Containment

by Kirkland, Kyle

  "So what is it? This fractionate. Any news?"

  "Negative. All we know is that it's a complicated molecule."

  "A complicated molecule," repeated Kraig tiredly. "It's some damn complicated molecule, all right."

  "And a fascinating one. It burrows its way into the brain by an as yet unknown mechanism. It causes a bizarre pathology by an as yet unknown mechanism. It replicates by an as yet unknown mechanism."

  "It's alive," supplied Kraig, "but it can't be."

  "Exactly." Roderick's voice, though gravelly with exhaustion, struck an exuberant note.

  Kraig thought for a moment. "What's the throughput on the diagnostic test? Can we do a lot more?"

  "You're thinking about testing other people, besides those in the zone?"

  "Within thirty, forty miles."

  Roderick paused. "You're talking about hundreds of thousands of people. It would take weeks, perhaps months. Too long to do any good. Besides, I don't think it's necessary. I assume you're worried about wind-blown spread of the agent."

  "What if it spreads like pollen?" Kraig didn't want to think about it, he wanted to put such a horrible thought out of his mind. But it was his job to consider worst case scenarios—and worry about them.

  "Unlikely. The pathogen in this case would be released close to the ground. Remember, it comes from infected humans and other animals—possibly by exhalation via some convoluted route involving blood circulation and the lungs, although we can't be sure. But in any case, it's not released from a significant height. And there have been no storms and little wind lately."

  Kraig sighed. "But just in case, is there any way to speed up the tests?"

  "Yes, but there's no way to predict when that may happen. Right now the diagnostic test is a bioassay, which takes time. Until we identify the molecule, the bioassay is the only test we've got—it's the only way we can be certain that a sample tests positive."

  "I was afraid of that."

  "We're doing the best we can. And I've got plenty of work to do—"

  "Rod, before you go." Kraig bit his lip. "I've got a meeting at noon with the pols."

  A moment of silence passed.

  "I'm sorry," said Roderick, "there's little more that I can tell you. Our chemists are analyzing this molecule and we will know its components shortly. But I doubt that this will tell us much. What we need is the molecule's structure."

  Kraig had suspected as much. The function of almost all biological molecules stems from their structure, which was particularly true of complex molecules like the one they were dealing with here.

  "I'll bet," said Kraig, "this molecule isn't going to be easy to crystallize."

  "There's no reason to be defeatist. It's possible that we can coax it into a crystal so that we will be able to perform X-ray crystallography. I fully acknowledge that many biological molecules are notoriously difficult in that regard, but even so, we have spectroscopy and a host of other tools that will yield some information."

  "I need a timetable. I know you can't be precise—"

  "Exactly," snapped Roderick, "so it's better left unsaid. You must make those people understand that scientific research does not follow an orderly progression. It's not as if we can allot a certain period of time for this, another period of time for that. The pathway to important discoveries is always chaotic."

  Kraig sighed again, deeply. "They're worried. Same as me."

  "We'll do everything humanly possible to save the twenty thousand people—"

  "That's not the worst of it."

  "Tell that to the people in the containment zone," said Roderick sharply.

  Startled, Kraig was speechless for a moment. Emotive statements rarely escaped the senior analyst's lips.

  "I know it's been a catastrophe for those people," said Kraig, "better than you do, I think. All I'm saying is that the situation can get worse. Much worse."

  Medburg, Pennsylvania / 11:55 a.m.

  Under an open-air tent in a parking lot, Cecily watched the long line of cars forming, curling around the tent in a spiral. Red tape marked a straight lane, an empty space that intersected the spiral multiple times—the exit. Once the car's passengers were done they would leave by following the red tape. A spiral queue was an efficient use of the space of the square parking lot.

  That was the plan, and Cecily hoped it would work. The idea was to get everyone's sample as quickly as possible. Get them in, get them on the table, get them out again.

  If only it were a cheek swab or blood sample instead of a tiny prick at the small of the back.

