“Bye,” she said as the truck backed out of the space and pulled away.
“It’s a picture of your mom,” Jackson replied to Jax as he took another look at the photo in his hand and drove around to the front of Oaks Manor. “We were on our honeymoon. I forgot I tucked it in the visor. Man, that was a long time ago.”
“Mom’s pretty.”
“She sure is.”
Jackson flipped the photo over and read the words on the back aloud as he waited at the entrance for traffic to clear. “I’m living a lifetime in every minute that we’re together.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Lyrics from an old, sappy song that your mom and I…”
He wrote the lyrics there the morning after he and Jamie met at the club. They took the photo in a booth in the club and he gave it to her the next time he saw her. He decided now that he would give it to her again when he got back from Maine, and then never again be far away from her.
“What?”
“Nothing. Let’s get out of here before Cindy jumps in the back and stowaways all the way to Maine.”
He pulled into traffic and repeatedly glanced in the rear view mirror with a tear, watching the nursing home get further away. He wondered, as he did every time he left Oaks Manor, if his father was able to remember how his son failed him.
Chapter 9
There are over four hundred federal agencies operating in the United States. Bringing each of their top leaders together at one time for a conference call was a daunting task for the senior White House leadership and their carefully vetted crisis team. Each representative received a phone call from one of the Administration’s team members yesterday afternoon and into the evening, instructing the leaders what to do, motivating them with the belief that the future of humankind depended on it.
“He’s been on the course all day. I don’t know when he will be back.”
“I don’t care if he’s on the back nine at Quail Hollow about to win the PGA championship,” a WH team member said, arguing with one agency leader’s wife. “I need him on the phone. Now.”
For most that received the call, it was the first time they ever dialed the number that would play an out of service message when dialed unless the caller entered a special ten-digit code before dialing it.
“Huh?”
That was the most common response heard once being given the menacing instructions.
It was the first time many became aware that the number existed, a top-secret communication gateway hidden in the global communication infrastructure of the United States of America.
Code name: D.O.V.E.
Access to D.O.V.E. was surreptitiously programmed into one phone in every federal government building in the United States, not to mention each of the state capitol buildings.
The OSS, the precursor to the FBI and CIA, felt it was a good idea, and on September 18, 1964, seventeen years after the invention of the agency, the clandestine network was created after the dawn of touch button phones a year earlier.
“Dove? You mean like the bird?” one agency head asked.
“What number is that?” another asked when she received that inauspicious call at home from an aide in The White House, an aide whose name she didn’t recognize. She swore she knew them all. “I have no idea what that is.”
“I just sent you an encrypted email with an attachment that details instructions on how to access D.O.V.E. It includes the first code you will need to access it. To download the attachment, enter 911 at the first prompt, and then the last five digits of your social security number at the second prompt.”
“Jesus Christ. All that just to download an email attachment? You have me worried.”
“You should be. Don’t miss the call, ma’am. Once you get into the conference line, follow the remaining prompts and enter the requested information to join the live call. It may take several minutes to navigate access so give yourself plenty of time.”
The agency head exhaled and sounded frustrated as the aide spoke, bothered by his coldness.
“I’m supposed to tour a new power plant tomorrow morning and talk to some school kids about clean energy.”
“Cancel it. Be sure to review the attached dossier before the call and have it with you for review during the call. Goodnight.”
The agency head stood stunned with the phone in her hand for a moment after the aide abruptly ended the call. Then she sat down at the computer and did as she was told.
Now, after a night with very little sleep, she managed to get through the seemingly endless prompts and joined the classified call just seconds before it started instead of speaking to those now-confused, amped up school kids who were driving their teacher crazy in a classroom that was supposed to be vacant today.
“Good morning, everyone. On behalf of the President, I’d like to thank you all for adjusting your schedules and joining the call this morning. Despite short notice,” the White House Homeland Security Advisor said stoically into his phone. “The President extends his apologies for not joining the call personally. He has been fully briefed and is making contact with the other world leaders about this issue now.”
The Homeland Security Advisor sat alone in his office in the White House with at least one representative from nearly every government agency, all branches of the military, along with a miscellaneous few others, hanging on his every word.
“There’s no time to waste, so let’s get to it.” He cleared his throat. “We’re here together this morning to discuss what I’m sure you’ll find to be… disturbing. Information about a condition, er… an illness that the human race has never seen, one that could ultimately be described as the darkest plague in human history, assuming any of us survive to chronicle it. We believe we have identified Case Zero, at least, here in the U.S.”
“Christ. I should have stopped at Dunkin' for coffee,” the Department of Energy Secretary announced, not realizing his phone was not muted.
“You and me both, Mr. Secretary,” the Homeland Security Advisor agreed. “I’ll now turn the call over to Dr. Lars Bigsby, Director of the Office of Infectious Diseases with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Dr. Bigsby, please share what you know about this illness.”
