"They took Yvonne," Gary reported. "Mom's upstairs. They gave her something so that she could go to sleep."
There was no response from Alicia, not even an indication that she'd heard what he had said.
Gary stepped up to her. "Alicia," he pleaded.
Finally her gaze drifted his way. Alicia had been the one to find Yvonne. The eight-year-old had been lying on her back, her chest heaving up and down and her back arching like a gigantic wave was rolling down her body. Her mouth and eyes were wide open, but no amount shaking and screaming would bring her around. A futile series of resuscitations followed, first Alicia, then Loretta, and finally Gary.
Gary laid a hand on his sister's shoulder. "We'll need supplies soon."
A huge tear rolled down Alicia's cheek. "Like we're going to live much longer."
Gary set his jaw. "We will. We'll find a way."
His sister turned her head away from him.
He shook her shoulder. What happened to the boisterous girl who had been his sister? How had she been swallowed up by this pathetic quitter? "Snap out of it, Leesh! You've got to help me, we've got to get through this."
Alicia didn't answer. Gary resisted the urge to slap her, amazed that the urge came over him at all. He paused to think.
He turned and headed for the stairs. His sister stopped him when she spoke.
"Like rats," she said. "Isn't that what Jimmy told us?"
Gary whirled around, furious. "I'm not a rat! You're not a rat! Yvonne wasn't a rat!"
Storming upstairs, Gary shoved his bedroom door open. Then, before going in, he quietly padded down the hall and listened at his mother's door. Hearing nothing, he cracked the door open and peeked in. She was asleep, finally.
As Gary closed the door, a thought struck him that made the hair on his arms stick straight up. He peered at his mother again, closely this time. Her eyes were closed and she appeared to be asleep—and Gary saw her chest move up and down, rhythmically.
He sighed with relief. Silently creeping down the hall, he returned to his bedroom.
The government wasn't telling them the results of the tests. They'd promised, kept promising, a litany of phrases meaning roughly the same thing: "real soon now" and "in preparation" and "putting the finishing touches on it." It was just a matter of time before his mother's breathing would stop, and the same would happen to the rest of them. His brother, and Alicia, and all of his friends. Exactly like rats caught in a trap.
Gary reached under his mattress.
It wouldn't be like that, he vowed to himself. Not exactly like rats.
* * *
A few miles from the Winters' home, Abe sat in a house on a corner lot of Glaser Avenue and sipped Barbados rum from a five-ounce tumbler. It was one of the few "vices" that the drug dealer would allow himself.
On television a local news announcer apologized for a lack of updated pictures from the zone. "Our camera crews are no longer allowed inside the containment zone, and our helicopters are no longer allowed to fly over it."
Yeah, that's about right, thought Abe. They're worried they might get shot at.
The announcer continued. "Officials describe the situation in the containment zone is as well as can be expected."
Abe snorted.
"And here with us, live from Atlanta, is one of the country's leading infectious disease scientists...."
Abe's interest drifted. He poured another shot of rum.
Jimmy walked in. "Man," he said. "It's getting rough out there."
Glancing over his shoulder, Abe said, "What you talking about? Ain't nobody rougher than you, dude." Abe's smile vanished when he saw the blood on Jimmy's shirt. "What the hell happened?"
"Punks jumped me." Jimmy wiped his mouth and looked at his hand. "Cut my lip pretty good."
Abe got up. "You need help."
"No." Jimmy put down a sack.
Peering inside, Abe saw some cans and a carton of juice. "You should have just given them this stuff. No sense fighting over—"
"They didn't want the stuff. Anyone can get food and supplies just by walking up to the depots they got around the zone."
"Then what they be wanting?"
"Hell if I know. A piece of my hide, I guess."
"Man, it's time to get out of here. People getting crazy."
"Yeah." Jimmy grabbed a towel and held it up to his mouth.
"You all right?" asked Abe.
