He set the phone down and rubbed his eyebrows. With each passing hour, he knew the possibility of recovering Peyton and her team was slipping away. It was like watching a family member die in slow motion. It was torture.
He hadn’t slept a wink last night. Neither had Rose. He had sat in the den, scanning news channels and websites, waiting for any news while he listened to Rose sneezing and coughing. He had brought her water and food from the kitchen periodically, sat by the bed, and asked her how her book was. Her symptoms had stabilized, but he was still terrified that the virus she and so many others had contracted was in fact the same virus that had already killed thousands in Kenya.
They had created a sort of makeshift quarantine in the house: Elliott’s son, daughter-in-law, and grandson had kept to the second floor, while Elliott and Rose occupied the first floor. His grandson was running around in the bonus room over the garage, having a great time, while his parents played with him. Each group was heating frozen food from the freezer and eating separately. It wasn’t the ideal Thanksgiving, but it would keep the contagion from spreading.
In the family room, Elliott turned on the TV.
“Despite growing concerns about the flu-like virus spreading across the US, many families chose not to alter their Thanksgiving plans this year.”
The video shifted to a middle-aged man standing in front of a brick colonial home.
“We figured everybody was sick, so, may as well be together. Tradition’s important to us—”
Elliott flipped the channel, scanning for more news.
“The infection rate is now estimated at twenty million in the US alone. The virus, which authorities are calling X1, is intermittent in nature and causes symptoms similar to seasonal flu. Those infected report feeling under the weather for a few days, then well for a day or two before the symptoms return. Officials at the CDC and NIH have urged individuals to exercise vigilance throughout the flu season, including washing your hands and—”
Elliott changed the channel again.
“Triple-A reports that despite an uptick in flu activity, they expect a record number of travelers to take to the roads this Thanksgiving weekend. Air travel is also projected to set a new high. Retailers are banking on strong Black Friday sales with Wall Street analysts calling for a ten percent growth in sales over last year…”
It was a perfect biological storm. A highly contagious virus—amplifying at the precise moment when movement around the country was at its highest.
Elliott walked back into his office, closed the doors, and dialed a number at the CDC. To his surprise, voicemail picked up.
“Jacob, it’s Elliott. Call me. Thanks.”
He dialed the man’s cell and was relieved when he answered.
“Jacob. Please tell me you’ve sequenced this respiratory virus and compared it with the Mandera samples.”
Elliott sat up at Jacob’s response. “What? … I know it’s Thanksgiving—” He paused to listen. “Listen to me, Jacob, this is going to be the last Thanksgiving if those viruses are the same… No, Jacob. Monday is too late. You’ve gotta go back in, finish it. Call your team… What? Jacob—”
Elliott felt like screaming.
He called the EOC once again, hoping to get a different operator. The response was the same: the head of watch had instructed every operator not to give Elliott any status updates. He was officially locked out—at perhaps the most critical time in the agency’s history.
Day 6
300,000,000 Infected
70,000 Dead
Chapter 45
At first Millen thought it was the wind blowing through the camp, whipping against the empty tents, the flapping and howling only sounding like voices. As his sleepiness faded, he realized the sounds actually were voices—several people, arguing in hushed tones just outside his tent. He rolled over, careful not to make any noise.
The morning sun cast three figures in shadow against the tent’s white fabric, like shadow puppets creeping toward him. They paused, pointed, and continued past him, talking quickly. Millen heard them enter the main tent. Crates being opened, ransacked.
He rose and pulled on his shoes.
The SUV Kito had left him stood at the edge of the camp, nearby. The main tent was on the opposite side of the camp, away from him, and Millen could see the shadows of three figures moving inside. They were turning the place upside down, looking for something.
They obviously thought they were alone now. They spoke more loudly, in a language Millen didn’t recognize. Millen wanted to break for the SUV and get away, but what if they knew something? What if they had taken Hannah and Dr. Shaw?
He pulled on his flak jacket with the CDC logo and grabbed the rifle Kito had left him. It was semi-automatic with a banana-shaped magazine. Millen had fired exactly one gun in his life: a .22-caliber rifle during his stint in the Boy Scouts. The gun in his hand was a lot meaner-looking. And deadlier.
He gripped the weapon, ensured the safety was off, and crept toward the main tent. The flaps were down, obscuring his approach. His fear gripped tighter around him with every step. His mouth watered. He swallowed, gathering up his courage. His heart was beating out of his chest. If he didn’t charge or run at that moment, he figured he’d have a heart attack.
With the gun held out, he ducked and burst through the tent flaps.
Three figures sat around the long table… gorging themselves. Opened MRE cartons lay strewn across the floor and table. Millen recognized them: the three Kenyan villagers they had found hiding when the team had arrived here. The villagers stared at him, eyes wide with fear, then jumped up and stumbled over the folding chairs, falling as they scrambled to escape.
Millen quickly set the gun on the ground and held his hands up. “Wait. Stop. I’m CDC.” He pointed to the white letters on his jacket. “I was here before. American. Help.” He spread his arms, blocking the entrance. A girl, maybe thirteen years old, stopped.