by Jillian Dodd
“Huntley,” the First Lady says upon answering, “have you been watching the news?”
“Yes. May I come over and chat with you and the president?”
“Of course,” she says.
I quickly dress, put on makeup, throw on some clothes, and go to their hotel, where I’m escorted by a Secret Service agent to their suite.
Daniel’s mother greets me with a hug. “Is Daniel feeling okay?” she asks.
“Yes. I suggested he not compete today after I saw the news.”
“I was going to tell him the same. Is this it?” she asks. “Is it starting? Are they being poisoned by grain?”
“I don’t know, but we have to figure out a way to stop it.”
“Let’s go talk to my husband,” she says.
The president is surrounded by his staff at a large dining room table. On a nearby wall is a TV and on it a military-looking map.
As soon as we walk in, their conversation stops. I feel a little awkward, but Amanda Spear seems to take it in stride. She goes up to her husband and whispers in his ear.
“We’ll reconvene after the heat race,” he says.
Once the room is empty, Amanda takes a seat and motions for me to do the same.
“Were you discussing the outbreak here in Montrovia?” she asks him.
Ryan Spear shakes his head. “I wish.”
“What’s going on?”
“Some highly unusual North Korean submarine activity. While they often do military exercises, this is a little different. We believe they have a small fleet of their best submarines currently in international waters off the west coast of Africa in the south Atlantic Ocean. They have maintained military ties with the horn of Africa countries—Ethiopia, Eritrea, and Somalia—but they are on the eastern coast.” He turns his computer toward us with the map that was on the television when we arrived. “This is where we think they are.”
“Are they headed for the United States?” the First Lady asks.
“Or are they headed here?” I wonder aloud.
“Rest assured, we’re working on it,” President Spear says calmly, like this is an everyday occurrence in his job. “Now, what is it that you wanted to talk to me about?”
“The situation here in Montrovia,” she says. “People are getting ill with some kind of flu. One has already died.”
“Actually, four have already died,” I correct.
“Actually,” the president counters, “there are new numbers regarding that. Nearly one thousand reporting similar symptoms and nine dead.”
“Can you help Lorenzo with this?” I ask.
“He should have called in the World Health Committee. That’s protocol. They are very good at identifying strains of influenza and figuring out how to treat it.”
“I’m concerned that it might not be treatable,” I say. “Lorenzo had some information before the Olympics about a possible attack on their food supply. Something that would lead to a lot of deaths, something that might spread quickly to the rest of the world.”
“That’s a pretty big jump,” the president says.
“The doctors here have never seen anything like it,” I reply.
“And I think I might have it,” Amanda Spear says, shocking both the president and myself into stunned silence.
After a quick call to Lorenzo, Amanda Spear is taken to the hospital’s royal wing. She’s running a low-grade fever, and her throat is sore. They admit her for observation and start her on a course of antibiotics since no lacy rash has appeared.
The president sits down bedside and takes his wife’s hand. “I called in our Department of Disease Control. Their best team is hopping on a jet as we speak. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Thank you,” both Amanda and I say.
The television is on, but the sound is muted, and I’m not really paying attention to it until I notice Lorenzo’s handsome face filling the screen. I grab the remote and turn up the volume.
“I’ll make this brief,” he says, speaking to the camera. “As many of you might have heard, we’ve had an outbreak of what doctors believe to be an unusual type of influenza. At least a thousand are under doctor care, and we have nine reported deaths. As per protocol, our local center for infectious diseases is on-site, running tests to determine what we’re facing, and we’ve called in the World Health Committee.
“If you have a sore throat, low-grade fever, and fatigue, we suggest you go to the doctor. However, if you develop an unusual lacy-looking rash, please, get to one of our local hospitals or emergency-care facilities. For those of you visiting, there is a list of locations on our Olympics website. Thank you.”
Just as the reporters start yelling out questions to a health official, who has filled Lorenzo’s spot behind the podium, both my phone and the president’s ring simultaneously.
I answer mine, moving to the corner of the room to speak quietly.
“Did you see the press conference?” Lorenzo asks me.
“I did. Are you doing okay?”
“No. Doctors expect the number of sick to double, if not triple, today. We’re handling it from an infrastructure standpoint, but our medical professionals don’t know how to treat this. Nothing they are trying is working.”
“Are they looking at things other than the flu? Have they looked specifically for poison?”
“Yes, and I recently got word that it has been ruled out as a possibility. They believe it to be an airborne disease. The only common thread they can find between the first ones who were ill is that they were at the opening ceremonies. But that’s not doing us much good because people who weren’t there are also becoming ill. How is the First Lady?”
“She’s okay. Symptoms but no rash so far. Thank you for allowing her to be in the royal wing.”
“You’re welcome. Are you there? At the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Go home.”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t function if you got sick or …”
“Died?” I finish his thought.
“Yes.” I hear Juan’s voice in the background, calling him into a meeting. “I love you,” he says before ending the call.
