The doctor waddled away toward his patient.
The high unemployment rate provided one benefit. Most of the new moms were in the company of new dads. At first, there were a lot of angry questions and confusion, but as Thorn explained the situation, the men’s protective nature took over, and they appeared ready to defend their families.
The group formed a line in the hall and made their way to the emergency exit staircase. Thorn stopped them when he remembered that they needed to remove the electronic article tags from the sixteen infants. Thorn had almost forgotten about the security tags. It would have meant certain death, because the moment the first tagged child passed through the stairway door, all the doors on the upper and lower floors would lock and an alarm would sound at the security desk. They would remain trapped in the stairwell until a security guard opened the door on the ground floor, verified that the incident was not a kidnapping, and then engaged the lock release.
The extra five minutes the tag removal required didn’t seem important until Dr. Scott Benson awoke.
The former ER doctor was naked and growling when he burst from his room at the end of the hall. Thorn had a moment to curse himself for forgetting Scott was on this floor, and a shorter moment to be grateful that Scott was not between them and their intended exit. The ER doctor grabbed hold of one of the new mothers. She screamed as he dragged her to the floor and began to eviscerate her with his hands and teeth. Like a feral animal protecting its kill, Scott’s wild blue eyes watched the crowd of scrambling people as he ate his victim. The woman’s husband’s initial reaction was to move away with the rest of the crowd, but then he regained his senses and rushed to help his wife. With his new baby in his arms, all he could do was kick at the infected doctor. Thorn knew the woman was lost.
The group’s shock became desperate panic, and they rushed to the stairway exit. Thorn took a few steps toward the struggling couple, but then his fear held him in place. He felt a moment of shame and conflict, and then Scott grabbed the leg of the kicking husband. The husband’s free leg slipped on the pool of his dead wife’s blood, and he fell with his baby still clutched in his arms. Scott crawled onto the fallen man, and the baby cried. The scene was too much for Thorn, and it was too late to help them. Scott sprayed the father and baby with black bile. Thorn turned away. Now, even if he managed to pull them to safety, he knew there was something worse than death awaiting them in the very near future.
He ran to the exit and followed the others down the stairs.
Open a jar with a hammer
Outside the heat was stifling. The group gathered in uncertainty of their next move. Thorn had no idea; he hadn’t thought beyond the escape from the hospital. He was certain, however, that remaining on the hospital lawn would eventually invite trouble. He could see the traffic on Daniels Parkway moving along, as if the world was still in perfect order. He eyed the emergency room doors, but for now, no one exited.
“Okay, everyone, listen. You need to get out of here. If you had a normal birth and your baby requires no special care, I suggest you go home and make an appointment with your doctor. If you or your baby has had any complications, go immediately to either Lehigh Hospital or Lee County West.”
“But what if the same thing is happening there?” a young, nervous-looking father asked.
“I don’t know. Just be careful and check the ER before you bring your wife and baby inside.”
The group slowly dispersed; they moved toward the parking lot with less urgency than Thorn liked.
He looked at the three nurses who stood in a group and watched him.
Susan spoke first. “Dr. Thorn, what should we do?”
“Honestly?” He looked back at the emergency room door. “I would get the hell out of here, Susan. Go home and wait to see what happens.”
One of the nurses ran to the parking lot.
“But shouldn’t we help?” Susan asked.
“I think the help train left the station a few hours ago.”
Thorn walked toward his own car. He glanced at the ER door as he went, expecting something to burst through it at any moment.
“Dr. Thorn, wait, please,” Susan called.
He turned and for the first time noticed how pretty the pediatric nurse was with her long dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skinned Mediterranean features.
“Rosa and I usually take the bus, but the next one isn’t for an hour.”
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Downtown, off of Route 41.”
“Come on, I’ll drive you.”
Thorn always parked his Jeep Grand Cherokee at the end of the lot near the street. There was reserved parking for doctors near the hospital’s entrance, but Thorn preferred the short walk. He was happy now that a little distance separated his car from the ER.
They reached the vehicle, and Thorn turned to the nurses.
“Do either of you have a thermometer?”
Rosa laughed. “I do, but in Pediatrics, our thermometers don’t go in your mouth.”
Thorn smiled, but his eyes returned to the ER door and a cold feeling gripped him. He was surprised when Susan gently touched his forehead. Her hand felt soft and cool.
“No fever.”
“A fever would be a blessing. The infection presents as acute hypothermic reaction.”
“Then you’re okay. You’re a little sweaty but feel normal considering the temperature out here,” Susan said.
Her hand remained on his forehead, and he looked at her for a moment longer and then looked away. She dropped her hand, and he unlocked the doors with his key remote.
“Interesting,” said Rosa from the backseat.
Thorn looked over his shoulder at her. “Interesting?”
“Yes, your car. No Mercedes, no Jag, no Land Rover.”
Thorn laughed. It felt good and helped relieve some of the shock.
“I didn’t get into medicine for status.”
