by Ken Ward
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I noticed up near the front, they were checking the boarding passes for a few other people too. Probably working their way through everyone eventually.” It was a total fabrication, but I had to try and throw those two off the scent somehow.
“You saw them doing that?” Jeremy asked me.
“Yep. Just a few minutes ago. I don't think it has anything to do with that virus.”
“But the masks and gloves though,” Maura said. “That has to mean something.”
The man in front of me turned his head. “Could be that someone near the front has it.”
Jeremy's eyes went as wide as saucers. “Come again?” He said. “You think someone on this flight has IGNA-3?”
“No way,” Maura said.
The man nodded gravely. “Think about it,” he said, “that virus is all over the news. They got a guy on a flight with the virus on his way to England and it's just a coincidence that the flight crew starts wearing protective masks?”
“What the hell are we gonna do?” Jeremy said, his smooth baritone cracking slightly.
“I don't even want to think about this,” Maura said. “It's too much.”
“Not much we can do, I'm afraid,” the man in front of me said. “If it is on board this flight, we're all screwed.” He nodded his head almost as though he was wishing for it to be true. He had to be one of those fatalistic types where if someone were in the street with a sign that read 'The End is Nigh' he'd be right next to them with a sign of his own saying 'Here's hoping!'. After dropping his cheerful outlook into the laps of the two seated beside me, the man turned back around in his seat and went back to whatever it was occupying his time, probably perusing Armageddon and conspiracy theory websites.
Jeremy appeared visibly on edge. He sat back in his seat with his arms folded. “I'll tell you this,” he said, “that virus winds up on this plane I'm finding a parachute and I'm fucking gone.”
Maura held out her hand in Jeremy's direction. “Don't say that,” she said. “Like, I can't even right now.”
Meanwhile I could feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. Was it further notifications of the toxic conversation I'd been having on social media? Or was it Clackzi chiming in again to tell me just how screwed I was? I didn't want to know.
CHAPTER 9
NEW YORK CITY
OFFICE OF WORLD HEALTH ORGANIZATION
Callie Romero entered a cavernous room with high white walls and massive plate glass windows. The person she was scheduled to interview sat at the opposite end of a long mahogany table, his legs crossed, his hands folded neatly in his lap. He was prematurely balding, dressed in a navy blue suit. He stood as Callie neared and with a genial smile reached out to shake the reporter's hand.
“Mr. Silverton,” Romero said to him smiling graciously.
“Call me Roger,” he said and he gestured for her to sit in the chair positioned just around the end of the corner of the table from him.
Romero placed her nylon bag on the floor and produced a small voice recorder which she held out over the table's surface. “May I?” She asked.
The man nodded. “That's fine.”
“As I'm sure your assistant had told you, sir,” Callie said, “I'm here-”
“Roger,” the man reiterated.
“Right,” Callie caught herself. “Roger. So, I'm here to speak with you about the status of the IGNA-3 outbreak aboard the British SkyLanes flight currently on its way to Heathrow Airport.”
“Yes.”
“I'm assuming the World Health Organization has protocols in place to deal with this threat?”
“Well, we are quite concerned. Obviously. We're dealing with the crisis on a moment-by-moment basis.”
“Can you detail that, maybe give me some insight into how a situation like this is handled? It must be quite difficult to try and contain a virus of this magnitude, especially without any special personnel aboard that plane.”
“Correct.”
“So, what protocols do you have in place to deal with the threat?”
“We'd like to perhaps deescalate the language a little if we could,” Roger said, “we're not comfortable with the term 'threat'.”
“How would you categorize it?”
“It's a situation of concern, undoubtedly. It's something we're monitoring.”
“Would it be fair to say that everyone on board that flight is in danger of contracting the virus?”
“We're not ready to make that determination as of yet.” At that moment Roger's phone beeped loudly. He fished the device from his pocket and looked at the screen. Stricken by what he saw on his screen he held up a finger to Romero and immediately stood from his chair. “Excuse me,” he said. He began walking around the edge of the table toward the large archway at the other end of the room.
“Is it something concerning IGNA-3?” Callie asked him as he walked away.
“I'm not at liberty to say.” He stopped walking before he reached the archway. He swiped his finger furiously across his phone's screen. Romero got up from her seat and approached the man.
“Clearly you're troubled by something,” she said. “Can you share with me what's happening? Is it IGNA-3?”
The man ignored her and continued reading the text on his phone.
“You know The Times is going to print what it's going to print,” Romero said, “we'd like to have your perspective on what's happening.”
“I'm afraid this isn't the time,” Roger said.
“Why do you say that? You've received news about IGNA-3, haven't you?”
“Please, Ms. Romero, go and have a seat. I have to speak with my team. I will return before too long. If anything changes, I'll have someone show you out.”
“Why don't you just answer my question? The public has a right to know.”
“You want to cause mass panic?”
“So you have received news about IGNA-3.”
“I didn't say that.”
