Containment

by Kirkland, Kyle

  Pradeep didn't appear consoled. "Nevertheless, I am this creature's author. I am responsible."

  Roderick rested a hand on Pradeep's back. "You're responsible for helping us fight the disease. That is something you chose to do, by your own will, so that is something you can be held responsible for—and for which we duly thank you. The birth of protobiont was an accident, and it was without precedent, so as Kraig said, the event could not have been predicted. There is no negligence here and no intent to harm, therefore no culpability. If a charge of criminal responsibility were to be made, you might as well condemn all of science."

  A look passed between Kraig and Pradeep.

  "Come now, gentlemen," said Roderick, observing the exchange. "One disaster need not turn us into Luddites."

  "There'll be time for that discussion later," said Kraig. "Do we know how this molecule spreads yet? Are the people surrounding the containment zone in any trouble?"

  "Unlikely," replied Roderick. "As a molecule, protobiont can indeed travel far, but it's a relatively heavy molecule, and its range is somewhat restricted—unless it gets into the upper atmosphere and carried by strong winds. Its release from infected people is fortunately limited. Most of it stays in the brain, although some of the molecules get into the bloodstream and travel widely throughout the body. A small amount escapes into the air from the evaporation of sweat, and an even smaller amount escapes from the lungs and mouth during exhalation, sneezing, and coughing."

  "But even a small amount is dangerous," said Pradeep. "Protobiont is potent."

  Roderick gave him a glance. "Ever the pessimist."

  "We have to check," said Kraig. "I don't want even the slightest possibility that this little bastard breaks out of the zone. What are we talking about here, a quarter-mile? Half?"

  "No more than five hundred meters," said Roderick.

  "Great. I'll make it a thousand." Kraig ignored Roderick's frown. "So how does this thing kill the brain cells in the respiratory center?"

  "It doesn't," answered Pradeep.

  "The neurotransmitter synthesizing enzyme is depleted," said Roderick. "Recall that I mentioned earlier it is destroyed faster than the cell can make it. Eventually all of the infected cells that use GABA as a signaling molecule run out of the neurotransmitter. Some of the most important of these cells are in the brainstem respiratory center. When they stop communicating, the breathing rhythm ceases."

  "And then it's all over," said Kraig, nodding. "That's the best news I've heard so far today."

  Pradeep raised his eyebrows. "I beg your pardon?"

  "He's referring to the fact that it doesn't kill the cells," observed Roderick.

  "No lasting damage occurs," said Kraig. "What you're telling me is that protobiont runs neurons out of neurotransmitter so they stop talking to each other. That means when we find a cure, the patients won't suffer any long-term effects of the disease."

  Roderick and Pradeep looked at each other.

  "By the way," continued Kraig, "when will that be? A cure."

  Roderick said, "We're of course devoting all our resources at this very moment—"

  "It shouldn't be difficult," said Kraig. "Breaking apart an organic molecule is pretty simple. And I'll bet one of the reasons protobiont doesn't spread far is that bacteria eat it. Right?"

  Pradeep nodded. "Probably so."

  "Ridding an infected person of protobiont will not be that simple," said Roderick. "There are issues here: side effects, delivery—the brain isn't an easy target, especially because of the blood-brain barrier—and potency. It's easy to destroy an organic molecule but may I remind you that the rest of the body is composed of similar materials. There could be unacceptable levels of collateral damage."

  "It's better than asphyxiation," said Kraig.

  "Certainly," said Roderick sharply. "But you'd prefer the patient to survive the treatment. Correct?"

  Kraig said, "Nobody's going to survive in the zone if we don't find a cure soon."

  "A few days," said Roderick. "And I assure you that—"

  "We don't have a few days." Kraig glared at both scientists. "I want something in a few hours."

  Washington, D.C. / 12:00 p.m.

  The president of the United States stepped into the room and everyone respectfully rose to their feet. The president was a small but determined man, veteran of numerous political battles and the winner of a close election that had, as usual, divided rather than unified the nation.

