The Phoenix

by Jillian Dodd

  I send a text to Ares and then call him, carefully muting the phone and then holding it near the opening so that he can hear, too.

  Many men are speaking at once, but when Lorenzo says, “Gentlemen,” they immediately go silent. “I’m going to announce a voluntary quarantine of our country.”

  “You can’t do that. Our visitors will be outraged!” a parliament member exclaims.

  “We have more to worry about here than public outrage,” the Prime Minister says, backing Lorenzo up.

  Lorenzo’s press secretary comes into the room, holding a single sheet of paper, and hands it to Lorenzo.

  He scans it and then briefly shuts his eyes.

  The news must not be good.

  “I’ve just been given an updated report from the World Health Committee, who arrived earlier today,” Lorenzo says, waving it in the air. “They are getting ready to announce that, due to the sudden onset and number affected, they have moved up the pace of their normal timeline. It says here that scientists have already ruled out food-related illness, poison, and all known strains of influenza. For now, they will still categorize this outbreak as a level-three event but expect that to rise to a five as soon as tomorrow morning.”

  “And what does a level five mean?” the Prime Minister asks.

  “World-wide pandemic. Possibly an extinction event,” Lorenzo replies.

  “Like the dinosaurs?” one of the men asks in shock. He’s wearing a starched yellow shirt, and he looks like he hasn’t shaved since people started getting ill.

  In fact, I can see the signs of a rash creeping up his arm.

  “I’m afraid so,” Lorenzo replies.

  “So, we’re all going to die? Montrovia will be wiped out?” he continues, clearly starting to panic.

  “It appears to be a grave situation,” Lorenzo says diplomatically, “but we must not give up hope that a cure will be found. I think, in light of this, I will also be making an announcement to suspend the Olympic Games.”

  “You can’t do that!” one of the men shouts. “Our country’s reputation will be ruined.”

  Lorenzo narrows his eyes at the man, staring at him. The man sits down, realizing that their reputation is the least of their worries.

  “I’ll let the Olympic committee chairman know before I do my next press update.”

  “A press conference?” another parliament member asks, glancing at his watch. “This late hour?”

  “Time doesn’t really matter to the sick,” Lorenzo says. “And I know what a big deal this is. This will be the first time in history the Olympics has been suspended due to a health crisis.”

  “Has it been suspended for other reasons?” the Prime Minister asks.

  “War,” Lorenzo says, “which is something else we need to discuss. Admiral Lamonte, if you will.”

  The admiral stands and hits a button on a remote, causing panels to slide open, revealing a large monitor. “What you see here,” he says, “is a satellite map of the waters off our coast. The United States, Britain, and India have all moved naval assets into the area.”

  “Why?” someone asks.

  “They are telling us that it’s for our protection,” the admiral states.

  “But the United States suggested that, if we were to allow a plane full of passengers to take off, there is a good chance it could be shot down,” Lorenzo adds. “Now, that would be bad for tourism.”

  “Kill a plane full of innocent people?” the Prime Minister exclaims.

  “They wouldn’t be innocent,” the admiral says. “They’d be considered the enemy at that point, carrying a disease that could wipe out the world.”

  “On a positive note,” the Prime Minister says, “we did prepare for every possible thing that could go wrong at the Olympics, including something like this. Our Olympic event centers are quickly being transitioned to spaces for both the sick and the dead. We already have numerous medical experts here with each team, and we are conscripting them into action. And the outpouring of support of volunteers to help from our fellow countrymen has been nothing short of uplifting. If we’re going down, we’re going to do it as Montrovians, banded together for king and country.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Lorenzo says, ending the meeting.

  As soon as the men leave, Lorenzo notifies the chairman of the Olympic committee, and then lights and a camera are brought into the room.

  Lorenzo sits behind his desk and speaks to his country from his heart. He lays out what they are doing to fight the disease. He asks anyone who might have information on how this disease was spread to come forward, hinting it could be a bioterror event. He explains that the illness has now spread to other nations, as visitors from the opening ceremonies have arrived home. He asks for volunteers to help those afflicted. He tells them about the quarantine and how no one will be allowed to leave the country. How flights from Montrovia have been quarantined in other countries. He ends the talk with real emotion, asking everyone in the world for their prayers to find a cure and then announcing that Lady Palomar and his mother, the queen, have both been stricken by the disease.

  “You did well,” I say to him, coming out of my hiding spot and giving him a hug after everyone has left.

  His press secretary races into his office, interrupting us. “There’s a hashtag now,” she says. “They’re calling it the Montrovian Plague.”

  “I liked Disease X better.” Lorenzo chuckles.

  “And Dr. Jane Sampson from the World Health Committee needs to speak to you. Apparently, it’s urgent.”

  “Bring her in.”

  I go sit down on the sofa across from Lorenzo’s desk. The woman who wanted to talk to Lorenzo doesn’t even notice me, so I don’t say a word.

  “We will announce tomorrow that this is now a level-five world health crisis,” she says. “What we are facing here is a pandemic. We are still calling it Disease X and currently have no idea how to stop it.”

