Chad Smoke - The Smoke Saga

[bretf]

Hi all.

I haven’t been able to write anything new since completing “A Matter of Convenience”. So, I decided I’d post the re-written “Chad Smoke and the Ashen Horse” if there are readers who didn’t get to see it or some who did and would like to see it again.

Bret



Chad Smoke and the Ashen Horse

“And I looked and behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. And authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.”

Revelations 6:8 (NASB)

Bret W Friend



This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by Bret W. Friend



All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author and publisher.

[bretf]

Prologue

Sergei Bubka’s head shifted in short jerks from side to side as he peered around the park. Portions of the park were swathed in deep shadows and lights blinked on in nearby buildings. The temperature dropped with the sun, yet despite the late hour and chill in the air, he heard happy squeals as children wrung out the last bit of play time. Bubka couldn’t share in their glee. His apprehension grew with the shadows and threatened to overwhelm him.



As he scrutinized his surroundings, he saw neither the man he was to meet nor those he dreaded he’d see. Those would take him away and erase his very existence if they suspected the reason for his presence. If they were watching, he wasn’t certain he’d recognize them if he saw them.



He shuddered, and not from the dropping temperature, though the cold had settled deep into him. His hand trembled as he raised the cigarette and inhaled deeply. It’s a puzzle, he thought. How can I feel so cold, the icy fingers gripping my stomach, yet perspire like I am? His forehead and neck beaded with sweat and his cigarette was damp from contact. He wiped one sweaty palm on a pant leg and raised the other; the cigarette moved like an orchestra conductor’s baton. It was a relief when it reached his mouth, and he inhaled deeply.



Bubka shuddered as he exhaled, and he turned his head about and peered through the veil of smoke. What is out there, no, who is out there? he asked himself. Do they hide and watch me? Do they feel the cold as I do? It was another part of the puzzle. Why does the outside cold affect me so? he wondered. After all, he worked in a frigid environment.



The lab was cold, although he never noticed while he worked. It was cold by necessity, the temperature like everything in the lab, controlled. He shuddered to think what would happen if anything it confined it breached that control. If loosed outside, death would rage unrestrained like the bitter winds from the north, unstoppable. It would find its way past doors and windows and through the tiniest cracks to reach out and touch everyone, everywhere. That storm would be more devastating than anything the world had ever seen. The line of thought chilled him even more. He shuddered and longed to leave the park and find warmth.



He took a long drag on the cigarette and considered. Warmth. Would it really be warm where he was going? Supposedly, it was hot and dry much of the time, and he longed for it; for the heat, for sandy beaches lapped by warm waves, and the sun shining brightly. If it all actually existed. Magazines and television programs showed such places, but he found it hard to wrap his mind around since he’d never experienced it. All he knew was cold, and it made those other places mysterious. But he longed to solve the mystery, like the mysteries he solved in the lab. Yet like happened with those, anything could go wrong with the new mystery. It could all blow up in his face and leave him dead. He tried to dismiss the thought and focus on the present as he looked around.



He scanned the park again and tried not to stare as he studied each person. Several people were scattered about. Apparently, they weren’t bothered by the temperature. They seemed to relish it, or at least ignore it while they enjoyed a few more minutes outdoors. None shared his tension, the oppressive weight pulling his shoulders down. Were any of them watching him as well? What about the man who’d looked at his feet? Why had he averted his gaze? Bubka scrutinized the man and took another drag.



He looked away from the man but continued to observe him through his peripheral vision. Shadows partially cloaked the man and Bubka realized he could no longer see into the darkened areas. Anything – or ANYONE – could be concealed in the gloom. He returned his full attention to the man. Had he been watching, and what would happen when the darkness engulfed him?



Before shadows further obscured him, the man shot Bubka a direct look, turned, and ambled away. Bubka watched his back until he was indistinguishable. The man had the look of a government agent, but he must not be one.



Sighing heavily, he raised his bottle and took a long swig of vodka, staring at the place where the man had disappeared. He savored the burn as he swallowed. It made him think of warmth again, and he dismissed the man from his mind.



He looked around for the other man, the one he was to meet. Maybe he’s not going to show, he thought. He drew deep on the cigarette, dropped and crushed it. “Maybe . . . too many maybes,” he muttered.



Much could still go wrong with the unbelievable opportunity. After all, it could’ve been arranged merely to test him. It wasn’t above his superiors to create the entire affair to see if he would sell his soul and his country’s secrets. And if he took the bait, send him to spend the rest of his life in a concentration camp in Siberia. If that happened he’d really be cold, and would never know warmth again. Perhaps execution would be preferable to such an existence. He looked again where the man had disappeared and shuddered.



He took another drink, but the vodka failed to give him comfort and warmth. He tipped the bottle again, drank, and yearned for the usual sensations. Instead, the only burn was his irritated throat from chain smoking while he waited. It didn’t stop him from shaking out another cigarette and putting it to his mouth. His lighter danced around and missed the tip several times before he controlled his hands enough to light it. He drew deep and expelled the smoke in a cloud. Peering through the haze, he searched for watchers. None were visible, but he felt unseen eyes bore into him. He looked through the smoke cloud of another deep drag and exhalation and wished it would conceal him, as the shadows concealed all in their path as they crept along.



“How did they find me anyway?” he muttered. “My research is a state secret.” Despite the tension he felt, the absurd idea caused him to chuckle. “Yes, a secret, like the American research is a secret.” It was such a joke. He knew despite heavy security, there were few secrets in his business. And it would always be that way, as long as people were people, and willing to buy and sell “secrets”. The Americans undoubtedly knew as much about his research as he knew about theirs. They should hold get-togethers and have biological weapon conventions for the ease the research information could be purchased. Perhaps they could hold the conventions in Las Vegas in the United States. He’d read it was the convention capital, very warm, and a place where fortunes changed hands. It would be perfect. A smile cracked his somber face and vanished as fast as it’d come. No, there wouldn’t be a convention. There were no secrets, but there’d be no conventions.



For despite the absence of conventions, the information changed hands with ease. It didn’t matter if the governments’ ideology differed; greed was the universal ideology. As long as money existed, information could be obtained. It continued unabated, research for deadlier pathogens and the purchase of the information years after both countries signed the treaty the naïve populous thought terminated the programs.



He chuckled again and drew another lungful of smoke, followed by a long swallow of vodka. Actually, the treaty specified something totally different, but the officials had spun and presented it that the programs would be discontinued. And the gullible public ate it up like they ate up so much misinformation and propaganda. In reality, the treaty stated neither country would strike first, not with those weapons. But if they were attacked first? What choice would they have, but respond with every available means at their disposal? So riding the euphoric wave of the media blitz, the facilities had closed, only to be replaced by new, state of the art research laboratories. The happy citizens slept better at night, believing one more threat to their safety had been eliminated. In the meantime, the research and development of more lethal killers had gone on.



The team Bubka worked with had discontinued their research, but only until the new facility was operational. The new secret lab; he’d bet the Americans knew of it before he did. And if they knew it existed, who else did? Obviously, others knew as well, or he wouldn’t be in a park at dusk, lured by the universal ideology; greed.



The thought of the money distracted him. He found it hard to envision such a large sum, the rubles to dollar exchange only the first confusing part. The next part bewildering him was the amount. It dwarfed what he could ever earn in Russia; he’d need ten lifetimes to earn as much and was difficult to put into context. So much money and it would only require a few months’ work. Afterward, he’d be free to do his best to spend it.



He slipped into the daydream, a version of the one he’d had countless times since first discussing the payoff. Along with a house on the beach, he wanted a car. Not just any car, but a fast sports car. The Americans were proud of their Corvettes, and the Germans their Porsches, but a Ferrari would be first. Maybe he’d get the others later. He’d drive the Ferrari to parties with other rich people and meet the Kardashians, or better yet, Paris Hilton. People thought of Paris Hilton as a tramp, but he wouldn’t make judgments, not until he met her and could form his own opinion. Smiling, he hoped she proved to be a tramp when he met her.



The smile vanished in an instant as a car backfired; he jumped and his breath came in ragged gulps, the daydream gone. He looked into the gloom, his pleasant thoughts replaced by dread.



He tipped the bottle up, followed the drink with a lung-full of smoke, and recalled a quote he’d read in a memoir years earlier. It’d stuck with him and felt more foreboding than ever. The American Ben Franklin said it more than two hundred years earlier, but it was timeless. “Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.” Other people knew of Bubka’s secrets and wanted him to share them. The thought filled him with more dread, and he looked around and took a pull from the bottle.



He should get up and go home. That would be the safe thing to do. Get out of the madness before it was too late. But he couldn’t; he’d gone too far. He felt the lumps in his jacket pocket. He’d gotten them out of the lab and it would be impossible to return them before they were found missing.



They were such small canisters, but Bubka felt their tremendous weight, their latent power pulling his shoulders down. To look at them, they appeared insignificant and weighed little, but inside they contained the potential to shake the foundation of the world itself. His shoulders sagged under the weight.



He’d convinced himself the virus would never be unleashed on the unknowing world and the entire exercise was a ruse for monetary gain only, a game of high stakes extortion. After all, others had seized like opportunities and none of the pathogens had been released. Still, he asked himself again if he wanted to play the game or if he should get up and go home. The weight in his pocket told him he couldn’t turn back.



He glanced at his magazine with Paris Hilton’s picture on the cover. He shuddered and took a long pull from the bottle, followed by a drag on the cigarette. If he did turn back, the dream would die, and he would too. It would be impossible to avoid the authorities and keep them from holding him.



He gave a wry snort. The authorities! No matter how the face of the country appeared to the world, the authorities did what they wanted, when they wanted. They always had and always would. If they watched, it was much too late for him. Maybe it’d been too late when he read the first note, the one which started him on the path to where he was. The small canisters in his pocket felt heavier than ever.



The chill deepened over Bubka and the icy fingers constricted tighter. He took another drink and yearned for the heat. Instead of warmth, it felt like ice, and the ice flowed outward until he shuddered in its grip. He drew deep on the cigarette, ground it out, and reached for the magazine. His hand froze, one finger across Paris Hilton’s smiling face when a figure materialized out of the gloom and sat on the bench he occupied.



Bubka no longer heard children’s happy squeals. His heart hammered in his chest as he attempted to fumble another cigarette from the pack with trembling hands. The cigarette fell to the ground. He stared at it momentarily before he picked it up and managed to place it between his lips. His hand quivered and he was unable to light it. The man beside him held his own lighter to the cigarette, its flame steady and controlled. The blast of light near his eyes left Bubka looking blindly into the gloom. Did the authorities watch him; watch the two of them together?



He asked himself again if it was what he wanted or if he should get up and leave. He hadn’t done anything yet. All he’d done was go to the park. The weight in his pocket pulled on him and pointed out his lie. He took another, longer drink from the bottle and failed to see the look of disapproval on the man’s olive-skinned face.



