Phil spread his hands on his desk, straightened up, and tried to act like a CEO, even if he didn’t feel like one. He looked Chuck in the eye. “That’s a pretty damned bleak report, Chuck. What do you suggest we do about it?”
“We need a blockbuster.”
“We need a blockbuster.” Phil sighed. “I’ll just get right on that.”
* * *
After Chuck left the room, Phil stood and went to his window to try to envision just what he could possibly do to turn the company around. He gazed out at the Horton Drugs campus. He’d always found it achingly beautiful, with its acres of rolling hills, green in the summer, white with snow in the winter. Winding, tree-edged walkways connected the various red brick buildings. The place had the appearance and feel of a university campus. Soon all the trees would display the brilliant scarlets and oranges of fall, his favorite time of year.
The setting affected the employees’ attitudes, too. Horton Drugs was known for its collegial atmosphere, in contrast to some of the more modern, hotshot companies with their cold, cutthroat ways. On most temperate days, you could see employees strolling the grounds together, locked in discussion. The fresh air and natural surroundings seemed to help them clear their minds and come up with new ideas.
Phil loved Horton Drugs the way it was. He hoped he could save it without destroying what made it special. But how the hell were they going to come up with a blockbuster in time to save the company?
CHAPTER 3
Tami Freeman struggled to hear the doctor’s voice through pain, through drugs—and through a wall of clear plastic. She lay in a hospital bed beneath some kind of thick plastic isolation tent. An IV dripped into her vein, feeding her drugs that made her loopy, yet hardly took the edge off the constant excruciating pain that had started only a few hours after she drank her Mountain Dew in the break room yesterday.
It seemed a lifetime ago now.
Every inch of her skin itched and burned with an intensity she could never have imagined. She wanted desperately to scratch, but her wrists and ankles were somehow bound. She writhed as best she could to try to rub at the skin on her back.
A muffled voice tried to reach her. “Tami, you have to stop that. You’re going to make it worse by moving around.”
“I can’t stand it!” Tears ran down her face, burning her skin like acid. Tami screamed in pain. “Make it stop!”
She heard more muffled voices and saw some movement at the side of her vision. Then a softening warmth crept through her veins, giving her some peace as she moved to a place away from the pain.
* * *
Dr. Tomlin sighed. “Thanks, Nurse. I hate using that high a dose, but I don’t know what else to do for her. I’ve never seen anyone in that much severe and unrelenting pain—though I’m not sure how much longer she’s going to be with us, anyway.”
Nurse Simpson gazed at Tami through the IsoStat, the clear plastic inflatable isolation pod that served as an instant individual quarantine unit. “They’re all bad in this ward, but she does seem to be the worst off of the bunch. You want to change her dressings now?”
“Yeah. She’s already seeped through the ones I replaced just a few hours ago.”
Dr. Tomlin took some fresh self-adhering dressing pads and premoistened antibacterial cleansing cloths in his gloved hands, then slipped the items through the IsoStat’s double barrier ports near Tami’s arm. He laid them next to her on the bed, then gently removed the dressing from her left forearm. Both he and Nurse Simpson gasped when they saw what lay beneath.
The entire dermis had disappeared from that portion of Tami’s arm, leaving exposed muscle, seeping blood, and yellow serum. Bone showed white in several places.
“Just four hours ago, she had multiple inch-wide bloody craters in the dermis, but there was dermis and no muscle had been exposed. We’ll probably have to amputate to stop this, though I doubt she would survive the procedure.” Dr. Tomlin wiped down the area and placed a fresh dressing on it, for what it was worth. “I’ve never seen it this bad. Ten years ago, they thought the original MRSA bacteria was terrible. That was like a little contact dermatitis compared to this monster.”
“Do you want to re-dress her leg as long as you’re on that side?”
“Yes, please bring me some more dressing material and wipes. I wanted to start with this arm, because it’s where the infection started. Hopefully, it’s the worst of it.”
He took the materials from Nurse Simpson and inserted them through the double barrier port near Tami’s lower leg. He lifted the dressing from her calf, then froze. Last time he checked, the calf had not been nearly so advanced as the arm, but now it had only the thinnest layer of dermis left before it would also break through to muscle.
“Oh my God. This really can’t be stopped. I can’t amputate this away, and the antibiotics have done absolutely nothing. It’s only a matter of time—and probably not much time—before it attacks the skin on her trunk as well. I don’t know what else we can do for her except try to keep her clean and comfortable.”
“The others aren’t as far along in terms of tissue destruction, but the antibiotics have been doing nothing for them, either.” Nurse Simpson turned several shades paler. “I don’t even want to think about them all degrading to this level.”
Dr. Tomlin slid the used dressings through another port built into the IsoStat. It led to a replaceable clear plastic biohazard receptacle that would later be sealed for removal and disposal in the burn room. Damned straight he was taking no chances with this stuff.
“I’m afraid not only will the other patients follow suit, but we’ll see more admissions soon—and I don’t know what we’re going to be able to do about it.” He gazed down at Tami’s sleeping, ravaged body. “What’s worse, I hear all the major cities are seeing admissions like this. If the powers that be haven’t declared this MRSA-II outbreak an epidemic, they should soon.”
