CHAPTER 5
Nate Dolan, BS, Microbiology, 25 years of age, five foot four in his stocking feet and world-class biology geek with a nearly complete collection of The Amazing Spiderman series to prove it, was regretting more and more his choice of jobs to put himself through grad school. Intergen had been a great place to work. Even if part time and he had to spend most of his time in a moon suit.
Now he had beady eyed FBI agents pouring over his every movement for the last three days while simultaneously expecting him to “help out” for less than half what he got paid at Intergen. In a moon suit, of course.
LAX wasn’t, quite, shut down. But since it was suspected as one of the main sources of the Pacific Flu it had been shut down and might get shut down again. Especially if they couldn’t find the source. And, frankly, anybody had to be an idiot to just go wandering the airport in open when all the “official” people were either keeping their distance or in moon suits.
The powers-that-be were sure at this point that H7D3 was a man-made virus, really cool one for that matter, and that there had to be a mechanical spread mechanism. The technical term for that turned out to be “attack vector.” Nate had learned that when he was getting in-briefed on the search. Which should have showed these bad-suit wearing clowns he hadn’t done it! But until they could find traces of H7 in the environment, which was sort of tough, they were stymied to find the attack vector.
They’d had all sorts of false positives. The antibody swabs they were using were a sort of general “flu” test. They pinged as soon as they hit anything that looked anything like influenza. Which turned out to be half the organic chemicals on earth. Up until today they’d had to send them all back to various labs to be tested.
Today they had, finally, delivered a more precisely tuned antibody test. You still used the strips for initial test but a field re-test was now possible. Drop the strip in a test-tube, squirt in magic antibody fluid and wait for results.
“I’ve got another,” Luiz Lopez said, holding up a strip. Sure enough it was bright red.
He’d been swabbing the inside of one of the stalls. The good news was that anything in there was kept out by the moon suit. The bad news was that about half their false positives came from in the stalls. There was everything in those stalls. It was tough to be a germophobe and work in biology. This job was making him a germophobe. He certainly didn’t ever want to have to use a public restroom again.
“And we have a…” Nate said, shaking the test-tube. The liquid was red as blood. “Positive? Seriously?”
“Did we get a sample to cross-test?” Luiz asked.
“You think they’re going to hand me F7?” Nate said, looking in the stall. There wasn’t much graffiti. The problem with the stalls was that they were, yeah, cesspits on one level but they were also cleaned regularly. They just weren’t cleaned well. So most of the trace evidence, including any H7 should have been removed or degraded by the environment. Even if there had been some sort of vector there a couple of weeks ago, the F7 should have been cleaned away or basically broken down from heat and humidity. And there wasn’t any sort of aerosol canister. That had been the first check. “I’d be too likely to slip it to our ‘handlers.’”
“Don’t even joke,” Luiz said. He was from Argentina working, like Nate, on his masters at UCLA. “You they’d at least give some rights. They even suspect it’s me and I’m on a plane to Guantanamo.”
“Where’d this come from?” Nate asked, looking around the stall.
“Walls and door,” Luiz said.
If there was F7 in the stall something had put it there. Recently. It had clearly been recently scrubbed. Two more tests showed that the walls, door and even floor were contaminated. According to the swab and tube.
What there was was a deodorizer on the door. A round, green, deodorizer with the motto: “Save the Planet. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. SaveThePlanet.org” stamped into the plastic.
He’d swabbed those before. They were the first thing he’d hit the first stall he’d seen. And gotten back that the material in the deodorizer was giving a false positive. Which just might have been a false negative. If the carrier had enough chemical similarities to the protein coat of the virus it could be construed as a false positive depending on the test. If the evaporative coating was still coating the virus as one example.
He reached out, carefully, and cracked open the deodorizer.
“I want you to, personally, run this back to Dr. Karza,” Nate said, using a scupula to pull out some of the beigish substance in the deodorizer. “Tell him I suggest he run it through the portable SEM…”
* * *
“Why didn’t you identify that immediately?” the FBI Supervisory Special Agent asked. “Those canisters had been tested, right? I mean, they were obvious…”
“Because microbiology isn’t as easy as POINTING A GUN AT SOMEONE!” Dr. Azim Karza shouted, his eyes glued to the SEM screen.
