Extinction Level Event

by Jose Pino Johansson

Baja California

  McCarthy and Rodriguez had taken the first AeroMexico flight out of Mexico City to Los Angeles that they could get their hands on. After the meeting with Ortega, Rodriguez wasn't sure what or how the Mexican government's response would be- would they listen or not; after all, the two were merely acting as emissaries of the State Department due to their knowledge and expertise in the area. Now, LaJoy wanted them back in LA in order to organize the FEMA's and USDA response to the widening crisis. As they exit the airport and head for Rodriguez's parked car, McCarthy's cell explodes to life.

  "Hello?", asks McCarthy into the receiver. "Hello? Hello yourself!", replies a snappy and highly irritated female voice. "Just when did you think you were going to call!? You were supposed to pick Jake up two days ago! Where were you?!" McCarthy immediately realizes that its Stefanie, his ex-wife, and just as quickly recognizes that his feet are in very hot water. Damn, why did I forget to call her yesterday!?Next time remember, Brain-dead! The only way around was to turn onto the offensive, quickly, or else he would be metaphorically boiled, again. "Hey, I know I know. I'm very sorry, I should have let you know. My bad. But the phones weren't really working.", he explains softly into the phone. The excuse sounds lame even to him.

  Rodriguez throws an inquiring glance at him as he opens the door to his Jeep Grand Cherokee, trying to figure out his colleague's dilemma. "I was out on a business trip, and it was hard to get a working phone." "Where could you possibly be without cell phone coverage, Mike? This is so like you." "Mexico. Important stuff going on there, haven't you been watching the news?" "No. I've got enough to take care of as it is, with Jake here all weekend as well? And you think I have time for news?!" "Listen, I know, I know. But he's big, he should be able to take care of his stuff." "And wash his clothes? Drive him around weekends too?!" "Hey, Stef, I know I'm just being my bad self again here. Look, I really will need to ask you a favor. I was wondering if you could keep him for the whole next week." "What? What are you on?! Why?" "Turn on the news for a minute, you'll see why. Please?", McCarthy begs, something that he would usually never do.

  Rodriguez starts the engine, and within five minutes they are on their way from LAX racing towards east downtown. The air whooshes across McCarthy's face from the open windows as he focuses on the conversation with his ex-wife, Gonzalo pushing the Jeep to 70mph. Stefanie answers, "You're really pushing it." "Come on, I almost never ask for favors! Just this one time, Stef! This problem at the job is way harder than anything I've seen before, and I don't even think the Feds can fix it." "Its that bad?", asks Stefanie incredulously. "Yes, it is. You really should at least take a quick look at the news- even Yahoo!News should have it", Mike drolls on, "I need you to take care of Jake for the time being. Chances are this should be over in a week", Mike says, knowing he is lying through his teeth. However, the last thing he needed now was to be taking care of Jake in the middle of this hectic mess. "All right, you always were such a liar. I'll do it.", she replies exasperated over the phone. "But you better start getting your act together and tell these things ahead of time. And the news better be real." "Thanks so much, honey.", answers Mike, truly grateful for her cooperation. "Yours truly, signing off. And watch the news." "Bye. take care of yourself." "I will. Bye.", McCarthy shuts off the phone.

  "What was that all about?", asks Rodriguez, over the din of speeding traffic through the completely opened windows. "Ahh, my ex. I forgot to call her like, two days ago. Our kid, he's eleven, lives at her place. Comes over to mine on the weekends. Obviously can't keep him around this weekend, as I'm pretty sure I won't have one." "I see." Rodriguez keeps staring at the road, swerving in and out of traffic expertly, yet keeping McCarthy clutching at the edge of his seat. Once traffic turns very dense in the city center Rodriguez slows down. A half hour later they make it to the USDA regional headquarters on 360 East 2nd Street.

  LaJoy is in his office when they enter. "New plan, doctors", he announces as McCarthy and Rodriguez walk in the door. "Governor has asked for FEMA and declared state of emergency while you were away, so, they're showing up to help us quarantine, start controlling the city food supply and distribution, and every other preparation that we will need in the next month. You-", LaJoy points at McCarthy, "will be serving as my executive officer of quarantine. You are familiar with alien organisms, preventive spread of diseases on agricultural land, so forth- apply that to the city. You've got a field promotion, thanks to your work these past three weeks."