  “Social media has named it the Montrovian Plague.”

  “Not bad,” she says. “I was thinking the Olympic Plague.”

  “Is that what you think this is?”

  “Yes. We’re going to do more tests overnight, but no one is expecting to discover anything new. The disease is proving to be fast-acting and drug resistant. Doctors are simply treating symptoms to make patients comfortable. I know you just announced a quarantine, but we would like to suggest you go a step further. Not only should no one be allowed to leave, but you must close your border to entry as well. We’re talking no aid. Nothing. It’s a reasonable assumption that your entire population could be wiped out in a month. After Montrovia falls, if we don’t figure it out, the world will fall. Crazy, isn’t it?” she says. “It starts so simply with a tickle in your throat and ends with a rash that is actually sort of pretty.” She sighs and lets herself out, pausing at the doorway to say, “I will be in touch in the morning, your highness.”

  After she’s gone, Lorenzo collapses on the sofa next to me. “Stay with me tonight,” he says, his eyes full of emotion.

  I’m considering it. I could use a few hours of sleep. But then my phone buzzes.

  Daniel: Mom has taken a turn for the worse.

  “I have to get to the hospital!” I say to Lorenzo, flashing the text in his direction.

  We rush to the hospital, but there are so many people trying to get there that traffic is still jammed up.

  I get frustrated and say, “Stop here. I’m going on foot.”

  I run the last half-mile to the hospital and am out of breath when I finally make it to the First Lady’s room.

  Ryan Spear, his parents, and Daniel are surrounding her. Her breath is labored, and her skin has a grayish tinge, like she’s not getting enough oxygen.

  When she sees me, she tries to say my name, mouthing, Hunt, at first and then squeaking out, Lee.

  Her calling me Lee like my mother did guts me.

  Amanda stretches her hand out in my direction.

  I practically lunge for
it. Once again, needing her strength when I should be giving some in return.

  I know in this instant that she’s going to die. Her hand is cold, not warm and comforting like it usually is. Her breathing is labored, not the breathlessly happy way she always sounds when we talk.

  Her hand moves slightly in mine, and I feel paper being pressed discreetly against my palm. She drops her hand from mine, and it falls in what seems like slow motion onto the bed, making a little pfft sound as it hits the sheets, but in this room, the sound is equivalent to a boom because we all feel it.

  Amanda has tears in her eyes as she looks from her husband to her son. She completely adores Ryan, but her eyes linger on Daniel, her pride and joy, her talented and athletically gifted boy.

  I remember how, on our drive to the Georgia Stones, she spoke of Daniel when he was young—how she used to tease him that he must have gills and how he never wanted to get out of the pool. She explained that some parents pushed sports or interests onto their children but how it was never like that with Daniel. It was actually the other way around, she said. That Daniel had pushed her. How he’d found out about a swim team when he was six and wanted to compete even though the minimum age was seven. How he’d beg her to take him to meets as a spectator. How he would watch videos of successful swimmers, study their form, and try to mimic it in the pool. How he’d wake up before school without being told, just so he could swim laps—which meant Amanda was also up at the crack of dawn. She laughed as she remembered telling him she’d get up but that she had to have coffee first and how Daniel talked his dad into buying a coffee machine with a timer. How he would fill it with beans every night before he went to bed, so he wouldn’t have to wait for it to brew before he could get in the pool.

  She is so incredibly proud of him, and she loves him unconditionally. I can tell she’s feeling torn between not wanting her son to watch her die and not having him by her side as she does.

  Grandma and Grandpa Spear are openly crying.

  The president is stoic, trying to show the love of his life that he will be okay without her even though he knows he won’t be. His eyes are wet, but he has that deer-in-the-headlights look, as if he can’t believe this is happening right here, right now.

  Amanda’s breathing becomes more labored, and it’s hard for me to watch her struggle. Her chest heaves, and her mouth opens wide as if her lungs are starved for air.

  She tries to take a breath—only, this time, she stops moving, her mouth staying open as if she were frozen in time.

  And I know that Amanda Spear, the woman who treated me with compassion and gave me the motherly love I so desperately needed, is dead.

  Grandma Spear lets out a simple but painful, “Oh.”

  Daniel, who is sitting next to his mother’s bed, drops his head to her chest and sobs. I turn toward Grandma, who embraces me, her body feeling frailer than I remember.

  President Ryan Spear finally loses it. He lets out a guttural wail of pain, causing his father to pull him close in an attempt to comfort. Grandma lets go of me to help ease her son’s pain.

  After a long while, Daniel looks up at me, his beautiful blue eyes swollen and red. He wipes the tears from them, then gets up and practically launches himself at me. We embrace for a really long time, just holding each other while we weep over the loss of his mother’s beautiful soul.

  “I don’t know what I would have done without you here,” he says, kissing the side of my face. “My mother loved you.”

  The little strength I had left melts away as I shudder and sob out, “I loved her back.”

  I hear the sound of a voice clearing behind me and turn to see Lorenzo.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says to Daniel as the pair embrace. Having just lost his father, I know this is hard on Lorenzo as well, not to mention the sadness sweeping his nation. “I came to check on Lizzie.”

