Deadline
Page 138
“I know how it seems. But it’s important.”
“All right,” said Alaric. “Alisa says Dad was the first to… he was the first to get sick, and he went outside just after the storm started, to bring in the recycling bins before they could blow away.”
“Did she say whether anyone else went outside before they got sick?”
“No. I mean, no, no one else went outside. Mother was trying to make Dad feel better—no one really understood what was happening; Kellis-Amberlee doesn’t transmit like that—when he bit her. Dorian tried to separate them, and Dad bit him, too.”
“So only your father went outside, and only your father got sick without a recognizable vector?”
Alaric was starting to scowl. “Yes. I just told you that.”
Becks and Mahir kept looking at me blankly. It was Maggie—daughter of pharmaceutical magnates, fan of bad horror movies, the girl who’d grown up steeped in the medical community—whose eyes widened with a shocked horror that perfectly mirrored my own. “You can’t be serious.”
“I wish I weren’t.” I could feel George at the back of my head again, watching the proceedings. I moved to grab a Coke out of the fridge as I said, “Alaric, tell your sister to close all the windows she can get to, and not to open the door for anyone. How long is it to sunrise there? Another five hours or so?”
He nodded mutely.
“Okay. If I’m right—and let’s all hope I’m not—it should get a little safer after the sun comes up.” I started for the door back to the living room.
“Hey!” Becks hlf rose. “Where are you going?”
Maggie didn’t look at her. She just kept watching me, suddenly paler than I’d ever seen her. “He’s going to go send an e-mail, aren’t you, Shaun?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I am. Mahir, hold the fort, keep everybody working—and if anybody sounds off from the hazard zones, tell them to stay inside and close the windows. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
No one else spoke up as I left the kitchen; no one but George. How sure are you? she asked, voice tight.
“Sure enough to know that I’d give just about anything to be wrong.” I stepped over piles of bulldogs on my way to the house terminal, where I sat and tapped the keyboard to wake the computer from its slumber. “But I don’t think I am wrong. That’s the problem. I really don’t think I am.”
I’m sorry.
I laughed, a little wildly. “Times like this, I really wish you weren’t dead, you know. When you were alive, I could count on you to think of these things first. Then I got to sit back looking shocked, and let you do all the doom-saying.”
Sorry my deadness is inconveniencing you.
“Don’t worry about it. It was probably my turn to do the shit jobs.” I logged in and called up my e-mail client, ignoring the multiple messages flashing Urgent as I scanned for a single sender. She wasn’t there.
“Damn,” I sighed, and opened a new message window. I paused long enough to be sure that I wanted to do this and, when no other ideas presented themselves, began to type.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: The current outbreak.
Hey, Dr. Abbey. I know you said we needed to stay away from you and all, but we have sort of a problem, and I was hoping you were the person who could tell me what’s up with it.
I’m pretty sure you’ve heard about the outbreak on the Gulf Coast. It’s been eating all the news cycles for at least a day, and maybe longer. I can’t say for sure, since we spent the first chunk of it on the road running away from the CDC—oh, right, remember what happened in Portland? Well, it sort of happened again, in Memphis this time. The doctor who sent Kelly to us turned out to be on the side of the bad guys. Kelly died. The rest of us (Mahir, Becks, me) got away. I sort of wonder whether that would have been possible if the storm hadn’t hit; if maybe the storm is what distracted them from following us. But whatever. You can’t base a report on maybe. That’s what George always says, and I need to get some facts.
Alaric’s family was in Florida when Tropical Storm Fiona hit. His father went outside after the storm made landfall, and he got sick. Two more members of Alaric’s family got sick after bit them, but the only one to actually amplify without a confirmed vector was the father.
The outbreak is spreading with the footprint of the storm—with the wind. It’s moving with the wind, and not against it, and not away from it, even though the survivors are doing their best to get away. I’ve been trying to think of every disease vector I’ve ever encountered, and I’m coming up with only one that works for this. You’re the one who understands the structure of this virus. You’re the one who can infect anything. So I’m asking you, and I think the whole world may depend on your answer:
Dr. Abbey, is it possible for Kellis-Amberlee to be spread via an insect vector?
Please reply. I need to know.
Shaun Mason
I clicked Send and sat back in my chair, leaving my hands resting limp against the keyboard. More mail was pouring into my client. The view refreshed every few seconds as things passed the filters and landed in my in-box, their subject lines screaming for attention. For the most part, I ignored them. I was waiting for an answer, not another death notice or demand for information.