  "Thank you sir." "My pleasure. The plague has spread itself across the East Asian continent, including China and Korea from what I hear, and there are fears that it will spread further. If we are any example, such attempts seem ill-fated. Your job, gentlemen, will be to prepare the city and the state for the worst. Dr. Rodriguez, everyone has read your reports and it seems that you are the best qualified expert we have on the subject of worm ecology. You'll help FEMA prepare." "I'm a scientist, not an emergency planner. I can predict consequences, sir, I cannot plan for their contingencies." "Yeah? Well, whatever.", LaJoy coughs, taking a napkin to cover his mouth. "You're officially an advisor now, so you're going to figure out ways to deal with this -ecologically- in the long scale. We've been allowed to move into the City Hall and set up a command headquarters for the emergency mobilization efforts. I suggest you get yourselves over there as soon as possible, and set up. You've both got new offices as of today." "Got it, sir", replies McCarthy. The two men walk out of the USDA building and head back out onto the sidewalk. "City Hall is right across the street", states Rodriguez nonchalantly. The large white cubical building housing the USDA offices is overshadowed by its taller, pointed neighbor, which houses the offices of the City government in over forty stories of office spaces. McCarthy and Rodriguez cross the street separating the two constructions before entering City Hall, wondering how they would settle in their new office environment as quickly as LaJoy would like them to.

  Only five kilometers away on UCLA's main campus, Krishnan hurries down a flight of stairs. In the middle of meticulous work on the earthworm species' genomes with Miyazaki, Konovalov called and told him to get down to his lab- and fast. So Krishnan hurriedly told Miyazaki to continue without him and sprang towards lab 204, where Konovalov had set himself up. Krishnan walks into Konovalov's lab to see Viktor running the DNA sequencer while looking down the Auger Electron microscope eyepiece. Konovalov looks up at the sound of Krishnan's footsteps. "Viktor, what is this? You said you needed to see me right away?" "Yes, I did", replied Konovalov sternly. "The virus, EWK-1, where did it come from?" he asks Krishnan. Krishnan, puzzled by Konovalov's rather rhetorical question, answers, "I think that is something I would like to know as well. I believe that it is a mutant strain formed from a Stomatitus virus." Konovalov frowns, "It has been documented that Vesicular Stomatitus virus can leap from worm to worm, but those experiments used microscopic C. elegans. VSV is related to rabies as well as foot-and-mouth disease." "We've had a case of food-and-mouth disease documented; at a farm near Bakersfield had a case of foot-and-mouth several years ago- unfortunately the farmer conveniently forgot to report that to us until we ran a thorough background check on the history of farm and agriculture virulence in the region." "Hmm.", Konovalov thinks, "Interesting. You suspect it may be possible that a Stomatitus virus mixed with some leftover, partially dead strain of the mad cow. But encephalopathy is caused by a prion, not a virus. I've run tests for foreign protein admixtures, nothing has come up. Also, encephalopathy symptoms, such as physical and mental degeneration, holes in the brain- none of the earthworms specimens have that. Rather, we seem to have a degenerative immune response. Similar to symptoms of AIDS, not quite however." Konovalov motions with his hands towards his head.

  "Though, lets really think this through- EWK-1 spreads at an unprecedented rated, dries up the worms from the inside, torturing them shortly before killing them quickly, and has incredible transmissibility, even it is a given that fluid exchange, particulates, and physical contact is
quite rampant amongst earthworms. Now I ask you- what is the probability that this is a natural mutation- as opposed to a deliberate, artificial killer of worms?" "You don't think this is natural?" "I think it has been engineered. In a lab. By humans, with motive. No virus in the world would target earthworms, all major species, so discriminately." Krishnan sighs deeply, reflecting on Konovalov's words. The thought had crossed his mind as well, but the theory of natural selection would have been far easier to explain that the theory of deliberate engineering. "Anything besides your hunch to back up this hypothesis of yours?", he asks his friend genuinely.

  "Yes." Konovalov sits down at his computer terminal and pulls up an image of the EWK-1 DNA gene sequence. The multi-colored digitally projected double helix stares back at Krishnan, until Konovalov splits it into individual Guanines, Cytosines, Adenines, and Thymines. A sequence is isolated from the main strand and brought up to full view. "The Start codon located here encodes for attachment to earthworm red cells. The viral genetic code also calls for rapid replication in those cells, specifically earthworm red cells which are different, if not radically so, from human ones. The virus also thrives in the fluid environment provided by the worm mucus and body temperature, and fluid viscosity. EWK-1 has thrived in culture of 25-30 degrees Celsius, but does less well in culture of say, 30 degrees or above 34 degrees Celsius. EWK-1 is entirely immune to the antibacterial properties of Eisenia Fetida hemolytic fluid. Also, antiviral properties of coelomic fluid in the Lumbricus Terrestris species has no effect on EWK-1. Anti-IgA and Anti-IgB, immunoglobins present in coelomic fluid, did not present any effective immuno-response even in samples with higher than normal concentration."

