylor signaled to one of the wall screens to his side. It displayed his plan in a slideshow of text and graphics.
“First step: Active Containment and Isolation. Now, I know such measures have proved controversial so far, but it's our only option. This disease cannot be allowed to spread.
“Second, we need treatment. Serums, antibiotics, drugs, everything we have, and as much as we can get. This is where funding comes in, and Congress needs to take the ball on that one. There cannot be any delay.
“Third, we need to better train medical personnel to deal with the changed characteristics of this disease.” He paused, glancing around the room. “Sounds like a no-brainer, but you can never be too sure. Most of the first wave of those infected were all medical personnel.
“Lastly, the proper allocation of our resources. We have to utilize our assets where they’re going to matter most. And by that, I mean where the disease has hit the hardest. The place where the outbreak poses the largest threat to neighboring regions and states. There is no bigger crisis than what is happening in California right now. That is where our main focus should be. Our role will have to be minimal in the other infected states.
“The important thing is enforcing the travel ban. I highly recommend a massive quarantine of all infected states. We can assume that the outbreak will hit its peak and then drop, which, historically,
has been the case. We just need to make sure that we can contain it. Every step we make from here on out is going to be crucial.”
Dr. Robbins studied Taylor intently. He knew the man to be ambitious, but he had no idea Taylor would devise, let alone suggest, such a plan.
Suddenly, the Homeland Security Director, Alice Shelton, spoke up. “Mr. Taylor, I can't say this is the first I've heard of this plan, but are you actually suggesting that this agency is going to be telling those infected states that they're on their own?”
Her accusatory tone visibly flummoxed the Director, but he tried to keep his cool. After rubbing his bald head, Taylor responded. “Of course not, Ms. Shelton, but if we have any hopes of containing and treating this disease, our major resources have to be placed in California.”
James Bronson, the agriculture secretary, raised his hand. “It would seem to me that Texas should get the most assistance. I mean, it's one of the largest, most populated states in the country. Plus the disease can easily spread to Mexico.”
“Let's get back on track here!” the President shouted over the phone. “I get it; a travel ban has already been issued to the states in question. We've set up major quarantine and treatment centers in and around each city. The state governments are working with us the best they can. What I want to know is why this disease is still spreading. What are we doing or not doing?”
There was silence in the room as everyone looked to Taylor.
“I don't know, sir,” Taylor said in a quiet tone.
Suddenly, he looked up to a man across the table, a sweaty, red-faced man with thick wavy hair. “I think perhaps the Ebola Czar can help us with that one. David, what do you think?”
All eyes went to David Whitman, the newly appointed Ebola Czar. On the spot, he nervously looked ahead as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “Well, I have to say that yes, I'm on board for the plan to save California. I mean, after all, it's the state hardest hit. If we pushed our resources elsewhere, that would be like going to Birmingham instead of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.”
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