Rosa smiled. “Yes, that’s what makes it so interesting.”
She flashed Susan a quick smirk. Susan turned and looked out the window. Thorn saw the blush on her cheeks.
A strange sound escaped Susan’s throat. He followed her gaze to the hospital entrance.
The doors exploded. The safety glass blew out in gummy chunks, and the metal frame twisted and then fell to the cement. A dozen discolored infected faces fought each other to escape the doorway and then broke free onto the sidewalk. It seemed all twenty-four blue-hazed eyes turned toward the Jeep as black ooze drooled from their mouths. The pack ran at the Jeep.
Thorn watched in disbelief as the things approached. In his mind, he was trying to grasp the possibility of what he saw before them. It seemed too soon for so many to have reached this stage of the infection. His second thought was of grade school. The infected’s awkward movement reminded him of something they’d taught in gym class. Before the children learned to skip, they had to learn this galloping move, where one leg moved forward and then the other followed. He was stuck on the word for it. Was it just called a gallop? he wondered.
A dark shadow passed over the Jeep and it blocked out the sun for a few seconds as if a giant bird had flown overhead. Then the hospital exploded. The sonic heat wave hit the Jeep and rocked it a second before debris and body parts pelted the hood and window.
Rosa screamed.
Thorn’s paralysis broke, and he started the engine. He threw the shifter into reverse and floored the accelerator. The Jeep jumped backward over the curb, and he spun the rear end around, moved the shifter to drive, and sped across the grass toward the lot’s side exit. Through his side window, he saw flames engulf the hospital and dark smoke rise into the sky. Several of the infected had escaped the blast and still galloped through the parking lot. One of the things was on fire, but it continued its awkward run to the street. In the sky, Thorn watched as a military jet ma
de a ninety-degree turn and then flew toward downtown.
From the passenger seat, Susan’s panicked voice asked, “What the hell was that?”
Thorn did not answer. He concentrated on the small roadway that led to Metro parkway, where he would need to take a hard right to get back onto Daniels. However, he did know three things.
The first was that the government was ahead of the curve on this story. He had made his call to the CDC only an hour ago. The quick arrival of the fighter jet meant they already had known what was going to happen; it had just been a question of where. The second fact that was certain was that they had already classified the
virus as an extreme threat. The third was that aggressive containment was their solution.
After 9/11, the hospital had chosen Thorn to serve as point person for the county’s CDC liaison program. He had not wanted the position, but the committee had argued that his particular specialty in blood cancers would be helpful, and that by the nature of his practice, his patients’ care schedules were more easily managed and had fewer emergencies. He could not argue either point and had accepted the position.
During one of the CDC seminars in Atlanta, a military doctor had spoken about situations that would require “aggressive containment.” The doctor, whose suit was adorned with medals, had stated that “in a situation whereas there is the danger of exponential spread of a terminal virus, the government would need to use aggressive containment measures to ensure the health and safety of the public at large.”
A young doctor from Berkeley had asked for a more specific definition of this proposed and hypothetical aggressive containment. The response had been chilling.
“Any means necessary to completely and successfully eradicate the virus.”
No one believed that such a situation would ever occur or that any sane politician who hoped for reelection would authorize such measures.
Apparently, they had been wrong on both accounts.
Thorn made the turn onto Metro and stayed in the right-hand lane.
“No, you need to go left,” Susan yelled from the passenger seat. “My apartment is that way.”
“Susan, we can’t go downtown. I’ll take you to my house.”
“No, no, we have to. I live with my mom, and she can’t stay by herself.”
Thorn hit the brakes and stopped short of the intersection. He turned and looked at her.
“Susan, it’s too late.”
“What? No, it’s not. Those … those things can’t get downtown quicker than we can.”
Thorn took her hand; it was a poor attempt to comfort her, and he hated himself for what he was about to point out.
“Susan. Look over those trees toward downtown. What do you see?”
She looked for a moment, began to speak, and then tears filled her eyes.
“Why?” she whimpered.
Large plumes of black smoke rose into the sky above the downtown area. Several fighter jets circled away over the Gulf.
“It’s called aggressive containment. The military is bombing every area with a high likelihood of infection. How close did you live to Lee West Hospital?”
“Right behind it.” Her voice was a near-whisper.
“I know this is difficult, but the jet that just bombed our hospital is going to circle back and drop more munitions on this area to contain the virus. We need to get out of here. We can’t go downtown because it will be an inferno very soon.”
Susan nodded, but it was a mechanical response like one of those dashboard bobbleheads. In the backseat, Rosa sobbed softly.
Thorn looked to his right and saw that the remaining group of infected still galloped toward the street. They would reach it in a few moments. He needed to pass the main entrance before they did, the chaos started, and the traffic accidents ensued. He gunned the accelerator and turned onto Daniels without regard for any oncoming traffic. He sped past the first infected as it did its sick gallop into the lane.