“Is it to do with the person aboard that flight? Is there another outbreak perhaps.”
“Ms. Romero, please go and sit. This isn't the way to conduct an interview.”
“All due respect, Roger, you don't get to tell me how to do my job.”
“The public doesn't need raw information being fed to them without context.”
“Exactly. That's why I'm here. So, let me in on what you have.”
“I'm not in a position to do that.”
“You're exactly in the position to do that.” Callie glared at the man who clearly wasn't used to being challenged in such a forthright manner.
“Are all Times reporters this pushy?”
“The good ones are.” Suddenly, her phone exploded with buzzes and chirps from inside her bag. She walked briskly to the chair where she'd been sitting and sat again. She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. The Clackzi app displayed a warning message on her screen that another IGNA-3 case had been detected. Roger stood looking at her as she read the message. She looked up at the man, and he could see from the look in her eyes that she knew. He walked quickly back over to the end of the table, clearly agitated.
“You can't print one word of this,” he said.
“The hell we won't. It's our responsibility.”
“Because the Times has never sat or buried a story before for the public good?”
“This is different.”
“I fail to see how. Who told you anyway?”
“It's that new app.”
“Of course.”
“It's how you found out as well, isn't it?”
Roger didn't answer. He wrapped both of his hands around the carved edges on the back of the chair where he'd been sitting. He looked at the floor and breathed in deeply.
“What do you plan to do?” Romero asked.
“I don't know.”
“You want me to go back to my office with 'I don't know'? The World Health Organization doesn't know how to handle yet another IGNA-3 outbreak on a
plane, this time on a domestic flight to Miami?”
“Obviously, that's not our official response,” Roger sniped. “I'm just learning of this now. We'll have to coordinate with our people in South Florida, and Boston as well where the flight originated.”
A woman with her hair in a tight bun appeared in the archway holding her phone up. She waved to get Roger's attention. Another person walked up behind her, concern also racked across his face. Roger saw them, his staffers, he knew the Clackzi app had just informed them as well.
“I have to go,” he said. “What are you going to use from this?”
“Everything,” Romero said. “What choice do I have?”
“You could choose to wait. At least until we have measures in place to quarantine everyone on that flight.”
“I can put in that you are taking those measures.”
“But of course we are, it's what we do. That should be obvious.”
“Do you really feel you're going to be able to contain this disease?” Romero said. “So far it doesn't appear that you can.”
“Sir?” The woman in the archway spoke to Roger. “We need you.”
“I'm coming.” He looked at Callie with sadness and genuine fear in his eyes. “Is that thing off?” He pointed at the recording device.
“Yes.”
“This is off the record,” he said.
“Fine.”
“I'll be honest with you, Ms. Romero. I am worried.”
“So, you don't think you can contain this virus? Is that what you're saying?”
“I'm telling you for the first time in my twenty years with this organization, I don't know. I've never seen anything like this.”
His words and his grave tone of voice caused Callie's blood to run cold.
“Now if you'll follow me,” he said motioning for the reporter to leave. “I'll have Ms. Jenkins show you out.”
Callie, accompanied by the WHO staffer, wound her way through the ornate stone building. The woman stopped in front of the glass revolving door and held out her arm motioning for Callie to exit the building there. “Have a nice day,” she said.
“Thanks.”
Callie walked through the revolving door and stood for a long moment on the Manhattan sidewalk. She scanned the crowds of pedestrians briskly walking in all directions and took note of the dense traffic and the general hustle and bustle of the metropolis around her. She thought of the repercussions of an unstoppable virus hitting a city this size. The cold November wind swept down the block, tousling her hair and sending a chill down her back. She grabbed at the sides of her jacket and contemplated for a brief moment taking a taxi home to gather up her husband and daughter and getting as far from the city as possible. With the gale whipping up dust and loose paper around her, she changed her mind and began walking up the sidewalk back toward the offices of the New York Times.
CHAPTER 10
Sleep. Glorious sleep. I had finally achieved the one thing I'd wanted the entire time I'd been sitting on that godforsaken plane. But the good things in this world never last, and I woke up with a jolt, groggy and unsure of my surroundings. The sound of someone paging a flight attendant, that dull chime from overhead, that's what had woken me up. I opened my sore eyes and saw someone with their arm raised to the ceiling half a dozen rows ahead. Then another chime sounded and a lady half way up the plane had stood from her seat swiveling her head around searching for help. A few seconds later the chimes from people pressing those buttons filled the cabin sounding like a chaotic orchestra. I glanced to my right, startled to see Maura staring right at me with her nose and mouth covered with her arm, pure anger in her eyes.
“This is you, isn't it?” She said and she held up her phone with a New York Times article on its screen. “IGNA-3,” she continued. “You knew and you got on this plane anyway.”
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Jeremy said in a muffled voice, his face half-covered beneath the collar of his shirt.
The men in the row ahead of me were leaning as far forward in their seats as they could.
