“Any clue what’s going on?”
“Keeping people out of Flagtown, I reckon.” Gator paused. “You hear that toxic news coming out of the west?”
“Affirmative,” Moe replied. “I ran right through that mess. Almost died getting out of Cali.”
“Glad you made it,” Gator said. “Where you headed, Wildcat?”
“I’m not stopping at Flagtown,” Moe said. “I’m heading home to Chinle.”
“Oh, yeah? You a rez kid?”
“That’s right,” Moe grinned. “What about you?”
“Trying to get through Flagtown to the Sticker Patch.”
“I appreciate the information on the bears, Gator. Good luck.”
“You, too, Wildcat.”
Moe hung the mic up and looked across at Tommy. “I’ll drop you off with the friendly police officers up there. Are you okay with that?”
Both kids nodded.
Moe turned off his rig, removed his keys, and buried them deep in his pocket. He toyed with his air filtration mask where it rested on his dashboard. It could earn him some strange looks or cause people to panic if he wore it. Someone might even try to take it away from him.
There weren’t too many fungi-covered cars in the bunch, and they were spaced out. A lot of folks had their windows down with no obvious ill effects to their health. Groups of people had left their vehicles and stood right next to infected spots.
That seemed dangerous to Moe. While the dusty spores might not saturate the air, it didn’t mean people could risk prolonged exposure. He scanned a path through the cars ahead of his truck, choosing a way where they wouldn’t pass near any fungus.
“Okay, come out this way,” Moe said. He popped his door and climbed down, reaching back up for the kids.
Once he got the kids down, Moe locked up the rig, took their hands, and guided them ahead. Moe kept a wary lookout for signs of trouble during the quarter-mile walk. Aside from some restless people and an occasional horn honk, everyone seemed pleasant enough. Though the weight of tension and gloom lay across the expressway parking lot like a blanket, Moe didn’t know how long folks would remain patient.
He looked back as he passed Gator’s truck. A bearded man sitting behind the wheel gave Moe a thumbs up sign, and Moe nodded back.
As they neared the front of the line, Moe saw what Gator said was true. The police had lined up a dozen police cars across the eastbound and westbound lanes, with an armored Humvee on each side. The police stood side-by-side with the armed forces, their rifles pointed toward the ground.
Moe glanced at the exit ramp to see they’d blocked off Flagstaff, and they weren’t letting anyone travel east or west. Traffic had spilled over to the emergency lanes ten or twenty cars deep.
A crowd had gathered along the front rows of cars. Some spoke calmly to officers while others cursed or demanded they be let through. Yet, the looming presence of the military folks and the armored vehicles’ mounted guns kept them in line.
Moe spotted a female officer who didn’t appear to be engaged with anyone and led the children over. The woman turned and took a step back as Moe approached but then eased her stance when she noticed the children with him. She was a stocky woman wearing her hair in a tight ponytail, and beads of sweat ran down her temples. “
“Hello, ma’am,” Moe said. “Hot evening, right?”
She gave a faint nod. “What do you want?”
“My name is Moe Tsosie, and I’m heading to Chinle, Arizona.”
“We’ve got orders not to let anyone through,” she said. “Unless you have an emergency, I suggest you get back in your car and wait. We expect to start letting people through within the next two hours.”
“That’s great, ma’am, but I have another problem.” Moe held the kids’ hands up. “These aren’t my kids.”
The officer looked at the children before her eyes flashed to Moe. “Where did you get them?”
“There was a big wreck about ten miles back,” Moe explained. “Their mother was involved in the accident.”
The officer studied Moe’s eyes before she got what he meant, and her expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear that. We have people out handling calls now. I’m sure it’s on the list.”
“That’s fine,” Moe said, adding a pleading note to his voice. “I just need someone to take the kids. They’re not mine, and I don’t have any food or water to give them. Can you have someone please take them into town?”
“I’m not sure...” The officer looked around for guidance from another officer standing by. He only shrugged.
