“Are you…?” she asked, when he was close enough to hear her through the muffle of her mask.
“David Flynn,” he said.
She looked around nervously.
“What are you worried about?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“It’s just… You weren’t the first person to come looking for Linda,” she said. “Someone searched her apartment. They took her computer and some other things. They didn’t know she had left it with me.”
She handed him the satchel.
“She already knew she was sick, you see. One of the men on her team, he was the first to die.”
“The first to die at Gen Sys?”
“No. The first to die of the virus, period.”
For a moment all he could do was stand there, stunned.
“You mean in the world?” he said. “How do you know?”
“It’s all in there,” she replied. “She was going to come back for it and get it to the press. But she didn’t come back. I was afraid, so I held on to it. Then you called.” She looked down. “I have to leave,” she said.
“I really am sorry for your loss,” he said. “You’ve done a brave thing. The right thing.”
“What else should a big sister do?” she said, smiling briefly.
She turned and began to walk, then to run. He watched her go, and realized he didn’t even know her name. She had almost reached the street when she stumbled and fell. He started toward her involuntarily, and then checked himself, knowing she would rise long before he could reach her.
Except she didn’t get back up.
He started trotting toward her. Had she hit her head on something?
But when he reached her he saw the blood, and how much there was of it, and he knew she hadn’t just stumbled.
“Easy,” someone said from behind him. “Turn around, slowly.”
Mayor House looked—more than anything—tired, as he took the podium. Dreyfus noticed that he wasn’t wearing a mask or respirator this time. His campaign was apparently adjusting.
He cleared his throat.
“Good morning,” he said. He took a sip of water. “I’m here today to clear up a few misconceptions that have been getting a lot of press lately. There has been so much nonsense thrown around, I’m not sure where to start.
“The so-called ‘monkey problem’ is well in hand. The idea that hundreds of them survive is purest fantasy. The few that remain will be captured or humanely euthanized in the next twenty-four hours.
“That’s all that I have to say about that. That’s all there is to say about it.
“As to the more relevant and serious matter of the virus,” he continued, “we are moving with all due speed to mitigate the situation. Quarantine and isolation treatment areas have been set up by the CDC and the National Guard, in order the give the greatest number of infected persons maximum medical attention, and to keep those who might be infected from spreading the virus until they’ve been cleared by the CDC.
“I’m sure you’re all aware that this problem extends far beyond our city. This morning I’ve been informed that the governor has invoked martial law and requested federal disaster relief. We’re doing everything—and, I repeat, everything—we can to fight this plague. As to you, the citizens of this great city, I ask that you work with law enforcement to keep things running as smoothly as possible in this time of crisis. If you’re told to report for quarantine, under law, you must do so. You will be there for a few days at worst. Indeed, quarantine is probably the safest place you could be right now. So if you think you’ve been exposed, please, do what’s best for all of us, and obey the law.
“Only by adhering to these time-tested procedures do we have any chance of slowing this thing down.”
He looked around, a bit uncertainly, Dreyfus thought. Then he cleared his throat.
“I would like to take a moment for us to all pray together.” He looked to one side. “Pastor Dubois, if you would…?”
Dreyfus switched the channel. He didn’t have any interest in what Pastor Dubois might or might not have to say.
He landed on one of the cable “news” talk shows, where a red-faced man was holding forth to the host. Dreyfus thought he recognized the guest as a national talk-radio personality.
“…an engineered situation,” the man was saying. “The virus was made in a laboratory by the US government. That’s for damned sure. We know they’ve been working on these biological weapons for years, plus we’ve got everything Saddam Hussein was working on. Why were there no WMDs? Because we took them all.” He leaned forward and used both hands for emphasis.
“I find it interesting—very interesting—that not a single member of the President’s cabinet or the leadership of his party has contracted this disease.”
“I’m sure they’re all being very careful,” the host said.
“How could they be careful about a disease they didn’t know about in advance? The speaker of the house has it. Besides, they don’t have to be careful.”
“You’re saying there’s an antidote,” the host said.
“Damn straight there is. They made it. They wouldn’t release it until they made some sort of inoculation or antiviral, or whatever they call it.” He mopped his sweaty forehead and went on. “It’s also a proven fact that the virus disproportionately affects Caucasians. Once this plague has killed off what few real Americans remain, those who endure will find themselves under permanent martial law—in a totalitarian state that Stalin could have only dreamed of.”
“So you’re saying the people at Argo ranch were justified in shooting the FBI agents?”
“Patriots like Ted Durham and his followers are the only hope we have left. And there are more of them—of us—than you think. Some of us have been preparing for this day for a long time. They tried to use the threat of terrorism to suppress our liberties, but that didn’t work. Now they’ve shown their true colors, shown exactly what depravity they will stoop to. Look at what’s happening right here—they call them ‘quarantines,’ but everybody knows they’re death camps.
“Nobody that goes into one of those places comes out. Everyone, everyone that hears the sound of my voice, I call on you to resist. If you have a gun, load it. If you don’t, get one. Fight the tyranny!”
“Oh, shit,” Dreyfus said.
The Argo ranch thing had happened just yesterday, in western Washington State. A reputed militia group had shot at local law enforcement, killing a sheriff and two deputies. The FBI had been sent in and was also fired upon. Now Guard troops had surrounded the place. A similar incident was unfolding in Idaho, although the scale seemed to be smaller.
“Why are they wasting their time on nut jobs out in the boondocks?” Patel wondered aloud.
“They won’t for long,” Dreyfus predicted. “They won’t have the manpower. There’s going to be a lot more of this, people turning on each other—but also banding together.”
“And not in a good way,” his aide added.
Dreyfus shrugged.
“Those guys have a common enemy. They believe they know who’s responsible for their troubles, for everything they think is wrong, and they have a plan for what to do about it. It’s better than ‘every man for himself’.”
“But they’re wrong,” Patel objected. “It’s absurd—the notion that the government did this.” Then he stared at his boss. “Are you suggesting we get behind them, or mimic these claims?”
“That’s not at all what I’m saying,” Dreyfus said. “We need a strategy that unifies everyone, not just people with similar political persuasions. A real common enemy.”