  He stepped up to the microphone. Standing in a carefully allotted row behind him, men and women wore military uniforms or suits and ties and—no matter the attire—also wore dignified expressions. One of the most dignified belonged to a prominent white mustache and the face it shielded—Chet Vernolt, director of the Micro-Investigation Unit. His place in the row was near the center, a spot of some importance; the white mustache would be on display as the cameras broadcasted the president's distinguished image to a nervous public.

  "Be seated, please," said the president. "I want to address the American people at this time of anxiety, and assure them that their government is doing everything in its power to alleviate the suffering of the victims and to control this epidemic, which has devastated some neighborhoods of one of our oldest and most cherished cities."

  The white mustache twitched. The president probably couldn't even locate Medburg on a map, even if he were reminded it was in Pennsylvania. The president hailed from the Midwest and didn't care for the East Coast in the slightest.

  "Our fine scientists, working in collaboration with scientists all over the country, and the rest of the world, have identified the, uh, causative agent of this disease and epidemic. It is a novel agent, one that hasn't ever been seen before...."

  Chet didn't allow himself to roll his eyes, knowing that his face was visible from many of the camera angles. The president stumbled through more of protobiont's biology, surprisingly getting at least a portion of it essentially correct. This, after only an hour of repetitious training by a cadre of presidential aides.

  "I want to assure the American people that they are safe from this disease. The quick action taken by our law enforcement agencies, the Pennsylvania National Guard, the United States military, and, particularly, the disease control agencies of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and the Micro-Investigation Unit, has guaranteed the safety of our citizens. The microorganism that causes the disease has been contained to a small area and will not be permitted to escape under any circumstances. I want to assure the American people that this microorganism is an accidental development, limited to one small laboratory. There is no need to panic and to...assume that the development of this agent will appear elsewhere. This will not be the case."

  The president paused, looked up from his notes and addressed the cameras. Here he was at his most presidential. "All of us have felt the sheer tragedy of the events of this month, this...horrible month of April. All our sympathies and prayers go out to the victims and their families." The president glanced at his notes once more. "Five thousand Americans have died in this terrible, tragic epidemic. More than fifteen thousand Americans remain in the containment zone, but we have exceptional people at a number of agencies working just as hard as they can to find the antidote. Their task is not an easy one. This novel agent, which has never been seen before in, as far as we can determine, recorded history, is difficult and complex. Whole new sciences and medicines must be generated. This takes time. But ladies and gentlemen, we will find a treatment...."

  The president made a few closing remarks and ignored questions cried out from journalists in the audience. Instead the president introduced Chet.

  The director of the Micro-Investigation Unit stepped up to the microphone. "Thank you, Mr. President...."

  Chet felt confident. He concisely delivered his carefully prepared statement, essentially saying the same thing as the president in slightly different words. Chet did a splendid job, being squarely in his element amidst the cameras and
lights and intensely competitive journalists.

  He looked confident throughout his speech as well as while he answered rapid-fire questions from the journalists. And Chet was indeed supremely confident; overall, he felt good. It had been a harrowing experience, and for a while there he hadn't been sure he would make it. But now he had smoothed things over with the administration, and they were pleased with the job he had done.

  I am a survivor.

  Medburg, Pennsylvania / 12:50 p.m.

  Gordon Norschalk took the speaker out of his ear. He went out of the bedroom he'd been searching and stepped into the living room. Cecily was partly submerged in a closet full of boxes, books, and wrapping materials.

  "They've written us off," said Gordon. "Find anything?"

  Cecily's auburn hair and wan face peered out from between two cardboard boxes. "Who's written us off?"

  "The president. And your boss. I heard them talking on WKH."

  "My boss?"

  "Chet Vernolt."

  "Oh. Him." Cecily's head disappeared.

  "They prepared the public for the eventual loss of everybody in the zone. They made sure everyone realized it could have been worse. At least we are safe. Meaning them, of course. Not us."