“Please, ma’am,” Moe pressed. “Their father is in Phoenix. I have their mother’s phone.”
Moe dropped the children’s hands and dug out the woman’s phone from his pocket. “I think the father is Stevie Bear on the contacts list, and I left him a message.”
The officer hesitated, but another look at the cute kids and she caved. The woman shouldered her rifle and took the phone from Moe. After putting it in her pocket, she reached to take the children’s hands. “Come on, little ones. We’ll have someone take you into the city and get you something to eat.”
“Bless you,” Moe said. “Thank you so much.”
The officer smiled down at the kids before fixing Moe with a sobering look. “What if we need to talk to you?”
Moe turned and pointed at his rig a quarter mile away. “I’m in the big white tractor there. Can’t miss me.”
“I may send an officer to get your statement about the wreck, but can I get your name and phone number, too?”
“Of course.” Moe recited his name and number while the officer jotted it in her notepad, then he got to one knee in front of the kids. “You guys stay safe, okay?”
Little Cindy remained expressionless as the officer took her away, though Tommy turned and flashed Moe a smile. “Good luck, Wildcat.”
“Thanks,” Moe chuckled.
He watched the officer beckon a replacement, then guide the kids across the two lanes of highway to the exit ramp. Then he returned to his rig through the quarter mile of traffic complete with horns blaring, shouting, and ominous looks. Moe climbed behind the wheel, locked the doors, and settled in for a long wait.
Chapter 13
Kim Shields, Washington, D.C.
Kim snapped out of a dream full of choking people and sirens. A red alert notification on her computer demanded her attention. With a groan, Kim rolled over on the hard mattress and stumbled over to shut off the alarm. She stood leaning against her desk. The clock above the observation window of her quarantine room read 2:37 a.m.
She sat down in her chair, and checked the notification on the screen.
It was a meeting alert from the CDC headquarters in Atlanta. Kim suspected it was another briefing. Glancing at the video screen that connected her to the control center, she saw that Tom wasn’t there. He represented the Washington branch, though Kim would be next in line.
She clicked on the icon and connected to the video conference call. Five people in various states of dress and weariness sat at a long table. The head of the CDC, Nancy Wilkens, sat closest to the conference camera and leaned over it as if she couldn’t wait to get the meeting started. Kim guessed that she was in her late fifties with thick, wavy gray hair cut to her shoulders.
Nancy glanced back, saying, “Okay, let’s settle down, folks. I think Washington just dialed in. Is that you, Washington?”
“I’m here,” Kim said with a nod and a brief wave. “Tom isn’t on yet. I can try calling the rooms, but I’m still in quarantine, so I can’t physically track him down.”
“We can give him a minute,” Nancy assured her. She had a rough but kind voice. “I know you transferred from Ft. Collins, but your accent doesn’t fit.”
“I’m originally from Kentucky, ma’am,” Kim replied. “Just outside of Lexington, to be precise.”
“How is quarantine treating you?”
“No signs of infection so far,” Kim replied. “I’m in the Q-wing reserved fo
r CDC scientists, so I’ve got plenty of computing power with visual feeds to all the lab equipment.”
“Sounds like Tom set you up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There was motion on her private monitor feed to the control center, and Kim glanced over to see Tom Flannery walk into the room. He still wore his lab coat, though the collar was bent upward, the material ruffled. Tom glanced into the private monitor he shared with Kim, gave her a half smile, and joined the meeting.
“Tom is coming online now,” Kim announced to the group as Tom’s face appeared in the video conference.
“Hello, Tom,” Nancy said.
“Morning, Nancy.” Tom gave the camera an apologetic smile. “Sorry I’m late. I was working on one of the test beds and fell asleep at the desk.
“We’re all a little tired,” Nancy admitted. “Unfortunately, this is the first of many interminable nights.”
Kim felt a familiar stab of dread in her gut. She remembered those tendrils floating through the air and how they’d taken down hundreds of people right before her eyes.
Nancy picked up a computer tablet laying in front of her and peered at it. “First thing’s first. Casualty reports. Bob? Do we know how far this thing has gone and how many are dead?”
