Authors: Kyle Kirkland
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 much 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."
Ch
et 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 swallowed.
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.
Gordon noticed she was holding her side.
"Are you hurt?"
"
Just not used to running so long." Cecily took a deep breath. "Any sign of our friends?"
"
You mean the ones with the brass knuckles?" Gordon glanced around. "I think they took off when the porcupine showed up. I don't see them."
"
Just as long as they don't see us, that's what...."
When Cecily didn
't finish her sentence Gordon looked at her. "What?"
Cecily pointed to something in the gutter nearby. She stepped over.
"I stand corrected. I misspoke earlier," said Cecily, frowning. "When I said there's never a cop around when you need one. But this poor fellow isn't going to be of much help."
Gordon leaned over the gutter. The body was in bad shape, bloody and stripped. The man had suffered a massive skull fracture
—the left temporal lobe had been caved in—and some serious chest injuries. "He didn't die of the disease."
"
He died of a disease," said Cecily. "A disease called violence. Notice his service pistol is gone."
"
So's his Kevlar bullet-proof jacket." Gordon straightened up. "You don't suppose it's the work of the dead end kids?"
Cecily shook her head.
"If they had a gun they'd probably be using it."
Gordon turned and stared at her. A small tear was running down her right cheek.
"You knew him?"
"
No, not really. I saw him around though, when I was working in the zone earlier. He was a good man, he helped maintain order. He calmed everyone down, almost just by his presence. He was from the neighborhood. People around here knew him and respected him."