The man spread his newspaper in front of him although the print was indiscernible in the gloom. “So you have decided to become a wealthy man,” he said, his accent making it obvious Russian wasn’t his native tongue. “You have it with you?”



Bubka couldn’t guess the origin of the accent. He had little exposure to foreigners. To him, there were Russians and non-Russians; that was all.



“Well,” the man demanded. “Will you answer? You do have it, don’t you? Everything you need to become enriched beyond your wildest dreams?”



An interminable wait ensued for Bubka while a corner of his mind screamed at him to run away as fast as he could. In reality, mere seconds passed before he swallowed the lump in his throat and glanced at the man. Despite the gloom, Bubka made out his facial features. The man’s hooked nose, deep-set eyes, and intense stare resembled the fierce look of a raptor before it ripped into the flesh of its prey. The look was enhanced by the deep shadows and Bubka swallowed hard again and asked himself if he was prey.



Looking away from the disconcerting stare, Bubka answered, “Yes, I have it. I am ready.” His words were raspy, his throat irritated by near-constant smoke and strong liquor. He followed the statement with another drink.



The eyes glowed with intensity. “Then we should go.” He rose and looked at Bubka, waiting for him to move.



Bubka got slowly to his feet and the jacket pulled his shoulders down. How can such tiny canisters be so heavy? he asked himself. All thoughts of escape were gone. He looked into the gloom, searching. “I . . . is . . . is it safe?” he stammered softly.



“My associates are watching. We made certain you were not observed before I approached you.”



Bubka considered. So he had been under observation and missed it. Who else watched? He remembered the man he’d suspected watched him. The man had the definite look of a government agent. Was he? If so, why hadn’t he been arrested?



It no longer mattered. Bubka raised the bottle one last time and drained the remaining liquid in one long swallow. Again, he missed the warmth, the comfort. He dropped the bottle on the ground amongst the ground out cigarettes.



Bubka followed the other man into the darkness. He moved like a condemned man and dragged his feet in short steps as if he walked to the gallows. And maybe that is where I am going, he thought.



The man ahead of him moved in marked contrast. His crisp steps, demanding glares, and intense manner conveyed impatience as he waited for Bubka.



A car waited at the side of the park and the driver opened the rear door for Bubka. He looked into the dark interior before he turned back and looked at the park and the city’s skyline. He slumped as he settled onto the car’s seat. The closing door caused him to jump and the sound echoed in his mind. He found the handle, pulled, and discovered the door locked. The icy fingers squeezed his stomach tighter than ever and he shuddered. Oh Bubka, what have you done? he asked himself.



The hawk-faced man joined him in the back seat from the opposite side and spoke to the driver in a foreign language. Bubka had no idea what’d been said, but the engine started and the car pulled onto the street and drove away from the park. He looked out the window at the lights of the city and asked himself again what he was doing.



Sergei Bubka gave a wry chuckle as the lights faded. So who will know I am gone first, the Americans or my own people? he asked himself. After all, there are no secrets. If he was a betting man, he wasn’t sure which he’d put his money on. I wager one will know within minutes of the other. He stared out the window sightlessly and mused. I hope it is warm there, and they have vodka, lots of vodka.



#



Abdul Mueed lay motionless and studied Bagram Airfield, sprawled across the desert floor below him. He used extreme care as the discovery of his presence would be a death sentence. His clothing blended with the terrain and his binoculars were shielded to prevent reflection.



Planes and trucks assembled by the infidel forces occupying Afghanistan appeared as children’s toys through the powerful optics. Heat waves shimmered from the barren landscape, distorting the view, but he made out individual infidels. They were tiny in the distance; like ants as they bustled about. They were more insect-like as they scurried for cover when another of the faithful delivered a rocket into their midst. Mueed remained motionless and watched the initial, rapid response. The infidel’s unmanned drones were in the air in moments and fired their own rockets into the hills.



Mueed inched backward, knowing he had to get away while he could. From past observation, he knew the drones would expand the area they covered, searching for more true believers. Once he was hidden from view in the direction of the airfield, he stood and jogged towards a small rise, his AK-47 bouncing against his back with each footfall. As he ran, he remained mindful of the sky and its silent assassins. They could swoop in and deliver death in an instant.



Before any drones drew near, he saw what he looked for and dropped flat on the ground and wriggled past a clump of camel-thorn bushes into a small opening in the hillside. Dirt crumbled from the narrow entrance as he forced his way past. Once inside, the refuge opened up enough to fit two men, although it would’ve been tight. Mueed was content to have the shelter to himself. It allowed him to avoid the edges where scorpions and spiders tended to lurk. The drones’ thermal sensors would never locate him underground.



Besides removing him from the enemy’s eyes, the tiny cavity offered relief from the relentless heat. As he waited in relative comfort for the sky to clear, he recounted what he’d learned. After numerous days of observation, he’d devised a plan for his final act. The infidels were predictable, and he planned to use it against them.



The bus from Kabul ran on a precise schedule. Coupled with a depression between the road and the tall fence surrounding the base, it was all he needed to send many of the infidels to meet the devil, while he would go on to bow before Allah. They made it too easy.



He trembled with anticipation. The bus would be full, loaded mostly with the invaders, any remaining seats filled with pretenders. They claimed to follow the faith, but did not, not the true faith. Bin Laden’s fatwa was to be heralded; it was time to remove all the unfaithful and the American dogs they worshipped.



A low growl came from his throat as he pictured the women who’d be on the bus. The harlots showed no shame and revealed themselves to any man. His one regret was he wouldn’t be able to look into their condemned eyes at the moment before the bomb detonated; in the precise moment of realization, they were going to die and go to an afterlife of fire.



He recalled a time when he had looked into the condemned eyes; the incident permanently etched into his mind. The harlot had come to him, seduced him, and overwhelmed his senses with her witchery. Consumed by desire, he reached to drop his pants to satisfy his animal lust, and his hand brushed the handle of his knife.



Recognition flared in his brain as it burst free of her spell; she was a test, and Allah had placed her with him for a purpose. The knife slid free, and he stared into her eyes as he pushed the sharp blade in to the hilt and cut upwards. He watched her eyes as they turned to terror. Realization she would atone for her sins flashed in them.



He glared into them as they became lifeless and her blood drained out over his hand. Her hot blood and those eyes mere centimeters from his own sent electric jolts to his clear mind. He was overcome and cried out as he experienced ecstasy.



Mueed lay in the small underground refuge and relived the ecstasy. He shuddered with deep physical pleasure at the memory and felt the hot blood and looked into those eyes.



#



Mueed’s head emerged from the hole, and he searched carefully for threats. No planes or drones could be seen, nor did he detect any other movement in the gray-brown landscape as he wormed his way free and past the bushes.



He took a meandering route as he made his way further back into the hills. At several points, he stopped, waited and watched, but saw no signs he’d been discovered and followed. The path behind him remained as clear as the path before him as he approached the valley where the faithful met. He sat concealed for several minutes and studied the area before he proceeded into the encampment.



Mueed ducked into the hut and stopped. A stranger looked at him from across the meager room. “You are Abdul Mueed? I am told you are ready to martyr yourself and kill a small handful of the unbelievers. What if I told you I have an opportunity for you to kill many more?” the man asked without greeting.



Mueed did not speak as he studied the stranger, but noted the cup of kahwah he held. The saffron fragrance of the beverage hung heavily in the small space. Who is this man to be honored in such a way? Mueed wondered. Out loud he said, “A small handful? I have killed many infidels, and tomorrow I will kill many more.”



A small smile turned up the corners of the man’s mouth. “You kill small numbers. Would you broaden your sights to kill thousands at once? Tens of thousands? Perhaps more,” the stranger said. He raised the kahwah to his nose and drew in the strong aroma in a silent reminder to Mueed of his standing. With a satisfied sigh, he sipped. His intense gaze never left Mueed. His hand lowered and he said, “Ayman al-Zawahiri has the means to deliver a crippling blow in their homeland and drive the infidels from our lands forever. It may even be a fatal blow. But he needs men, warriors, to carry it out. Will you help deliver that blow and stand in glory as a dedicated warrior before Almighty Allah? Or will you die here, killing a small handful and allow others to achieve the glory?” He held the cup up and inhaled deeply, and sipped again while he watched Mueed.



Ayman al-Zawahiri? The Americans thought by killing bin Laden the movement would die like a snake with its head chopped off. But they were mistaken. Al-Zawahiri had kept the faithful together, and led them in the holy fight against the infidels. Could it be true? Could al-Zawahiri have the means to bring down the Great Satan? Mueed trembled with eagerness. His eyes had a feverish gleam. “Tell me more,” he said and pictured how glorious the world would be after the infidels burned.



#



The cave was devoid of light as Abdul Mueed and the other fighters were led down the sloping rock floor. With his hand on the shoulder of the man before him and a hand on his shoulder from behind, he had no idea how the guide found his way, but the man led with confident, practiced steps. Mueed knew in truth, Almighty Allah guided the way, and he followed with blind faith into the unknown darkness.



A light appeared ahead of them and the group entered a large cavern that’d been hewn from the stone. Scores of fighters, over a hundred, sat on the cave’s bare floor. At the head of the cavern, Ayman al-Zawahiri looked out at the gathered men. Another man, reminding Mueed of a falcon with his hooked nose and intense raptor-like stare, sat beside the great man. Mueed settled with the rest of the newcomers and accepted the tea offered him. It pleased him to see the woman properly covered and respectful as she did so.



More fighters took seats while he sipped his tea, and still more. The cup was empty when another group of men joined the assemblage and a man spoke to al-Zawahiri. Mueed guessed it brought the total number gathered to around two hundred. It would certainly be a major blow to the infidels for so many to strike at once. He focused on al-Zawahiri as the great man stood to address the assemblage.



“We are here to begin a new Jihad against the Great Satan; a Jihad they will be powerless to stop, a Jihad that will destroy them! You true warriors of the faith will fight this battle on the enemy’s own ground! Once the Jihad is underway, the Zionists will fall, along with all the heretics who welcomed the imperialists onto our soil!



“WE are the true children of Islam, our Lord the Prophet Muhammad is one, and WE, the true believers, are brothers! WE shall bring in the true Muslim world, free of the puppet masters and their followers who corrupt our people! WE shall purify the entire world under Sharia Law. This is in accordance with the words of Almighty Allah! There will be no more tumult or oppression, and JUSTICE AND FAITH IN ALLAH SHALL PREVAIL!