CHAPTER 4
“I can’t believe we finally did it.” Sylvia Creston reached across the restaurant table and squeezed her new husband’s hand. “But I’m glad we did.”
Todd Barrett laughed. “Some people just take longer to get to things, I suppose.” His expression turned serious. “I don’t know if I would have done anything differently, though. I’m glad we took the time to establish ourselves—you in your research work and me teaching at the law school now. Our lives are on course, so there are fewer distractions for us. I almost wonder if it isn’t harder to commit earlier when there are so many things competing for attention.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you have a point. All I know is, it feels right for us, and that’s all that matters.” Sylvia raised her glass of chardonnay in a toast. “To us.”
“To us.” Todd clicked his glass to hers, then gazed out the window at the orange and pink sunset tinting the Oregon coast. “Look at that amazing view. I’m glad we came here. We have the lodge for dinner and the little cabin for privacy—and the ocean, too. Doesn’t get much better than that.”
Sylvia set down her glass and fussed with the last bits of rice on her dinner plate. “I already know I’m going to hate packing up and leaving tomorrow. What a perfect place for our honeymoon.”
“Yeah, I’m going to miss our walks on the beach. None of that back home in the Midwest.” He sighed. “It’s nearly fall, and fall just never lasts long enough before winter.”
Sylvia feigned a shiver and smiled. “Don’t remind me.”
“Soon I’ll face a whole new crop of 1L’s. I wonder what this class will be like. Sometimes you get a couple of astoundingly brilliant students; sometimes not. They all seem to share that deer-in-the-headlights look for the first couple of weeks anyway.” He chuckled. “Some of them are a little too terrified for their own good. I had one a couple years ago, first time I cold-called her she got really, really pale, then passed right out.”
“Oh no, you’re kidding!”
“Nope. Down she went. I hope she chilled out some by the
time she graduated, or she’ll be the subject of one of those epic bar exam stories where someone throws up or has some sort of meltdown right during the test.”
Seized with a hilarious mental image, Sylvia clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle herself. The atmosphere in the lodge’s dining room wasn’t snooty, but hysterical laughter probably wouldn’t be appreciated by their fellow patrons.
“There are some good stories to be told. I should write a book someday.” Todd took another sip of his wine.
“Sounds like it. Things are a little more staid where I work.” Sylvia gazed out the window before continuing. “But, there may be some drama soon. The new CEO should have started this week. Our market share has been slipping—badly—and I wonder what he’ll do to turn the boat around.”
“Are you worried for your job?”
“Not yet, but…” Sylvia sipped the last of her wine. “You know, let’s not talk about work yet, okay? Let’s have a nice walk by the ocean while we still can.” She smiled. “And then we can warm up in the cabin next to the fireplace. What do you think about that?”
“I think that’s a fine idea.” Todd shot her a knowing glance and signaled for the check.
CHAPTER 5
President Andrew Coleridge did not like what he was seeing, but, like any good train wreck, the news was impossible to ignore.
Flat-panel monitors covered one entire wall of the Oval Office. Normally, each ran a different feed: the stock market, world news, U.S. news, world weather, natural disasters, and more. Without leaving his desk, the president could keep up on everything of importance. He found the monitor arrangement easier on his older eyes than the smaller virtual displays that were the latest technology. He had too much to track to try to do it on such a small platform, despite the ultrahigh resolution offered by the latest generation.
Today, one topic dominated the news so completely that all the monitors covered the same story from one or another perspective.
All eyes were on MRSA-II, the apparent successor to the so-called “flesh eating” bacteria from about ten years back, the ominous Methicillin-Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus. Only MRSA-II took the etiology to grave new heights. It spread among its victims with frightening ease, moved much more rapidly through the body, ate flesh clear down to the bone in a matter of days and sometimes hours in weaker souls, and was so fast-moving that even early amputation couldn’t stop it.
The damned thing was filling hospitals’ isolation wards to capacity, and all staff were stretched to their limits trying to stem the tide. No drug currently available slowed it in the slightest.
At this point, there were no known survivors.
President Coleridge couldn’t help but wonder if MRSA-II had been deliberately designed and turned loose in the Homeland by some America-hating bioterrorist. That was, after all, the doomsday scenario every sitting president in the modern era had to grapple with. No matter how carefully the government tried to control access, the means and materials were within the reach of armchair terrorists, and had been for some time. Hell, his predecessor had nearly gone ahead and done just this, but against a Third World nation that had fallen from favor and into the arms of a known enemy country.
But regardless of its source, it was here, and it was wreaking havoc now. The stock market was nearly in free fall, and people were afraid to go to work or to go shopping, so the economy was beginning a deadly downward spiral. The disease hadn’t yet spread beyond the borders of the Homeland, but surely it was only a matter of time before it did—and when it did, the consequences would be grave. This had to be fixed, and quickly.
An expected knock sounded on his door. “Come in.”