  "30 degrees Celsius. So at least it shouldn't be harmful to humans. The CDC will truly appreciate that information. So EWK virus binds to earthworm blood cells, kills them, spreads. Yes, if it wasn't that good at replicating itself we wouldn't be having this problem." "It's in its very genes. Genetically programmed." "What about the other symptoms? We have documented a complete breakdown of the worms' nervous system. The entire ganglia throughout all the body segments stops working. And you say there is no encephalopathy, or anything related to Creuzfeldt-Jakob disease." "I never mentioned Creuzfeldt-Jakob. Besides, CJD is a human disease; caused by prions. Yes, a strain of mad cow. But not related. No, EWK-1 is an immunological disease. One designed to inhabit the worm and kill in the perfect time- fast enough to be lethal, yet slow enough to have plenty of time to incubate itself and propagate enough to infect the next victim with a lethal dosage. It is a perfect worm killer."

  "Let's assume for a moment that it was designed by someone", reasons Krishnan, "What purpose is there to this? Who would make this disease?" ,he asks his friend. "I can't fathom whom, there are so many possibilities when you think about it," answers Konovalov distantly, "but think of the effects this has wrought all across this coastline. I think someone with a distinct knowledge of agricultural ecosystems, strong skill in virology. This is a strike at the ecological heart." "No terrorist would create such a disease. You yourself stated that it won't survive in humans- so we have to rule out that possibility. Terrorists try to kill people, cause large amounts of physical and psychological damage, and maybe hurt the economy. Still assuming your scenario is correct.", assures Krishnan. Then he catches himself, realizing his own statement to its full extent. "It causes huge amounts of damage.", he breathes slowly. "Yes", explains Konovalov coolly, "it is just a theory, but I wouldn't simply brush it away. And I am telling you this strain won't be found in nature just like that- not even by accident. But if you haven't noticed yet, all of the agricultural output is expected to fall by up to 50% within the coming months, numerous other species that feed on and rely on worms have had their lifestyles completely disrupted or have retreated, and some are speculating that even the carbon recycling of trees has been affected. Not by much, but affected nonetheless. I would certainly say economically we will have as much damage as ecologically."

  "Do you have any suspects?", Krishnan asks, hoping to coax as much information from Konovalov as possible. I have to tell LaJoy this and see what he would do. . . or maybe even Onassis. "I'm not part of Homeland Security, I hardly have a clue. Anyone with the proper equipment should be able to manufacture this. But I have to say, this is laboratory grade. It was not engineered by some flunked Masters student or aspiring Islamist. It is a military grade weapon, something that both the old US and Soviet Cold War weapons specialists would have been proud of." "So its Russian?" "I didn't say that.", snaps back Konovalov, "If this was in the fifties or sixties I would have said yes, absolutely; without a doubt. But we live in a much more complex and unpredictable world these days." Krishnan ponders over the validity of Konovalov's game changing theory. "So it may be from a biological weapon? Could it be from some old Soviet stockpile?" "Possibly. I don't know. I can't determine the origin." "You know that this theory of yours changes the entire nature of the game? Before, it was thought to be anything from freak virus to industrial negligence. Now people will say it was intentional." "It's still just a theory." "A theory by the world's leading geneticist. People will take it seriously." "As they should."

  "I have to start making calls". "Yes, you do." Krishnan walks out of lab 204 and starts having many thoughts race through his head. Imagine if some radical had dug this up in Vladivostok or somewhere! A relic of the Cold War? Then a more disquieting thought. What if it happens to be from a US facility and not a Soviet one? Krishnan dismisses the thought. Ever since the 1975 Biological Weapons Convention most states around the world had agreed not to develop the world's most dangerous weapons. The Convention prohibited the research and development of all biological and chemical weapons, as well as the stockpiling of significant quantities that have no justifiable purpose. As a previous member of the NBACC Oversight Commission, Krishnan had read the Convention word for word to familiarize himself with the context of worldwide treatises on such weapons. However, simply because of the Convention's existence was not reason to prevent the continued undercover and secretive research into areas of the biological sciences best left alone. Even recently during the 1980s, the Soviet Union had experimented with a covert program codenamed "Ecology”, which was designed to exterminate domesticated cattle via Foot-and-mouth disease and African swine fever. At Fort Detrick's NBACC, Krishnan had personally seen the laboratories of all bio-safety levels, which range from 1-4, and see firsthand the biodefense measures being undertaken there. No paper, document, official had ever mentioned offensive bioresearch in the US since 1969, when the US signed and ratified the BWC. The Soviet program ended with the dissolution of the USSR.