“There’s no need to get…” the agent said, then coughed and sniffed. “Oh…shit…”
“GET THE HELL OUT OF MY LABORATORY!” Dr. Karza said. As the agent left he gave himself a quick blood test, then sighed in relief. Still no trace of H7D3. He’d seen the special agent using poor transmission protocols but was forced to work with him in close quarters. Which meant that the agent’s sniffles were something other than H7D3. Karza could have cleared that up for him with the same sort of test. But let the myrmidon bastard sweat it for a while.
“Cune.”
* * *
“FBI sources have found the source of the Pacific Flu virus. Anyone observing green deodorizers imprinted with the words ‘Save The Planet’ in public places should avoid them and immediately report their location to their local police or the FBI tipline…”
* * *
“The evaporative material was giving a false negative reaction to the antibody tests,” Dr. Dobson said, wearily. “We’d checked the deodorizers and given them a pass. Yesterday. Then when we got the new antibody strips one of the techs realized that there had to be a continuous source. Looking at the material under SEM…” He gestured to the image and shrugged. “I don’t know if that was part of the culprit’s plan but it was effective. They’ve now identified them in over sixty locations. At least one per bathroom mostly stretching up and down the West Coast…”
“So this was an eco-terrorist attack?” Dr. Xiu Bao asked. The current representative from the Chinese Ministry of Health was clearly convinced on the subject. If for no other reason than the Chinese government was already using the assumption to crack down on their environmental activists.
“The FBI isn’t really commenting but it’s possible,” Dr. Dobson said. “On the other hand, if you just wanted the finger pointed at eco-terrorists it would be a simple way to do it. Honestly, Doctor, I just hope nobody points out that the canisters were made in China…”
“We assuredly did not have anything to do with this…”
“I know that,” Dobson said. “Everyone with any sense knows that. It doesn’t mean it’s not going to get pointed out by idiots…”
* * *
“This was NOT eco-terrorism,” the Greenpeace spokesperson insisted. “No decent environmentalist is going to do something like this! And even if one was so insane as to infect humanity with a deadly plague they wouldn’t have used a nonrecyclable container! And might I point out, the canisters were made in China! One of the greatest eco-terrorists on the planet!”
“Whoa,” O’Riley said. “Whoa! Whoa! So is most stuff these days. Pointing a finger at the Chinese government is premature to say the least…”
“I didn’t say the…”
“Out of time. Next on the O’Riley factor…”
“If there is a next time,” Dr. Curry said, shaking the popcorn bag to get at the bits in the bottom. The laboratory he’d been handed by BotA was nicely complete but at the moment he was mostly using the microwave. Mr. “Smith” had looked at him oddly when he’d requisitioned six hundred cases of microwave popcorn. But he figured that even if they lost power BotA had generators. With water, decon showers and enough popcorn he was good till doomsday. Or till they totally lost power. “I love a front row seat to the apocalypse.”
* * *
“You all know what the big issue is right now,” Lieutenant Simmons said. “Fortunately, other crimes are down. However, we’re starting to get heavy traffic…”
“Rats fleeing the ship,” Patterno said.
“People are scared,” Simmons said, shrugging. “The TV’s staying away from the Z word but it’s all over the internet. That and it being a real and really big bioterror attack has people worried. We just work the problem. Some of the people in traffic are going to neurological stage while driving. Night shift had a lot of accidents. Every reserve officer who’s responding has been called in…”
Young tuned the brief out. He was still pending a shoot review. There had been a few words at first but by the end of his shift so many officers had had to use their weapons that they didn’t even take his in for the investigation. So far he’d had to shoot three “afflicted” to wound and two more to kill. They were still being ordered to “subdue and restrain” but there were more and more ten sixty-four hotels every shift. And subduing them took two officers at a minimum. Then there was the at least two hours of paperwork per ten sixty-four…
“For calls on this subject, the term ‘ten sixty-four hotel’ has been added to the callsign list,” Simmons said, getting to the main point. “The count was forty-six ten sixty-four hotels overnight.”
“Forty-six?” Patterno said. “We’ve only got forty officers! One ten sixty-four with transport and paperwork takes…”
“Which is why the Chief has authorized abbreviated paperwork,” Simmons said, holding up a pile of forms. “Just let me finish, Joe. These are ten sixty-four, suspected afflicted with neurological stage Hotel Seven virus forms. Try to get a solid ID, transport and fill out the form. No matter the eventual disposition the DA with concurrence of governor pending change in actual law has stated that nobody is going to try to try any of these people. And…the hospital is overloaded. All the hospitals are overloaded. Transport of all ten sixty-four hotels is now to 127 Curb Court, Warehouse Seven…”
“Warehouse district?” Young said, looking up finally.
