“Prepubescent youth has a higher survival and recovery rate than any of the demographics,” Jackson mumbled in shock. “What if we tried autoimmune drug classes?” Jackson asked, turning to Sutton.
“That’s what I was thinking, but wanted confirmation,” Sutton said. “When I ask Dr. Skannish, he will know for sure.”
“Why aren’t we seeing this in the elderly?” Jackson asked.
“I’m not sure, but elderly immune response may be diminished, but it would also have histologic response based in the adaptive immune system. Then you throw in the somatic hypermutation in the receptor gene segments, they would overload to bring on full shutdown,” Sutton offered and everyone around the table sat opened mouth and stunned. When Sutton continued speaking, many were thinking it was another language.
Finally, Jackson leaned back in his chair, “Okay, you lost me at the MHC junction.”
“Gentlemen,” the President called out and Jackson turned to the president, but Sutton kept typing and raised his eyebrows to indicate that he was listening. “Care to explain in words that others can pronounce?” the President asked.
“Sorry, Mr. President,” Jackson said and then leaned over, looking at Sutton’s laptop screen. “Is that Dr. Skannish you’re talking to?”
Scoffing, “No,” Sutton chuckled. “He’s back in the lab and I’ll have to pry his ass out to talk this over with him. I’m typing the highlights of this report for the teams in Atlanta. Who put this together?”
“Um, I did. Last night,” Paterson mumbled.
“Paterson, I need you to show some of my associates how to put together a report because they suck,” Sutton said, typing away. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to finish it yet, but can I ask you some questions while I type?”
“Sure,” Paterson said, feeling very proud.
“Have you gotten numbers yet from the UK?” Sutton asked.
Nodding as he flipped over several pages, “Yes, and they are very similar to ours, percentage wise, with the exception of more dead,” Paterson told him.
“Dr. Sutton,” the President called out. “Would you like your team in Atlanta to have a copy of that report?”
Sutton’s hands froze over the keyboard and he turned to the president. “We can do that? It says, ‘Top Secret’ on the cover,” he asked.
“I am the President,” he laughed and Sarah stepped up behind him. “You do have a secure fax there, don’t you?”
“Yes sir. Let me pull up the number,” Sutton said, grabbing the mouse and clicking it while Sarah walked down and stood behind him.
She leaned over his shoulder and pointed at the screen, “That’s a secured fax number,” she said.
“Perfect, that’s right outside the main lab,” Sutton sighed as Sarah wrote the number down on a scrap of paper.
As she walked past the president, she grabbed a report off a stack and then walked out another set of doors behind the president. “I thought I was going to have to type all that up,” Sutton grinned, then stood up as he took a cable out of his laptop bag and plugged it into the back of his laptop.
Across from him, Paterson leaned over the table and grabbed the other end of the video cable and plugged it into a slot at the center of the table. “Okay, Mr. President,” Sutton said, sitting back down. “As you’ve read in Paterson’s report, he hypothesized that the virus has mutated. He’s correct, it has into at least two different mutations. Atlanta sent me the information, that’s some of what I was reading,” Sutton said, tapping his keyboard.
“The thing nobody can figure out is how we found them dispersed over such a large area,” Sutton told him as the screens around the room showed his laptop screen and they saw Sutton open up an e-mail. “Turns out, Mr. James Taylor flew out of London the day after he’d landed. First to Mexico City for a day, then he flew into New York and stayed for a few hours, then headed to Chicago, and then LA. Remember, my second report stated Taylor visited all three US cities over forty-eight hours but it turns out, Mr. Taylor also has a hobby,” Sutton said, clicking an attachment.
A picture opened, showing a middle-aged man sitting in a park and feeding pigeons. Next to him was an older man, looking at the camera. “The man feeding the pigeons is Mr. James Taylor. The man sitting beside him is over Tong Shipping’s New York office. It turns out that Mr. Taylor did this in every city he visited that had a park with pigeons. From Greece to L.A.,” Sutton sighed and everyone gasped. “Yeah, now we know how it got around the globe into the bird population so fast.”