  Still, the next steps would be important. As Krishnan walks into his makeshift office, he picks up the phone. LaJoy answers immediately. "We have a problem.", is all Krishnan can begin with. "Alright, Apollo, what is it?", replies LaJoy sardonically. "Konovalov is . . . hypothesizing that EWK-1 is engineered. He states that belief due to the unusual combination of the virus's biological and behavioral properties. Pace of spread, rate of infection, and the fact that it not only survives, but apparently thrives in the earthworm circulatory and lymphatic systems." "That doesn't mean that it is man-made. Every indication so far has pointed that it originated somewhere in around Bakersfield, likely due to transmutation with Foot-and-mouth." "Viktor. . ", Krishnan stops himself, "Dr. Konovalov disagrees. Yes there are traits of foot-and-mouth, but no protein admixture suggesting recent swapping of DNA. Also, foot-and-mouth is prion originated while EWK-1 is a virus. He's sending you his findings on the subject as we speak." "Fine, I'll look at it and get back to you."

  Forty five minutes later LaJoy calls back. "I'm still somewhat skeptical, but I have to take your friend seriously. I'm getting Secretary Onassis on the line so we can talk this through." "We don't have much information to talk through, though", replies Krishnan, "I myself am not sure where to start. Assuming his hypothesis is correct, now what? It could have come from anywhere had someone chose to ma
nufacture it. It requires a somewhat educated virologist and a sophisticated lab, but there are plenty of people with millions to finance such a project." "If it is man-made, its most likely of Soviet origin.", states LaJoy, "But it could have come from anywhere in Asia, or even Africa." "I'm going to tell Jackson Medina at NBACC about this and see what they say." "Fine. I'll get back after informing the Secretary." Krishnan hangs up and opens a video conference to NBACC on his PC. After waiting ten minutes for the other side of the line to pick up, Krishnan finally gets an "on-line" status from the other side. Medina's tanned and slightly swarthy face appears on screen. "Ahh, Dr. Krishnan. I was hoping to hear back from you soon." "Dr. Medina. I need you to give me an accurate analysis- how easily can someone engineer EWK-1 in a lab?" "Eh, it should be fairly easy here at NBACC. A couple of weeks perhaps." "What about a more rudimentary lab, the cost of less than a million dollars worth of equipment?" "Possible for sure", answers Medina. Then, curiosity etched on his face, he asks, "why?" "Some of us feel that we may be dealing with an artificial virus. Nothing substantial on that just yet." "An artificial virus? You think we are dealing with a terrorist attack?", asks Medina, suddenly more alert. "Maybe. We just don't have enough information yet." "Anything we can do to help?" "Get me every bit of research on bio-weapons that affect agriculture. See if you can recreate a similar virus- and keep it contained." "That will require permission from the Sec. of Defense", replies Medina. "I'll get it. And, I may be flying over there soon." "For what?" "Getting another tour of the facility!", replies Krishnan sarcastically, suddenly tired of Medina's open-ended questions. This man is supposed to be a liaison, not such a questioning thorn. "Keep in touch", he finishes the short talk before turning off the link. I may have to go to NBACC myself. Who knows what they are capable of in those labs. Besides, I want to see them manufacture an identical virus themselves. With the aid of high technology and without- that should prove the limitations of creating EWK-1 by lawless denizens. With these thoughts in mind, Krishnan walks out of the office and heads across campus to resume working on decoding the earthworms' species' genome.

  Los Angeles

  The climate of Los Angeles is a generic humid Mediterranean, so even in December the average temperature hover around 10 Celsius, leading to the popularity of winter hoodies, light jackets, and t-shirts. Donning a pair of sunglasses even in wintertime, is not out of the question, at least for McCarthy, who figures lower California receives generously more sunlight than Stockton on any given day.

  Taking four hours to organize his new office space in the City Hall Building, McCarthy is rapidly changed assignments by the USDA- FEMA- LA City joint authority set up to handle the distribution of food packets amongst the population. Figuring that he will be here a while, he also hopped off on a short shopping spree to buy a few new dress shirts, pants, and a sports jacket. That done, he returned the items to the office and headed out, with sunglasses, towards' Rodriguez's parked red Grand Cherokee, which he would borrow for the tour. Entering the SUV, he turns the key and revs up the engine.