Jimmy pulled the towel away and explored the inside of his mouth with a finger. "They chipped a tooth. Damn bastards, surprised me. Came right out an alley."
"Let me look."
"Forget it. It'll be all right." Jimmy threw away the towel.
"How'd you get away?"
Reaching under his shirt, Jimmy pulled out a Kahr PM9. He examined the handgun and the magazine. "I plugged one of them, and the others decided it was a good idea to leave me alone."
Abe eyed the weapon. "Good thing dudes around here don't have many guns lying around." He smiled briefly. "I mean besides us."
After rummaging in a box underneath the low table Abe had used for a footrest, Jimmy pulled out some shells. He reloaded the magazine and snapped it into place. "When are we taking off?"
"I've been talking to some of our little friends. They be ready too."
"Good." Jimmy laid the handgun gently on the table. "Tonight?"
"No, man. Not tonight."
"Why not? We keep waiting and then the first thing you know they got tanks out there along the fence."
Abe gave him a look. Jimmy caught the meaning.
"They already got tanks?" he cried.
Abe nodded solemnly. "In places."
Jimmy shook his head. "Man, that ain't good."
The two business partners stared at each other for a moment.
"We're going to die," said Jimmy. He looked as if he believed it.
"Don't be talking like that. I got ideas."
"Seems like I remember you were the one that didn't like facing artillery. Now that's just what we've got to do." Jimmy banged a fist into his palm. "We should have gone earlier!"
"Maybe." Abe was reluctant to acknowledge mistakes, particularly in front of a business partner—even one he trusted. But he regretted not having made a move sooner. "I guess I let myself start to believe in that crap they were saying, about opening the zone and finding a cure or something—"
"Never believe what the government says!" Jimmy stared wide-eyed at his partner. "Never, never, never! Liars! That's why I didn't go to their damn testing thing—and I'm glad I didn't. Have they said anything about it? Well, have they?"
"It's too soon." Abe had gone to a testing center—under a false name. The medical people didn't give him any trouble.
"They'll just keep us here until everyone drops."
Abe saw Jimmy reach for his gun. An instant of panic came over him. His automatic was in its holster all the way on the other side of the room.
When Jimmy laid a hand on his gun, some of the fire went out of his eyes. A measure of calm restored itself. "So you been talking to our young buddies?" He picked up the Kahr, fingered it briefly, then set it back down.
A sense of relief came over Abe. It failed to dispel all his tension but he felt a lot better than he had a few seconds ago. From now on, until they got out of the zone, he would have to be extra careful what he said around Jimmy. He looked up to see Jimmy giving him an appraising look. Maybe Jimmy was thinking the same thing about me, Abe thought.
Abe took a final sip of rum and let the glass drop hard to the table. "We got a good plan. Tomorrow night. The kids and the car will be ready by then."
"Does the plan include how we're gonna dodge tanks?"
"They don't have tanks except where there be empty flat areas in front of the fence. You know, like along Glaser Avenue."
Abe could see that Jimmy didn't understand. "They need to mass their fire power where they be afraid a whole lot of people could come at 'em all at the same time. They ain't worried so muc
h about places where there be houses and stuff, because then no mob can rush 'em without pouring through the small spaces between the buildings. And if that happened, machine gunners'd mow 'em down easy."
"So you're saying we sneak up on 'em. Use the houses as shelter?"
Abe smiled. "I'm not saying nothing like that. We be better businessmen than that, partner."
Jimmy didn't return the smile. "Our young buddies?"
"That's right." Abe looked at his partner and grew uncomfortable again. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know that giving kids guns is a smart thing to do." Jimmy reached up and felt his chipped tooth. "I thought it was a good idea before, but now I'm not so sure. Seeing what happened to me a while ago."
"Partner," said Abe, "you think I haven't been giving this a lot of thought?"
Bethesda Maryland / 5:15 p.m.
A long red snake slithered out of Kraig's arm and undulated across his desk.