Clicking open another picture, it showed the same scene but caught Taylor mid sneeze. “Holy mother,” Jackson gasped.
“Was thinking the same thing,” Sutton said, closing the pictures. “Birds spread the mutated viruses. Before we lost contact with the CDC team in Mexico City, they had reported large flocks of dead birds.”
“What do you mean, ‘lost contact’?” the President asked.
Looking up the table, “They lost contact with them twenty-four hours ago,” Sutton answered, looking at the president. “Last contact, the team was reporting millions dead and the city had lost power.”
Sitting up, the president flipped through the report. “I know I saw projections for Mexico,” he mumbled.
“Yes sir,” Paterson said, looking down and flipping over a few pages. “Page one hundred and fifty-two.”
“The embassy has been sealed?” the President asked.
“Yes sir, but over a dozen inside are sick with four deaths, so we told the ambassador to stay in place until we could send assets to pull him out,” Paterson answered.
“Mr. President,” Sutton said and he looked down the table at him. “Mexico City is a packed city like New York. The fact that New York has better sanitation is the only reason it took a while to snowball.”
Panting with wide eyes, “What did you mean by skewing the numbers?” the President asked.
“Kids skewed the numbers, showing we had a higher survival rate,” Sutton said. “From birth to fifteen, the mortality drops to seventy-five percent or so. I would have to run the numbers, but I’m sure I’m close.”
“Well, that’s good,” the President sighed as Sarah walked back in.
“Ah, Mr. President,” Sutton said slowly. “No, it’s not. Not with this death rate. Who will take care of the kids? The average kid thinks food comes from a box, can, or McDonald’s.”
Slumping his shoulders, the president leaned back in his chair. “Can you give me numbers that I can think about?”
Flipping a few pages back, Sutton looked at the page and then clicked his mouse, looking at the computer screen. “For every adult that survives, there will be six kids,” Sutton offered and Jackson tapped his arm, showing him a page from the folder.
“Oh, sorry,” Sutton said. “The same age group is also showing the largest non-infection rate.”
Looking up at the ceiling as his mouth moved while whispering numbers, Sutton turned to the president. “Something like eleven kids for every adult that survives or is naturally immune, so the team’s prediction of a mean of twelve million in a year won’t be correct if we don’t get a vaccine. Adults are over ninety percent mortality with no medical care.”
“Sutton, if God came down and gave you the vaccine right now, how many could we save?” the President asked.
“Well, first I would ask God to give it to everyone,” Sutton mumbled, grabbing a pen and started writing on a sheet of paper. “With a hundred chickens that don’t die, in two weeks after we get the vaccine, we would have a thousand shots a day coming out.”
“FUCK!” the President shouted, jumping up and agents burst in the room. “We are the most powerful nation in the world and are getting our asses kicked by a tiny virus!”
“Dr. Sutton,” Paterson said in a low voice. “If you look toward the back, you will read about a dozen chicken farms losing half of their flocks over two days.”
Sutton sprang to his feet with wide eyes, “Get me some of those damn chickens that
survived! Our entire medical flocks were wiped out!” he bellowed and Paterson scooted back from the table in shock. “Paterson, what do we make our vaccines from? All the pharmaceutical chickens died because the virus is very lethal to them. In Atlanta, they have fourteen that survived out of our flock of three thousand. You get us some chickens that don’t die, we have a shot!”
Paterson turned to the president, “Send someone to get the fucking chickens!” the President screamed.
“Paterson!” Sutton shouted as Paterson jumped up. “You might have just saved us, but keep the chickens outside. Have someone care for them in a hazmat suit.”
“A hundred?” Paterson asked, grabbing the phone.
“You have troops around here, send some for chicken feed and bring as many as you can get,” Sutton said.
Kenner, the Secretary of Defense, stood up, “How much does a chicken eat a day?” he asked, grabbing a phone.