  It takes a thirty minute drive on the 101 Hollywood Freeway to arrive at Center Panorama, located near North Hollywood in Panorama City, a large exurb about 20 kilometers northwest of downtown. Manjak pulls into the parking lot of a local government building that is being used as the center. Parked right outside the squarish, non-descript building are over a dozen trucks, requisitioned by the State government to bring in the shipments from the Midwest. McCarthy parks the SUV next to the building itself and gets out. A line of people stretches around the block, waiting patiently in line for their turn to receive a coupon number and their share of supplies. Some haggardly looking, some plain dressed yet presentable. Many tired, but few energetic.

  Several stores and a supermarket lie across the two-way street. Through the glass of the supermarket, McCarthy sees its shelves empty, devoid of produce for sale. The expanding food shortage has left supermarkets across the continent without items from bagels to Frito's. There was a decreasing amount of essential foodstuffs that could be devoted to non-necessary items such as buns, potato chips, pies and pastries. Chocolates were becoming a rarity as cocoa production in Ecuador, Brazil, and Indonesia was shelved in half. Orange juice was at a premium since the orange crop was nearly entirely destroyed- the crops from California and Florida were totally wasted, as farmers complained of small lumps growing on the plants instead of full grown fruit. When the US then switched to importing oranges, Brazil's orange crops were similarly affected. With the world's two largest orange producers not producing any more oranges, supermarket's were hard pressed to keep up demand for the popular fruit.

  Pretzels and cookies were still on the shelves in other supermarkets in near-normal quantities, and McCarthy was for one quite pleased that his favorite drinks Sprite and Coke were still stocked up high. The problem was that, you couldn't keep giving people Coke, Sprite, and Dr. Pepper while feeding them on doughnuts and cookies. And that, McCarthy, figured, was where the problem lay. Actual produce that was even remotely healthy, ranging from as lettuce, tomatoes, salads, carrots, cauliflower, chick-peas, potatoes, and any kind of fruit was at point zero in all the west coast states.

  Determined to at least see what the generic rations were being handed out, McCarthy brushes through the waiting lines and walks right through the glass sliding doors of the building. Inside, humidity combined with the sweat of many people waiting has produced its own undeniably unpleasant stench. Fans running at full power alleviate this by blowing the air around, yet not cooling it down enough nor removing the odor. McCarthy walked in and interrupted the first receptionist he could find. The young Latina lady quickly directs him to the back, pointing the way to several offices behind as she continues to interact with the man waiting for his coupon. McCarthy walks by, and heads towards the back. Glancing to his left, he sees through the windows dozens of men removing carton boxes of food around, arranging them into somewhat organized stacks of rows. McCarthy knocks on the door of the office indicated, seeing another lady on a phone. The short, plump woman motions for him to enter. Shortly afterwards she places down the phone, and extends her hand. "Dolores Menendez. Or Dee for short. So what can we help you with?" After introducing himself as well, McCarthy specifies why he's there. "In addition, I want to see what type of food supplies you are receiving." "Oh, I told them that we were getting junk. The first week it was MRE's, can you believe that?" "MRE's?" McCarthy expected that to be the case, asking, "What about now?" "Oh, still getting MRE's. Now we have a slightly improved version, though, the Protein Improved Meal Package, or PIMP. It basically consists of more protein, usually chicken meat or egg, which still comes from the chicken. Ha. Let me show you." Smiling lightheartedly, she leads the way outside to the rear end of the building. Tens of thousands of brown cardboard crates are piled on top of each other here, creating a seeming cardboard valley. She points towards the boxes, saying, "See? Those are all the MRE's. We're still distributing them, not going to run out anytime soon." Dolores opens a 6x6 foot box lying by the building door, which had already been opened. "Here's the PIMP." McCarthy takes a packet out- the wrapping is nearly the same dull plastic wrap and brown coloring as the MRE- and tears the packet open, peeking inside.

  Three wraps are included in the meal, the largest of which is labeled "chicken patty". Alongside it comes with a "potato salad" in a plastic container and two granola bars. "This is what you're handing out?", asks McCarthy incredulously, "these are military rations!" "Well, the rest is basically giant bags of wheat, corn, and frozen fruits", answers Menendez, looking over at the meal in McCarthy's hands. McCarthy walks over a few meters, turning around a wall separating one parking lot from another. The second lot behind is a sight to behold- hundreds of white bags, all marked with USDA stamped in bold black lettering. He goes through the bags, casually looking over expiration dates and contents.