The president’s face looks grim as he finishes his phone call.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
“We’ve got twenty reported cases of what we are now calling Disease X in the United States. Sixty cases in the UK and numerous others around the world. A handful of deaths. This virus has gone global. Very quickly. The news stations are already sensationalizing it, suggesting the worst—that it is a pandemic. We are still operating under the notion that it is an epidemic.”
“What’s the difference?” I ask.
“An epidemic is an infectious disease, spreads rapidly, and affects many people. A pandemic is when there is a global outbreak of the disease. As soon as we get the right people here to run some tests, we’ll figure it out and stop it. We always do.”
I glance at my watch. “I’m going to try to catch Daniel’s heat race. Are you staying here?”
“Yes,” the president replies, “but please, give Daniel our best.”
“And don’t tell him I’m in the hospital until after the race,” his mother adds. “And, whatever you do, don’t let him come see me. He needs to stay healthy.”
Although the royal wing has its own exit, I decide to leave from the hospital’s main one, wanting to see for myself if that many are really sick. If it’s as bad as the news makes it sound.
It is.
And it’s sort of surreal, knowing that we might not be able to stop this.
The hospital’s emergency room lobby is organized, though it’s full of patients awaiting treatment, but no one looks particularly ill, which makes me feel a little bit better.
And I feel a lot better after Daniel wins his heat race and then comes back to the villa, even after learning his mother has taken ill.
He’s sprawled out on the couch, having just finished a late lunch
, and scrolling through his phone. He shows me a photo sent to him by a teammate of the line of athletes waiting to be seen by doctors at the Olympic Village.
“I don’t think you should go back there,” I tell him. “It seems to be spreading quickly.”
“Yeah,” he says, “but I’m going to compete. It’s not like we can avoid the germs. And you were at the hospital today. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. What about you?”
He pulls up his shirt, revealing a red rash on his abdomen.
“Daniel! We need to get you to the hospital!”
“Yeah,” he says, “I know. But, if I do that, it’s like giving up. I have a final tonight and—”
“If this keeps up, they are going to call off the Olympics,” I argue. “Having a lot of medals isn’t going to mean much to your loved ones if you are dead.”
“Yeah, I suppose. Maybe I should just stay here and ride it out. Have Dad’s personal physician give me some antibiotics or something.”
A phone buzzes from a bag nearby.
“Can you grab that?” he says to me.
I dig around in his duffel, finding one of The Society phones. On it is a text message.
We have become aware of the outbreak of an unknown virus in Montrovia. We highly suggest leaving the country before it is quarantined. If you have been affected by this, please reply.
“I think you should reply,” I tell Daniel, handing him the phone and hoping this is it. That they will tell him the secret to surviving.
“Type whatever you want,” he says, tossing the phone back to me. “How are they going to help?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “but it’s worth a shot.”
I quickly type in a reply.
Both my mother and I have been affected.
A response comes back immediately.
We have taken note, and as soon as we discover a way to fight the illness, you will be notified.
I let out an audible sigh. “They said, as soon as they discover a way to fight the illness, you will be notified.”
“See? Told you.”
He rubs the back of his neck and closes his eyes, and, for a split second, I fear he’s going to die right here in front of me.
“Come on,” I say, taking his hand and feeling like I want to cry. “I’m driving you to the hospital. Your mother is in the royal wing. We’ll go there.”
The ornate lampposts down Queen’s Boulevard are still decorated with the Olympic mascot—an adorable striped dolphin—and there are Olympic ring logos in nearly every shop window, reminding us that the streets should be packed with tourists right now.
“It’s like a ghost town,” Daniel says. “Where do you think everyone went?”
When we get to the hospital, we discover where all the people are. The area is crowded, and there appears to be nowhere to park. The line for the emergency room is out the door and circling around the hospital. Numerous news trucks and reporters are on the scene, as are a row of ambulances waiting in line, lights flashing but their sirens off.
“This is crazy,” Daniel says. “You’d think there was an event taking place here.”
“I’m afraid there is,” I mutter. “Fortunately, the royal wing has its own private entrance via a special parking garage, but I think it’s going to take a while to get there.”
Thirty minutes later, when we finally get inside, I’m surprised to find the director of the CIA, Mike Burnes, standing next to President Spear, having a heated conversation in the small lobby.
“Hey,” Daniel says, interrupting them. “How’s Mom doing?”
Ryan Spear’s face turns ashen. “Not good. The rash has appeared.”
“What does that mean?” Daniel asks.
The president puts his hand on his son’s shoulder, and I know what’s coming next. Bad news.
“If we don’t discover a cure quickly, chances are, she will die within the next twenty-four hours.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me about the rash? Where is she?”
I take Daniel’s hand in mine, leading him into one of the large rooms.
He rushes to his mother’s side. “You’re going to be okay,” he tells her, sitting down beside her, even though tears fill his eyes.