John Humphrey, his secretary of Health and Human Services, stepped in and took a seat. His haggard face betrayed the sleepless nights he’d spent tracking the outbreak over the last several weeks. “Good morning, Mr. President.”
“Nothing good about it that I can see. What do you have?”
Humphrey let out a weary breath. “Well, between you and me, this passed from outbreak to full-blown epidemic several weeks ago.” He looked the president in the eye. “But you know as well as I do, if we put that label on it, there will be panic in the streets—worse than there is already. I don’t dare use the word, but yes sir, this is an epidemic.”
“What can be done?”
Humphrey ran a hand through his hair and stared at his shoes. “Damned thing’s resistant to every antibiotic ever made. Nothing stops it. Nothing topical, nothing systemic. It leaps from victim to victim and consumes. It’s exponentially more vicious than the original MRSA. Given how it’s so readily transmissible before a person even knows they’re sick, even strict quarantine measures offer a pretty weak defense.”
President Coleridge slammed his fist on his desk. “So we’re in a national emergency, and we’re at fucking square one, is that it?”
Humphrey flinched visibly. “I wish I could tell you otherwise.”
“All right, thanks. You can go now. I need to think.” He waved his secretary away.
John Humphrey raised himself up from his chair as if he were forty years older than he was, and left without another word.
* * *
Alone in the Oval Office, President Coleridge turned away from the wall of flat-panel displays and stared out the window onto the White House lawn. He had to think big and he had to think fast. None of his cabinet seemed to have any bright ideas and the death toll was mounting.
After an hour or so of weighing different ideas and discarding them just as quickly, it hit him.
President Coleridge made the needed calls to set his plan in motion.
CHAPTER 6
Dan Tremaine loosened his seat belt and relaxed in the charcoal gray leather airplane seat. At least his corporate jet provided all his preferred amenities. The trip would be short, comfortable, and possibly quite useful. But still, he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or delighted. On the one hand, he had other things to do, and resented being summoned—yes, summoned—to a meeting with the President.
But, on the other hand, this meeting confirmed the value of Denali Labs’ massive donations to President Coleridge. Over time, the favor those dollars bought had resulted in much more BigPharma-friendly laws, as well as the political castration of the FDA. Back in the day, the FDA actually had funding and some regulatory teeth. But now, staffing had been cut so severely that new drugs were approved by rubber stamp, resulting in quite a monetary savings for companies like Denali Labs. Even better, you could pay a modest fee to have your drug fast-tracked.
All of this made bringing a new drug to market a snap, compared to the expensive process that had been the norm a mere decade ago. Dan took full advantage of the weak regulatory environment to implement his proprietary business plan—and the combination worked. Denali Labs shocked the industry when it went from startup to market leader in an unprecedented amount of time.
Dan gazed at the meticulously prepared selection on the rectangular black plate before him. He chose a piece of fresh tuna sashimi and popped it into his mouth. He savored the morsel, then took a sip of warm sake as he pondered the situation.
President Coleridge had personally called him yesterday to request his presence later today. He’d only said that the matter was urgent; he’d provided no clue whatever concerning the subject of the meeting. Dan liked to be prepared and in control of every situation, and this made him uneasy.
Dan nudged his left shirt cuff to reveal his PortiComm, the popular watch-like apparatus that provided ubiquitous Internet connectivity, access to files in the cloud, and voice communications. He pressed a small button on its side, then rested his left forearm on the table and waited for a moment. The FloaTouch screen, an illuminated horizontal area of roughly one foot by two feet, appeared in the air at eye level. When he touched it with the palm of his right hand, a series of colored tiles appeared along the edges of the glowing rectangle. He touched one of the tiles with his right index finger and a n
ews site appeared in the center. He scrolled through the stories to quickly update himself.
…New version of the popular personal robot, Cyborg-Pal, set for release in a week, and rumored to have software bugs…
…Several deaths reported at a commune established by those who still believe global warming is a farce; deaths caused by massive heat wave…
…FDA and USDA both deem GMO beef safe for human consumption; stock price for BetterBeef soars on the news…
…MRSA-II outbreak continues to spread, still no known cure; CDC advises staying home as much as possible…
Dan Tremaine smiled.
* * *
Phil Horton fidgeted in his cramped coach seat. His predecessor sold off the Horton Drugs corporate jet last year in a fit of austerity. Phil knew it was just one of many expenses that had to be cut to keep the company alive this long, but now he wished he still had it, if only for this trip.
He hated flying at all, let alone commercially—and to him, flying coach presented just one more layer of horror to knock him off his stride. The last thing he needed was all this inconvenience and annoyance, when he desperately needed to collect himself, focus and prepare.
But prepare for what? While, like every major corporation, Horton Drugs had contributed to President Coleridge’s coffers over the years, he’d never met the man. Hell, he’d never even spoken to him until that odd call yesterday demanding his presence today. He had no idea what Coleridge wanted, so he hadn’t the slightest clue what he should be doing to prepare. He’d only taken over the Horton Drugs reins days ago, and didn’t even have a grip on his new position. And now he had to drop everything and head for Washington? It just didn’t make sense. But you just don’t say no to the president.
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