“Just get all the damn chicken food you can!” the President bellowed and Kenner stabbed the phone with his fingers punching buttons. “I don’t know where you get it, but I don’t care if you shoot someone to get it!”
Everyone turned to Paterson as he bellowed into the phone. “You tell that cocksucker if he orders those chickens killed, I’ll kill his fucking kids with his wife’s teeth!”
Paterson stopped, listening to the phone. “I’m the damn Secretary of Homeland and you tell the Secretary of Agriculture that I outrank his ass! I will kill that motherfucker!”
The president stormed down the table and ripped the phone from Paterson. “This is the President. If he orders those chickens killed, I’ll have a chopper fly him fifty miles out over the Atlantic and throw his ass in! Unless everyone there wants to die, shut the fuck up and listen!” the President bellowed so loud that his face turned purple.
Lowering the phone, the President turned to Paterson. “Where the fuck are they located?” he growled.
“Bunker in northwest Tennessee,” Paterson answered and the President pulled the phone back to his ear.
“Is John nearby because I don’t know why I’m talking to you?” the President snapped as Sutton grabbed a sandwich, taking a bite and watching the show. “Hello, John,” the President said and tapped a button on the phone and the monitors around the room blinked before showing an older man with salt and pepper hair.
The President looked at the camera in the phone and everyone saw John sweating on the screen. “Are you disobeying a direct order from the President?”
“Sir, protocol clearly states we have to kill all livestock that are infected,” John answered in a quivering voice.
“You’re fired,” the President snapped. “You, with the black hair behind John,” the President shouted at a young intern who pointed at his own chest. “Yes, you. You’re now the acting Secretary of Agriculture, get the word out now not to kill any chickens that survived on those chicken farms.”
“Yes sir,” the young man said. “What do you want done with them?” he asked, pulling out his cellphone and tapping the screen.
“The Secretary of Homeland will tell you,” the President said, standing back up and Paterson reached over, picking up the phone and the screen went blank.
“Kenner, find someone to shoot John with a slow, dull bullet,” the President said, walking past. “That bastard loves playing games.”
Reaching for his soda, Sutton froze. Then he slowly started chewing again and grabbed his soda. “Um, Mr. President?” Sutton said and Jackson kicked him under the table.
“Yes, Dr. Sutton,” the President said with a smile.
“Were you kidding?” Sutton asked. “Because if you weren’t, can we, like, keep him in a cell? I don’t have genetic mice here to test my vaccine on.”
“Delay that order, Kenner. Throw John in a cell until Dr. Sutton finishes with him,” the President said, sitting down. “Very good, Doctor.”
“GENERAL!” Kenner screamed into the phone. “I don’t know where you get chicken feed but if you find a chicken farm, I’m sure they will have chicken feed. Now get the hell out there and find some!”
Kenner slammed down the phone and reached in his pocket, pulling out a medicine bottle. “That’s a good idea,” the President said. “Sarah, can you get me some Motrin?”
“Yes sir,” she said and left the room.
“Sutton,” the President called out as he rubbed his temples. “How long would it take you to finish that report from Homeland?”
“Ten to fifteen minutes,” Sutton answered, pushing the empty plate away and finally feeling full.
“Finish it, then I want to ask you some questions and you can tell me about this virus in words I can understand.”
“Yes sir,” Sutton said, grabbing the report.
“Paterson, how are your agents holding up outside?” the President asked as Sarah walked back in and handed the president some pills and poured a glass of water.
“Over a hundred have gotten infected and sixty-four have died,” Paterson answered, hanging up the phone and sitting back down.
“Kenner, how are the troops doing?” the President asked before swallowing the pills.
“We have all troops locked down on bases, but have reports of outbreaks at multiple bases,” Kenner answered, sitting down with a sigh.
The president went around the table as Sutton finished reading the report. When he set the report down, the president turned to him. “Finished?” the President asked and Sutton nodded, looking a little pale. “When will the deaths be so bad that we can’t hide them?”
