"Tens of thousands," said someone. "The zone is about eight and a half square miles. What's the population density of Medburg?"
Gordon shook his head. We scientists. Someone actually went to a computer and looked it up on the Internet.
The television showed images of the National Guard troops turning away a few frantic citizens who were outside the zone trying to get in. To loved ones, maybe?
The images got inside Gordon's head. He closed his eyes but they were still there. They would always be there, he knew. They were burned into his memory and he couldn't forget them no matter how hard he tried. The woman, pleading with the soldier, who wore some kind of moon suit. Hazard suits, that's what they were called. The woman screamed, cried. But no matter what she did, the answer remained no.
Reporters lunged, stuck microphones in the woman's face. A guardsman pushed the reporters and cameramen back.
And the situation could get worse. Much worse. Gordon rested his head on the break room table.
"A little less than three K," said the person who'd done the Internet search. "Two thousand and eight hundred people per square mile in Medburg."
"Okay," said another voice. Calm, rational scientist. "Eight and a half square miles, 2,800 people per square mile. If the eight and a half square miles in the zone are average, then about 24,000 people are there. Make it 23,800 to be exact. But figure on fewer people than average because it's the bad section of town—a lot of vacated houses. Maybe 2,500 per square mile. That makes it, let's see...."
Gordon felt a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up and saw Burnett.
"Are you okay?" asked the CEO.
Shaking his head, Gordon got up and left the break room. He made his way down the long hallway and into his office. Plopping himself into the chair, he picked up the phone.
"What are you doing, Gordon?"
Burnett had followed him. He was standing in the open doorway, staring at Gordon with an expression of concern. And something else.
"I'm going to contact this Micro person, Cecily Sunday."
"Why?"
"Because." Gordon took a deep breath. "Because I think we had something to do with...." He gestured toward the break room.
"I thought we went all through this," said Burnett angrily. "The Micro people were here. They found nothing. You coordinated the visit!"
"Yeah," said Gordon. His voice was weak. "But there was something I didn't tell them."
Burnett was yelling now. "What? What?"
"I don't know what," mumbled Gordon. It was something, he thought. Jennifer and Pradeep. And Jennifer is sick. But it's just a cold—he'd checked!
"You don't know what?" said Burnett. "Don't do anything you might regret."
Gordon looked at him. "24,000 people are there, Burnett. Roughly 24,000—the best estimate our science can do for now, anyway. Don't we owe it to them to follow any lead, no matter how trivial?"
Burnett had calmed down now. He moved inside the office and closed the door. "Don't you think the Micro people—and the CDC and God knows who else is working on this—don't you think they know what they're doing? Their schedule is pretty full right now, wouldn't you say?"
Gordon buried his face in his hands. When he lifted his head again his hesitation was gone. "I'm calling Micro because I want to tell them everything I know, everything I suspect. It's up to them to do whatever they want with the information."
"My God, if you tell them you think the problem is with us, they'll ransack our labs! They'll shut us down and everyone will hear about it. Even if they find nothing...just the suspicion alone will ruin the company."
Gordon punched in a number. A moment later he said, "I'd like to speak to Cecily Sunday, please."
Burnett Sellás stormed out.
Bethesda, Maryland / 3:10 p.m.
Arrayed in the "war" room of the Micro-Investigation Building were a formidable number of screens made of the new paper-thin video displays. They were pasted everywhere, covered the walls like wallpaper. Behind a desk bristling with microphones and video transmitting equipment was the director Chet Vernolt, assistant director Kraig Drennan, and a small team of the Micro Unit's administrative officers. The conference call had begun a few moments ago. All the participants were using high-tech video equipment that distributed pictures as well as sound, which meant that everyone could see as well as hear everyone else. Chet looked pleased; these kinds of emergency conferences, he'd always claimed, was the reason why he'd bought all of that expensive equipment.
Conference participants were located in Bethesda (the Micro Unit and the National Institutes of Health), Atlanta (CDC), Medburg (the mayor's office), Harrisburg (the governor of Pennsylvania and several representatives from the southeastern section of the state), Washington, D.C. (which along with Chet Vernolt was ultimately responsible for making the decision to contain the outbreak, and included various members of the President's administration, the House of Representatives, and the United States Senate, and a half dozen uniformed military officers), and Geneva, Switzerland (WHO, the World Health Organization).
No one was smiling.
The conference started off on the wrong foot and had been steadily sliding downhill.
"No," said Chet Vernolt in answer to a U.S. Senator's question, "I'm not going to speculate on the nature of the disease-causing agent. It could be anything. It could be a virus, a bacterium, a fungus, a protozoan. It could be a nanotech instrument. We have no basis yet for a judgment."
"How many billions of dollars do we invest in biomedical technology in this country?" asked the Senator.
Someone in Atlanta spoke up. "It's not a question of money, it's a question of time. It takes time to identify a new pathogen, which this apparently is. It always takes time, even with the best technology. It's just like detective work. You don't find a solution overnight, no matter how much money you throw at the problem."