“I have faith in the doctors,” she says bravely. “I’m glad to see you, but I didn’t want you to come here. You can’t get sick. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
But I’m not so sure. She looks different than when I left here a few hours ago. Her arms are covered in a lacy red rash that is almost artistic in nature.
But looks can be deceiving, apparently.
Daniel is about to say something when we hear a commotion coming from the hallway. I peek my head out the door to see what’s going on when Lizzie is rushed down the hall and into the room next door on a stretcher, followed closely by Lorenzo.
“Lizzie fainted at the castle, and she said she’s been suffering from a sore throat since this morning,” he explains, sticking his head in the room.
“King Vallenta,” Mike Burnes says, “there’s something the president and I would like to discuss with you.”
Daniel rushes out at the sound of Lizzie’s name, looking stricken.
I follow.
“Daniel has a rash on his stomach as well,” I say to the doctor who walks by.
“Tattletale,” Daniel mutters.
The doctor stops in his tracks. “Show me. Now.”
Daniel pulls up his shirt, revealing spectacular abs and an impressive V-line. I tilt my head for a better view but notice that it doesn’t look the same as his mother’s.
The doctor fishes a pair of reading glasses out of the pocket of his white lab coat, slips them on, and studies Daniel’s abdomen closer. “Swimming pool rash,” he finally declares. “Small red bumps, not the lacy pattern we are seeing on those with the virus.”
He steps away to go into Lizzie’s room, Daniel hot on his trail.
Lorenzo stays in the hallway, standing straight and tall even though I can see by looking in his eyes that he feels like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.
“Go ahead,” he says to Burnes.
“We’d like you to voluntarily close your borders,” Burnes says, “and close your airports. We have to stop the spread of this disease.”
“It’s my understanding that it’s already spread,” Lorenzo says diplomatically. “Cases are being reported in eighteen countries.”
“I think what Director Burnes is trying to say is that, if you don’t do it voluntarily, it could be forced upon you,” the president says, his soft tone belying the gravity of his words. “We’re looking at a worldwide epidemic. Montrovia is ground zero, and it needs to be quarantined.”
“And if I refuse?”
The president takes a deep breath. “It’s not just us, Lorenzo. We have reports from our nearby naval squadron that other countries are moving ships into the region. You don’t want to risk a commercial aircraft being blown out of the sky.”
“Are you threatening military retaliation if I don’t shut my country down?” Lorenzo asks incredulously.
“I’m not threatening,” the president says. “I’m simply stating the possible consequences of not doing as we ask.”
“Huntley,” the First Lady says, causing me to jump.
I leave the doorway and take a seat in the chair next to her bed, glancing up at the television, which seems to be predicting doomsday for our world. I know they thrive on sensationalism, but I fear they are right in this case.
“How are you really feeling?” I ask her.
“Lousy,” she says. “My whole body hurts, down to my bones. I have the rash …”
My heart aches, as I know what the rash means. “You’ve been like a mother to me, held me when I broke down, and kept all my secrets. I refuse to allow you to die.”
“Follow your heart, Huntley,” she says. “Let it guide you through this. You might be our only shot at saving the world.”
I nod in understanding. I can’t let myself get distracted by news reports or governmental drama. I must finish my mission. I must stop this.
I try to sneak out without being noticed, but it doesn’t work. Lorenzo has finished his chat and grabs my arm to slow me down.
“This is a nightmare,” he says, running his hand back through his hair. “Lizzie has taken ill. My mother and Juan both have sore throats. My country is in chaos and being threatened by a superpower.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Daniel is sick, too, and the First Lady just developed the rash. They say that everyone who gets the rash dies.” Tears fill my eyes.
“You have become close to his mother, haven’t you?” He pulls me into a hug.
I just nod, trying to hold myself together. The old woman was right. My heart is my greatest weakness. It’s causing my head to fill with worry rather than the facts that it needs to solve this.
“Come with me to the palace, please,” Lorenzo says. “I need to meet with parliament leaders, and then I am going to quarantine my country.”
“Can I sit in on your conference? I’d really like to hear firsthand what they are saying,” I say, hoping that hearing the situation being dissected by them might spark an idea in me.
Right now, I don’t know where to turn. I’ve considered ignoring my father’s wishes and tracking down Maximillian Olivier at his home outside of London to torture the truth out of him.
The only thing stopping me is what my father said about The Society. They have a plan. I just need to be patient and wait for it. We know that the coup was supposed to take place in four days. I assume we’ll have our answers by then. I’m just praying the First Lady and Lizzie can hold out until then.
“I can’t allow you to join the meeting,” Lorenzo says, interrupting my thoughts, “but I know a way you can listen in.”
When we get to the palace, Lorenzo shows me a secret passageway leading to a small room set atop a flight of stairs. At the back of the space, which is not much bigger than a cubbyhole, there is a cutout to the war room below, obscured by an ornate Montrovian crest. There is wire mesh where the crest is not, allowing me to both see and hear what is going on.