“What does that article say?” I asked.
“That someone on this flight has the virus.”
“What makes you think its me?”
“Hmm, uh, I don't know, how about you seem to have all of the symptoms listed in the article,” Maura said with venom in her voice. “How could you do this? How could you have such disregard for everyone around you?”
“I don't think I have the virus,” I said. “I have the flu. And I didn't start getting sick until I was already boarding the plane.”
“You're just selfish,” she said.
“Seriously,” Jeremy said, “you are, buddy.”
The flight crew were busily flitting around the cabin, attending to passengers who appeared to be pretty riled up. I'd imagined that New York Times article had reached everyone quickly. Friends and family members of those on board would've read it and immediately contacted their people on the flight. The cabin had grown loud with the sound of agitated conversation ringing off the walls. Three attendants, all with gloves and masks on walked briskly down the aisle and stopped at our row of seats. One of them reached a hand toward me and gestured for me to leave my seat.
“Sir, we need you to come with us.”
“What?” I said, “what for?”
At this point I'm pretty sure the entire plane was staring at me.
“You're the only one on board who appears to be sick.”
“I have the flu.”
“Respectfully,” the flight attendant said, “you don't know that. We've been informed of symptoms of a major virus that is going around.”
“IGNA-3,” I said, “I know about it. Everyone knows about it.”
“Yes, and one of our crew has spoken to you previously. We know you're feeling under the weather. We need you to come with us as a precaution.”
“What are you gonna do, throw me off the plane?”
“Sir, please be reasonable.”
“Just go!” Maura screamed at me, tears in her eyes.
“I am being reasonable,” I said, “you don't know that I have this crazy virus. I'm sick, yes. But this could all be a bunch of hype. I've never been to Bermuda. How could I have gotten it?”
“Sir, please come with us. We don't want to have to force you.”
“Force me? Are you serious?”
“Get out of your seat!” A passenger yelled at me from a few rows away.
“Yeah, c'mon!” Another chimed in.
The flight attendant's hand had moved so close he was almost touching me. “Where am I supposed to go?” I said.
“Please get out of your seat,” the attendant said. “And come with us.”
I don't know what came over me in that moment, but I felt as though I was being unfairly targeted and treated poorly. I dug in my heels. I stayed seated and looked straight ahead. Jeremy folded his arms and had his back pushed against the cabin wall behind him. “Really, buddy?” He said to me in a condescending tone.
“I'm not going anywhere,” I said.
The attendant turned to one of his colleagues. “Go inform Trevor,” he said. “Sir, please stand up.”
“It's not happening.”
“You're not giving us any choice here but to be forceful.”
“You're way out of line,” I said, “you have no right.”
I could see passengers with their cell phones out, filming everything that was happening. Great. A minute later a burly man in black pants and a white uniform shirt with gold buttons emerged from the front of the plane. I had guessed this was Trevor. He too had on a mask and gloves. Obviously, none of these people had read the WHO information, because by the sound of it, a mask and gloves weren't going to do much to stop the transmission of IGNA-3. The big man came up to the group of attendants standing in the aisle. I could feel him looking at me, but I refused to make eye contact. I could see out of the corner of my eye, he was waving his hand, trying to get me to look at him.
> “Sir, hello?” He said.
The entire situation was absurd and I felt as though I was part of a surreal circus. I couldn't believe this was happening to me. Recognizing the silliness of it all, I looked at the man.
“My name's Trevor Norris, I'm part of the flight crew here today.”
“Uh huh.”
“What's your name, sir?” He had a slight southern accent to his voice that gave you an immediate feeling of friendliness that was hard to resist.
“Matthew,” I said.
“Matthew,” he repeated, “pleased to meet you. What's your last name Matthew?”
“I'm sure you all have this information. You seem to think you know all about me.”
“We're not trying to make things difficult here,” Trevor said, “you have to understand things from our perspective. Think about everyone else on board.”
“Your colleagues here are accusing me of something that they don't know is true,” I said. “They're claiming that I have this virus, based on what? An article?”
“I understand,” Trevor said, “you're right, we don't know. All we know is you're the only ill person on board this flight. We wouldn't be doing our jobs if we didn't take that seriously, given what we know about this virus, wouldn't you agree?”
This guy was good, I say that more in hindsight, because at the time regardless of how sick I was, I was pissed off and in no mood to cooperate.
“You can take it as seriously as you want,” I said, “but there's no reason for me to leave my seat. I just want to get to Miami and get to my conference and then go home. Why can't you just let me do that?”
“You're an asshole!” Someone shouted. This caused a few other passengers to yell. Someone far up ahead let out a loud whistle. The mob mentality appeared to be setting in.
“Do you see what you're doing?” Trevor said. “You've got everyone upset. This kind of thing potentially endangers the entire flight. We're talking about the potential for having to make an emergency landing. That isn't cheap. And the airline will be passing those costs on to you. You should know that.”
“You're threatening me?”