  The people in the zone weren't told that they would be giving samples of cerebrospinal fluid. No need to be graphic, and besides, most of them wouldn't understand. The majority of them had never heard of CSF. But it was the only fluid on which the diagnostic tests worked.

  Orders for Cecily and the other Micro people, as well as the CDC and public health workers were clear: the "patients" were to be told as little as possible. If anybody asked, tell them it was a skin sample, a blood sample, whatever you think they wanted to hear.

  Anything but the truth.

  Cool, thought Cecily. This thing just keeps getting better and better.

  Over her suit speaker came Lisa's voice. "We're ready." She gave the thumbs up sign.

  "Okay," said Cecily into the microphone. "Let's see how quickly we can drain CSF out of these guys."

  Bethesda, Maryland / 12:10 p.m.

  "You understand, Dr. Vernolt, that we're not criticizing the Micro-Investigation Unit."

  Chet nodded stoically.

  By his side in the conference room was Micro's assistant director, Kraig, facing down the frowning and glowering faces that filled screens occupying every conceivable space—taped to the wall, propped against chairs, hanging from the ceiling. There was even more than last time, more than Kraig ever imagined could fit into the video conference room.

  He wanted to say, People, it's not like we started this thing ourselves so that we'd have something to do.

  A woman from the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services continued speaking. She was the HHS Secretary's right-hand woman—the Secretary had been on a trip to Asia, giving pep talks to southern Chinese farmers about the need to guard against bird and swine flu, but he was on his way back. No doubt to harsh criticism about his unseemly absence in a time of crisis.

  "The number of fatalities stands at over a hundred," she said, "making this is a serious outbreak. We are concerned about containment."

  "Well," said Chet, "we have always taken this issue seriously. The early containment was in fact our Unit's initiative."

  Kraig shot him a glance.

  "Yes," said the woman, "for which you are to be commended. However, since we have failed so far to identify the disease or find any viable treatment regimen, it becomes imperative to contain it."

  "Of course," said Chet. The white mustache twitched.

  "What I'm asking is the number of positive diagnoses that you expect."

  "The reason I'm hesitating, ma'am, is that it's hard to estimate."

  "Surely you have some idea. The news reports were optimistic, as I recall."

  Good God, thought Kraig; she believes her own PR!

  "Would you say," she continued, "that they will all fit into one of the local hospitals? We can juggle patients if we have to."

  Chet shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't say."

  "Do the victims show any symptoms? And are the symptoms something we can use to get an estimate of the number of cases?"

  "No," said Chet. "No symptoms until near the very end."

  "That can be good and bad," said someone thoughtfully.

  Kraig knew why. If they didn't know they were sick, they might not get so panicky. However, they might also decide to attempt to escape for the same reason—if they don't have the disease, or think they don't have the disease, then there's no moral compulsion to abide by the rules of the quarantine.

  "If we can isolate the cases," the
woman was saying, "we can open the zone. And that is something I am sure we all want."

  Nods all around.

  That's what they were so afraid of, Kraig knew. A breakout—by people who may be carriers. They wanted to isolate the disease as soon as possible by corralling the infected patients. Plus if you pull down the fences everybody will be happy, except the people stuck in the hospital. To the rest of the world it would look like you've got the epidemic under control. No more riots, no more violence. Sweep all the dirt under the rug and forget about it; crisis solved, move on to the next problem.

  Micro's director got a pained look on his face. "I agree, opening the zone is what we're all striving for. But it remains to be seen whether we can pull it off in the next day or so, ma'am."

  So, thought Kraig. Chet's starting to grow a backbone. Or maybe it's because now even he realizes it's hopeless.

  The woman's lips compressed. Clearly she wasn't satisfied.

  Kraig couldn't hold it in any longer. "If you want to be adequately prepared," he said acidly, "order twenty thousand coffins."

  Medburg, Pennsylvania / 6:30 p.m.

  They all ate mechanically. Lift fork, shovel it in, chew. Repeat as necessary.

  Loretta Winters had made lasagna, a family favorite. Yet it was a somber dinner and Loretta's few attempts to inject some lively conversation died out like the chime of a softly rung bell.