“OUR BROTHER,” al-Zawahiri indicated the falcon man beside him, “HAS BEGUN THE ACTION THAT WILL DESTROY THE GREAT SATAN. IT WILL BE MORE DEADLY AND SILENT THAN THE KILLERS THEY PUT IN THE SKY! YOU WILL ALL BE PART OF THIS GLORIOUS UNDERTAKING! TOGETHER WE SHALL WREAK RUIN AND DESTRUCTION IN THEIR HOMES, AS THEY RUIN AND DESTROY OUR HOMES!” He lowered his voice and hissed, “But to do so, you will have to humble yourselves, and do the unthinkable! You will learn to be like the enemy, to look at them and smile as the heretics do.” He raised his voice again, increasing his volume as he talked. “YOU MUST LEARN TO THINK AND ACT AS THEM BEFORE YOU GO TO THEIR HOMELAND AND TAKE THE LIFE FROM THEM! THEN YOU SHALL STAND BEFORE ALMIGHTY ALLAH IN FULL GLORY!”



His listeners were captivated, and the cave erupted in a deafening roar when they realized he had finished. Abdul Mueed jumped up with the other men, shouting. “ALL GLORY TO ALMIGHTY ALLAH!” The roar reverberated through the tight confines of the cave.



#



Abdul Mueed stared out through the small window at the city of Dubai as the airplane made its final approach. He and the rest of the fighters had been transported to Islamabad and boarded planes bound for Dubai where they would scatter. The city’s penchant for tourism and catering to the infidels made it perfect for the next stage of the plan to destroy the Great Satan. They’d left Afghanistan and Pakistan with their towering mountains behind, and the view of the city shocked him. Man-made structures created the skyline. The skyscrapers loomed, most notable the needle-like tower of the Burj Khalifa standing high above the rest. It seemed like a mockery of the real world to Mueed. He yearned for a future when such extravagance was razed and forgotten. The leaders of Dubai were no more than prostitutes to the Americans and their lackeys.



Mueed pulled the paper from his pocket and looked at it again. “The One&Only Royal Mirage” was printed in large typeface on the brochure. He swallowed down bile as he thought of the degradation, the humility he would have to endure. He prayed al-Zawahiri was correct, and he’d be forgiven for what he would do. Forgiven for going amongst the dogs themselves where he would lower himself to the heretic’s level, smile and nod the whole time. But he would learn and do all he could to be ready for the final act, to take death into the Americans’ homes.



And he would be able to look in their eyes as was their custom, their condemned eyes. It was written: "Tell the believing men to lower their gaze and be modest", but he would not lower his gaze. He would look in their lost eyes as he delivered their death to them. He only regretted they would not recognize him as the bringer of death, and he would not see their eyes turn to terror.



He saw the woman’s eyes again and quivered in pleasure at the memory. “Almighty Allah, you have tested me before and delivered me. I shall NOT fail this test. We will scour the earth and rid it of the unfaithful,” he murmured, as he shook the vision of the eyes from his mind and looked at the decadent brochure.

[texican]

bret,

Good that you are posting here. The moar hounds here will fall in love with Chad and his escapades.

Texican....

[bretf]

Chapter 1



“Alright guys, time to put your books away and do the chores,” Lisa Smoke told her three children.



Chad, her thirteen-year-old son grumbled, “It’s about time.” He slammed his book closed the instant his mom spoke.



She raised an eyebrow at him and asked, “Were you reading or just watching the clock?”



He ignored the question. “I don’t know why I have to read this Dickens stuff anyway. It’s boring and it’s not like I’m learning anything from it.” He didn’t notice the look she shot him or chose to ignore it too. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” he quoted. “What kind of beginning is that? And it only gets worse from there.”



He had no way to know how prophetic the line was; he was in the best of times, and very soon would go through the worst of times. His innocence crushed, he would be called upon in ways his family couldn’t imagine as they fought for survival in a changed world.



“Why can’t I read what they’re reading?” he asked and indicated his seven-year-old twin sisters, Alison and Brooke. Unlike Chad, they were still engrossed in their assigned book, each with a copy of Where the Red Fern Grows open in front of them.



Chad was usually the easiest of the three children. He always helped out and did what he was told. He used good manners and was a model child. At times his mom wondered if something was wrong with him. No kid could be that good, could they?



But the book he was assigned to read stirred defiance in him. It wasn’t reading per se that caused it. He loved to read, but only certain genres, and had no interest whatsoever in the classics. As far as he was concerned, they were a big waste of time. Unfortunately for him, he needed to expand, at least for school work.



His mom didn’t have a chance to respond before he spoke again. “Well?” Chad asked, and pointed at his sisters. “Why can’t I read a good book, like they are?” Lisa looked from her son to her daughters, their heads bent over their books.



While Chad was so good, the girls were a different story. They could be a challenge at times and kept their parents on their toes trying to stay one step ahead of them. They weren’t bad, just impish. At the moment, they appeared to be engaged in their books but paid close attention to Chad and their mom. They missed little, and mentally filed and stored information to use to their advantage at a later time.



The twins were identical, perfectly matched bookends to everyone but Chad and their parents. They loved it and played it up as much as they could. Nothing pleased them more than to mess with peoples’ minds when they tried to figure out which was which. Another thing they loved to do was practice speaking as if they shared the same thoughts. People looked at them in eerie fascination when they did a tag-team delivery. One would say two or three words, and then the other say a few more, and back and forth that way to express one complete thought. Their listeners looked on astounded and had no idea they’d practiced their lines over and over.



“Chad, you read that book, what, four years ago?” his mom answered. “And now, to expand your experiences, you need to read different styles of literature.”



“Yeah, but it’s a good book, and worth reading again,” Chad said. “But come on Mom, A Tale of Two Cities? Get real. Why can’t I read a book by Gary Paulsen or Jim Kjelgaard instead? Their books are good.”



“I know you enjoy them, but you need to branch out. I’ve explained it to you before,” Lisa said. The three kids were homeschooled and Lisa did her best to adhere to the program. The book was included in the curriculum she taught from and she refused to budge on the issue. “And believe me, there are worse things to read.”



“I don’t see how anything could be worse. But if I have to branch out, I can read The Hunger Games series. I’ve heard those books are good. And you know, Kjelgaard’s stories vary. They aren’t all about a boy and his dog and hunting,” Chad said. “One book of his has a cat instead of a dog.”



Brooke looked up from her book at Chad’s comment and asked, “When can we get another dog, Mom?”



Their last dog, Bullet, had been hit by a car three months earlier when a group of teens sped down the rural road at the wrong moment. Their mom sighed and said, “We can look for a dog this spring, but now it’s time to do the chores.”



“Mom, can I read to the end of the chapter?” Alison asked. “Billy just got his puppies and is training them.”



“Alright, but no further,” Lisa said. “Your dad will be home from work soon. I have to get supper started, and you guys need to have all the chores done when he gets here so we can sit down and eat.”



The family lived on a small farmstead with cows and chickens, a pasture and hayfield, and an extensive garden which included a number of fruit trees. The cows needed taken care of twice a day during winter, and the chickens were seen to each evening. Their dad took care of the cows in the morning before work, but in the evening, the outside chores were the kids’ responsibility. They also needed to bring in firewood, used to heat the house. Chad would milk and feed the cows hay. The girls would do the chicken chores and fill the wood box.



Chad certainly didn’t want to read to the end of the chapter any more than he’d wanted to read any of the tedious story. Though he loved the right books, he’d rather milk the cow than waste more time on that book. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, indeed! he thought. Reading that book was the worst time he could imagine. “I’d still rather read about anything else,” he grumbled and put the book away.



“You can read those other books for pleasure, not for school,” his mom told him.



Chad stifled his retort and got ready to go outside. When he’d bundled up for the cold and had warm wash water in the milk bucket, he stepped out the back door. The bitter air assaulted him and he lowered his head and trudged toward the barn, muttering. Even the cold was preferable to that lousy book. As he neared the barn, the back door to the house closed behind his sisters. They must’ve been near the end of their chapter or changed their minds. He shrugged and entered the barn with the cow right behind him. She was eager for the grain she’d eat while he milked.



Still grumbling about Charles Dickens and “the worst of times”, Chad put grain in the feed box and locked the cow’s head in the stanchion. He transferred the water to the wash bucket, cleaned the cow’s udder and teats, and settled in beside her to milk. While he milked, he forgot the arduous book and considered different dogs. When they got another dog, he wanted it to be a bird dog he could hunt with. His mind drifted and he day-dreamed about hunting and fishing while his hands squeezed and relaxed and he filled the bucket with fresh foamy milk.



Chad was filling the feeder with hay when his dad, Dan, drove up and parked his old pickup under the carport. Chad paused and watched him get out and walk to the house. His dad’s posture and lethargic movements made it obvious he was worn-out. The winter dragged him down. He got up early and took care of the cows in the dark and then spent the long day at work. It was physical work, building trailers in a cold, noisy, and stinky shop. He only got out in the light of day on weekends.



Maybe, Chad thought, I can get up in the mornings and feed the cows while dad milks. It would help his dad out a bit, and he might not be quite as tired at the end of the day. He made a mental note to ask his mom to wake him earlier.



He went back to the barn and got the bucket of milk, carried it to the house and took care of it, cleaned his bucket and straining cloth, and put everything away. When he was finished, his mom had the table ready for them to sit down for supper. As they ate, they shared stories of their day. Chad noticed his dad seemed down to hear what the family did and he’d missed out on while he worked. It struck him again that his dad looked especially tired. He made a silent vow to do more to help him.



After they’d cleaned up from the meal Chad wanted to read, and not the book his mom forced on him. He needed a good story to clear his mind after that torture. Brian’s Hunt was the final book in the Hatchet series from Gary Paulsen. Now THAT was a good book. It had hunting and outdoor adventures. It was real literature, worth his time.



The rest of the family followed Chad’s lead and got reading material as well. Dan looked through a stack of garden seed catalogs that’d arrived in the mail. Although he produced most of his own seeds in their large garden, he kept a lookout for new vegetables to try. Lisa settled in with the latest Lorna Landvik book. And although it was a school book, the girls continued with Where the Red Fern Grows. The book didn’t seem like school work to them. Chad read until his mom told him to put the book away and head to bed.



#



“Chad, Chad honey, it’s time to get up,” his mom said from his bedroom doorway. She paused for a few moments and watched him stir and rise to a sitting position.



Chad missed the maternal pride in her eyes as he rubbed his own eyes. “Yeah Mom, I’m up,” he muttered. With a smile, his mom went back to the kitchen.



Chad shuffled into the kitchen and held a hand over his wide, yawning mouth. Rather than his baggy pajamas, he was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, ready to put his coat and boots on and go outside. He was lean and wiry, with the top of his head even with his mom’s nose. His tousled brown hair could stand to be trimmed. His face, though soft and youthful, was a younger version of his father’s, but lacked Dan’s lines and roughened features which confirmed his age. Lisa couldn’t help but smile at him, with his hair sticking out every which way. “Good morning . . . Mom,” he said, and stifled another yawn. “Dad’s still outside?” he asked.



