Pandora - Contagion

by Eric L. Harry

  The test image on the projection screen in front of the climbing wall was replaced by a view Isabel instantly recognized. It was the gold presidential seal on the back of the empty leather swivel chair at the head of the conference table in the Situation Room a hundred feet beneath the White House. The lights in their exercise room were dimmed, causing the picture on the screen to sharpen. Conversations subsided.

  A man appeared at the edge of the picture as he slipped into his dark suit jacket and sat. It was President Stoddard. The table around him rapidly filled with generals in camouflage and cabinet secretaries in blue jeans and dress shirts, most out of frame. Everyone in the Situation Room looked not at the camera, but off to the side at the screen on which, Isabel assumed, their view of the New York exercise room was displayed.

  “Let’s get this started,” said Stoddard, whose voice was eerily expansive when boomed through ceiling speakers meant more for bass-heavy spin classes than end-of-the-world videoconferences.

  Isabel heard whispering from behind her. “I always knew my last official act on Earth would be to attend a fucking meeting.”

  “How about an update on your status,” Stoddard thundered from his Olympus.

  A man introduced himself as the Administrator of Region II, Federal Emergency Management Agency. “There have been no reports of Pandoravirus yet in the City. The nearest confirmed outbreaks are in Norwalk, Connecticut, and Woodbury, New York. There are fears of infection among first responders in Greenwich, and on Fishers Island, Plum Island, and Long Island after boats fleeing Connecticut and Rhode Island crossed the Sound, but we’re still awaiting definitive word.”

  The president asked the man, “Are you standing by your recommendation against calling for a general evacuation of the City?”

  He was clearly uncomfortable in replying. “Evacuate them to where, sir? If someone could answer that question, I might change my advice. Otherwise, they’re better off staying put, where at least they’ve got shelter, clean water, electricity, and some supplies. I would note, however, sir—as is visible from all the media coverage—that there’s a substantial self-evacuation already under way.”

  Someone somewhere changed the video displayed on their and presumably the National Security Council’s screen to show the parked taillights on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. It then switched to an identical scene at the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. Then the Lincoln Tunnel. Then stretched out across the Hudson River atop the George Washington and Tappan Zee Bridges. When the picture, taken from a plane or a drone, zoomed in on the last image, both lanes of the bridge had been devoted to west-to-east traffic. A steady line of pedestrians could be seen passing cars, vans, and trucks.

  “We estimate,” the FEMA man said, “that close to two million residents—about a quarter of the city’s population—have managed to evacuate to New Jersey and points west and south. But most won’t make it far. Some locals are donating a few gallons of gas per vehicle just to keep ’em heading on outta their communities. And the military is flying gasoline and diesel to the roadsides of I-95, I-80, and I-78, but there’s no way they’ll be able to keep that much traffic moving. And from what I hear, each of those refueling points is about one thrown rock away from being a riot as people grow increasingly desperate.”

  “We’ve also had,” came the deep, off-camera voice that Isabel instantly recognized as Marine Gen. Browner, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, “over two dozen reported multiple-fatality incidents in New Jersey and New York as locals clash with refugees. Apparently, everyone has learned from the news coverage that refugees are their main threat. They not only carry the contagion, they’re living in unsanitary, crowded encampments along the highways where their transportation crapped out on them, and they’re fighting each other and locals for supplies. That sparks vigilante counterattacks. Then, of course, come the Infected rampages that follow the actual arrival of the virus. We’re at most a day or two away from facing that same situation as in New England, but on a much, much larger scale along the I-95 corridor.”

  “Do you have any plans to deal with that violence?” Stoddard asked in what sounded like an irritated tone.

  “We could try to stop population migration, rather than facilitate it. Shut down every highway, road, and bridge coming out of the Northeast and upper Midwest.”

  “But you can’t stop it,” Stoddard replied. “Your own models tell us that. You shut down every road, they walk through the woods. Killing people only slows it down, and not by very much.”

  “Doing nothing,” Browner shot back, less restrained than Isabel had ever heard, “is not exactly planning for victory. We need time. Pearl River needs time. You heard Dr. Nielsen, sir. Even days would help. They’ve just begun their trials.”