  Gary still felt a pinch in his lower back, as if that hazard-suited vampire had dug around in there and left something inside him. It burned.

  He wasn't the only one to squirm through the procedure. The girl ahead of him had yelled. And Yvonne still hadn't stopped crying, despite her mother's persistent comforting—which had progressively turned into threats, then bribes, then finally evolved into little soothing noises, all of which had been totally ineffective.

  Alicia had smiled during her test. The memory turned Gary's stomach. That girl was just a fiend. What did Jimmy sometimes say? A "glutton for punishment."

  The only sounds in the dining room were the clanks and scratches of utensils against ceramic plates, and the dull drone of WKH's announcers in the background. People kept asking if the zone would be opened tomorrow if everything went well with the tests. But Gary had noticed that nobody was talking about the chances of that happening. Apparently, either nobody in the government really knew or, more likely, they just didn't want to say.

  Despite the pain in his lower back and the uncertainty of the coming test result—your final semester's report card, only a million times more important—Gary maintained a small harbor of hope. He nurtured it carefully, for it was all he had. If they did open the zone, then Jimmy and Abe were free to go. That is, if they didn't have the disease. Everyone was free to go, those who were healthy. The reason for the breakout attempt was gone—along with the reason that Gary had two automatic weapons stuffed under his mattress.

  But what if they didn't open the zone? Gary got a nagging feeling, a feeling he just couldn't shake, that this was exactly what was going to happen. Some crazy little voice inside his head kept repeating it over and over, like an earworm—a tune you can't get out of your mind.

  Even if they didn't open the zone, though, Gary thought that the testing was a good indication that the government hadn't forgotten them. They were working on the problem, and they were making some progress. Maybe a cure would follow shortly. Wasn't that enough?

  Grimly he knew it wouldn't be. Not for Jimmy and Abe. And maybe they were right to be skeptical. The government hadn't been completely honest so far, and probably weren't now. Maybe they just didn't care. Maybe they'd keep telling lies until everybody in the zone dropped dead. Then the problem would be solved.

  "I'm glad everyone saved room for dessert," said Loretta. She picked up her plate—half-full of uneaten food, similar to the rest of the plates—and rose out of her chair. "Fudge sundaes...yum!"

  The smile on his mother's lips failed to take hold. In a funereal procession the children followed her into the kitchen. All that's missing, thought Gary, is the hearse and placards.

  While they were each getting a plate of rich creamy chocolate, Gary was shocked when his sister Alicia gave him a sly wink.

  Bethesda, Maryland / 9:15 p.m.

  Disaster.

  That was the only word Roderick could think of. For once, his expansive vocabulary failed him. He stared at his computer monitor, unable to speak, his accustomed tautness and aloof intellect vanquished.

  It was even worse than he expected, worse than anyone expected. Out of all the diagnostic tests conducted so, only six were negatives. Even that lone bright spot was barren of any good news; the serial numbers of the six negative cases matched the fakes that Roderick had slipped in, to ensure quality control.

  Everyone. If the pattern held, everyone who had spent more than half a day inside that zone since the start of the epidemic without a hazard suit was infected. The enormity struck Roderick violently and he actually swung his head back, as if slapped in the face.

  The whole Micro team had initially visited the area with only gloves and finely filtered masks. Which hadn't been enough.

  Dimly Roderick became aware that the room's speakers were pumping out Barber's Adagio for Strings. He tried to give the command to kill the music but could not seem to find his voice. His strength deserted him.

  A few moments later he was standing outside the entrance of the Micro laboratory building, with no recollection of how or why he'd made the trip from his second-floor office.

  The night air was cool and crisp. Partially revived, Roderick realized he hadn't been outside in two days. He strolled down the sidewalk, leaving the building and parking lot behind.

  Ten minutes later he encountered a tiny park, dark except for a solitary sodium vapor lamp spreading a circle of yellowish light. In the middle of the circle was a bench. Roderick sat down, closed his eyes, let his mind and his thoughts become still.