“Sir, I’m surprised your group has done as well as they have,” Sutton told him. “But as Jackson pointed out, the deaths are growing exponentially. You only have two days because by then, the death rates will be over a million a day and by the end of next week, three million a day.”
“What’s the best way to spin this from a science point-of-view?”
“Just what we said, Mr. President,” Sutton said and felt Jackson stepping on his foot. “We just talked about it; the virus mutated. We were holding our own and in the past twenty-four hours, we noticed mutations and notified the public.”
The president’s hands fell off the table and onto his lap as he looked at Sutton in shock. “You are a genius,” the President gasped.
“Hardly,” Sutton chuckled. “But tell people to avoid large crowds and only stay near family members. Tell the public we were close to the vaccine, but the virus mutated. But sir, to be honest, I would let Ernie do it. He can give straight information very well but anything he explains, nobody can follow it.”
“Where’s he at?” the President asked, looking around the table.
“He’s in Atlanta,” Sutton answered. “We don’t let him in the labs, so he stays upstairs.”
“Paterson, tell him what we want so he can start preparing. Tell him, we go public in two days,” the President said.
“Mr. President, how many people are in this complex?” Sutton asked. “I need to know how many vaccines we need to produce here, so we will be able to go outside.”
The President looked over at Kenner. “Five thousand, four hundred, and twenty-six,” Kenner answered.
“That’s doable,” Sutton mumbled. “And I’ve asked Dr. Jackson to get me the samples of the two mutations,” Sutton said and saw the President had raised his eyebrows. “Mr. President, the vaccine won’t do any good if it doesn’t work on the mutations.”
“Jackson, have you taken care of that?” the President asked.
“Um, no sir, General Stonkly said he was busy,” Jackson said, clearing his throat. “I was going to ask Paterson if he could send a chopper down.”
“Paterson, throw this Stonkly in a cell for a lab rat,” the President commanded with a wave of his hand.
“Yes sir,” Paterson said, making a note.
“Dr. Sutton, will you and Jackson join me for dinner tonight?” the President asked. “The reason I ask, is I want to make sure you eat.”
“Yes sir,
” Sutton sighed, closing his laptop.
“Sarah, you don’t mind that I assigned you to Dr. Sutton?” the President asked, glancing back. “It seems he and his team needs someone to watch over them and make sure they take care of themselves.”
“Happy to, Mr. President,” Sarah smiled. “Who should I call, if someone doesn’t give what I need to take care of Dr. Sutton and his team?”
“Me, of course,” the President laughed. “Do you know who I made Secretary of Agriculture?”
“No sir, but Buddy knows him. I’ve seen them drinking together,” Sarah answered.
Standing up, Sutton tilted his head to the president as he grabbed his laptop bag. “See you tonight, Mr. President. I’ll shower, but I don’t have a suit pressed and would really like to spend what time I can in the lab.”
“You can wear underwear or boxers if you want, I don’t care,” the President chuckled and everyone joined in.
“I’ll make sure you get any reports before the next meeting,” Paterson called out.
“Thanks,” Sutton said as Sarah walked over and opened the door. “Thank you,” Sutton said with a frown.
“Oh, don’t start the guy thing,” Sarah groaned, pushing him out the door and then turned to Jackson.
“Hey, I have my own staff to tell me what to do,” he laughed, walking out.
When they were in the golf cart with Sarah sitting in the back, “Dr. Jackson, will you let us off at Dr. Sutton’s quarters across from the lab?” she asked.
“You bet,” Jackson said, backing up and then leaned over to Sutton. “I’m just warning you, just do what she says, it’s not worth the fight and tell your team the same.”
Glancing back at Sarah and studying her appearance, Sutton would’ve been shocked if she was even twenty-five. The youngest member on his team was forty-one and he was fifty. “Just listen to Dr. Jackson,” Sarah smiled.
Turning around, Sutton started having a bad feeling about this. Knowing he was old enough to be Sarah’s father really didn’t help.
Chapter Eleven
Answer a lie with a lie
Viral Misery (Book 1) Page 10