  “I’m not going to murder thousands, tens of thousands of innocent civilians just to buy Pearl River another few days. You told me your men could hold that Pfizer lab, so hold it. It’s not like you’re facing Nazi panzers. Your men are going to be shooting unorganized, untrained, and largely unarmed Pandoravirus victims, many of whom are mentally degraded and physically weakened by the disease.”

  “But they’re not all mentally degraded,” Browner replied. “And they’re unorganized, untrained, and unarmed…for now.”

  Isabel saw heads around the exercise room turn to seatmates. They hadn’t contemplated that Infecteds might raise armies against us. But Browner had. He was dying to unleash bombing like in those New York woods, up to and including the use of nukes where targets warranted. And in her heart of hearts, Isabel knew he might be right. This may be the last clear chance to alter the extinction projected by academics’ models.

  “Your orders,” Pres. Stoddard said, “are to hold the Pfizer lab, and the other hardpoints and key blocking positions that I’ve expressly authorized. Period.”

  “Sir,” Browner said, dropping any pretense of deference other than that first word, “I’ve got the better part of three brigades, operating at battalion level down to special forces teams, scattered all to hell across what is now Infected territory in New England. Some are establishing perimeters around bastions of uninfected civilians that we’re trying to keep resupplied. Others are just barely able to provide for their own force protection and are operating largely independently, although sometimes in conjunction with local authorities, including civilian militias. I cannot, sir, assure you that I know what rules of engagement they’re all employing. What restrictions they’re imposing on the use of force. Or exactly what they plan to do as every one of their situations deteriorates rapidly.”

  “What you mean is that they may be engaging in eradication campaigns even as we speak. The very policy I expressly ordered you not to employ.”

  “What I’m saying is that they’re fighting for their lives every way they know how. They’re fighting violence by Infecteds and Uninfecteds. They and the civilians they’re protecting are trying to avoid exposure, but when, tragically, their self-isolation fails, they’re having to choose from among nothing but terrible options. And they’re besieged by pleas for help from fellow countrymen: local authorities, nearby units, civilians for whom our men—your men, sir—are their last and only hope. You put men under that kind of threat and stress, sir, and you get breakdowns of order and discipline. Not everywhere, but increasingly, as plans fail and supplies run low.”

  Everyone in New York was presumably getting their first glimpse into the awful dilemma faced by the dovish president, as posed by the hawks’ champion, Browner. But to Isabel, it all sounded like a continuation of the debate that had raged since the beginning. To eradicate, or not to eradicate.

  The NSC meeting in the Situation Room returned its attention to New York, which had momentarily been forgotten.

  A National Guard general reported on the high level of readiness of his troops. Isabel tried to pay attention. The 27th Infantry Brigade Combat Team, which had been withdrawn from upstate, woul
d mount the principal defense of the city. “The 27th fields two light infantry battalions: 1st Battalion, 69th Infantry, is dug in along 287 west of White Plains to the Hudson River; 2nd Battalion, 108th Infantry, is to the east of White Plains all the way to the Sound at Port Chester and Rye. That’s an awfully long line for twelve hundred men to defend—over thirteen miles—even with fire support from 1st Battalion, 258th Field Artillery, which has a mix of 105- and 155-mm towed howitzers. It was the 258th, sir, registering those guns that caused the stir this morning.”

  “Yeah, can we not practice shooting artillery,” the president said, “in the middle of populated areas?”

  Off-camera, Isabel heard Browner explain how you needed a few spotter rounds to zero the guns in on pre-planned targets. “You don’t want ’em firing for effect inaccurately in the middle of suburbia.”

  “No, general, I don’t want that either.” Stoddard had grown far less patient and more frustrated than when Isabel had last seen him just two weeks earlier.

  “Since that line north of the City, Sir, will be porous, we’re gonna use 2nd Squadron, 101st Cavalry, as a rapid reaction force to close any breaches.”

  Isabel shot Rick a questioning look. Imperceptible to all except her—and Brandon—Rick shook his head. That line wouldn’t hold.

