He paused to allow this statement to sink in, picked up a glass of water, took a sip, and then looked back at the camera as he replaced the glass on the marked spot.
“The scientists and physicians at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention have advised us that they have identified the biological weapon used against the people of Fort Lauderdale. It is an extremely contagious and virulent bacteria called Melioidosis, which has been masquerading for several weeks as an undiagnosed, virulent late-season flu.”
He paused, took another sip of water, and looked back into the camera. Then he paused again to rivet the audience’s attention on his next words.
“As your president, I am taking all necessary steps to prevent the spread of this disease outside Fort Lauderdale, to limit its reach in order to minimize its harm to the rest of our country. Our goal is to prevent a national epidemic while we, at the same time, provide all possible care and comfort to the victims of this attack and to their loved ones who are in Fort Lauderdale.”
He shuffled his feet under the desk, even as he maintained unblinking eye contact with the camera’s lens.
“I have today directed the CDC and the National Institutes of Health to dedicate research funds on a top priority basis to finding preventative and curative vaccines for this scourge.”
The president opened his hands on the desktop, exposing his palms in a plea-like gesture to the ceiling.
He licked his lips.
“Also today, acting to protect our entire country, I have signed an executive order placing Fort Lauderdale under temporary, but mandatory quarantine protection.
“I also have ordered that Fort Lauderdale temporarily be placed under martial law to enforce this quarantine. No one will be permitted to enter or leave the Fort Lauderdale Quarantine Zone for any reason until the danger to our country has passed.
“Accordingly, I have instructed the secretary of defense to activate appropriate Army reserve units from outside the State of Florida to assist in enforcing the quarantine and martial law. To that end, my fellow countrymen, I have today appointed General Anthony Vista, United States Army Reserve, to head the Office of the District Military Commander in Fort Lauderdale. General Vista will have the power and authority to issue enforceable laws within the Quarantine Zone, as he sees fit, to maintain law and order and to protect the health and welfare of our country. General Vista has the full support of this Administration.
“Acting on the recommendations of the joint chiefs of staff and, in particular, the army chief of staff, I have ordered that the New Jersey National Guard, General Vista’s former command, undertake the first steps to implement the quarantine by erecting a chain-link fence around Fort Lauderdale. That process began this afternoon.”
He paused again and sipped water.
“My fellow Americans, I know these measures are harsh. I wish I didn’t have to apply them, but I do. So I have ordered these steps based on my best judgment, as your president, of what is necessary to protect our entire country and all our citizens and visitors.
“I have acted to limit and contain this contagion to Fort Lauderdale. I have taken these difficult actions, in the full measure of my duties and responsibilities as commander in chief under the Constitution and as your president, to defend our country.”
He paused and licked his lips.
“May God in Heaven bless and have pity on the people of Fort Lauderdale. May God also bless the United States of America. Good night, and God bless you all.”
When the red light on the camera faded to dark, the president stood. He waved once to the media crews. Then he turned away and walked swiftly from the room.
Day One of the Quarantine had begun.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 30
Quarantine
Day 1
Pete pulled aside the curtain and looked out the window for the source of the noise that had penetrated the barrier established by his iPod, his earbuds, and the loud music he was listening to.
He peeled off his earbuds, left the apartment, and bounded down the steps, arriving at the parking lot in time to see two paramedics rolling a gurney toward a parked EMS vehicle.
“What happened?” Pete said to a women standing near him.
“It’s that terrorists’ germ the president talked about on TV yesterday. That guy caught it.” She pointed to the nearby gurney. “You should’ve seen him. He’s beet red.”
“Too bad. Who is he? Do you know?” Pete said.
“Foley something. Never heard his first name.”
Pete cautiously walked a few steps closer to the gurney and looked down at its recumbent passenger.
“I know him from the swimming pool,” Pete said.
“That’s his wife,” the woman said, “the one over there crying.” She pointed across the parking lot. “She told me he woke up during the night with a headache and fever. Wouldn’t let her call a doctor. Said to her that she got well by herself, so he would, too.” The woman nodded toward the gurney. “By morning he was delirious so the wife called 911.”
The woman suddenly seemed to have experienced an epiphany. She looked hard at Pete as she raised her hand to cover her mouth and quickly stepped back away from him.
“Wait a minute. You said you know him?” she said, as she backed away from Pete. “You were near him at the pool?” Before he could answer, the woman turned and hurriedly walked away.
As Pete watched, the paramedics rolled Sam Foley and his gurney into the EMS vehicle. One paramedic climbed up into the back and closed the doors behind him. The vehicle started up, accelerating as it moved away from the parking area, its siren bleating.
Pete walked back to Nanna’s condo.
Trace was at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee when Pete returned.
“Hi, Champ. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I was listening to music and heard a siren outside in the parking lot. I went downstairs to see what was happening.”
“I heard it, too. What was going on?”