Back at the Atlanta conference room, Franco leaned into Jamie’s space as she sat next to him taking her first look at the dossier that was emailed to him last night. He pressed the mute button on the phone.
“This is the guy that called for you this morning after you were already supposed to be here.”
“I told you,” Jamie was becoming more and more focused on what she was reading, no time to argue with Franco. “Traffic,” she continued, though with much less enthusiasm after taking in the first few paragraphs of the fact sheet of the dossier entitled CFv1: A Pandemic Review.
They were the only two Atlanta FEMA officials in the conference room, Franco and Jamie. The table was crowded with massive stacks of paper, but the only ones that seemed important were the ones that Jamie held.
“How’s Jackson?” Franco’s tone softened a bit. He loved Jamie like a daughter and Jackson like a son.
“He’s great,” Jamie answered with a mischievous smile that spoke volumes, though she didn’t take her eyes off the documents.
Franco couldn’t help but smile back the same way as he unmuted the phone. His smile quickly faded as he stared into the air, thinking about the phone call he received a little earlier from his contact with the NTSB, Edward Hutchins.
“The guy attacked a passenger,” Ed said. “He was eating him, if you can believe that shit. Takes all kinds I guess. The Air Marshall fired at the guy and blew out a couple windows best we can tell. I’ll call you back when I know more.”
Eating him? Franco couldn’t get those two words out of his head as he sat at the conference table next to Jamie, already longing for a normal world, one where there was time for sexual innuendo and people didn’t cannibalize other people on the safest way to travel. I’d call that sus
picious.
Franco stood up and walked to the window, leaving Jamie at the table, engrossed in the dossier. The birds were gathering in the parking lot as they did every day. The man that loved to feed them wasn’t anywhere to be found though. Franco couldn’t help but wonder if someone ate him.
“Thank you and good morning, everyone,” said Dr. Bigsby on the conference line. “Please everyone, call me Lars.”
He exhaled.
“I will try my best to keep the information we discuss here in lay terms. Let me know if you have any questions along the way.
“Early yesterday, the CDC confirmed the existence of a previously unidentified illness that we are now classifying in all CDC internal literature as the Culicidae Fever, or CFv1. A dossier with everything we know about CFv1 to date has been provided to each of you. If you have not already, please take a moment to review the summary fact sheet in the front of the dossier. I’ll give you a moment to do so.”
The line was eerily quiet for three minutes as the conference call participants read through the fact sheet littered with medical jargon.
Another conference participant with an unmuted conference phone broke the silence. “Mumbo jumbo. I gather this is bad. Can you put all of this in plain English, doc?”
“Certainly. Testing thus far indicates the virus attacks and kills much of the cerebrum while wreaking havoc in the cerebellum, particularly with the pituitary gland and hypothalamus. Early hormonal changes and organic trauma to the brain leads to severe nausea in stage one, as well as irregular sleep cycles, including total insomnia. The same extreme variations and irregularities occur with body temperature, hunger, thirst and mood throughout stages one and two. Darkening and thickening of the blood, elevated clotting response and rapid, dark calcification of infected tissue as the skin dies. Jaundice, particularly in the eyes, along with conjunctivitis, is also noticeable. All of this is very painful, excruciating for the patient, with incubation occurring within three to seventy two hours of exposure.”
“That’s terrifying,” a man on the call said, his anxiety footnoted with every syllable.
“Agreed,” Lars said with the calm of a robot. “Unfortunately, we understand far less about the illness than we want and need to. We do know the primary mode of transmission, as you read in the fact sheet, though other modes may present themselves over time.”
“Human to human?” someone else on the call asked. “What about that?”
“It’s possible, though how that occurs is not totally clear yet. Thus far, it appears the bug can’t survive outside the body, so airborne transmission is most unlikely to occur.”
“What does that mean?” a participant asked.
“It means you probably won’t get it from someone sneezing on you,” another answered.
“Come on,” another said. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“I wish,” Lars said. “It is imperative you all take this threat seriously. The progression of symptoms seems clear. This will help with identification and containment of infected individuals. Certain enhanced physical capabilities may be noticed as well.”
“Are we sure this isn’t some variation of dengue fever? Should we have the blood banks on this call?” Jamie asked.
“Great question. Is that you Dr. Mills?”
“Yes. Jamie Mills with FEMA in Atlanta.”
“It’s a pleasure to finally speak with you, Dr. Mills.”
Lars sounded as if Jamie was a long lost friend, despite the fact they have never met or even spoken to each other before now. He was looking at her face on the cover of a magazine at that very moment.
“Likewise. So should we have blood ready for the ill?”