  Cecily's voice came from underneath the rubble. "What did you expect? Sackcloth and ashes?"

  "If you listen closely to what they're saying, it seems to me that what they want most of all is for us to hurry up and die off."

  "That would solve the problem, wouldn't it?"

  Gordon stared. He couldn't see Cecily's face and he detected no trace of sarcasm in her tone. "Sure. If it doesn't trouble you that thousands of innocent people die."

  "We have a few people in our corner, fighting for us."

  "A few? Wonderful. I'm sure everyone in the zone will appreciate that."

  "They may be only a few, but they're the most important. They're the ones who can work this thing out. And speaking of work, Gordon, how about looking around some more."

  "How about we move on to the next house? I don't think there's anything here."

  A thin arm shot out of the closet. In the hand was a yearbook.

  "Hey!" Gordon cried. He snatched it. "You found one! It's...a middle school yearbook."

  "He's not in there. I checked."

  "Okay," said Gordon. "So we came close but failed. Let's throw away these cards and draw again."

  "Kids tend to come in bunches," said Cecily. "Where there's one, you'll often find another."

  Gordon thought about his own family; they only had one child but he and his wife had often talked about another—and would have had another and maybe even more, if marital problems hadn't started cropping up at the time.

  A voice suddenly came over Cecily's radio. Gordon recognized it as one of the National Guard troops that he and Cecily had talked into helping them search for a yearbook. Everyone was concerned about the teenager with a machine gun—and where he got it. And how many others have one.

  "We've got a yearbook," said the sergeant. "The local high school. Seems like it's the one you want."

  Cecily Sunday erupted from the scattered boxes and books. "Meet us outside!"

  A moment later Cecily sat down unceremoniously on the dirty steps of a porch that hadn't been dusted in weeks, anxiously flipping through pages of painfully smiling or unsmiling young faces. The high school proved to be a large one with hundreds of students.

  Gordon watched her, the knot in his stomach growing tighter.

  Then Cecily's eyes widened. She pointed a bony finger at one of the portraits and read off the name. "Got him!"

  Bethesda, Maryland / 1:15 p.m.

  "Benzodiazepines," said Chet Vernolt. His face filled Kraig's screen, white moustache dead center.

  Kraig shook his head.

  "Sure, it'll work," Chet went on. "They're GABA agonists, aren't they?"

  "Yeah," said Kraig, "but I don't think putting the people in the zone on Valium or Halcion is the answer."

  "Why not?"

  "We've already thought of using chemicals that increase the activity of GABA—on mice, anyway. They don't work."

  "People aren't mice."

  "But the systems and receptors are the same. Our modelers have simulated—"

  "Modelers," snorted Chet. "Leave the computer people out of it, there's nothing like a real live physiological organism for a test."

  Kraig's words came too quickly for him to censor. "Except when you accidentally kill the real live physiological organism during the test."

  "Valium isn't going to kill anyone."

  "Doesn't sleep exacerbate the problem?"

  "Not if the rhythms are disrupted. And the GABA increase will probably counteract the potentially negative effects of sleep. Talk to me about the logistics. How soon can we pull it off? We're talking about a massive delivery of benzodiazepines—"

  "I don't want to do it, Chet. It'll divert resources from our main effort, which has to be finding and transporting a viable treatment as soon as possible."

  "I think we have the manpower to swing it. Another advantage, in case you haven't thought about it, is that it'll sedate the victims."

  "That's the problem, Chet. The people won't take the drug. They already think we don't care what happens to them, and they'll assume we're just trying to put them to sleep so they won't argue or fight anymore."

  "That's ridiculous. Besides, we don't have to tell the people what's in the pills we give them."

  "That's not ethical."

  "Kraig, this is a crisis. Sometimes you have to bend the rules."

