The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga (42 page)

Denver, Colorado.

Emergency National Reserve Operations Center.

The Cave.

B
RENDA
LOOKED
THROUGH
THE
thick safety glass and watched Dr. Boatner adjust his glasses.
 
She’d expected him to be more regal.
 
An elder statesman.
 
The man she watched was slightly pudgy and balding.
 
She cocked her head and stared.
 
You know, if he had longer hair and put on the right clothes…he almost looks like Benjamin Franklin…

The intercom next to Brenda’s workstation chirped.
 
“Your work is most impressive, Dr. Alston.”
 

She smiled.
 
"Thank you, sir.”

Boatner removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair.
 
He had been accorded his own private decontamination room complete with a large desk, several computer monitors—each depicting images of different evolutionary phases of the virus—a large refrigerator well stocked with food and drink, a soft bed in the corner, and a private bathroom.
 

She looked at her hands and picked at one chipped fingernail.
 
As Boatner reviewed the work she’d done to date, her mind drifted to Cooper.
 
She wondered how he was handling the boredom of the forced quarantine—he still had 24 hours to be declared infection-free.
 
She cupped her hands in her lap to force them to hold still.
 
It was agonizing to wait.
 

"Very impressive…it looks like you’ve gathered most of the information that we need to continue our work," Boatner said.
 

‘Our work’.
 
The smile returned to Brenda’s face.
 
Perhaps she wasn’t useless after all.

He turned and flashed a slight smile before picking up a stack of paper from his desk.
 
“You can confirm the authenticity of this report from…what was his name?“ He frowned and picked up his glasses, “It sure is hell getting old.”
 
He shuffled through a few of the papers while Brenda waited.
 
“Ah, yes, this Mosby character?
 
The CIA man.”

It was Brenda’s turn to nod.
 
She pushed the intercom button.
 
"Yes, sir, I was briefing President Harris on a possible antigen drift when Director Stylau informed us that they had a person on the ground.
 
I was there in the Office when they brought up a live feed—"

Boatner
 
grunted.
 
“Of course the CIA has a man on the ground…”
 

"The agent we spoke to in Kentucky indicated they had seen 28 fatalities in the last 48 hours, but the infection rate had skyrocketed in town—especially among the hospital staff."

Boatner mumbled and looked at another sheet of paper in his hand.
 
"That suggests to me the virus is undergoing a rather aggressive drift.
 
There can be no other conclusion.”
 
Boatner looked up from the report.
 
“Tell me, does this remind you of the antigen drifts we went through during the Great Pandemic?"
 

Brenda shivered.
 
The tone of his voice, summoning The Pandemic’s history like that—it was creepy as hell.
 
She refused to believe that things would get that bad this time.
 
She pressed the intercom button.
 
"No, sir.
 
I was just out of high school…"

Boatner sighed.
 
"Just a child.
 
Yet you survived…"
 
His smile was thin and didn’t reach his eyes.
 
"The original virus must've gone through a drift every three weeks or so.”
 
He took his glasses off.
 
"It played hell with projections—we had the damnedest time just trying to keep pace with it.
 
We could never pull ahead.”
 
He smiled blankly
 
at the ceiling.
 
“Not until we found Mr. Huntley."

It was Brenda's turn to sigh.
 
She had been at the President’s briefing earlier that morning.
 
Word had come in that the Rangers and Mr. Huntley had been shot down somewhere in Kentucky.
 
Brenda turned away from Boatner’s empty stare.
 
She couldn’t think about Derek right now—she couldn’t.
 

Was he alive?
 
Was the Source alive?
 
Was all their work in the lab futile—did Cooper risk his life bringing Boatner back for nothing?
 
Without Huntley, the chances of their success were microscopic.
 
She sniffed and wiped at her eyes in frustration.
 
You’re not going to do this right now—you’re just tired.
 
You’ve operated on soldiers during firefights before, remember?
 
Pull it together, Alston.
 
 

"I just wish there was something else we could do…"

Boatner's tinny voice responded from the other side of the 2 inch-thick glass.
 
"If I had a nickel for every time I heard someone say that ten years ago…"

Brenda tapped a few keys on her keyboard and brought up the latest image of the mutated virus.
 
She stared at the odd little protein cluster of cones and probes that stuck out from the virus cell.
 
The thing looked so similar to its original shape, but she could tell where they were slightly different.
 
The protein bundles were slightly longer, slightly thicker, more rounded on the ends.
 
"Isn't there
anything
we can do?"

She heard Boatner sigh from the other side of the glass.
 
He stood from his chair, the creak muted over the intercom.
 
She watched in silence as he moved across the room and opened the fridge to get a bottle of water.
 
"You know, it's been four days since I've had clean water…”
 
He took a long drink then shut the fridge.
 
He remained staring at the wall above the appliance.
 

“When the power went out in Boston on… I think it was a Friday.”
 
He turned to face her.
 
“What day is it?
 
Never mind.
 
The last email I got from campus administration was for everyone to try and fill their bathtubs with water."
 
He took a long swig of the bottled water and smiled.
 
"I've been drinking bath water for four days.”
 
He held the bottle up.
 
“This tastes much better."
 
Brenda waited patiently while he took his chair.
 
“To answer your question, Dr. Alston, there's not a whole hell of a lot we can do.
 
We can watch and we can track, yes—you’re proof of that.
 