“In all honesty, the hemorrhagic aspect of the illness is relatively minor in contrast to other symptoms. There isn’t much blood loss overall, especially given the utterly amazing clotting factor that appears in those that have been infected.”
“What about pest control?” Franco asked.
“That’s something we do expect to coordinate with FEMA after the call, Director Accossi. On a national level.”
“What about mutations?” Jamie asked.
“I’m afraid we aren’t sure about the origin or the evolution of CFv1, nor do we understand the incubation period. Under the scope, it shares some characteristics of several different illness on record. Bacterial, viral and even parasitic illnesses, as the dossier details.”
“Such as?” Jamie asked. “Please forgive me. I haven’t had time to review the entire dossier yet.”
Franco looked at her as if to admonish her for not being at the office when he told her to be. She was too focused to notice.
“Rabies comes to mind,” Lars said.
“How long does it take for the symptoms to first appear?” someone else asked as Jamie pondered Lars’ last response.
“Stage one symptoms become apparent anytime between three hours and three days, depending on the source and location of the initial infection site.”
“How long can a patient survive with this if not treated?”
“We aren’t quite sure,” Lars replied.
“Why not?” Jamie asked.
“That depends on many factors. We have some of the infected under observation at the CDC. One of them first showed symptoms seven days ago. Bob. He was a schoolteacher in Virginia.”
“Was?”
“Yes. He won’t be teaching again. He has had it the longest, at least among those that are still alive.”
“And what is his status now?” Jamie asked.
“End stage. Four.”
“Which means what? Tell us about his condition.”
“He’s no longer human.”
Chapter 10
Jax found himself staring at the old, rusted out, red Gremlin that sputtered down the interstate, perplexed as to what the vehicle could be. He had never seen one.
“What is that?” he asked aloud in the truck, wedged between man and beast at the moment, but received no answer from either one.
It seemed to be the only other vehicle for the last few minutes aside from the eighteen-wheeler that just blew past. The young mother driving the Gremlin was consoling her crying baby who was in the car seat next to her.
Jax turned on the GoPro that he had charging on his laptop for a while.
Jackson looked at the young woman driving the Gremlin. “What was that your mom was saying? Something about Betsy. Is she one of your classmates?”
“Yeah.” Jax seemed to be avoiding eye contact.
“Is there a problem with her?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”
Jax didn’t say a word. He turned and stared at the Gremlin.
“I know that look. Do you like her?”
“No!”
“You do!”
“No, I don’t!”
“Oh man. Easy buddy. No judgement from me. Talk to your dad. What’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem.”
“You do like her though, don’t you?”
“Fine. Yes. I like her.”
“Does she know that?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the problem then?”
“She is always messing with me, dad. She’s like a tornado.”
“Wild, huh?”
“Oh yeah! She kind of… scares me.”
“I see. You like her, but you see yourself getting into something hard to handle.” Jax nodded. “Very wise of you, son. Very wise. Maybe she’ll calm down a little and you can give it a shot. Reminds me of a joke.”
“What joke?”
“Women are like guns. The longer you are around one, the more you want to shoot it.”
Jax giggled, and a couple minutes passed without another word being said.
“Dad? Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
Jackson had been silently grieving from the moment they left Oak Manor. Some small talk here and
there about Betsy and the like concealed it a little, but it was obvious to Jax that his father was stuck in his own head. He just wasn’t certain why. I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t do what? he wondered as he stared at his father.
Jumper was enjoying the wind blowing in his face with his head hanging out of the passenger side window.
“You alright?” Jax continued as his father turned his head towards him.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’ve been real quiet since we left the nursing home.”
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking about…”
“About what?”
“Grandpa.”
“It made you sad to see him.”
Jackson nodded. “Yeah.”
“Me too. What’s wrong with grandpa? You and mom never told me much about that.”
Jackson thought back to the day in the neurologist’s office. It was cold. A full wall bookcase was crammed full of medical books along one wall. Another wall was covered with a variety of posters depicting a modest percentage of all the scary things that could go wrong with the human brain.
“He has a rare condition,” Jackson said to his son, stone faced. “One that has turned him into something I don’t recognize anymore. Something not human.”
“What does he have?”
“It’s called Pick’s disease.”
“Pick’s disease?”
Jackson nodded. “Named after a guy named Arnold Pick. That’s what Grandpa’s doctor says he has, but we can’t know for sure until…”
Jackson stopped short, trying to fight off the urge to cry again.
“What?” Jax waited for an answer, but never got one. “Grandpa’s dying.”
“Yes, he is,” Jackson cautiously agreed, not wanting to admit it aloud. Once again he found himself fighting tears.
It was silent in the truck for a couple minutes. Only the hum of the old truck’s engine could be heard until Jax spoke up again.
“Dad. What did you mean when you said that you couldn’t do it’?”
“Huh?”
And We All Fall (Book 1) Page 9