On closer inspection he realized it wasn't a snake at all. It was a tube. One end of the tube buried itself in a vein of his arm, the other end coiled around and around the desk—snake-like, a cobra waiting to strike—finally entering into the giant screen hanging from the ceiling. The blood from Kraig's arm flowed freely, imparting a maroon color to the transparent plastic. His arm was becoming pale, losing its fleshy tone, growing more and more necrotic. The pallor spread to his neck and face, until his cheeks were the same color as the whites of his eyes.
And still there wasn't enough blood. Kraig's supply kept dwindling, and the screen continued its brooding darkness, not a drop of lively red to be seen. It was swallowing all of Kraig's blood and yet it remained empty, ravenously thirsty. Sopping up every ounce and crying out for more.
When the grim reaper laid a hand on his shoulder, Kraig jumped out of his chair. An assistant let out a stifled scream.
Kraig looked around. The young woman stared at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
Sitting back down, Kraig rubbed his eyes.
"When you didn't answer the intercom," explained the assistant, "I came in and...."
"Sorry," muttered Kraig. "I fell asleep."
"They're waiting," said the woman.
Kraig looked up. "Who? Oh. Yes, I know. The conference." He glanced at the clock. "I'll be there in less than a minute."
The assistant left after giving him a sympathetic pat on the back. Thirty seconds later Kraig followed, taking a long look at the ticker as he did so.
594.
And that was only the official count—a definite underestimate of the true total.
* * *
"With a determined effort by people in the containment zone," said a Colonel, "we think under the present level of security they could break out."
When the Colonel had said "present level of security" he obviously meant "insecurity." His expression darkened even further as he described the "paltry" number of troops guarding the "perimeter."
Even more screens had been crammed into the conference room than the last time. The bewildering montage of faces made Kraig dizzy.
But he listened to the dialogue. The military asked for reinforcements. The mayor of Medburg worried out loud over a possible incident that might occur simply by having so much weaponry and troops massed along the fence. The governor of Pennsylvania vouched for the conduct of the National Guard. A United States Senator from Pennsylvania vowed that the Army was ready to come in if necessary. A high-ranking officer in the Air Force spoke of napalm and incendiaries. Following that, people talked about mines, antipersonnel chemical aerosols, high-voltage electric fields, armed drones, and sensor-activated explosives.
Kraig shook his head. A soft chuckle escaped his lips.
"What we don't know," said a military officer, "is the military capability of the enemy."
"We have to assume they're armed with rapid-fire automatics at the very least," said another officer.
Nods all around.
The list went on. Shotguns. Handguns. Fertilizer-based bombs. Someone asked if they could have gotten their hands on sufficient fertilizer. A discussion on fertilizer, gardening, and the economy of Medburg ensued. Sources of nitrogen other than fertilizer were mentioned and bruited about, along with the expected high-explosive skill of the enemy.
A sharp female voice cut into the discussion. "I'd like to remind y'all of something," said Medburg's mayor.
Kraig looked up. The mayor's voice suddenly sounded like something he had often heard during his days at Emory. Was the mayor originally from the south? He realized he didn't know anything about her.
"I think y'all need to remember," the mayor was saying, "that these people y'all are talking about are citizens of the United States, not some crazy terrorists you need to destroy."
"Ma'am," began a General—the ribbons on his chest were so numerous that they crawled all the way up under his lapel. "We appreciate your sentiment—"
"No," said the mayor, "I don't think you appreciate anything at this point except your ability to kill thousands of innocent people."
The General's face reddened. "Now I don't think that's a fair assessment. We have our orders and we plan to carry them out, as we always do, no matter who the enemy is or where he may be located."
Micro's director, sitting beside Kraig, coughed politely. "Ma'am," said Chet, "what we've evidently failed to make you appreciate is the danger that exists if some of the people in the zone succeed in breaking containment."