She paused to exchange a hug with him. “Good morning honey. Yes, he’s still outside, you can help him if you hurry. Did you sleep well?”



“Yeah, just not long enough. Someone woke me before I was ready to get up,” he said. It was the same thing he’d said the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that . . . He punctuated the statement with another yawn. “But I guess I better get a move on, so I can feed the cows before Dad does.” He got his coat, hat, and boots on, and went outside, pulling his gloves on as he went.



#



Alison was setting the table for breakfast as the back door opened and Dan and Chad walked in, accompanied by a blast of freezing air. “Brrr, it’s a cold one this morning,” Dan said, shivering before he set the bucket of milk onto the counter. After he removed his gloves, he stuffed them into the pockets of his canvas chore coat and hung it on an empty coat hook. Bits of hay clung to his coat, and a few dropped onto the floor when he took it off. It was a part of life on the small farmstead, and Lisa spent a lot of time in the effort to keep the house clean. Bits of snow fell from their boots despite stomping their feet on the doormat. When it was warmer, it was a different story; it wasn’t only snow that clung to boots when they returned from the barnyard.



“Good morning Dad,” Alison said, as she set out the plates and silverware.



“Morning Ali,” Dan said and gave another shudder from the cold that’d settled deep inside him while he was outside. With the aid of the boot jack, he took off his snow boots and put them on the shelf under the coats. He picked up his work boots and carried them to the chair closest to the wood stove, making a detour on the way to give Alison a one-armed hug. Lisa set a steaming cup of coffee on the end table beside him so he could warm his insides while the radiant heat from the stove warmed his outside. Chad put his coat and boots away and went to the sink to take care of the milk.



“Go get your sister, Ali,” Lisa said when she noticed Alison had finished with the table and was standing by the stove. Brooke hadn’t come out of their bedroom yet.



Alison obeyed, but muttered, “Alright, but she has to clean up after we eat since I set the table.”



Both girls returned and everyone took their seats. When they were settled, Dan asked the blessing, and they filled their plates. Chad took a bite, chewed and swallowed. With his mouth empty he asked, “So you’re sure we can’t go and try to find him this weekend, but we’ll go next weekend?”



Dan stiffened, sighed, and said, “Yes, I’m sure. . . I guess . . . I don’t think we should go tomorrow, not with the Super Bowl the next day. The game is like a national holiday for a lot of people. We don’t know if he’ll be around, and it might be best not to disturb him if he is. I think we’ll have a better chance to find him next week.”



Silence enveloped the table while they ate their breakfast, the short conversation hanging in the air. Chad had referred to Mateo Gomez, his half-brother, a man none of them had ever met, not even Dan. Despite their plan to find and meet him, it made Dan uncomfortable to discuss Mateo, a total stranger who happened to be his illegitimate son. But for better or for worse, they were going to try to locate him.



It’d been a humbling experience for him to tell his kids of his indiscretion as a teenager, but when they were old enough, he thought they needed to know they had a half-brother. He’d told Lisa years earlier, also a humbling experience, but it’d been harder to tell the kids he’d done something he felt so ashamed of.



As he ate his breakfast, Dan recalled the conversation when he’d told them. He’d never felt more uncomfortable in his life than he had at that moment. He’d hoped for the perfect time, but there could never be the perfect time for such a conversation. So one day, he and Lisa sat the kids down and he told them.



The coffee he’d had earlier in the morning threatened to erupt like a volcano and he sipped at his water to try to calm his stomach and nerves. The water did little to settle his roiling stomach. Lisa rested a hand on his leg and gave him a slight nod to begin.



“Well, okay, when I was young, still in my teens, but long before I met your mother, well, I met a girl and uh, I thought I was in love with her. And, well, she was leaving town, and we uh, thought we’d never see each other again. We . . . did something very regrettable, and . . . uh . . . well, she had a baby later. I didn’t know about it until years later, but, well, um . . . I’m the baby’s father.”



Chad’s shock showed on his face. “You have another kid, and you never told me before?”



“Uh, well, I was embarrassed,” he said. He was further embarrassed because since they had livestock, Chad knew what it took to get a new calf each year. He turned red from the looks Chad shot him; hurt, accusation, confusion.



The twins didn’t appear to share his feelings; they were intrigued. “Was it a girl baby or boy baby?” Alison asked.



“A boy,” Dan said quietly.



“Then we have two brothers,” Brooke said to Alison. “Chad and . . . ?” She looked at her dad with her hands open for him to continue and tell them their brother’s name and thought of something else. “When can we meet him?”



“What’s his name?” Alison asked the question Brooke had left hanging.



“Mateo, his name is Mateo Gomez. His family, well, they were migrant farm workers, and—”



“Dad,” Alison asked, “What’s my-grant farm workers?”



Dan drank again and said, “They are people who move around, working for different farms, all over. So I only knew his mom for a short time before they moved on to find more work. He’s in his twenties now. I don’t know much about him, but I do know he’s in the army.”



Chad looked at his dad incredulously. “You mean I have a brother with a different last name, and he’s off where he can get killed in war? So I might not ever meet him even if I want to?”



The uncomfortable conversation all came back to Dan while he ate and made it hard to enjoy his breakfast. He took a sip of his coffee and felt his stomach roil recalling it. Chad had taken a couple of weeks to warm up and act the same around him as he had before the bombshell. But after he’d warmed to the idea, he stated that he wanted to meet his brother.



Dan had tried to locate Mateo for years and make contact with him but failed to receive a response to any of the letters he mailed. Still, he kept trying and searched for any information he could find, and sent more letters. Then, during the winter he’d learned Mateo had gotten out of the army at least five months earlier and lived not too far away from them. He couldn’t find the exact location, but it was near the small community of Hamilton, at least that was where he received his mail.



Hamilton was a blip on the map on the main north-south highway, surrounded by farms and ranches. Besides supporting local agriculture, the town was a popular spot for sportsmen as it offered good access for hunters and fishermen.



It was time to try to find Mateo and meet him face to face. Ever since Chad had warmed to the idea of having a brother, he’d looked forward to meeting him. The twins had been excited from day one. And though Lisa encouraged him, Dan grew more nervous with each passing day. The unanswered letters he’d sent made him question what Mateo’s attitude would be and if it was a good idea to try to locate him. But he had to try and at least make the effort. His conscience wouldn’t let him forget he had a son he’d never met. Only time would tell if it was a mistake.



“Well, I better brush my teeth, and get on to work,” Dan said. “Those trailers won’t build themselves. Thanks for the breakfast, Hon, it was wonderful like always.” He left the table and returned a few minutes later. After a hug for each of the kids and a kiss goodbye to Lisa, he pulled his coat and wool cap on and picked up his lunch box.



“Bye Dad, have a great day,” the kids chorused.

[bretf]

Chapter 2



Dan completed the bead he was welding as welcome quiet replaced the shrill blast of the lunch whistle. He straightened up, removed his welding hood, and laid it on the welder he used. With a low groan, he stretched his arms out, flexed his shoulders, and twisted and turned his head, working the kinks out from being hunched over for too long. He groaned again as he flicked off the welder’s power switch and closed the valve on the gas bottle. Around the shop, other workers shut their equipment down, and two men slipped their coats on and headed for the door at a fast pace.



A dark cloud hung over the work area, a byproduct of the arc welding the men had been doing. Welding fumes, mixed with the smell of burned steel from grinders and the plasma cutter, hung in the air. Paint odors were heavy as well. All but one of the strong exhaust fans mounted high in the walls were silent. They not only removed fumes, they sucked the heat out, making the cavernous building feel like a meat locker during winter. The crew traded odors for a bit of warmth. Trailers in various stages of completion filled the shop space.



Dan laid his heavy leather gloves, leather jacket and chaps, and ear protection by his helmet, and pondered his kids’ future as he looked around the hazy shop. He didn’t mind his job most of the time, it was good honest work, but he hoped Chad would be able to find a different career, preferably outdoors. Time will tell, he thought and joined the other men as they made their way to wash and have lunch.



The lunchroom offered welcome relief from the stinky, noisy shop. Dan got his lunch out of the refrigerator and sat down at the long table with a sigh. As more of the crew settled around the table, two of them watched intently while he opened his lunch box. As a rule, Dan’s lunch was unlike what they had.



“So what’s it gonna be today?” John, one of his co-workers asked while he opened the top on his own lunch – a Cup O Noodles – and moved to the hot water dispenser to fill the foam cup and start the noodles cooking.



Matt, Dan’s best friend and fishing partner took out his lunch – leftover chicken and potato logs from the supermarket deli. “I hope she sent enough for you to share,” he said and slid his food into the microwave to heat.



Dan chuckled as he laid out the contents of his lunch box. Lisa always packed him a full meal, usually more than he could eat. And like most of their meals, the majority of it was homegrown and homemade. Along with the cows, chickens, and large garden, he had a greenhouse, from which he harvested cold-hardy vegetables all winter.



“Well, let’s see, here’s a quart of Jersey juice,” he said as he set out a jar of milk, “I’ve got a baggie of fresh vegetables, a container of home-canned peaches, and a sandwich.” The sandwich had a thick slice of elk roast between slices of homemade bread. “I’ll share the veggies and the milk but the sandwich is all mine,” he told them.



“Don’t you know raw milk’s not safe?” Matt asked as he pushed his cup across the table for Dan to fill. “And that fertilizer you grow your vegetables in, man, that’s all untreated manure. Think of all the disease you spread.” Matt reached into the baggie and pulled out a carrot and radish while he talked.



“I just know where I’m going if the brown stuff ever hits the fan,” John said, crunching on a radish.



The newest hire, Ben, stood at the coffee maker and listened intently to the conversation behind him. The hand holding his cup and the hand grasping the pot had matching tattoos of snakeheads with their fangs extended. The snakes’ bodies disappeared up his shirt sleeves. With his cup full, he moved to where he could eavesdrop on the conversation at the other end of the table.



Dan chewed a bite of sandwich and swallowed before he addressed John’s well-used comment. “As I told you before, you better bring your work gloves if you do. There’ll be no freeloading at my place. I’m not President Morton. You work your butt off or you don’t eat. These things don’t magically appear like your food at the grocery store,” he said and waved a carrot in the air before biting into it.



Dan chewed and swallowed. “I guess I shouldn’t have said that, at least not making it sound like it’s all the current President’s fault. She didn’t invent welfare; she’s only perfected it for the slackers.”



Fred, one of the guys further down the table, guffawed. “The only welfare I can think of this week is if the Buccaneers lay down for the Chiefs since it’s rumored this might be Moore’s final game.”



The hype for the upcoming Super Bowl had been going at a fever pitch. The game would be played in Levi’s stadium, where Peyton Manning had directed the Denver Broncos to a Super Bowl victory for his last hurrah.