One man behind Nancy leaned forward and coughed. He was a thin man with a tousle of blond hair and thin-framed glasses perched on his nose. “Logistically speaking, with the help of the military, we put together teams of science techs and military personnel. We’ve got boots on the ground in every major city on the east coast and most of the Midwest. And we had several dozen helicopters in the sky.”
Nancy lifted an eyebrow. “Had?”
“Thirteen of the air units haven’t reported back since around 11:00 p.m. eastern,” Bob replied with a nod, “but those were the birds that took off when the outbreak first occurred. The crews weren’t prepared and became overwhelmed by spore clouds.”
Nancy closed her eyes and nodded. “Go on.”
“Reports have been filtering in all night,” Bob continued, and it seemed to Kim he was trying to sound confident in a very shaky situation. “A spore cloud hit almost every city south of Indianapolis, and there are more. Atlanta, Washington, Knoxville, Charleston, all dropped off the radar. And prior to dusk, we spotted a gigantic cloud drifting toward Chicago, expected to hit by morning.”
“You’re avoiding the big question,” Nancy winced. “What are the casualty numbers?”
Bob shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable. “First, let me say we don’t have any infected to speak of. That means the affliction seems to be one-hundred percent fatal. It’s almost impossible to tell the number of casualties this soon, but it’s in the thousands. Six figures, at least.”
Everyone groaned, and Kim’s bones turned to lead.
“That’s not the news I wanted to hear,” Nancy tapped her fingers on the desk. “Make sure you keep Kim in the loop on team rosters and their locations and include her in meetings with the logistics leads.”
“You got it, Nancy.” Bob’s eyes flicked to the screen before he turned back to his laptop and began typing.
“I want a full list of their gear, too.” Kim’s voice grew tense. “We need to make sure they are well-equipped. I’m talking at least Level B protection, full-body coveralls. They’ll need decontamination areas for everything.”
“Noted, Kim.” Nancy clapped her hands once. “Now I’ll defer to my scientists. What are we—”
“I’m serious,” Kim continued, interjecting with an edge to her tone. “I was out in that mess yesterday. I saw enough death and chaos in seven city blocks to last a lifetime. My assistant is dead. A little boy died in my arms...” Kim’s words came out choked for a moment before she regained her composure. “It’s critical that FEMA, the military, and anyone in the way of a spore cloud, be prepared for what’s about to hit them. The emergency broadcasts must be clear.”
“We sent the first emergency broadcast out an hour after all this started,” Bob explained. “We made sure to—”
“It won’t be enough to stay indoors,” Kim interrupted him. “People need to seal around their doors and cover vents with HEPA filter material, if they have it. If not, then paper towels over the vent openings might cut down on drafts from outside. Also, they can make DIY air filters using a box fan and a home furnace filter to reduce airborne allergens. Anything to cut down on spores in the air will help.”
“Get that to the media,” Nancy added over her shoulder.
Bob nodded. “Equipment lists. Note to update the emergency broadcast and media outlets.” Bob redoubled his typing, and Kim’s inbox began to fill up with data. Then Bob looked into the camera. “Anything else?”
Kim’s palms were stinging, and she realized she’d been clenching her fists on the desk. “Sorry for the quick temper,” Kim said, her face still hot with anger. “The situation got to me.”
“No, you’re right,” Nancy agreed, and she looked at Kim with a sympathetic yet tough expression. “You’re telling it like it is, and we all appreciate that.”
Dr. Flannery dove into his report next. “Regarding the affliction, our first assumptions were correct. It appears we are dealing with a super-fungus with a hyper-accelerated spore germination cycle and an aggressive mycelium growth rate. It can live on any surface and consume almost anything for food. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Exactly what is the growth rate?” That came from a young woman sitting next to Bob. She had a splash of freckles across her face and brown hair clipped close to her head. Kim thought her name might be Alison.