  "At least they will last a while.", comments McCarthy, noting the bags' don't expire until a year on. T
he bags were labeled as an assortment of lentils, peas, beans, other legumes, potatoes; basically any food that can be stored in dry condition for a near indefinite period of time. He continues walking through the rows of plastic bags, writing down on his small pocket-sized notepad the assortment and variety of food that he sees..

  A truck's engine noisily breaks the tranquil silence, coming from behind the rows food aid. The engine sound quickly shuts down, leaving McCarthy wondering where the sound came from. He heads in the general direction of the noise. Passing through the stacks of crates and bags, McCarthy comes across a chain link fence. Sliding up to the fence, he notices a shallow green pick-up truck parked adjacent to the food crates. A large, muscular man with a shaven head in a wife beater shirt is loading the crates into the back of the pickup truck. What? Is he stealing the food! Looking again, McCarthy figures that: Yes, he is!

  Figuring that he should do something to prevent the man from taking food intended for the ordinary people of LA, McCarthy walks around the fence towards the man, hoping to dissuade him. "Hey Buddy,", calls out McCarthy to the man, who is even larger and more dangerous looking up close. Sporting a variety of large tattoos on his huge biceps, the man brings himself to full 6-foot-1 height turning towards McCarthy. "Hey man, you know that this is a restricted space. Authorize personnel only? Says it somewhere over there. You got an ID?" The man looks at McCarthy distantly through his dark green eyes. "Don't need an ID, man. Just doing my job", mutters the man. "Let me see an ID", repeats McCarthy. "You don't need my ID", growls the man, more gruffly this time. "What do you think you are, some kind of Jedi repeating those sentences? They won't work, only an ID will", asks McCarthy again. "Go to Hell.", barks the man, irritated. He turns around and opens the door of the truck, getting ready to go in. Crap, this guy really wants to get out of here." McCarthy leaps two steps towards the man, grabbing the back of his wife beater at the shoulder to stop him. The man backhands McCarthy in the face, stunning him. Then a devastating blow from his right fist slams McCarthy's jaw, sending shockwaves through his head leaving McCarthy to drop down on all fours. The man uses the opportunity to quickly jump into the truck and drive off. McCarthy opens his eye taking in the license number, merely glad that the man didn't stay and land more blows on him or do worse.

  Picking himself up off the gravel, he immediately calls 9-1-1. Describing the vehicle make and number to the operator, he sees Dolores running up to him talking rapidly into her cell phone. "Dr. McCarthy! Are you all right?" "I'm fine", he replies quickly, tasting some blood in his mouth. "You're bleeding", observes Menendez worriedly. "I'll be alright", answers McCarthy, wiping away his mouth with his left hand. The right has a few cuts and bruises over it, but a few band-aids should fix it up soon. "Who was that guy?" "I don't know", replies Menendez, "But whoever he is, I'm sure he's not the only one interested in stealing."

  "I better report this to LaJoy. Have you had this happen before?" "We've had three previous incidents of people taking boxes, but they've never physically confronted any one of us before." "So this is a case of escalation?" "Maybe. I don't know", answers Menendez, closing her phone. "I'm so sorry, you had to get hit by that thug, we have an officer at the door. If only-" "Really, it doesn't matter," McCarthy assures her, "But I'll see that you get tighter security around here. We can't afford to be losing inventory to criminals like that." The two walk back through the parking lot towards the district office. "I'm going to the next stop. Before, though, do you have any band-aids?" "Yes. This way." Menendez leads McCarthy to her office where she opens a drawer on her desk, handing him four band-aids. Fixed for the time being, McCarthy decides to continue rolling.

  Heading out the door, he nearly walks headlong into an officer walking in. "Wow. Sorry, officer. My bad." McCarthy glances down backing away slightly, seeing the officer's name tag which reads Chen. He points with his thumb backwards. "The guy left already. But there could be more of them, hiding out back there." "Are you all right?", asks Officer Chen. "I'm good." The officer rushes past McCarthy inside, as two more police cruisers pull up in front of the building.

  McCarthy walks into his car taking out his cell phone as he walks. He calls up LaJoy to tell him about the incident with the tattooed thief. LaJoy doesn't take the news too kindly, but doesn't seem surprised. McCarthy surmises that this wasn't the first time someone had tried to rob one of the distribution centers. McCarthy hangs up, and drives west in the direction of Santa Barbara for his next inspection stop. After about forty minutes of driving his cell vibrates, leading him to pull off to the side of the highway in order to answer it. Unlike most people, I'm not going to multitask on the highway. . . .especially with all these crazy drivers.