Chapter 3
The End of the World
Part 1
What we don’t know could fill a room
Thorn had been correct in his assumption that the government was ahead of the curve but not enough to make a difference. The earliest case of what officially was named VirusXB724a, or X for short, appeared in early June in the small coastal town of Punta Sol, located in the Florida Panhandle. Influenza was rare in the summer months and one that could thrive in the hot humidity of Florida was extremely rare.
Scientists determined that X was a rogue strand that fit somewhere between the H10N7 group and the H7N7 zoonotic type. If the original incubation was a mammal, tests suggested that the possum had been the most likely carrier. The government scientists who witnessed the mutation first hand understood that without containment, X would mean X-human race. The virus self-progressed from forty-eight-hour incubation to eight hours and to two hours, and then just before Punta Sol’s total eradication, infection occurred within ten minutes of contact through either bite or ingestion of the black bile. The incineration of Punta Sol’s seven hundred residents required little explanation. The DEA reported that in the struggling economy, the residents had turned to meth production and that an unfortunate explosion had dominoed through the home labs. They further stated that the explosions had filled the air with a dangerous combination of poisonous gases and that for reasons of public health and safety, the area would remain quarantined until further notice. The media, busy with politics and celebrity news, covered the story for just five minutes before they moved on to more scandalous and better-selling stories. Relatives who challenged the meth production story found agents on their doorsteps. The agents’ inquiries made it clear that they intended to investigate the complaining relative’s possible involvement in narcotics trafficking. People stopped asking questions.
None of the flu-surge models could have predicted the spread of such an infectious strain. None of their research would have revealed patient zero. The carrier never displayed a single symptom. He was only six months old. The Mimi virus he carried had been a genetic gift passed from father to son for longer than time could record. In most generations, the virus slept; but in some, it encountered another virus strain that allowed it to create something new.
Researchers would have been astonished at patient zero’s lineage. They would have discovered that the child’s great-grandfather had traveled to Africa during World War II. And that while there, his own Mimi virus combined with another. Forty years later, they would call this new virus HIV. They might have found that an even earlier relative had, in 1918, brought the family’s genetic passenger to a Kansas army base and launched the famous Spanish flu. And that yet another had visited the Orient in the late 1300s, where his Mimi virus became history’s most infamous plague. Of course, none of this would have made a difference. The Mimi virus had waited thousands of years and countless evolutions to find its perfect mate and reach its full potential. On that beautiful sunny Memorial Day weekend, proud parents brought their new baby to visit relatives in Punta Sol. The baby’s aunt had been feeling fatigued all week. She assumed she was just tired from her travels. She was unaware that she had picked up the flu on her business trip. She kissed the baby and the Mimi virus found its destiny.
Can’t see the forest from the trees
Five of Punta Sol’s infected were transported to a research facility on a small island near Sanibel Island, Florida. The researchers observed the infected’s behaviors, ran a full complement of tests, and worked furiously to find a cure. When a cure proved impossible, they incinerated the infected specimens. The team strictly followed all decontamination protocols; no one stole samples for black market sales, no one accidentally left the facility with trace amounts of bile on their shoes, and no subversive group enacted a conspiracy to infect the populace.
In the end, it was a matter of right church, wrong pew. The researchers focused exclus
ively on transmission post-transformation because at that stage, it was both quick and deadly. In their horror over the infected’s murderous behavior and their frustration with their inability to isolate a cure, they forget a key attribute of the virus. It was, after all, a form of influenza, and it still possessed the ability to use the slower but just as assured flu transmission process: aerosol contamination. The researchers ignored their own coldlike symptoms.
Sixteen of the twenty researchers and half the military personnel left the facility with the sniffles. Some took time to enjoy the Florida coast, some went to Disney World, and others returned directly home to California, Georgia, South Carolina, Washington DC, Chicago, and New England. All told, thirty-two people carried the early-stage virus to the public. After that, it was just a matter of time.
Four weeks’ time, to be exact.
When in doubt, do something to make it worse
The second round of cases appeared in early July. There was no question that these were Virus X. Still, the government and the CDC were cautiously optimistic when the initial patients either grew no worse or outright died without violent incident. That optimism did not extend so far as to avert discussions of a “contingency” plan. The plan included an outline of and preparation for “aggressive containment.”
By the last week of July, all calls to the CDC that met Virus X criteria were routed to a special assignment desk of the NSA, code name SAD. The SAD agent noted the level of infection, added the location to the strike list, and put “boots on the ground” within the hour to monitor conditions. The SAD operative called in a Code X alert if the infected patient passed the virus to a second victim.
In Fort Myers, the moment Dr. Benson passed out, a patient in the waiting area walked outside, removed a scrambled SAT phone, and texted “Fort Myers, Code X” to a programmed number. The operative, as instructed, went to his vehicle to leave the area. Upon entering his vehicle, a man in a power company uniform with a large puppy-dog smile approached the operative. That man, also an operative, shot the first in the head and then got in his own car and drove away.
You and Me against the World: The Creepers Saga Book 1 Page 3