“Not much. An old guy was sick and they took him away.”
Pete wondered if he should tell his father that he’d sat and talked with Sam Foley the previous week at the pool.
“About the guy they took away . . . .” Pete said.
“What’s that, Pete?”
“Well, you know . . . .” Pete hesitated. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. Then he looked back, but avoided eye contact with his father.
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
Pete averted his gaze and looked out the window.
“What’s on your mind, Son?”
Pete slipped his hands into his pants pockets, lowered his head slightly, and looked up at his father through heavily-lidded eyes.
“It’s nothing. Doesn’t matter anyway.”
CHAPTER 31
Quarantine Day 5
Derek Peterson was tired. He was ready to wind-up the day’s broadcast and get on with trying to adjust himself to life under martial law. He had only to cover the matters given him this afternoon by the Office of the District Military Commander, and he’d be finished for the day.
Derek focused his eyes on the camera and said, “. . . and now, ladies and gentlemen, on to another matter. The Office of the District Military Commander, General Anthony Vista’s office, has instructed me to remind you that under Field Order No. 2 everyone must register with the ODMC. The penalties are severe if you fail to register, so take some time and do it today.
“You also must remember that under Field Order No. 2, in order to help prevent the spread of Melioidosis, you are prohibited from congregating in public places in groups of three or more adults.
“Finally, a word of warning and friendly advice from the ODMC: if members of the military should stop you to question you, don’t resist, just cooperate. These stops are for your own good.”
He paused and wiped perspiration from his neck.
“Routine questioning and I
D checks will frequently occur, so be sure you have your official PhotoID with you at all times. You will receive your PhotoID when you register.
“Also, if you are stopped and questioned or if at any time you should yourself initiate contact with the authorities, for any reason other than when you register yourself, keep in mind that your ID information will be entered into the ODMC’s central computer database. Don’t be alarmed by this. The ODMC maintains this database to help it track the course of the terrorists’ disease and to follow the whereabouts of each of us in the Quarantine Zone during these chaotic times.
“Now, having said that to you,” he added, “I should point out that it is inadvisable for anyone to be entered into the computer system’s database three or more times because upon the third entry your name will be placed on ODMC’s watch list. If that happens, should you thereafter again be entered into the database, you might be taken into custody, questioned, and, perhaps, detained.”
Derek paused to let this sink in. Then he said, “There’s one more thing I need to say before I sign off.” He paused.
“To meet my journalist’s obligation of full disclosure, I want to tell you that sometimes I will report on news in the Quarantine Zone that I will have learned about in my capacity as a reporter; sometimes I will report on matters told to me by the authorities for the purpose of having me act as their spokesperson; and, sometimes I’ll give you my opinion on matters. I assure you that I will always tell you in which capacity I am acting when I address you.” He paused to let this sink in. “This is Derek Peterson signing off until tomorrow at 9:00 a.m.”
CHAPTER 32
Quarantine Day 7
Seven days into the quarantine, Trace found himself watching Pete and thinking about Pete’s recent anomalous behavior.
Trace put down the newspaper and again looked at Pete.
Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Pete didn’t seem to be himself. He hadn’t been for several days.
Trace sat at the breakfast table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He started working his way through the front page again. This time he tried to read stories located below the fold, but his concentration was off. Pete occupied his mind.
He stood up and again looked at Pete, who was sitting on the sofa at the far side of the living room.
He looks so forlorn, Trace thought.
Pete sat with his legs pulled up. He had wrapped his arms around them and rested his cheek on one knee.
Trace picked up the newspaper, but then immediately put it down. He stared again at Pete.
Something’s wrong.
Trace mentally replayed, as he had several times that morning, Pete’s behavior these past few days: Pete had eaten very little at dinner last night and had to be coaxed by Bella to eat at all, even though Nanna had cooked meatloaf with gravy and mashed potatoes, one of Pete’s favorite meals. He’d skipped dessert, too. Then he went to bed early, much earlier than usual.
Trace massaged his forehead with his fingertips and squeezed his eyes closed.
This morning at breakfast Pete had turned down Nanna’s offer to make blueberry pancakes for him. I never would’ve predicted that, Trace thought.
As he looked on, Pete squeezed back into a corner of the sofa. He gazed at the television screen, but, it seemed to Trace, he didn’t see it. Pete’s eyes were unfocused, bloodshot, and seemed to be wandering.
“Son, are you feeling all right?” Trace said. “Pete?”
Pete turned his head in slow motion and looked at Trace, but said nothing.
“What’s the matter, Pete? Tell me.”
No response.
Trace walked to the sofa and knelt alongside Pete.
“Bella, come here,” Trace called. “Something’s wrong with Pete.
Isabella, followed closely by Nanna, raced into the living room and went directly to Pete. She dropped down onto the sofa next to him.
“Honey?” Isabella said. “What’s wrong? Pete? Honey . . . .”