  “We’re also just now getting 1st Battalion, 182nd Infantry, handed off from the Massachusetts Guard. But they were pretty beat up in the Brockton, Pawtucket, and Middletown scrapes, and they’ve suffered desertions the farther they’ve pulled back from their home state, so they’re down to about two-thirds strength at four hundred men. They’re setting up to defend a secondary line along the northern approaches to Manhattan at the Henry Hudson, Broadway, and University Heights Bridges. They’re also tasked with repelling any small boat or raft crossings in between those bridges.”

  The general described the defense of the Washington and Alexander Hamilton Bridges over the Harlem River by three numbered military police companies: “the 105th, 107th, and 222nd.” They always referred to their units by numbers, as if the president or anyone else knew who they were talking about. Oh, the Fightin’ 222nd. Of course! “Everything from Yankee Stadium on down will be tasked to special weapons teams of the NYPD and backed up by mobile provisional units drawn from the 101st Signal Battalion, 204th Engineer Battalion, and 427th Brigade Support Battalion.”

  “Dr. Miller?” said the president. Isabel rose, and all eyes turned to the previously anonymous tiny figure in camouflage and webbing. “We miss your company, but we’ve read your reports. Based on what you’ve seen, any chance that a more organized defense like the one we’ve prepared around Manhattan might keep the virus out of the city?”

  She glanced down at a glum Rick before making an apologetic face. “In all probability, sir? No.”

  Her answer drew audible huffs of consternation from the exhausted men in the exercise room, who bolted forward in their seats prepared to rebut the impudent critic. What the hell did she know about anything? “Glad to see,” the president said, “that we can still count on candor from our lone, plainspoken academic. Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Well, sir, I have no doubt they can stop crossings at bridges and tunnels. If,” she turned back to the room full of glaring eyes, “your people are willing to kill men, women, and children, day and night, week after week, month after month, with no end in sight. But the spread of the virus is anisotropic. It follows people’s migratory routes. And people—Infected and Uninfected—seek out population centers where there may be resources like shelter, food, clean water, medicine. Plus, the road-rail network leads them straight into towns and cities. Millions of people are trying to make it down those arteries into or through New York City. Some are going to carry the virus, and some of them are going to make it into Manhattan no matter what we do. Swimming across a river. Hiding under a tarp in a resupply shipment. Some act of mercy by defenders or ingenuity by Infecteds. Somehow, some way, they will make it in.”

  “You almost,” said the red-faced National Guard general, “sound like you’re saying we shouldn’t even try. Why kill all those poor Infecteds when it’s not going to work?”

  Isabel didn’t answer. She turned to look at the president and left the issue hanging. To kill, or not to kill, remained the question.

  * * * *

  The building manager led their entire Pentagon contingent to the fourteenth floor. Rick wanted to keep everyone together. “I could get into real trouble for this,” the manager muttered as he unlocked one of the apartments. Vasquez’s two men whistled on seeing the luxury accommodations, and raced like children to claim the better bedroom by leaping onto its bed. “You’re gonna see to it,” the manager said to Rick, “that your people don’t trash the places or break or steal anything, right?”

  “I’ll inspect the apartments before we hand the keys back to you,” Rick promised.

  Everyone got their own bedroom, and Isabel, as the only female, got an apartment all to herself. It was right next door to Rick. Her view of the river at night was beautiful. It was almost possible to forget what was going on. She stripped out of her filthy uniform, tossed all her dirty clothes into a washing machine, and walked naked across the luxurious hardwood floors to the sumptuous master bath. She stood under the rain shower for what had to be forty-five minutes. When she emerged, she tossed her clothes into the dryer, wrapped herself in a thick towel, and blow dried her hair. She rocked her head back. Her long, thick hair on her bare shoulders made her feel feminine again. The smells were of shampoo, and soap, and makeup, and perfume. Everything was back to normal, for however long that would last.

  There was a rapping on the door. Isabel cringed. That wasn’t long enough. She tightened the towel and looked through the peephole at a freshly washed Rick. When she opened the door, she saw that he held a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

  “Oh, you’re not dressed. Should I come back?”