The Senator was unconvinced. "I find it frightening that we still can't even narrow it down. You're saying you haven't a clue what this thing is?"
Chet coughed. "Well, I wouldn't say that, exactly...."
"Then what, exactly, would you say?"
Kraig bit his tongue. He knew what was coming next.
"We believe we'll have the solution in just a few hours, Senator," said Chet. "We're in the process of narrowing it down right at this very moment."
Kraig shook his head. Under pressure, Chet was the biggest liar outside of Washington, D.C. What was he going to say a few hours from now, when in all likelihood they still wouldn't have the answer?
Interrupting, Kraig said, "The reason containment is necessary is because we don't know yet what we're dealing with. If we knew what's causing the disease and if we knew the route of transmission, then we could contain it without having to wall off a section of Medburg. The containment zone is a terrible solution that nobody wants, but we're forced to use it because we don't understand the disease-causing agent. We don't know how to make a less obtrusive containment and we can't let it escape—nobody can be allowed to leave the zone and spread the agent further. We're even monitoring the sewer system."
"Do we at least know what the victims died of?" asked the Senator.
Micro's director perked up. At last a question he could answer. "Respiratory failure."
"Respiratory failure? You mean like the virus that caused SARS?"
Chet started to say something, then stopped. He glanced at Kraig, as if to ask, did we check that? We did, didn't we?
"It's not any virus we've ever encountered before," said Kraig. "The diagnostic tests have been done repeatedly, ELISA and everything else. Every diagnostic test in the world inventory has been tried and there were no hits. No antigens whatsoever."
"Which means what?" asked Mayor Williams in Medburg.
"Which means," Kraig said, "either the pathogen is a virus that no one has ever documented before, or it's not a virus at all."
"I find that uncomfortably vague," said the mayor.
; "I'm sorry," said Kraig, "but that's the best we can do for now. We're trying to grow cultures from samples of the latest three victims. Tissue samples, fluid samples, and organ samples. What that means is that we're putting the tissue into nice, warm places with lots of food so that any microbe that's present will grow and reproduce. In that way we might be able to find the pathogen."
"And has anything grown?"
"Sure, lots of things. Many of the cells inhabiting the human body are bacteria, Mayor Williams. The bacteria are small but numerous. We have to weed out all of the normal symbionts and other microorganisms before we can find the pathogen."
"I don't mean to be pushy," said Mayor Williams, "and I'm sorry for the inquisition. But there are at least 20,000 citizens in the containment zone and, as their mayor, I feel like I have to do my very best to look out for them. Which requires my understanding of what you're doing to alleviate this situation."
Chet took over and Kraig gladly let him. Explaining biological science was something the Micro director did well. Chet started telling the Mayor about cell cultures and what a symbiont is: "A small living organism, a biont, that exists in synergy with its host."
Kraig's cell phone vibrated. He glanced down at the screen and saw Roderick's name. He put on a headset, ignoring the conversation going on around him, and answered the call.
"News?" whispered Kraig into the headset microphone.
"So far, no new pathogens in any culture."
"Any good news?"
"Not yet, I'm afraid, but we're working on it. I've taken the liberty of ordering several thousand laboratory mice."
Kraig paused. "A shotgun approach?"
"If the cultures prove negative, it's the next logical step."
"But Rod, that'll take a long time."
"Not if we do it in a massively parallel fashion. We have the technicians and the funds, since we now command resources from a host of laboratories around the world."
Kraig had to admit that it should be the next step, if the cultures failed. But it would take time, no matter how many labs were working on the problem. They had to inject samples from the tissues and the organs of the victims into the mice. Mice get the disease—that much was already known—and if any of the injected mice get the disease, then that sample must contain the pathogen. It was a method of isolating the right part of the body to look for the disease-causing agent.
"Start with lung samples first," said Kraig. "That's our best bet for now."
"I agree."
"In the meantime, let's hope one of the cultures produces something overnight. And we have the dead mice too, don't forget."
"Cecily believes that the mice got the disease from people, not the other way around." Roderick summarized Cecily's findings.
"You buy it?" asked Kraig.
"I trust Cecily's data, and on most occasions her instincts as well. But this time I'm far from sure. This is an entirely unusual case."
"Is Cecily in isolation right now? Or is she in the zone?"
"Neither."
Kraig exploded. "What?"
The conference conversation stopped. Everyone looked at Kraig. He glanced up and apologized.
"Are you going to let us in on the news?" said Mayor Williams, with a trace of irritation in her voice.
"There's no news," said Kraig. "Just a lead, which may or may not prove promising." He dropped his voice into a whisper again and covered his mouth with a hand. "What are you talking about, Rod? My explicit orders were that no one on that team be allowed outside of isolation, and that includes Cecily. What does she think she's doing?"
"Please calm down. She's wearing a suit."
Kraig sighed. "That woman is...." He struggled for the words.
"Frequently exasperating, always bizarre, occasionally brilliant. She's a free spirit and she works best with a loose rein. You should know that by now, Kraig."
"You understand her." Kraig's tone was almost accusatory.