  "Maybe so," said Kraig, "but this isn't the answer. It's like doing something just to be doing something, and that wastes time and resources which we don't have. Furthermore, some of the people in the zone, and maybe a lot of them, won't take the drug because they're so suspicious of the government right now. Unless you tell them...."

  Chet smiled. "That's an idea—we could tell them it's part of the cure."

  Kraig exploded. "You can't do that!"

  "Why not? It seems reasonable. We need people to take the pill, and if they don't trust us, we'll have to give them an incentive. Motivate them to take their medicine."

  "But it's not medicine."

  "That's your theory. My theory is that it'll do some good." The director paused, thinking. "Now, let's see...I want you to investigate the logistics and get back to me as soon as possible."

  Kraig put on a straight face. "How about tomorrow, first thing?"

  "Fine."

  Chet's image faded.

  After consulting his directory, Kraig called the newest, lowest-ranking, most inexperienced person on the staff. "Hey," he said, "I've got a job for you....no, there's no rush. No rush at all."

  Medburg, Pennsylvania / 1:25 p.m.

  Two porcupines pulled up in front of the Loretta Winters house. Among the armed and hazard-suited troops that emerged from the vehicles were two unmasked civilians.

  Cecily and Gordon ran up the walkway toward the porch.

  "Ma'am!" called out a lieutenant, crouching behind the armor plates of one of the porcupines. "Ma'am! Sir! Halt!"

  Gordon stopped, but Cecily kept going.

  The lieutenant shouted, "Ma'am, you need to let us handle this!"

  Without turning around Cecily cried, "He's just a boy!"

  A boy with a machine gun, thought Gordon. But he followed Cecily up to the door. Cecily rang the bell repeatedly, while Gordon pounded the door.

  The National Guard lieutenant, leading a dozen heavily armed soldiers, stood behind the two civilians. From the lieutenant's speaker issued a voice that sounded extremely frustrated: "Ma'am, I know you're with the Micro-Investigation Unit, and I know I'm supposed to give you all the support you require. But in military matters I think you need to listen to me."

  Cecily sighed. "No one's answering the door. We have to break in."

  "Fine, ma'am. Suppose you let me and my men handle that."

  "You and your men re
member something for me," said Cecily. "This is just a child. A teenager."

  "We'll keep that in mind, ma'am."

  "You swagger in there with your weapons and he's going to get scared. You might provoke something that wouldn't otherwise happen."

  "We'll go in as gingerly as we can, ma'am." The lieutenant broke into the house using his well-practiced routine. "We'll give him every chance to surrender peacefully."

  Gordon escorted Cecily out of harm's way, behind the porcupines. Some of the soldiers entered through the front door and others stationed themselves around the back door of the row home.

  "It's for the best," Gordon said softly. "Let them do their job."

  "As long as their job doesn't consist of gunning down a teenager."

  Gordon frowned, thinking of his own son. What would Jeff do in a case like this? Thank God he didn't have to find out.

  Tense minutes passed. Gordon had put his arm around Cecily's shoulder when he guided her off the porch, and he'd left it there when they reached a safe haven on the other side of the vehicles. Cecily's frame was slender, he noticed, but sinewy, strong. Real strength, grit; inside that small body lived a person of courage and conviction. Smart and resourceful. Bizarre, too; she had a smile that would frighten small dogs and kids and even most adults—Gordon recalled his feelings when he'd first seen it. Yet now, to Gordon, Cecily Sunday's smile seemed to be the most natural thing in the world.

  He caught Cecily looking at him thoughtfully. She held her gaze long enough that Gordon began to fidget. "Something wrong?" he asked.

  "No. No, not really. It's just that...."

  Gordon waited. Cecily continued to stare at him, so he said, "It's just what?"

  "You never told me why you came looking for me after you broke into the zone."

  "I had to do something, didn't I?"

  "No, I mean you never explained how you knew I'd be here and why you tried to find me. Telling me that you don't know isn't good enough."

  "That's right," said Gordon slowly, "I never did tell you, did I? Well, I—"