The media couldn’t resist the opportunity to draw the comparison it was possibly the final game of another quarterback. Though not as accomplished as Manning, Kyle Moore might wrap up his career in the ultimate game of the sport in the same manner and on the same field as the great Manning had. Speculation ran rampant, but he’d neither confirm nor deny he had plans to retire.



Coupled with that, Moore’s Kansas City Chiefs team would face the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, a team who’d crushed them in the second game of the regular season. Moore started that game with an interception on the first play from scrimmage, and the results of the game were never in doubt. He vowed to do better, and the Buccaneers vowed a repeat. And the hype went on and on.



“You know,” Fred continued, “The way the Chiefs choked against them in the regular season, well you all saw it, so it’s gonna take welfare from the Buc’s to the old guy if K.C. is gonna have any chance at all in the game.”



Larry, his lunch finished, went to the counter, and held up a piece of poster board with “Chiefs” printed across the top and “Buccaneers” down the side. The rest of the board had a grid drawn on it, ten rows and columns, and most of the squares had people’s names written in them. “We still have six open squares guys. We need to fill this up and pick numbers so I can have all of you guys’ money on Monday. And I for one hope Moore doesn’t lay an egg like he did the last time. If this is his last game, I want to see him go out a winner.” Agreement came from around the table. Fred was certainly in the minority as a Buccaneers backer.



The biggest rooting point for the Chiefs was their center, a local boy. “It’s gonna be different this time,” John said. “Look who’s in front of Moore. That offensive line is so much better since Cody Parsons got the starting job.”



Dan’s mind wandered at the mention of the Chiefs center. Parsons had grown up and played eight-man high school football in a small town two hour’s drive north of the shop, in Hamilton, the very town where Dan would try to locate his son, Mateo. He had no idea where the trail would lead since all he had for Mateo was a post office box number. Around him, the upcoming game was the sole topic of discussion as Dan considered the man he’d fathered but never met.



“Did I tell you about my busted vacuum cleaner?” Fred asked. “It quit working, so I put a Chiefs bumper sticker on it right after the Tampa Bay-K. C. game and it started to suck again.” The joke produced groans, as well as a thrown wadded up paper towel from Larry.



“Alright, get your money out guys, we have to fill this board up,” Larry said. “How about you Dan, I don’t see your name on this anywhere. Or do the Amish do things like this?” Larry liked to kid Dan over his lifestyle; to him being Amish was the only reason anyone would raise their own food. Dan didn’t refute the idea in the least. In fact, when it came to Larry, he encouraged it. Larry didn’t seem to realize that unlike the Amish, Dan had most of the same modern conveniences everyone else in the shop had.



Dan looked at the poster board and wrinkled his brow. “No, I’m sure this is forbidden,” he said and tried to keep a straight face. “So how did you say this thing works?” He couldn’t help but grin at the look Larry shot him.



“You know dang well how the football pool works, now get your wallet out,” Larry snapped.



Dan took out a dollar. “Okay, I’ll take one square.”



“Just one? Come on man, you can do better than that. Are you even going to watch the game?”



“Of course not. You know we Amish don’t have electricity or televisions,” Dan answered. He handed over the dollar and signed his name on a square.



“So, are you going to watch the game?” Matt asked Dan, as Larry moved down the table.



“I might see part of it after I finish up outside, but it won’t be the focus of my day. After church, Chad and the girls and I are going to get a bunch of trays set up in the greenhouse. It’s time to get seeds in so the plants will be ready to put out in the garden when the weather warms up. Then we need to clean the chicken house and get all the manure on the compost pile. By the time that’s all done and I’ve showered and had supper, I might have a beer and watch the rest of the game. If I don’t fall asleep in my chair anyway.”



“Man, you are so bizarre,” Fred said and shook his head. The thought of missing the Super Bowl was sacrilegious in his view.



“So what do you think Jackson’s up to?” John asked. “Man, can you believe that guy’s luck? He not only has a hot babe for a wife, but her old man takes him to the Super Bowl. I’d love it if my father-in-law took me to the big game.” John referred to Sean Jackson, one of the shop workers. His father-in-law, a high powered executive, had swung tickets to the game and taken Sean along with him.



“He’s probably at a party,” Larry said. “I’d like to be there too, but not with my father-in-law, if I had one. I saw a story online that said call girls flocked into Frisco by the thousands for this. They generate as much money as all of the other activities combined according to the article.” Larry was unmarried, and would most likely remain that way. His phone chirped and he took it out, pulled up the message, and read. “Well speak of the devil. That son of a . . .” he trailed off, as he read the message and looked at the photos with it. “Here, look at this.” He handed the phone to Fred.



The screen showed a photo of the front of the Fairmont San Francisco, a luxury hotel. “Now scroll to the next picture,” Larry said. The second photo was a selfie of Sean. He stood inside a large ballroom with a buffet table set up on one side. People filled the room, with plates and drinks in their hands, and broad smiles on their faces. A short note accompanied the photos. “Hey guys, I’d be lying if I said I missed you, LOL. I’ll put more on Facebook when I can. And Larry, the article you showed me is true. I’ve seen quite a few who look incredible. Have fun at the shop.”



The men passed the phone around the table and everyone looked at the pictures and the note. The grumbling about how lucky Sean Jackson was increased.



#



Sean Jackson laughed at the message he’d sent, knowing how it’d needle the guys at the shop. He slipped the phone into his pocket and surveyed the ballroom. It was still hard to believe he stood in the Fairmont Hotel, and in two days would be at the greatest sporting event ever. He nearly pinched himself to make sure it wasn’t a dream. After lunch, he might take a nap to be ready for the evening, or he might not. It’d be hard to miss a single minute. San Francisco swarmed with activity. Parties would go non-stop, right up until the wee hours of Monday morning. There’d be food like he’d never eaten before, booze, and yes Larry, women, although he wouldn’t indulge in that particular pleasure.



The ballroom pulsed with excitement and noise, and Sean heard numerous languages spoken. The game was a world event, and to judge by what he heard and the appearances of different people, several countries were represented in the room. He’d read it would be broadcast to two hundred countries and most of them had their own crews on location. It was staggering to consider he’d experience it firsthand, and he was so grateful to his father-in-law for including him.



Grateful didn’t seem strong enough for the feeling he had. Other than his marriage and the birth of his children, he couldn’t imagine anything in his life would be more monumental.



Sean couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he moved through the crowd toward the buffet. He was so caught up in the atmosphere, he even smiled when a serving man in a long-sleeved white shirt and white gloves brushed against him. Sweat soaked through the man’s shirt and left a damp spot on Sean’s exposed arm. Sean glanced at the man as he wiped the spot. His face, framed by high white collars, was covered with blemishes and twisted in a fierce scowl as he maneuvered through the assemblage. His jaw moved like he had something that tasted bad in his mouth. His movements reminded Sean of the bumper cars at the fair, as he bounced from one person to the next.



“That guy doesn’t look too happy to be here,” a man near Sean said. He’d also been roughly brushed against.



Sean agreed with him and continued to work his way to the food. The enchanting aromas made his mouth water. As he made his way, he noticed the scowling man brush against more people as he took their empty glasses and plates. “They must be hard up for wait staff this week,” Sean muttered.



#



Abdul Mueed left the ballroom with his tray full of dirty dishes. Once out of sight of the revelers, his face contorted in pain. His head pounded and he had a raging fever. He coughed onto the tray and spittle flew everywhere. The open sores in his mouth made it hard to control while he lowered himself amongst the filthy swine in that room of decadence. But according to the men who’d sent him to the hell hole in the center of the enemy, the fire raging through his body burned at peak efficiency.



He leaned against the wall for support. Closing his eyes, he asked Allah for strength to complete his mission. Two more days, he had to hold on for two more days.



While the infidels reveled, two hundred faithful staged a silent attack on the unaware city. Though not right away, the unbelievers would know their wrath. As directed, Mueed had accessed the hotel’s ventilation system and released the contents of an aerosol can into the recirculated air. He had two more of the cans and would release one per day. The other phase of the attack involved direct contact with the infidels.



Mueed felt satisfaction mixed with revulsion. The injections he and the other faithful had been given were obviously at work. His fever intensified as the day went on and his sweating increased as well. The coughs were more frequent and he had occasional muscle tremors along with the fatigue. Praise Allah, the virus would spread to the infidels as it raged through his own body. The faithful had been told it would spread best through body fluids, but substantial spread would happen through the air as well.



Still, despite delivering their death, he was revolted. He had to look at their faces and bow and scrape as a servant. Each time he held his hand out to one of them, his muscles tensed and he longed for his knife to wipe the smiles from their faces while he cut their throats.



He was most revolted by the women. They were shameless whores, putting their bodies on display for all to see. He longed to see their eyes as he had seen the other woman’s eyes at the moment of recognition. The look of the dying. He remembered the harlot’s eyes as his knife tore through her abdomen, and shuddered in pleasure.



He’d refused the order to bed the prostitutes. It didn’t matter to him how well the virus would spread in that method, he wouldn’t degrade himself to perform such acts. That the virus would spread more readily wasn’t enough for him. He wouldn’t be able to stand before Allah with the shame. He knew others didn’t share his views and relished the opportunity. If the whores only realized he delivered their death, if he could see it in their eyes, he might relent. But he’d seen the lifeless eyes of the prostitutes when they came from a room, their bags tight with cash. No, they wouldn’t know he’d killed them. But those eyes . . .



Mueed pulled away from the wall and did his best to mask the pain. He carried his tray through the swinging doors of the kitchen area and set it down near the others piled with dirty dishes. Glancing around to see if he was observed, he reached for a new tray and coughed into the arranged plates, glasses and silverware. Particles of spittle flew with each cough and adhered to the utensils. Mueed coughed again before returning to the ballroom. His forehead glistened with perspiration as he worked through the crowded room.



***Author’s Note: After a couple of false starts, I began this story in earnest in 2016. That year, Kansas City went 12-4, Tampa Bay 9-7. Both made the playoffs, but of course they didn’t play for the title for another five years. Also in 2016, Patrick Mahomes was in his last year of college and Tom Brady was still in New England. I never dreamed they’d actually meet for the title.

[CountryGuy]

Really enjoying the story. Maybe I missed it if it was mentioned but with it being Chief fans, is Dan and family somewhere in south western MO?

[bretf]

May 21, 2022 12:04:09 GMT -6 CountryGuy said:

Really enjoying the story. Maybe I missed it if it was mentioned but with it being Chief fans, is Dan and family somewhere in south western MO?

Not MO. It is based in southwest Idaho. The original draft had all the place names, but on the advice of a beta-reader, I made up all the names. But the climate and topography is all based on areas here.