"I do not. She is an inscrutable enigma. I have always failed to understand her, I merely understand her results."
Kraig ran a hand through his hair. He could sense the blond color turning to gray. "Where did she go?"
"Vision Cell Bioceuticals."
"Still hung up on the creek thing."
"So I would presume."
Kraig frowned. Roderick knew what he was doing, and he trusted Cecily. Kraig signed off, uneasy but unwilling to intervene. He yanked off the headset.
People were talking about terrorism. One of the military officers had ruled out any possible involvement of terrorists in the Medburg crisis. All the common biological warfare agents, he said, were well known. And anybody who had developed something new and effective would not have chosen an obscure, economically depressed neighborhood in Medburg to showcase it.
"Could this be something like a trial?" someone asked. "See-if-it-works type of thing."
Murmuring and many frightened looks followed. But the military officer who specialized in anti-terrorism operations dispelled most of the fear. He explained that once the newly developed agent was released it would eventually be discovered and studied. The advantage of surprise would be lost, and eventually scientists would find a means of defense, or at the very least adequate preventative measures. Therefore the first release would likely be the main target. That opinion, however, did not stop one of the president's staff from arguing for the need to stay on "high alert."
Another member of the anti-terrorism team added, "We've gotten the usual number of claims of responsibility. Nothing remotely credible, however."
Some government official then asked whether anyone was absolutely sure the pathogen was contagious. "I understand the rationale behind containment, but it's such a horrific thing...."
"Recall the pandemics of the past," said Kraig. "In 1918 the Spanish flu killed at least 50 million people worldwide. Quarantine and containment are unpleasant, but a pandemic is worse."
Someone from WHO spoke up. "There have been cases in the past similar to this one, cases where officials carried out containment procedures too slowly. They very much regretted the delay—it cost thousands of lives."
The politician refused to concede the point. "But to quarantine a whole neighborhood."
"Obviously we'd rather confine individuals instead of whole cities and neighborhoods," said Kraig. "The problem is that this is a new bug. We don't yet have diagnostic kits that would tell us who has and who hasn't got the disease."
"But are you sure it's contagious?"
A CDC person answered that she was "99 percent confident." For one thing, the disease seemed to spread in waves through mice populations—mice, being small and active, are highly susceptible to the disease, whatever it is, and die quickly. The latest human victims also suggested the disease could spread from person to person. One of the victims, an elderly female, was found at home alone, but the other two cases strongly indicated the infectious nature of the disease. One victim, a young man, died at home in his bed. The other victim was a middle-aged female cashier at a grocery store, who was known to have processed the male victim's order a day earlier. The two were not acquainted, had different occupations, and lived far apart. It was unlikely that the two victims picked up the pathogen in separate incidents; more likely, one got it and then gave it to the other. Those two cases more than anything had prompted the quarantine order.
"But maybe it's already escaped!" said a Senator.
"Unlikely," said Kraig. "But we're carefully monitoring the surrounding area. The containment zone encircles the known victims with plenty of room to spare. Of course an infected individual might have left the area before the fences went up, but containment is still necessary—even if it doesn't entirely stop the spread of the disease it will at least slow it down, giving us more time if we need to deal with this thing on a state-wide or national level."
"What's the time course of the disease?"
"Good question," said Kraig. "Mice die quickly, within a day. Humans proba
bly survive longer once they become infected, but we don't know how long. We also don't know what percentage of people will recover, and how long a recovery might take, and when an infected person is no longer contagious. Like most infections, there's probably a wide range of times, from hours to days or even weeks, depending on the victim's size, age, and state of health. Another critical thing we don't know is how long the bug lives outside of its host."
"You don't know a lot yet, do you?"
"We haven't found the bug yet, Senator," Kraig said crisply. "Until we find it, we won't be able to answer the big questions."
Medburg's mayor broke in. "You realize the sensitivity of the situation, I hope."
"Sensitivity?" asked Kraig.
"We're talking about a downtrodden section of town. There will be talk—there's already talk—" The mayor's lip trembled, her voice became shaky. "They'll think we don't care about them. What am I supposed to tell these people?"
"Tell them I care, and you care, and a whole lot of smart scientists care, and we'll solve this problem, eventually. That's the best we can do."
Chet interrupted and started talking about the absence of any spike in the number of patients in area hospitals and clinics. He clearly hoped to strike an optimistic note. "Nobody seems to be coming down with any new or strange ailments," he said.
Others echoed his sentiments. Everybody seemed to be moved by the mayor's show of emotion.
"According to the latest report, there are no signs of a new and contagious respiratory illness," declared Chet. "The epidemic may already be over."
Kraig winced. None of the five victims so far died in the hospital. So the clinical situation was not a good picture of what was happening in this case—it was misleading. But the absence of any signs of illness in hospital patients was normally a good sign so Chet had brought it up.
And other people bought it. The CDC, NIH, and WHO people knew better, but Kraig noticed their nods and satisfied looks; the unwarranted optimism had spread. The politicians especially seemed to embrace the hopeful outlook. They bought the lie because that's what they wanted to hear.
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