“All right,” said Alaric. “Alisa says Dad was the first to… he was the first to get sick, and he went outside just after the storm started, to bring in the recycling bins before they could blow away.”
“Did she say whether anyone else went outside before they got sick?”
“No. I mean, no, no one else went outside. Mother was trying to make Dad feel better—no one really understood what was happening; Kellis-Amberlee doesn’t transmit like that—when he bit her. Dorian tried to separate them, and Dad bit him, too.”
“So only your father went outside, and only your father got sick without a recognizable vector?”
Alaric was starting to scowl. “Yes. I just told you that.”
Becks and Mahir kept looking at me blankly. It was Maggie—daughter of pharmaceutical magnates, fan of bad horror movies, the girl who’d grown up steeped in the medical community—whose eyes widened with a shocked horror that perfectly mirrored my own. “You can’t be serious.”
“I wish I weren’t.” I could feel George at the back of my head again, watching the proceedings. I moved to grab a Coke out of the fridge as I said, “Alaric, tell your sister to close all the windows she can get to, and not to open the door for anyone. How long is it to sunrise there? Another five hours or so?”
He nodded mutely.
“Okay. If I’m right—and let’s all hope I’m not—it should get a little safer after the sun comes up.” I started for the door back to the living room.
“Hey!” Becks hlf rose. “Where are you going?”
Maggie didn’t look at her. She just kept watching me, suddenly paler than I’d ever seen her. “He’s going to go send an e-mail, aren’t you, Shaun?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I am. Mahir, hold the fort, keep everybody working—and if anybody sounds off from the hazard zones, tell them to stay inside and close the windows. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
No one else spoke up as I left the kitchen; no one but George. How sure are you? she asked, voice tight.
“Sure enough to know that I’d give just about anything to be wrong.” I stepped over piles of bulldogs on my way to the house terminal, where I sat and tapped the keyboard to wake the computer from its slumber. “But I don’t think I am wrong. That’s the problem. I really don’t think I am.”
I’m sorry.
I laughed, a little wildly. “Times like this, I really wish you weren’t dead, you know. When you were alive, I could count on you to think of these things first. Then I got to sit back looking shocked, and let you do all the doom-saying.”
Sorry my deadness is inconveniencing you.
“Don’t worry about it. It was probably my turn to do the shit jobs.” I logged in and called up my e-mail client, ignoring the multiple messages flashing Urgent as I scanned for a single sender. She wasn’t there.
“Damn,” I sighed, and opened a new message window. I paused long enough to be sure that I wanted to do this and, when no other ideas presented themselves, began to type.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: The current outbreak.
Hey, Dr. Abbey. I know you said we needed to stay away from you and all, but we have sort of a problem, and I was hoping you were the person who could tell me what’s up with it.
I’m pretty sure you’ve heard about the outbreak on the Gulf Coast. It’s been eating all the news cycles for at least a day, and maybe longer. I can’t say for sure, since we spent the first chunk of it on the road running away from the CDC—oh, right, remember what happened in Portland? Well, it sort of happened again, in Memphis this time. The doctor who sent Kelly to us turned out to be on the side of the bad guys. Kelly died. The rest of us (Mahir, Becks, me) got away. I sort of wonder whether that would have been possible if the storm hadn’t hit; if maybe the storm is what distracted them from following us. But whatever. You can’t base a report on maybe. That’s what George always says, and I need to get some facts.
Alaric’s family was in Florida when Tropical Storm Fiona hit. His father went outside after the storm made landfall, and he got sick. Two more members of Alaric’s family got sick after bit them, but the only one to actually amplify without a confirmed vector was the father.
The outbreak is spreading with the footprint of the storm—with the wind. It’s moving with the wind, and not against it, and not away from it, even though the survivors are doing their best to get away. I’ve been trying to think of every disease vector I’ve ever encountered, and I’m coming up with only one that works for this. You’re the one who understands the structure of this virus. You’re the one who can infect anything. So I’m asking you, and I think the whole world may depend on your answer:
Dr. Abbey, is it possible for Kellis-Amberlee to be spread via an insect vector?
Please reply. I need to know.
Shaun Mason
I clicked Send and sat back in my chair, leaving my hands resting limp against the keyboard. More mail was pouring into my client. The view refreshed every few seconds as things passed the filters and landed in my in-box, their subject lines screaming for attention. For the most part, I ignored them. I was waiting for an answer, not another death notice or demand for information.