  Isabel pulled him inside, kicked the door closed, rose onto tip-toes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him with an open mouth. Her towel came loose. She let it fall. Rick put the wine down and picked Isabel up. He looked around, saw the sofa in the living room, and headed for it. “No. There,” she said, pointing toward the bedroom.

  He laid her on the plush sheets as if she might break. She willed her prudish hands not to cover herself as he hovered above her. She tried to pull him lower. “Slow down,” Rick said softly, kneeling on the bed beside her, taking off her blouse and looking up and down her naked body. When his T-shirt hit the floor, she again tried to pull his hard chest and flat stomach on top of her. “Wait, wait,” he said. “Slo-o-owly.”

  “Mmm!” she groaned in frustration. She followed his eyes down her pale skin. “All these cuts and scrapes and bruises on my arms and legs—I don’t normally look like this.”

  He leaned over her and she closed her eyes, but still she didn’t feel the warmth of his skin or press of his weight. “You look perfect,” he whispered into her ear before his warm mouth found her neck. She gasped in slow motion. He smelled delicious. His rough hands wrapped almost all the way around her ribcage.

  “Am I too skinny?” she asked as her eyes floated open and sunk closed before she flung her head back with a groan upon his further exploration.

  “You’re exactly what I imagined,” he whispered, kissing her neck and down to the bony hollow between her breasts.

  “So you’ve been…you’ve been picturing me. Without clothes.”

  “Every five minutes since that flight to Siberia.” Her hand reached out and found him. He must’ve been telling the truth.

  His mouth roamed her chest, and she drew her next breath so abruptly he thought he’d hurt her, and he hesitated. “No. Don’t stop. Keep doing that.” She heard his belt buckle, then he pulled away. “Forget about the boots. Come on.”

  As his body settled onto hers, their longing fo
und an outlet. He entered her, she convulsed, and he froze again. “I’m not gonna break!” she said, wrapping her arms and legs around him and taking control. Her ecstasy came quickly, and often. It was far, far more amazing than she had ever dreamed it would be. And afterwards, her sleep in his arms was semi-comatose.

  Chapter 16

  THE SHENANDOAH VALLEY, VIRGINIA

  Infection Date 50, 1300 GMT (9:00 a.m. Local)

  Emma broke camp early for the final leg of her journey. The signs read, “POSTED: Trespassers Will Be Shot.” Vertical silver stripes were painted on trees all along the state highway. She decided to take the overgrown old road up to the main house, not the ridge road, which left nowhere to hide. She was sore, and the long climb up the hill taxed her aching muscles nearly to the limit. They contracted as if shivering on a cold day, but it was warm. She was dry from dehydration when she should have been soaked through from exertion. She had surely lost a dangerous amount of weight. She was tired, not having slept well on the hard ground in the eleven days, mostly on foot and trekking cross-country, since her court-ordered release from the NIH hospital in Bethesda. And she was acutely hungry and thirsty, problems she needed to address before nightfall.

  A high-pitched buzzing came from overhead. Emma instinctively took cover. It sounded like a toy lawnmower, crisscrossing the pale blue sky above the treetops. Then it was gone. She rose, hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders, and continued her climb. By the time she saw the tall, newly-erected cyclone fencing around the main house, her vision was blurry. She was on her last reserves of energy.

  A high-tech windmill turned atop the hill behind the newly renovated stone house. Emma couldn’t see anyone, but they were there. And they were surely armed. It was she who had warned them to arm themselves.

  She edged around the fence at a distance, losing track of time with each stop. Close to shutting down. She spotted Natalie. Her blond hair shone brightly in the direct sunlight, but it was now cut short. Her sister-in-law went into one of four shipping containers painted in camouflage. Emma opened her eyes and ducked when Chloe burst out of the barn. Her niece, also with shorn blond hair, was in a stoop as she chased a chicken, first one way, then the other, the whole time asking the chicken to stop even though it could not know what she was saying. Or possibly Emma hallucinated that, given how bizarre it would be to talk to poultry. When Chloe caught her prey, she held the wriggling, flapping bird at arm’s length, grimacing as she returned to the barn with it.