  He answers the phone call once pulled over, whose caller identifies himself as part of the California Highway Patrol Department. The officer on the line informs McCarthy that his assailant had been arrested and brought into custody. "Do you know why he was there?", asks McCarthy curiously, suspecting the answer. "For now we're assuming theft. The crates described to us by FEMA have been found in the truck." "Has he committed any other crimes?" "Yes, he has a criminal record. Also, This isn't the first time one of the distribution centers has been targeted for robbery, Dr. McCarthy." "I see. Very well. Thank you." The distribution centers had to be protected more vigorously, McCarthy decided. There was too much at stake to let random bandits simply walk in and walk away with food supplies intended for every other law abiding inhabitant.

  McCarthy calls LaJoy. "We need to change the strategy." "What strategy?", asks LaJoy, "You're lucky to come out in one piece and you're already asking for a change in strategy?" "Yes, to prevent similar things from occurring in the future. Call the National Guard." "Call the National Guard? For what?" "To guard the stations. The police don't have enough personnel to do their regular duties and keep an eye out on all the aid centers. So talk to the Governor and tell him to dispatch a few troops. At least in Los Angeles and San Francisco metro areas." "I'll consider it." "You won't regret it if you do it now." "Right.", retorts LaJoy as he hangs up. Damn. That guy needs to learn how to be more security oriented if he's going to continue to run this operation. Otherwise, things will escalate.

  McCarthy starts the engine and pulls leftwards back onto the highway. Another hour to Santa Barbara.

  Bangladesh

  Back in the confines of the FAO office in Dhaka, Manjak watches a live news coverage of workers being trucked to the designated areas of the barrier. The plan was to dig two ditches a mile apart from each other, running parallel, across the country towards the Himalayas. Everything between the two ditches would be burned, leaving no trace of any living matter. The Indian government had agreed to collaborate in extending the barrier across its provinces of Assam and Sikkim. The plan, basically set forth by Manjak and Mohammed, dictated for completion of ditches within 7 days, in order for the burn policy to be initiated. The final location of the line skirted around all the major cities, unfortunately there were many farms that still lay in the middle of the planned barrier.

  The camera footage showed people packing belongings into vans as they prepared to move westward- as the government had also decreed that all inhabitants east of the barrier would have to relocated westwards for the time being. People in colorful sarongs to farmer's garb packed inside buses, on pickup trucks, and on scooters all poured onto the roadways. So a mass exodus of over ten million people began, starting another major congestion on the country's roads which were already incapable of handling the traffic required of them. Many of the travelers had nowhere to go, no family or relatives in the west of the country; no friends who could physically take more people into their homes. Already there was a feeling of discontent in the streets as a result of the government's order to move, but for the moment people followed the decree.

  Manjak counted on that.

  In order for the entire idea to work, there would have to cease to be any type of interaction between biological entities across the tw
o sides of the barrier. no humans, animals, plants, fungi, bacteria, or protozoa would be allowed to go from one side to the other. Looking at the TV, Manjak sees the first crews get to work with shovels and small bulldozer near some remote village. For a brief moment he fights an urge to go out and do some handiwork himself, but realizes that this would be hopelessly useless. The government even opened up its coffers to finance work on the project, hiring construction companies, engineers, and labor; leading to a temporary decrease in the unemployment as people signed up to work on the barrier. Manjak by himself would offer miniscule help.

  More importantly, he needed to fly to Thailand later in the day in order to work over the details with the Thais to follow a similar approach. If the Thais' would isolate the Malay Peninsula from the rest of the continent, the move could potentially prevent the spread of EWK-1 to Malaysia, the islands of Indonesia, and the Philippines. Australia, further south and isolated geographically, had pursued its own independent policy to halt all shipping from the Asian and North American mainlands within the week. After the stop in Bangkok, he would head directly to Beijing and assess the situation FAO would be dealing with in China.

  Manjak turns his head, hearing footsteps. Zafir enters. "I'm off to the airport, flight leaves in two hours.", states Manjak, "See to it that Plan B works out." "I will." "Make sure that the silos are stocked, with enough food to provide basic nutrition for four months. Weed out corrupt practices in the bureaucracy, the only result will be less food to go around. FAO's job now will be to see food reserves maintained until soil quality can return to normal. Then it will take four months minimum to grow a new round." "It is going to be an uphill battle." "Yes it will. I'm not going to make other recommendations, but in the long run it will be doubtful if the country will be able to support any larger population, even assuming that EWK-1 is able to be prevented. Other countries, including all the neighboring ones, will be experiencing similar problems." Manjak rises out of the seat. "I better prepare my bag. Don't want to keep the Thais waiting because of a missed flight."