She sandwiched his hand between both hers.
Trace leaned over and placed two fingers against a pink rash he saw on Pete’s cheek. Then he laid his palm on Pete’s forehead.
“He’s burning up, Bella. Feel him.”
Isabella leaned into Pete. She put her fingers on his forehead, but jerked them away as soon as she touched him. She looked up at Trace, then immediately turned back to Pete.
She slid one arm around his shoulders and pulled him in close. Then she put her hand under his head and carefully moved his head from her shoulder to her breast. She hugged him as if he were her newborn.
“Trace. Do something. Get a doctor.”
Isabella placed her lips against the top of Pete’s head in a lingering kiss and closed her eyes.
Twenty minutes later Trace closed his cell phone and returned to the living room. He sat down on the floor beside Isabella. She still sat on the sofa with Pete, wiping his forehead and face with a damp cloth which she repeatedly moistened using a pan of water placed by her feet.
“I can’t get past the answering services,” Trace said. “There don’t seem to be any doctors at their offices even though we’ve been told to call them and avoid the hospital. I better take him over to the ER even though we’re not supposed to. Help me get him ready.”
CHAPTER 33
Quarantine
Day 7
Trace dressed Pete for the trip to the ER. The tropic-like temperature outside called for a short sleeve shirt and lightweight slacks or shorts. But guided by Pete’s alternate bouts of sweating and shivering, Trace dressed Pete in the wool sweater and homeboy baggy jeans Pete had brought with him to wear on the flight back to DC.
“I’ll get a washcloth and bottled water,” Isabella said. “Then I’m ready. I’ll take a blanket.”
She leaned over and kissed Pete’s forehead. She looked at Trace. “Will we catch this, too? Should we be doing something to protect ourselves?”
“If we’re going to come down with what Pete has,” Trace said, “there’s nothing we can do about it now because of the disease’s incubation period. You remember what the county medical director said on TV about an incubation period. We’ve been exposed since long before today.”
“What’s going to happen, Trace? Pete will be okay, won’t he?” She looked over at him, then back at Trace.
Trace thought for a second about his response, then nodded twice. “He’ll be fine once we get him to the ER and they break his fever.”
He picked up Pete and held him in both arms like a sacrificial offering to the gods. Pete lay limp across Trace’s parallel arms, his head, arms and legs dangling.
Trace and Isabella walked the four blocks to the hospital. Trace labored under Florida’s heat and humidity, the difficulty of his efforts augmented by Pete’s dead weight.
He carried Pete to the edge of a parking lot on the hospital grounds and stopped. He could see the ER across the lot, about sixty yards away.
“Hold on a second,” he said to Isabella.
He looked across the macadam at two EMS vehicles. Their back doors were flung wide open. They were parked askew near the sloping driveway leading from the parking lot up to the ER.
“Look at those people,” Trace said, pointing across the parking lot at a group of twenty or so people who were moving up the driveway from the parking lot toward the ER entrance.
“What are those soldiers doing?” Isabella said.
Trace shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t hear the one with the bullhorn this far away.”
They watched as the soldier with the bullhorn pantomimed an address to the approaching crowd, his left arm occasionally flailing, his right fist grasping the bullhorn in front of his mouth.
As the group moved toward the ER, Trace and Isabella watched six armed soldiers arrange themselves shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the ER’s entrance doors.
Trace instinctively stepped away, walking backwards a few steps, still watching th
e ER entrance, creating more distance between the soldiers, himself, and his family.
Trace stopped walking when he reached a copse of chest-high bushes he stepped behind. Isabella followed close behind him, and peeked over the shrubs, looking from Trace to the ER entrance and then back again, several times. Trace continued to hold Pete in his outstretched arms.
As he and Isabella watched from the safety provided by distance and the bushes, the soldier with the bullhorn faced the incoming crowd.
Behind him, standing a few feet away, a female soldier watched. Then she nodded at something the first soldier said to her, and stepped to the side of the entrance.
The soldier with the bullhorn again raised the device to his mouth and spoke to the approaching crowd. Trace still could not hear what the man said.
This soldier moved to the side of the ER entrance, over next to the female soldier. He kept his head turned toward the crowd, even as he stepped off to the side.
Without warning, moving as one, the soldiers in front of the ER’s entrance raised their weapons, aimed at the approaching crowd, and fired.
CHAPTER 34
Quarantine
Day 7
Derek Peterson stood on the street corner under the late morning sun gathering his thoughts for his upcoming broadcast.
The bright blue sky and the puffy, cotton clouds contrasted sharply with the squalor on the ground as Fort Lauderdale staggered into the last day of the first week under quarantine and martial law.
Derek looked up and down the street while he waited for his cameraman to finish setting up.
The streets are becoming less crowded every day, he thought. He tried to remember the last time he saw a child outside. He couldn’t think when that was.
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