The main rooting point comes from this: The biggest rooting point for the Chiefs was their center, a local boy. “It’s gonna be different this time,” John said. “Look who’s in front of Moore. That offensive line is so much better since Cody Parsons got the starting job.”



Dan’s mind wandered at the mention of the Chiefs center. Parsons had grown up and played eight-man high school football in a small town two hour’s drive north of the shop, in Hamilton, the very town where Dan would try to locate his son, Mateo. He had no idea where the trail would lead since all he had for Mateo was a post office box number. Around him, the upcoming game was the sole topic of discussion as Dan considered the man he’d fathered but never met.


As I wrote, I envisioned the center for the Denver Broncos at the time, Matt Paradis. He comes from a small town near here that will show up later in the stories (although not the referenced town in the story but the next one north on the main highway. Also, the names have been changed in my tale.) Matt played eight-man ball in high school at Council, ID. He entered BSU as a walk-on. Then to Denver as an undrafted free agent. Which eventually led to him centering for Payton Manning and winning a Super Bowl. That Super Bowl, the Broncos were a sentimental pick for those of us in the region familiar with him and his story.

[bretf]

Chapter 3



Sean Jackson entered Levi’s Stadium and stepped out of the throng of moving people to look around. It was surreal. HE WAS AT THE SUPER BOWL! Euphoria engulfed him as he took in the stadium. The smile that’d been plastered on his face since the shuttle dropped him and the rest of its passengers off broadened further. He pulled his phone out and snapped a few pictures, including two selfies; one with the field at his back, and the other with the spacious stadium behind him. He’d send those to a few of the guys at home after he got to his seat. Ernie, his wife’s father, waited at the side of the crowd for him and smiled at his antics.



Sean’s head continued to swivel as Ernie led the way to their seats through the milling throng of people. They weren’t the best seats in the house by far, but Sean didn’t care. IT WAS A SEAT AT THE SUPER BOWL! He settled in with a loud sigh.



The first half flew by and it was halftime before he knew it. The field swarmed with activity as the stage was prepared. He sat on the edge of his seat in anticipation. It wasn’t that he liked Miley Cyrus as a performer, but he was curious about her show, rather what she’d show. The potential was high for a “wardrobe malfunction” that would top the infamous performance by Janet Jackson. When it happened, Sean sat in amazement. Her display would surely steal the thunder from the game in the coming week, no matter how it turned out. She’d certainly get more hits on the internet.



The rest of the game went by in a fast-paced blur. Kyle Moore and the Kansas City offense did just enough to win. Sean couldn’t help but feel good for Cody Parsons, Kansas City’s center, to win a Super Bowl. From eight-man in high school, to walk on at junior college, to Super Bowl champion; what a story! For Sean, that was far better than the possibility Moore had played his final game and would step aside as a champion.



The festivities at the hotel were livelier than they’d been before the game. The energy from the game had transferred with the people. Sean went to his room, changed clothes as fast as he could, and went back to the party.



He surveyed the crowd from the entrance to the ballroom and thought, Man, I could get used to living like this. Don’t think it’ll happen though unless I win the lottery. So I better take advantage of it while I can.



Sean went to the bar, got a drink, and mingled with others in the crowded room. As he and two men ruminated about the Chiefs’ final touchdown, the surly server stopped in front of them well within their personal spaces. His head shifted from Sean to the other men, and Sean gagged from the man’s rancid breath.



“Can I take your glasses?” he asked in rough English. His heavy accent made it hard to understand, especially with the way he shifted his mouth around like it was full of broken glass. The man-made direct eye contact and asked the question with a glare for each of them.



Sean couldn’t describe the look the man shot him. In a way, it was taunting and defiant. It also gave him the impression of loathing. Bottom line, it unnerved him. Sean broke eye contact and passed his glass to the man.



After Mueed walked away, one man said, “That guy sure could use an attitude adjustment. He needs to be packed up on the first bus back to wherever the hell he came from if that’s how he likes the work here. You’d think he’d be more appreciative to have a paying job. I’ll bet he’s paid under the table too, and won’t pay any taxes.”



“Well, put yourself in his shoes,” another man said, alcohol slurring his words. “Wouldn’t you hate to work, when everybody else is having a good time? They must’ve had to work through the game too, to get ready. And look at him; it’s obvious he’s busted his butt. He’s sweating like a whore in church. And on that note, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I could use a change of company.” He moved through the room towards a well-made-up woman who had a lot of skin on display.



The other man with Sean watched his path to the woman in question and said, “She does look good I’ll admit, but I swear she has more paint on her than my house.”



Sean chuckled, and stifled it when he saw the server pass the woman. The look in his eyes was intense. And he wasn’t admiring the woman’s displayed curves like most of the men and a few women in the room. Sean could only think of the look as pure murderous hatred. Somebody needs to keep an eye on that guy, he thought.



#



Departing guests stuffed the airport shuttle to capacity when it pulled away from the hotel, the passengers packed together like sardines. Sean was crammed into a seat beside a man with a huge smile on his face, wearing his Chiefs coat proudly. It was quite understandable Sean thought, for the way the game turned out. The man wanted to talk and gave Sean the low down on half the players as the shuttle traveled.



Sean was still hearing about the player when Ernie interrupted from behind. “Look at that Sean. I’ve gone through this place a lot of times and never seen it like that before.” They were passing the International concourse of San Francisco International Airport. It was packed with taxis and shuttles. “Our game has gone international big time,” Ernie added. People were thick at the entries; the baggage handlers would fill one cart and jump to help the next person. It reminded Sean of Black Friday at Walmart, it was so crazy. Each terminal was the same; people swarmed the airport as they left the city for points all over the globe.



Sean thought again of black Friday when he left the shuttle and stepped into the swirling mass of humanity and baggage. People were so numerous, it was impossible not to bump into each other. Sean and Ernie’s baggage was taken care of, and they went through the terminal to the security gate.



“And another line to stand around in,” Sean grumbled. He lamented the days before 9-1-1 when security wasn’t so tight. Not that he’d flown much, but on the rare occasions he had, it’d been fast. Quick trips through the airport are a thing of the past, he decided. He had a few choice thoughts for the terrorists who’d caused the long waits, glad they’d been dealt with.



#



Sean settled into his seat, impatient for the plane to get in the air so he could lay the seat back and close his eyes. He reached up to adjust the air vent in his direction when raspy coughing in the seat behind him made him change his mind. Rather than direct the air to blow on his face, he adjusted it so it would go over his head, towards the source of the coughs. Although he wanted the air on him, he didn’t want whatever the guy had, and maybe he could push the guy’s germs the other direction. “Man, just what I need, a jerk with a cold or something,” he grumbled quietly. “The way the air circulates in these tin cans, he’ll expose everybody on the plane to his crud before we get off. What a butt head! I hope I don’t catch it.” He closed his eyes and was asleep in moments, his seat back still upright. The next thing he knew, Ernie was shaking his shoulder to exit the plane.



Ernie had driven to the airport and left his car in long-term parking. They loaded into it, drove to the gate and paid the fee, and after the quick commute, Ernie dropped Sean off at his house. Sean thanked him again, took his bags, and went inside. He glanced at his watch and considered Larry and the rest of the guys at the shop. They still had quite a while to work. Maybe he’d run over there at quitting time and regale them with stories of the game and parties. Or maybe not; it was over a half hour drive, after all. He stretched out on the couch and was still asleep hours later when his wife Sharon and the kids got home.



“Dad, you’re home,” his youngest daughter Katy squealed. She ran to him and wrapped him in a hug as he sat. The force almost knocked him back down. “We missed you, Dad. Did you miss us? Did you have a good time?”



“Of course I missed you guys. And I had a good time, but it would’ve been a great time if you were with me.” He extricated himself from the twelve-year-old and stood up and hugged his wife and seventeen-year-old daughter Jessica. He dismissed the idea of going to the shop. He’d have plenty of opportunities to tell the guys about his experience. The warm welcome from his family brought him more satisfaction than any amount of bragging.



Dinner was ham with macaroni and cheese, a staple item with kids in the house. He thought how different it was from what he’d had the last few days and savored every simple bite. And he savored being back with the family. It’d been incredible to go to the game and attend the festivities, but that was a different world. Looking at his family he thought, But this is real. No game can compare to these three, although I’d like to do it again. After dinner was cleaned up and the kids sent to bed, Sean and his wife followed suit. They spent a lot of time showing how much they’d missed each other.

[CountryGuy]

May 22, 2022 5:51:41 GMT -6 bretf said:

May 21, 2022 12:04:09 GMT -6 CountryGuy said:

Really enjoying the story. Maybe I missed it if it was mentioned but with it being Chief fans, is Dan and family somewhere in south western MO?

Not MO. It is based in southwest Idaho. The original draft had all the place names, but on the advice of a beta-reader, I made up all the names. But the climate and topography is all based on areas here.

The main rooting point comes from this: The biggest rooting point for the Chiefs was their center, a local boy. “It’s gonna be different this time,” John said. “Look who’s in front of Moore. That offensive line is so much better since Cody Parsons got the starting job.”

Got you. I thought it was a dual local tie, not just the local kid made it to the big time. More like the local kid ends up playing for the hometown NFL team. Another reason I asked is I'd punched in Hamilton, MO and it popped up right close to KC which added to my suspicions... LOL

Thanks for clarification.

[bretf]

Chapter 4



Dan Smoke pulled into the work parking lot, the first to arrive as was usually the case. When he got out of his pickup, the cold air assailed him despite his coat and wool hat. The truck’s heater had seen better years. Though the cab had been warmer than outside, it wasn’t by much. Shivering, he unlocked the shop door and stepped inside.



Although he and the kids had spent part of Sunday before the game in the greenhouse, spring was still weeks away. And two days later, it felt like winter had tightened its grip. When he’d left for work, the thermometer read zero. Dan was sick and tired of it, of the freezing temperatures and the gray, dull sky, and ready for the cold to break and spring to arrive.



Spring, the time of hope and rebirth with new growth always energized him. The green shoots and tender leaves, followed soon by early crocus blossoms picked him up as nothing else could. But it was still cold and gloomy, no matter how much he longed for warmth and blue skies.



He’d love to see the flats and pots in the greenhouse spring to life with new growth, but Mother Nature controlled that. He could cheat a little if he planted the seeds inside, but unless he added constant heat and lights, he still had to wait for warmer weather to heat the soil for the seeds to germinate. So they’d held off on putting seeds in and just got the flats prepared.



The weekend had been nice, so much nicer than the time he spent at the shop. And with the exception of Matt, the company was far better as well. Dan relished any precious time he got to spend with Lisa, Chad, Alison, and Brooke. The more he was apart from them, the more he yearned to be with them and share their experiences. The kids were growing up fast and seemed to change daily, especially Chad, and he missed too much of it.