But without viable blood samples from Mr. Huntley," he raised his hands in exasperation.
 
"There is no offensive action we can take against this thing.
 
Only defense."

"Defense?" Brenda asked.

"Yes, the active risk reduction protocols that the President has authorized—restricting access to public gatherings, shutting down transportation, closing roads, isolating infected cities and the like.
 
These are all things that we tried during the Great Pandemic—indeed, they were the only things that were tried during the Spanish Flu of 1918.
 
None of it works, Dr. Alston.
 
None of it.”

"Brenda."

"Very well, Brenda it is.
 
We’ll be working together a lot going forward, so you must call me Maurice."

Brenda smiled.
 
"Is there anything else I can get you, Maurice?
 
You have enough food and water?"

"Unless you can suddenly wave your hand and make Mr. Huntley's blood samples appear—or even more miraculous, Mr. Huntley himself," the virologist said as he looked at the computer screens, "I don't think there's anything anyone can do right now…"

Brenda stretched her arms and heard her spine pop in more than one place.
 
She closed her eyes and sighed in relief.
 
"Well, if you'll excuse me, I’d like to get some shut-eye.
 
There's not much I can do right now, anyway—now that you're here.”
 

Before she could stand from her chair, the observation room door opened.
 
General Daniels walked in with two cups of steaming coffee.
 
The smell was heavenly.

"I hope you weren’t heading out to get some rest?" he asked.
 
He handed Brenda one of the cups.
 
"We've got a lot of work to do."

The intercom chirped again.
 
“I was wondering when you would make your appearance.”

Brenda watched as the two old friends exchanged pleasantries through the glass window.
 
She sipped the coffee—it was strong and dark.

"It’s good to see you Maurice,” said Daniels.

Boatner grunted again.
 
“After the adventure I've had getting here, I'm just glad to be breathing.”

The smile fell from the General’s face.
 
"Major, I need you to prep the receiving lab and make sure Level 4 containment protocol is up and running.”

Brenda put the coffee down.
 
“What's happened, sir?
 
Did they find Mr. Huntley?"

"No," said Daniels.
 
"But a detachment of Marines sent on recon in southern California has returned with wounded.”
 
He glanced at Boatner.
 
“Two of them are infected."

“Damn it,” muttered Boatner.

Brenda sighed.
 
"Is
anyone
topside going to take our recommendations on troop safety seriously?
 
Do they not understand that officers need to make sure their men are wearing masks and gloves—"

“There's a possibility that we’re looking at a new variant."

The statement went off like a bomb in the room.
 
Brenda felt her breath catch in her throat.
 
She glanced at Boatner who stared at Daniels.

“This is just like before…” muttered Boatner.

"This is
worse
than before," said Daniels.
 
"We're getting reports of severely drifted strains—two of them, now—in Europe.
 
Personally, I think it’s already shifted.”

"Wait—two new drifts?
 
In Europe?” asked Boatner.

“Berlin,” said Daniels, “Frankfurt, too, and a new case in Brussels.”
 
He put his half-empty coffee
 
on the desk.
 
“All of Europe will be exposed before we know it.
 
It won’t be long now…”
   

“You’re thinking a Wildfire Event?” asked Boatner in a quiet voice.

General Daniels nodded.
 
“W.H.O. announced late last night they’ve confirmed two distinct strains in Europe.
 
German soldiers fleeing Boston brought it back to Berlin and now it’s spreading faster than anyone expected.”
 
The General looked at Brenda.
 

"If this thing keeps spreading and changing at this rate," said Daniels, his hands on his hips, "your theory of an ELE might right.”

"Well, that may be, we can’t just sit here and do nothing," said Brenda.
 
She put her hands into the deep pockets on her lab coat.
 
"We've got to try to do something,
anything
.
 
We have—"

“Major, we have nothing.
 
Without Mr. Huntley's blood, or at least the samples that we had taken years ago…"
 
He shrugged.
 
"The original virus was adept at blocking everything we threw at it ten years ago.
 
And when I say everything, I mean
everything
.
 
We pooled the resources of not only the United States, but the United Nations.”

Boatner chimed in: “This thing just kept coming.
 
Every time we thought we had a handle on it, it drifted."
 
He shook his head.
 
“Now that the North Koreans have genetically modified it…”

Daniels nodded.
 
“The stupid sons of bitches.
 
I can't believe they used this particular strain.
 
Asia was hit harder than the rest of the planet combined—"

Boatner cleared his throat.
 
“I think Major Alston is right.
 
We need to try to do something.
 
We might as well try manipulating the antiviral drugs we have on hand.”

Daniels rubbed his chin.
 
“Well, we’re getting more shipped in every day as what's left of the National Command Authority finishes relocation to Denver.
 
It might not be a bad idea.”

Boatner shook his head and turned away from the window.
 
He paced his cell like a caged animal, muttering to himself.
 
“What am I saying?
 
Monkeying with antivirals?
 
It won't make a difference.”
 
He stopped pacing and seemed to ponder a crack in the wall.
 
“That didn’t work before, it just wasted time and resources.”

“But it’s better than doing nothing,” said Brenda.
 

“I’m telling you," Boatner replied, "without the antibodies in Mr. Huntley's blood, we can't effectively combat this thing.
 
At best, we might be able to give people a 50-50 chance—"