  “I can’t bear to lose her, too,” Daniel says. He reaches down and takes my hand, holding it tightly as we walk to the room next door.

  Once he sees Lizzie’s face, he lets go of my hand and rushes to her side, and she cries with him over his loss.

  It’s then that I notice there are more people in the room with her.

  My brother and Allie.

  “Are you sick, too?” I ask. This can’t be happening.

  “Sore throats and low-grade fever,” Ari says, nodding. “Everything hurts.”

  “I’m sorry.” I move closer to hug him.

  “I thought we could fix it,” he whispers. “I just found you. I just got married. I’m not ready to die.”

  “There’s nothing any of us can do, Ari,” I reply, tears filling my eyes again.

  “Don’t you dare give up,” he whispers. “You need to finish this.”

  I verify that none of the patients in this room have developed a rash, kiss them each on the top of the head, and leave the room.

  I need to get out of here and think.

  And maybe sleep.

  This might officially be the longest day of my life.

  Lorenzo is waiting for me outside. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine so far.”

  “Me, too,” he says. “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah, unless there’s some kind of miracle.”

  He squints his eyes, studying me. “You don’t think it can be stopped?”

  I let out a pathetic sigh. “No, I don’t.”

  “You’ve given up?” he asks incredulously.

  “I thought I knew who’d caused this and how, but even you don’t believe me anymore.”

  “That’s because the facts have proven otherwise,” he says, stating his case. “No poisoned grain was involved. This is something unrelated.”

  I should roll my eyes at that comment and tell him he’s not thinking straight. That common sense tells me it’s way too much of a coincidence, but all I can think are that, both here in Montrovia and all around the world, heartbreaking scenes like the one I just witnessed are taking place. That people are losing loved ones because of this disease. I know this isn’t simply death; it’s murder.

  Murder by a group of men who want to control the world.

  MISSION:DAY TEN

  I wake up, my eyes feeling swollen and like they are full of sand after having cried so much last night. I close them again, not wanting to face the reality of the day, but when I do, I see my mother’s eyes before the bullet enters her head.

  But, this time, her eyes are frozen in time, and all I see is love. The kind of love I saw in Amanda’s eyes last night when she looked at Daniel. I suddenly realize it wasn’t disappointment in me that I saw but rather disappointment in herself. She felt like she’d failed me, not the other way around.

  I should go to the hospital to sit with Ari, Allie, Daniel, Lizzie, and whoever else I love that is there, but I’m not sure I can stand to witness any one of them dying. What I really want to do is bury my head in the sand and pretend this isn’t really happening.

  I close my eyes and then open them with a start as I remember the paper that the First Lady put into my hand last night. With all that was going on, I simply shoved it in my pocket and forgot about it.

  I jump out of bed, run to my closet, pull the slacks I was wearing out of the laundry basket, and find the note.

  It’s all balled up, so I carefully and almost reverently take it to my desk and attempt to smooth it out. The side I’m working on is blank, and as I prepare to flip it over, I think about how these are probably the last words Amanda wrote.

  Please save my son.

  I bury my hands in my face and cry again.

  After allowing myself a few moments to grieve, I wipe my tears, get dressed for the day, and make my way down to the vault.

  Maybe I can’t give up just yet.

  “Good morning,” Intrepid says in greeting.

  “The English are always pleasant before they give you the bad news,” Ares comments.

  “There’s more bad news?” I ask.
“Besides the fact that the First Lady is dead?”

  “Yes,” Intrepid says.

  “Why have we still not gotten answers from The Society?”

  “I don’t know,” Ares says. “I’m starting to think that, since the coup was stopped, they halted their plan. It’s what they did after Alessandro was killed six years ago.”

  “Add to that, all tests confirm this wasn’t from a food source,” Intrepid says. “It’s not being said publicly yet, but after going over the video of the opening ceremonies, it’s believed that an airborne virus was planted in the fireworks. A bioterrorist attack. The smoke blew in the direction of the wind, and those first dead were all sitting on that side of the stadium.”

  “Has anyone claimed responsibility?” I ask.

  “No,” Intrepid says.

  “Why would a terrorist group want to kill everyone in the world?” I say in a frustrated tone.

  “Don’t get snippy,” Ares says. “We’re just telling you what we know.”

  “And I’m telling you that this is part of The Echelon’s plan,” I reply forcefully. “It has to be.”

  “Quite honestly, Huntley, it doesn’t matter whose plan it is at this point,” Intrepid says softly. “If we don’t discover a cure, we’ll all die.”

  “Which brings me back to why haven’t we heard from The Society. They should be messaging their members constant updates with all that is going on. Their silence means something.”

  Just as the words leave my lips, a phone on the table next to Ares vibrates.

  “This is Ari’s Society phone. They just sent a message,” he says.

  “What does it say?” both Intrepid and I ask.

  Ares reads it, frowns, and then hands the phone to me, so Intrepid and I can read it for ourselves.