  Manjak walks through a hall to another room with two sofas, an armchair, and several closets. He takes down a few of his belongings from the closets and neatly packs them into his suitcase, lying on the floor by the first sofa. Throwing in a pair of shoes, three button-up shirts, a Tylenol, his case for reading glasses, and his spare cell phone, he closes and locks the Samsonite suitcase.

  Pulling the trolley behind him, Manjak makes his way through the somewhat ramshackle arrangement of tables and chairs in the main lounge before coming to the door. Zafir is waiting outside, along with a cab. Manjak hands Zafir one last set of papers from FAO headquarters before getting in the cab, telling him, "Don't make me look bad, Z." "You know I won't." Manjak instructs the driver to take him to the airport.

  The drive is not as monotonous as other cities, as the traffic forces the driver to make several unique and somewhat daring maneuvers to squeeze into spaces that would be high ticket-able by western standards. The driver still manages to get Manjak to the terminal within forty-five minutes, receiving a generous tip in return. Manjak hurries through the lines at the counters, checking in his luggage and passing through security within less than twenty minutes- unheard of at many US airports.

  Manjak sits down at a seat, gazing at the Thai Airways flight unloading passengers at the gate. He opens up his laptop and sends an email to Maria, detailing events from the past three days and the results of the cabinet meeting. Another e-mail is from Director Maurice, asking him on his whereabouts. Manjak sends a brief note back explaining the situation, but otherwise feeling that more is unnecessary. What's he doing? Still in Rome, deciding what to do about EWK-1?

  Manjak brushes away a brief personal contempt for the man as he closes his computer and joins the boarding line.

  Within another thirty minutes the aircraft pulls out from the gate and taxis to the runway, taking off into the cloudy sky. As soon as the aircraft reaches cruising altitude Manjak re-opens his laptop. Maurice sent a reply. The email detailed in brief a plan put together by the Director to meet with the Council of Europe that day, preparing a long range strategy for eastern Africa. There was no mention of EWK-1, earthworms, Mexico, China, the US, or anything related. What? Really? A brief explanation accompanied a statement from the International Fund on Agricultural Development (IFAD), stating that at the moment there was no foreseeable way that the Fund could help the afflicted nations. Maurice even argued that it was the responsibility of the individual government's health agencies and internal agricultural and customs offices to work in preventing EWK-1.

  Maybe he doesn't see, that if EWK-1 gets its way around the globe, there won't be much agriculture left for FAO to develop. Ahh, of course thats it. Manjak thinks, pausing at his revelation. It really becomes the UN's responsibility, and through that FAO's to deal with the repercussion of the EWK-1 epizootic. No other organization has such direct influence over worldwide agriculture. But Maurice is stuck in a narrow path of thinking about development, improving farming methods . . . he thinks this is just another plant disease. He doesn't consider it a serious threat. It is.

  Manjak decides that he needs to head back to Rome and get a high level meeting of the UN FAO delegates together, along with the intergovernmental agencies WFP and IFAD. The emergency meeting would deal specifically about dealing with EWK-1 in the long term, including potential effects that may be felt years from now.

  What we really should be asking ourselves. . . what would happen if we simply cannot get earthworms back in those areas affected? Will farmers be able to live without them? Can we grow plants in poor quality soil? Can we grow them in an environment with no fertile soil at all?

  The plane lands smoothly at Bangkok's Suvarnabhumi Airport at 4:41pm in the afternoon, only ten minutes later than predicted. After disembarking Manjak goes over to a payphone. He calls an international exit number, calling halfway around the world to Mexico. Sofia answers the phone. "Hello?" "Hey. I need you to get me something, hon." "What might that be?" "There is a collaboration between the US and Mexican governments working on preventing EWK-1 and trying to determine its origin, right?" "Yes." "Can you get me reports on their scientific research?" "I'm fairly sure I can. It shouldn't be a problem. When do you need them?" "As soon as you can get them to me." "Alright." "Thanks hon. Love you."

  Manjak hangs up. Always useful having some back channels for information; He smiles inwardly. He briefly wonders how many other people use the same payphone on a daily basis and the bacteria he just picked up before brushing the thought away and heading towards the international arrivals and customs check.