“They’re maintaining them there pending some more appropriate facility…” Young said. “Just… Try to get a solid ID, secure and transport. Don’t call an ambulance unless you have a seriously injured civilian that absolutely requires ambulance transport. Ambulances are overloaded with injured and there’s a shortage of ambulance crews… There have now been confirmed locations of the attack vector device on the East Coast. FBI is saying they may have been in place for as much as a week. One was found right here in Williamsburg…”
“Oh, holy shit…” Young said, shaking his head. He had called his parents and brother. They were all staying inside and basically skipping work.
“The one bright spot is that CDC is now saying that ten sixty-fours may, again may, not be airborne infectious,” Simmons continued. “The downside is that they are infectious through the blood pathogen and the blood pathogen is extremely aggressive. If you are exposed to the blood pathogen, either due to bleeding from the subject or due to…blood spray, decontaminate immediately. We’re issuing a decon kit per car. We have them onhand thank God.”
“Don’t let them bite you,” Patterno said. “Don’t.”
“Young, that came from you first. I never got the story?”
“I was responding to a ten thirty-seven yesterday,” Young said. It seemed like ten years ago. “Family loading a sailboat. They were using a dock on one of those foreclosure properties over in Hunter Creek. Loading it for a long trip and they admitted to having a large quantity of weapons in their vehicle. The male subject knew about the upcoming announcement from the CDC. This was just a bit before noon. He stated that I should avoid the blood pathogen as well. Right after that things started to, well, degrade. It was one of the reasons for my decision to act with lethal force in the encounter that day. I swear to God I wasn’t going rogue…something something killer. It was just I was dealing with two ten sixty-fours…”
“Don’t…” Simmons said, grimacing. “It’s not up for discussion right now. I can’t comment on the shoot. On that subject, though, our rules of engagement remain unchanged. Use minimum force necessary to subdue the ten sixty-fours. Given our new understanding of the situation… The specific wording that I was given is ‘use minimum force necessary consonant with a full understanding of the threat and nature of threat to protect self and others with a high priority to ensure safe processing of the presumed H7D3 afflicted subject.’ Try to remember however these people are acting they are people. People sick with a God damned disease. This isn’t they’re fault…”
“In a lot of ways it would be easier if they were walking dead,” Patterno said, shrugging.
“Let’s try to stay away from that meme if we can,” Simmons said.
“Think I wanted to double tap some poor guy who was just sick?” Young asked, shaking his head.
“You’re not the only one, man,” Rickles pointed out.
“We’re recommending that all officers dealing with ten sixty-fours in general use rain gear for the time being until there’s a better fix,” Simmons said, nodding.
“That’s going to be hot as shit,” Young said.
“Fortunately, it looks to be a cool day,” Lieutenant Simmons said.
“For who?” Patterno replied with a snort.
* * *
“If it wasn’t for the reason, I’d be really enjoying this,” Steve said, glancing over at Stacey.
The wind was kicking up white caps on the choppy waters of the Chesapeake bay and the Hunter was heeled over at a thirty degree angle as it plowed north towards the Baltimore Canal. Steve was being careful to steer well clear of the main shipping channel to the east so they had a clear view of the shoreline to the west. So far there was no real evidence of societal breakdown. Which was boding well for his decision to make for the canal.
“I could wish for better weather,” Stacey said, pulling her windbreaker tighter. “Warmer at least.”
“This is good weather,” Steve said. The wind that had followed the cold front was cool, but it was constant and that was good. “And it’s giving us a chance to get our sea legs without it being too rough.”
“Always the optimist,” Stacey said, tightly.
“Worried,” Steve said without looking at her.
“Aren’t you?” she said, gesturing with her chin to the cabin. The girls could be heard engaged in their more or less continuous low-grade argument. “Is one of us infected already? What do we do about it?”
“Tie ourselves up,” Steve said.
“I think we’re going to have to forego that for a while, honey,” Stacey said, blushing slightly.