Chad had always been responsible for his age, but he seemed more so of late. Dan only mentioned the chicken house might need to be cleaned and Chad was on it. It didn’t get done, but not from lack of effort on his part. With the weather so cold, everything under the chicken roost was a solid, frozen mass. So like the plants they hoped to start, the chicken house would wait for warmer weather. But his son had given it a good shot and that was all he could hope for.



Before they were done in the greenhouse, Chad went to the shop and fired up the woodstove to get it comfortably warm inside. He and his dad spent a couple hours in the messy work area once the seed flats were prepared. They cleaned and arranged it and put everything in its place. The time was well spent.



When working on projects, all too often Dan bypassed the final step; he rarely put all the tools and material away when he was finished. They were left out, the bench was a mess, the room and its contents haphazard. The shop had reached the point where they wasted more time searching for the right tools and material than on the task at hand.



When they were finished, everything was in its place and the shop space looked as neat as it ever had. While they worked, Chad took advantage of the time to discuss the trip to search for Mateo. Dan was still embarrassed about his indiscretion and wondered if he always would be. But alone with Chad, his son so anxious to meet his half-brother, it was easier to discuss his other son, but only a little.



Dan shivered again, as he closed the door behind him and stepped into the dimly lit shop. He threaded his way past partially completed trailers and manufacturing equipment and stopped at the electrical panel. The shop flooded with light when he flicked the light switches on. The building was quiet and free from fumes at the moment. He would still rather be home with the family, but it wasn’t possible; he needed the paychecks.



He slid the thermostat higher and started the air compressor. “It’s too bad all the heat will get sucked out right after the fans are fired up,” he muttered. Further depressed, he shivered. Grumbling about winter and the Super Bowl, he went to the lunchroom.



Dan put a pint of milk and his lunch bag in the refrigerator and started the coffee. With a scowl on his face, he went back into the cold, got the newspaper, and tossed it onto the table. After hanging his coat and hat, at least the lunchroom was warm, he sat down with the paper spread out in front of him and waited impatiently for the coffee to finish dripping.



It was only Tuesday, and he was as tired of the ceaseless football and halftime chatter as he was tired of the cold. Half the guys had been hungover the day before and it made what work they managed to do marginal at best. But it didn’t shut them up. He could usually ignore it, but his nerves were on edge with the upcoming trip to Hamilton and it’d gotten under his skin.



Hamilton, and his son, Mateo. Was he anything like Chad, and would they be able to find him and get the chance to find out? Would it change the relationship he had with Chad and was he making a colossal mistake? If they managed to find him, what would their welcome be like? Would the road he’d chosen to follow lead him to deeper regrets?



Each unanswered question spurred another or two more, and it was going to be a long work week before he’d have the chance to find the answers to any of them. In the meantime, the football talk would only be worse with Sean back, because the man certainly loved to babble. Dan stared at the coffee maker, willing it to finish.



The door opened and Matt walked in and wiped his nose. It was ready to drip after the walk in the freezing temperatures from his truck. “Hey, Dan. Man, it’s a cold one this morning. Hope the coffee’s ready, because man, I’m ready for it,” he said as he hung his coat. The coffee maker finished as he spoke, so he started the second pot and filled his and Dan’s cups from the full carafe. He pushed Dan’s cup across the table towards him. “You got any of that toxic milk in your lunch?” he asked. He’d figured out long ago the fresh milk tasted better in his coffee than powdered creamer.



“You know where it is,” Dan said, and suppressed a grin. Despite using it every day, Matt never failed to mention the hazards of raw milk. Matt doctored his coffee and took a seat across from Dan, who slid the sports section to him. More of the crew filtered in and Dan gritted his teeth, hearing the same stuff he’d heard the day before.



They all looked up when Sean entered the room and greeted everyone in a loud voice. “Hey guys, did you miss me more than I missed all of you?” He filled his coffee cup and took a seat. “Sorry, I wanted to get a slideshow of the game and everything else all set up on my laptop, but I had to catch up on my sleep and get some overdue loving from Sharon. But I’ll have it for you tomorrow,” he said.



The door from the office opened, and Lee, the shop boss stepped into the lunchroom. He scanned the room and frowned. The new man was nowhere to be seen. Lee had considered long and hard before hiring him and finally decided everyone deserved a second chance. It looked like Ben wouldn’t make the best of his.



Lee refocused on the men who were present. “Nice of you to join us, Sean. I know you’ve got lots of stories to tell, but you can entertain the crew at break and lunchtime. Now it’s time to get to work.”



Lee’s appearance and statement were met with grumbling. Everyone but Dan wanted to hear all of Sean’s stories before getting to work.



“Lee,” Sean said, “Do you suppose we could take a long lunch tomorrow? I’m going to set up a slideshow on my laptop for everyone.”



Lee considered the request, and said, “Sure, we can do that, so keep the stories short today, all right. But speaking of that, fellas, we’re behind on production. We need to put in half a day on Saturday to try to get back on schedule.”



Amidst all the groans and complaints, Dan didn’t say a word as he went to the shop to get to work, but he thought several. So Saturday would be shot. They could still make the drive to Hamilton and nose around a bit, but the chances of locating Mateo would be lessened. Plus, no one would be at the post office who might help them with their search. He regretted not going the past weekend, Super Bowl or not.



The lunchroom was packed soon after the whistle blew for the break. Everyone wanted to hear Sean’s stories. Even the guys who usually spent most of the break outside smoking made their way in. They’d taken a few quick puffs and joined the group.



Sean relished every minute of it, sharing the tales of his once in a lifetime experience with his fellow workers. He assured them he’d have more to tell during lunch, and the next day he’d have his pictures. He winked at Larry and told him he was sure to appreciate a few special shots. Three guys lingered and called for a lunchtime pizza delivery. They never packed lunch, usually going out. They weren’t about to miss Sean’s stories.



The room was stuffy with the full crew inside, and Dan was relieved to get back to work. The tight confines had him recalling the weekend, and how much he’d enjoyed the opportunity to spend time with Chad and the girls.



#



Dan was even more relieved to get back to work after lunch. The lunchroom had been stifling with everyone stuffed inside. Even the office staff crammed in to hear Sean’s tales. Dan put his gear on and got to work, his mind not on the steel in front of him. It wasn’t on the trip to Hamilton either. He couldn’t stop mulling over one thing Sean said.



The amount of money Sean’s father-in-law spent for one long weekend for the two of them was mind-blowing. With that much money available, Dan could buy a small farm, a real farm, and not have to spend every day away from his family. It was one thing to watch a game once in a while, but it seemed beyond crazy to him to drop so much cash to go to one. It was impossible to wrap his mind around, paying that kind of money to watch millionaire men play a game. He’d rather watch his kids play a game with a bunch of their friends. That was worth a lot more to him, those moments were priceless. He tried to focus on work because he knew no matter how he tried, he’d never understand it.



#



Chad leaned into the cow, squeezing one teat after the other in a steady rhythm. At the sound of the vehicle, he looked out the barn door, saw it was his dad, and turned back to the job at hand.



“Job at hand, get it?” he said to the Jersey cow and laughed out loud as he resumed milking. The cow munched her grain and Chad told her, “Well I thought it was funny.”



He finished milking, put hay in the feeder, and hurried to the house. It was cold, very cold, and he didn’t want to stay out any longer than he had too.



The heat from the wood stove greeted him when he stepped into the kitchen. His dad was telling his mom about his day at work. He looked up, and Chad said, “Hi Dad, how was work?”



“It was work. How was your day?” his dad asked. To Chad, he seemed down the way he said it.



“It was good. We got together with the other homeschoolers today and Will showed me something cool. The work we’re doing is the same as tenth and eleventh graders do in the regular schools. Can you believe I’m so far ahead of them; doing the same stuff when I’m only in ninth grade? Public school must be so easy!” Chad said.



“Don’t be too sure of yourself. It might not be easier, you just have a teacher who cares a lot more,” Dan said, earning a smile from Lisa. “But that’s great. I knew you could do more advanced work than the state says kids your age should do. So what else did you guys do besides talk about curriculum?” Dan asked.



“It was physical education day. Since it’s so cold, we met at the Y and swam laps. After that, we had gym time,” Chad said.



“Sounds like a fun time. I wish I could’ve been with you guys instead of working,” Dan said and gave Chad’s shoulder a squeeze. Again, Chad thought his dad seemed down when he said it.



Chad hung his coat and hat, and took the bucket to the sink and took care of the milk. While he did it his mom walked around the counter and gave his dad a hug and kiss. “Thanks for the compliment,” she said and wriggled her eyebrows at him. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”



“Umm, I missed that too while I was at work,” he said and kissed her again, longer.



“Eww, you’re swapping spit. That’s gross,” the twins said in unison. Lisa was teaching a section on germs and the transmission of viruses.



Dan grinned at them and said, “Make sure you remember to keep that opinion when you’re teenagers.”



Lisa called Dan and the kids to wash up and go to the table, while she set the food out. They all took their places, and Dan asked the blessing. Everyone filled their plates and began to eat.



While they ate, Brooke told her dad all about swimming with Alison and the other kids in the group.



Chad listened patiently, waiting for her to wind down. When she did, he asked, “So, on Saturday, will we leave right after chores and breakfast?”



“Well, about that,” Dan said. “Our production has gotten behind at the shop, so we have to put in a half-day on Saturday.”



“But we’re going to Hamilton,” Chad said in a whiney tone.



“We’ll have to hold off until I get home from work,” his dad said.



The disappointment was written on everyone’s faces. They’d all been filled with nervous anticipation at the prospect of meeting the mysterious Mateo.



For his part, Dan was silent as he finished the meal, content to listen to more of the kid’s stories of the day, though they were more subdued after his statement concerning Saturday. He soon zoned out again, and Chad interrupted his thoughts. “What are you thinking about, Dad? Mateo?”



“At the moment, no. I was thinking about Sean at work, and what he said his father-in-law spent for the two of them to go to the Super Bowl. You know, we could buy a farm for what they spent on one weekend,” his dad said.



Dan told more details of what Sean told the shop crew. Chad listened intently, agreeing with his dad, he’d rather have a farm than go watch a football game. Maybe his half-brother would like that too.

[bretf]

Chapter 5



“Bye Dad, have a good day at work,” Chad said as Dan headed for the door. “And weld fast, so you can get caught up. Maybe we can leave earlier on Saturday than you think.”



“Yeah, I wish, but I don’t think it’ll happen,” Dan said. “Sean’s planning to show all his pictures from the game today, so work will take a back seat to him for most of the guys. Again.”



“That’s lousy. You always tell me to take care of the things under my control and not worry what other people do, but it doesn’t seem right. They talk about football instead of working. So you have to work extra because they slack off,” Chad said.



“It happens. It might not be right, but that’s life, and we have to try to deal with it the best we can. Now I’d better run. Have a good day, love you,” Dan said and went out into the cold.