  He might have slept. A while later he opened his eyes. An ambulance had just zoomed down the avenue, lights flashing and siren wailing.

  Roderick blinked. Slowly cognition returned. He breathed deeply three times in succession, then put his fingertips together and closed his eyes again.

  This time he didn't let his thoughts wander. Instead he directed them toward the problem at hand—which had suddenly become the most important problem he had ever tackled.

  The pathogen, the complicated molecule that was wreaking so much havoc; Roderick had already thought of a name for it: protobiont. Not just a catchy name; it was descriptive, for chemists and biologists used the term frequently to refer to the organic molecules on ancient Earth that billions of years ago had served as precursors for living organisms. They had not been alive, yet had been capable of rudimentary biological processes. Exactly like the pathogen responsible for the Medburg Respiratory Disease.

  21 April, Wednesday

  Montgomery County, Pennsylvania / 1:10 a.m.

  Two hours on, two hours off, for twelve hours.

  Encased in a hazard suit and bearing an M4 carbine, Redford "Reddy" Zunan, Private First Class, stood on the platform and watched the tedious minutes slowly tick by. The "platform" was not much more than a pole, slightly more than 12 feet high—just clearing the barbed wire of the fence—and ten square feet in area. A chest-high piece of camouflaged material—carbide fibers in a metallic matrix, which the National Guard troops humorously called armored plastic—was mounted on front of the box. It provided shielding and would have inconspicuously blended into the background, had the background been a tropical jungle instead of a mowed field dotted with eastern hemlock trees. The field bordered the interstate highway, the traffic of which would have provided a steady roar had there been the normal flow of vehicles. But few cars passed even during the day, and at night it was eerily quiet, with only the occasional truck to break the silence. The majority of motorists had no desire to drive along the edge of the containment zone.

  Reddy's station was in
one of the nicest sections—the only nice section, he'd heard. Behind him sprawled Montgomery County. In front of him was a 12-foot-high chain link fence, reinforced with titanium plating and anchored by concrete blocks placed at periodic intervals. The fence and the surrounding denuded area on the quarantine side of the zone were well lit by floodlights. Searchlights stabbed further into the darkness, sweeping out giant arcs in the shadows beyond the fence.

  At two o'clock, Reddy would be relieved for a two-hour rest. He would take a five-minute walk to the bivouac, step inside the trailer, get some air—the suit was hot and uncomfortable—talk to his buddies, and sip some coffee.

  He glanced to his left. About 100 feet away stood one of his best friends at the next platform. Both he and Reddy had been surprised to be called up on such short notice; usually you got some inkling, some advanced warning that you would have to pull some extra duty beyond the usual one weekend a month and two weeks a year. This time it was a phone call late one evening—get into uniform and report for duty at once. And they began work at once; they'd gotten the fence up in a few hours once the trucks hauled it in from the supply warehouse in central Pennsylvania.

  Reddy glanced to his right, at the other platform, saw everything was okay.

  Then he thought he heard a noise so he looked behind him. He saw the trunk of a tree looming overhead, its branches full of needles; beyond the tree was the interstate, and beyond that, in the distance, some scattered homes and businesses illuminated by street lights. The residents, he'd been told, had vacated their homes willingly. He believed it. Nothing would be there.

  Facing the fence again, Reddy's gaze ran along the chain links and the street that ran perpendicular to the fence, which rudely cut across it. It was a narrow two-lane road, and it intersected another street that ran roughly parallel to the fence; the intersection was the distance of a football field inside the zone. No traffic lights, just a stop sign—all that was required for a sleepy little residential area. Dark houses lined both streets all the way up to the intersection, but nothing beyond, nothing closer to the fence. The street that ran perpendicular to the barrier was a frontage road, serving the interstate; beyond the fence, the frontage road sloped gently downward, where it split into an on-ramp for the interstate and another branch that paralleled the highway. Weedy fields and bushes had covered the hill until county workers buzz-cut the inside perimeter of the containment zone while soldiers erected the fence.