“Think with other bits, dear,” Steve said, smiling. “I don’t really like thinking of it in terms of ourselves. So I think what other people should do. No plague is one hundred percent effective. The black plague did, admittedly, wipe out whole families and villages. But it had a lot of help. It’s unlikely that even if we’re infected, all of us will go…to fully neurological conditions. So from now on when we’re not actively engaged in something, we’ll secure ourselves, lightly, with rope. If one of us starts to have neurological effects, the others will work to secure them until we can find an antidote or something.”
“Or something,” Stacey said, frowning.
“I have various smart women around me,” Steve said, shrugging. “We’ll figure something out. But only if we can keep from biting each other.”
“Well,” Stacey said, snuggling closer. “Maybe a little nibble.”
“I don’t know,” Steve said. “Have you been a good girl? Do you deserve a nibble?”
“I’ve been a very bad girl,” Stacey whispered in his ear. “So I definitely deserve a nibble…”
“Oh, my God,” Faith said, grimacing. She’d suddenly appeared in the hatchway to the saloon. “That is sooo gross!”
“So much for a little alone time,” Steve said, shaking his head. “What’s up?”
“What are we going to do about dinner?” Faith asked.
“You know where the food is,” Steve said.
“So we’re going to have to cook in this?” Faith said.
“We’re sure as hell not ordering pizza,” Stacey said. “Should we break into the Mountain House?”
“Better than trying to cook a regular meal when we can barely stand up,” Steve said, grinning. “Think you can figure out how to boil water?”
“In this?” Faith said. “No way! It’s storming!”
“This is not a storm,” Steve said. “Given the plan, at some point you’ll understand what the word ‘storm’ means in a forty-five foot sailboat. This isn’t even a gale.”
“I can do it,” Sophia said. “I think.”
“No,” Steve said. “Stace, take the wheel. I’m going to have to give your daughters a class on boiling water and working with boiling water in light chop conditions.”
“Try not to kill yourself or catch the boat on fire,” Stacey said.
“Thank you for that vote of confidence, first mate.”
* * *
“The reason that it is both airborne and blood pathogen now becomes clear…” Dr. Bao said. “Researchers at University of Hong Kong have pieced out its genetic and proteinomic code. The influenza virus produces two separate and distinct ‘child’ viruses. One is a copy of the H7D3 influenza. The second is a highly modified version of the rabies virus…”
“Two viruses in one?” Dr. Curry said, leaning forward and setting down his popcorn bag. “What the hell?”
* * *
“Oh… Oh… Oh… Oh, no… No…”
Tim Shull had been following “the synbio version of Chernobyl” in real time, monitoring multiple different sources. Tim could because he really didn’t have anything better to do. After dropping out of his master’s program after that stupid argument with Dr. Wirta he’d moved back home. And since Starbucks cut back on his time he could spend most of the day scanning the various synbio boards, news and blogs. It was the virtual version of watching a train wreck in slow motion. And whether the world ended or not, it was going to wreck the amateur synbio industry.
Synbio was short for synthetic biology, the creation of new or modified organisms. The “mundane” term was genetic engineering. It was a field at which Tim was a sort of “internet only” recognized expert. He’d been on the fast track to working in the professional field when he’d had a falling out with his master’s advisor and quit. Subsequent to that he’d continued his work, literally, in his mother’s basement until a breakthrough last year that if he’d done it as a master’s thesis would have made him a shoe-in for prizes, maybe even a Nobel, and a guaranteed PhD track. Since he’d done it on his own time in a basement the “awards” were few and far between. So all he’d done was put up a video and blog explaining the breakthrough and become a minor celebrity in the amateur synbio community. Although there had been some applications breakthroughs in basement synbio, his was really the first theoretical breakthrough. Which meant he had the largest number of followers on Twitter of a amateur synbio “pioneer” and his words were, on amateur synbio boards, given much the same weight as professionals.
Unfortunately, his “breakthrough” was how to get a virus to express two different organisms from a single virus. And he’d put it up as a YouTube video…
“I am soooo screwed…”
There was a thunderous crash from upstairs and he heard his mother screaming…
“DOWN! DOWN! DOWN! FBI SERVING A VALID SEARCH WARRANT…!”
He looked around but there was nowhere to run in a basement.
* * *
“The creator of the Pacific Flu virus has been identified as twenty-four-year-old Timothy Shull, a drop-out from the Stanford microbiology master’s program…”