Once he had everyone's attention, Chet went on. "At the moment we are utterly powerless against this pathogen. The tests show that everyone in the zone is infected, which proves just how contagious this bug really is. Everyone comes down with it, and it slips right past the immune system and...and does its thing."
Kraig almost asked when the people in the zone would be informed of the test results. Then he realized what the answer would be—silly question. Why give them any more reason to attempt a break out? Except, of course, most of the people under quarantine interpreted the silence correctly.
Chet continued, "Hundreds of people have died in the containment zone and hundreds, if not thousands more will do so in the near future. We have to face the possibility that everyone in the zone will succumb—this bug is a hell of a lot stronger than we are and we have no means of defense. But however much pain twenty thousand fatalities cause, we cannot allow this bug to jump the fence."
Chet paused, scanning the faces on the screens. His words had a satisfactorily chilling effect on the audience. Fearful expressions appeared on every face, including that of the mayor. "Millions of lives are at stake. If the pathogen escapes containment, the whole United States...the whole North American continent...no, let me go further, in this age of global travel. The whole world will be threatened with imminent and fatal danger."
The mayor spoke. "Surely our medical personnel will find an answer to this disease soon." Her voice lacked confidence.
Everyone looked at Kraig. Acutely aware that he was the focal point of the medical personnel, he said, "We're doing what we can. But this pathogen is entirely new." Kraig spoke of protobiont's ability to replicate despite its lack of genetic material and its astonishing power to spread among populations. He tried to use simple terms, helpful metaphors, easy explanations, but he knew he wouldn't be able to make the politicians and military officers understand. They didn't have the training and experience necessary to realize what Kraig and his staff were up against.
"It's like inventing a brand new science," summarized Kraig. "This is a long, involved process that doesn't happen overnight."
"Can you give us an estimate of how long it will take?"
They always wanted estimates, Kraig thought, even when it's impossible. Give us a number—any number. He looked up and suddenly realized who had asked the question: the president of the United States. During the course of the conference the representative from the White House had changed from an administrator to the commander-in-chief.
Kraig swallo
wed. Give him a number, any number. "Five days. Maybe a week."
And then he realized what he'd done. My God, he thought; I've become Chet!
A CDC official in Atlanta said, "A week and all of our problems may be over anyway."
A large number of solemn nods greeted this remark. In another week everyone in the zone would probably be dead. And protobiont, perhaps, with them.
No one spoke for a moment. The same thought had occurred to all the conference participants at once.
The president broke the silence. "Dr. Drennan, we thank you and your people for your enormous effort in this crisis."
Getting the feeling that he'd just been dismissed, Kraig nodded weakly. We thank you for your effort, but you won't be in time to do any good.
The conversation drifted back to defense of the barricade. Military strategists offered the opinion that "forces" within the zone would almost certainly strike in the next few days. The president ordered reinforcements.
Everyone seemed in agreement. The best solution to the problem was to ensure the sacrifice of twenty thousand lambs on the altar of the newest deity in the biomedical pantheon— protobiont.
Medburg, Pennsylvania / 5:15 p.m.
Gordon was surprised how fast Cecily could run. But five young men waving their fists were pretty good motivation.
They'd been saved, for the moment, by a passing armored patrol vehicle. Not quite a tank, not quite a jeep, it looked more like a cross between the two, with tires shielded by metal plates and the body bristling with protruding gun barrels.
Gordon suddenly realized why the vehicles were nicknamed "porcupines." He sprinted after it, waving his arms and trying to get the occupants' attention. There was a thick Plexiglas window and Gordon looked inside. Two soldiers were facing each other and talking; one was laughing and the other smoking.
"Damn it, over here!" yelled Gordon. He watched in disbelief as the porcupine rumbled down the street and disappeared around a corner. Leaning against an unlit street lamp on the edge of the sidewalk, he muttered, "Great, just great."
"Never a cop around when you need one," said Cecily, catching up to him.
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