“At room temperature, the mycelium growth is around one to two millimeters per hour, faster at raised temperatures,” Tom said. “That might not seem like a lot, but if you can imagine your home turning into a mushroom field inside of a few weeks, give or take, it puts things in perspective.
“That’s incredibly fast for mycelium,” Alison agreed.
“Yes, it is. And when the fungus establishes itself in the human bloodstream,” Tom continued, “it can have a devastating effect.”
Nancy’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “But how would you know that? Isn’t the disease one-hundred percent fatal? We can’t possibly have any infected subjects to study.”
Kim sat up straighter in her seat, glancing at Tom in their shared monitor.
Tom pursed his lips, his expression pained. “Contrary to Bob’s account, we do have one infected person still alive.”
“Who?” the CDC head asked. “And how?”
“The spore cloud began to spread through the city right around lunch time,” Tom explained. “We were short-staffed that day, with a lot of folks out doing field work with their teams. The other dozen employees went out for lunch and never came back, except for one of our lab technicians. She didn’t take a mask to lunch and was in severe arrest when she came down in the elevator. I jumped into a suit and intubated her before she suffocated. Then I managed to get her into a sealed examination room and get her stabilized. She’s resting now.”
Kim’s chest tightened imagining what it must have been like for the poor lab tech. The severe immune reaction would have locked her throat tight as Dr. Flannery forced the tube down it. And while Kim didn’t want to call out the doctor in the meeting, it annoyed her that he hadn’t told her about the patient.
“Is she conscious?” Nancy asked.
“Not at all.” Tom’s eyes seemed troubled. “And she hasn’t responded to three of the normal antifungal treatments we have available, but I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”
“Do what you have to do, Doctor.” Nancy’s words held an ominous tone. “We need a solution, and we need one fast.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Nancy continued. “Once Dr. Flannery provides a solution, we must produce mass amounts of it.”
“We don’t have that capability, Nancy,” Tom reminded her.
The CDC head gave the camera a dry smile. “I’ve got some go
od news. We’re sending you folks in Washington a little gift by the name of Burke Birkenhoff.”
“The Durant-Monroe CEO?” Tom asked.
“The very one,” Nancy replied. “We’d been trying to reach him for hours and caught up to him trying to slink away to California where he has some doomsday bunker.”
“The bastard knew something like this might happen,” Kim said under her breath.
“It’s not just Burke,” Nancy said, off-handedly. “Plenty of people are heading for cover especially those who can afford it. The government sold a thousand unused missile silos across Nebraska to every bunker nut in the country. Turns out, they weren’t so nuts after all. Anyway, Burke resisted at first until I had General Miller promise to blow his little tour bus to smithereens if he didn’t comply. Normally, I wouldn’t condone such a threat to a civilian, but we’re in a make-or-break situation.
“How is Burke Birkenhoff going to help?” Kim asked with honest curiosity. “If he was trying to get away, that means he doesn’t have a solution to any of this.”
“True,” Nancy agreed. “But he’s bringing the Harvest Guard formula with him, and he’ll give that up along with any information that might help us solve the problem. He has production facilities all over the country.”
Kim nodded, impressed at Nancy’s creative thinking.
“Any questions?” When no one responded, Nancy continued. “Now, let’s give this bastard a name. Tom, any ideas?”
Dr. Flannery raised his eyebrows for a moment before letting out a sigh. “I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose we should. The fungus attacks the respiratory system, growing at a high rate and causing an aggressive auto-immune response so that the victim essentially—”
“Chokes.” Kim’s eyes watered.
“Right, and it has properties of several common molds, including C. auris. But, for now, I think a simple name would work until we can better define it. I was thinking, C. asphyxia.”
Nancy pursed her lips in thought. “Morbid, but fitting.” Her tone lifted as she looked around. “Let’s keep the name between us and the CDC field crews. The media would have a field day with it if we told them. I want Bob and Alison in constant contact with Tom and Kim. Work together as a team. And let me know when Mr. Birkenhoff shows up.”
Spore Series (Book 1): Spore Page 8