“Bye, love ya,” Chad said. He stayed at the door and watched through the window as his dad’s pickup backed out of the carport, turned, and went down the driveway.



The stuff his dad brought up the night before had given him a lot to consider. He’d mentioned it before, but never quite so wistfully. How would it be to live on a real farm, Chad wondered. They did a lot of farm-type work as it was, but it was because his parents chose to. His dad still had a paying job; he had to, to make mortgage payments of course. And though they relied heavily on the garden, the cows, and chickens, it wasn’t crucial.



What would their lives be like if it was crucial? If they were relying only on what they could raise and were at the mercy of the weather, late frosts, drought, bugs, early freezes, predators, and who knew what else? It would be hard, very hard to live that way. Chad wasn’t sure if he’d want it, or if they were up to it. After all, it might take so much work there wouldn’t be time for fishing and hunting. If that was the result, he knew he wouldn’t like it.



Still, it’d beat working in his dad’s noisy, stinky shop all day with a bunch of guys who’d rather talk about football than do the work they were paid to do. It was pretty easy to see how beat his dad was most nights. It might be worth it to get him out of there. But what would it be like to live that way?



#



Dan pulled into the parking lot, surprised to see Sean’s car. That never happened. Sean usually showed up just in time to get to work, not early. He went inside and looked around. The heat was still set low, and the air compressor hadn’t been started. Dan might as well have been the first one. “I wonder if he’s started the coffee,” Dan muttered.



When he got in the lunchroom, he shook his head in dismay. No, of course not, no coffee, he said to himself. Out loud he said, “Morning, Sean. I didn’t expect to see you early.”



“Oh, hey Dan. Yeah, I got all my pictures set up last night, so I came in to get my laptop ready to go,” Sean said, missing the sarcasm in Dan’s tone. The computer was on the counter, and Sean backed up and looked at it. “I don’t know, it might not be too visible there. Whattaya think?”



Dan put his lunch in the fridge and glanced over at Sean. “Why don’t you try it on top of the snack machine, and tilt the screen this way a bit,” he said. “More people should be able to see it there.”



“Hey, yeah, good idea,” Sean said and relocated the computer.



After Dan got the first pot of coffee started, he watched Sean and really noticed him for the first time. “You all right Sean? You look flushed.”



“Yeah, I’m good. I think the weekend caught up with me is all. I had three nights straight without enough sleep, so I’m pretty run down, and my back is sore from the strange bed. Well, and I might have caught a cold too. The fool right behind me on the plane was hacking like mad. I think he gave me his crud, you know the way the air circulates in planes,” Sean said. He was running the cord to the wall outlet when Dan left through the office door to pick up the newspaper.



When Dan returned, Sean was watching the computer boot up. “I think it’ll work great, good idea, Dan. Man, that was such an incredible experience, you’ll love the pictures,” Sean said.



“I’m sure I will,” Dan said, hung his coat, and sat down, with the front section of the paper spread out in front of him. “I’m sure I will,” he muttered, certain it was going to be a very long day.



#



For the second day in a row, the lunchroom was stuffed. Everyone in the company jammed together to see Sean’s pictures and hear his stories. It was stifling and Dan was happy to get back to his welder. What stuck out to him most was how Sean looked worse than he had first thing that morning. He was flushed and his forehead glistened with sweat. It didn’t appear to only be from the tight room.



It was ironic Dan thought; Sean criticized the man on the plane, yet he packed everyone together and shared whatever he was coming down with. Dan wished he’d never stepped foot into the crowded room. But at least it was over.



It wasn’t over for everyone though. Sean informed the group he’d be setting up at the bar after work to show the pictures again. Larry and Fred were thrilled at the idea, and each made a number of calls to other friends to meet them there. Dan was glad he’d get to miss that viewing.



#



Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love”, the ringtone he’d set up for Sharon’s calls, blasted out of Sean Jackson’s pocket. He was still at the shop workers’ favorite watering hole, bending the ears of anyone who’d listen to stories of his game experience. And plenty of listeners had shown up. The bar was packed, a rare occasion on nights other than Friday. His slide show was set to endlessly loop through the photos, and Sean talked through it all. It was hot and stuffy, with a lot of backslapping and handshakes. Sean had been elevated to near-hero status amongst the bar patrons.



He pulled his phone out and silenced it. “Dang guys, I think I might have to leave,” he said. He answered the phone and listened more than he talked, and ended the call. “Yup, I’ve got to hit it. Sharon’s working late tonight, so I need to pick Jessica up from basketball practice. District tournament starts tomorrow and I expect to see all of you at her game.”



“C’mon Sean, hang around for a while. I’ll buy you a beer,” someone said.



He considered it but decided he better not. Jessica was waiting, dang it.



He drained the rest of his beer in a single swallow and pushed the glass across the bar, stood, and pulled his coat on. He closed the laptop and stuffed the power cord in his pocket. “See you guys tomorrow,” he said. “Maybe we’ll have time for a beer before the game.”



Sean went out into the cold, got in his car and headed for Jessica’s school. He wished his car had seat warmers. It’d felt nice in Ernie’s car on Monday, to have at least part of his body warm before the car heated up. Maybe I can get a new car next year and let Jess have this one, he thought. If she had this one, I could have had a couple more beers.



A shadow moved behind a window when Sean pulled up to the gymnasium entrance, and the door opened. Jessica ran out, smiling, her gym bag slung over a shoulder. Her hair was wet with sweat and she didn’t waste any time as she tossed her bag in the back seat and got in the car. “Hi, Hon. How was practice today?” Sean asked.



“It was good, but coach pushed us hard. He really wants to win tomorrow,” Jessica said.



“You’ll get ‘em,” Sean said. He couldn’t understand what she grunted in response. She had her phone out and was scrolling through her messages.



#



Dan glanced around the shop as he moved into position to weld the next section of the trailer frame in front of him. Wow, Thursday, and it looks like everyone is buckled down and working, he thought. It was no wonder Lee had been uptight the last few days. With the gab sessions prior to and post-game, they’d easily lost half a week of production. He figured Lee would have them work the next Saturday as well. He glanced around once more. “Well, it looks like most of them are working, but Sean looks like crap,” he muttered. He put his hood down, positioned his welding gun, and pulled the trigger. The wire shot out, contacted the steel and the bright arc lit up his work area.



At break time, Dan breathed a sigh of relief to see the regulars headed outside. The lunchroom wouldn’t be as crowded as the past two days. Sean entered the room, knuckling his back, and coughed.



“Wow Sean, nice of you to bring the crud back from Frisco with you,” Fred said.



Sean pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped his nose and lips. “Sorry guys, I must’ve caught what that jerk on the plane had. I wish they’d keep sick people off those tin cans, you know the way the air circulates.” Sean went on to describe the man in words Dan rarely used, and hoped his kids had never heard.



“I hope this doesn’t get worse. Jessica’s team opens the district tournament tonight,” Sean said, his statement punctuated by a deep, raspy cough. He blew his nose on a fresh tissue and tossed it in the trash. Continuing, he said, “There are two tourney games today, and Jess is in the first one, but I want to see both games. The top team in the state plays in the second game, and they’ve got four incredible players. Tonight’s winners play each other tomorrow night.”



All too soon, the work whistle sounded and the crew headed out to the shop. Sean mopped the sweat off his brow and knuckled his sore back. “I better not miss the game because of that jerk!” he grumbled.

[bretf]

Chapter 6



“Housekeeping,” Maria Vasquez said after she knocked on the door. When she didn’t hear a response, she unlocked the door, swung it open, and peered inside. It was never a good idea to walk right in; she’d been surprised a number of times in learning that lesson. The blinds were drawn and little light made it into the room through the window. She couldn’t make out anything disturbing, but she was still cautious. A disagreeable odor she couldn’t identify came from the room, but that wasn’t unusual. Maria was used to odd smells in the rooms.



The motel didn’t attract the top level of guests after all. In fact, it tended to attract the bottom level, the dregs, and the ones who paid with cash and wanted to be unseen. She didn’t mind that most of the motel’s customers used cash. It was beneficial for her to work strictly with cash as well since she also needed to remain unnoticed.



The man who currently occupied the room fit the category. He’d checked in two weeks earlier and had the “Do Not Disturb” sign out the entire time. She wasn’t looking forward to what she might find in the room. It was certain to be a mess.



But she had to go in, no matter how much she didn’t want to. The man hadn’t paid past that morning. She flipped the light switch on and stepped cautiously into the room. The single bare bulb was inadequate for the space, but it did light up the entryway and cast meager light on the bed.



“Sir,” she said when she saw the shape on the bed. “It’s checkout time. You need to leave or go to the registration desk and make arrangements to stay longer.” Again, there was no response so she stepped closer to the bed. She shook the man under the covers and spoke again. “Sir, it’s checkout time. You have to leave or make arrangements with the desk clerk.”



She got an uneasy feeling and scanned the room when he didn’t move. The room didn’t appear to contain empty liquor bottles or syringes which were usually present in such situations.



Maria went around the bed to the window and opened the blinds wide. Light flooded the room and she could see the black hair of the man’s head. Grasping his shoulder through the sheet, she shook him again and spoke louder than before with the same results. She shook harder and moisture oozed through the sheet onto her hand. Wide-eyed, she looked at her hand, and carefully pulled the sheet back to expose the man’s torso. Gasping, she stumbled backward and bumped hard against the window frame. She continued to gasp, drawing breaths made all the worse since the odor had intensified.



Abdul Mueed wasn’t breathing, and his lesion covered body oozed bloody fluid onto the bedding. More blood and fluid had drained from his mouth. He seemed to leak from everywhere she could see. His face was a grimace of pain under the lesions.



“Madre de Dios,” María whispered. She rubbed her hands on her pants, trying to remove whatever was on them. She crossed herself and ran for the office. Mueed would’ve smiled had he been able to, if he could have seen her eyes filled with raw terror.

[CountryGuy]

Hmmm Mateo, star NFL Quarterback, dreams of cash for a farm... Had Mateo changed his name? Maybe living under a different one that is known to NFL fans?

[bretf]

Chapter 7



Sean Jackson cleaned off as much of the day’s accumulated grime as he could, changed clothes and checked his watch. He’d have enough time to down a burger and make it to Jessica’s game for tip-off, with a little time to spare. Not enough time for a beer, though. Oh well, I might need the extra time, the way I feel, he thought.



As he knuckled his back, he wondered if it was more than the strange bed. Maybe he’d pulled a muscle. His fever had gotten worse through the day too, but it wasn’t going to stop him from going to the games. There was no way he’d miss the opportunity to see Jessica play. He took three Tylenol and hoped it would get a handle on the fever and his pounding head. He knuckled his back again and carried his dirty clothes into the breakroom.



“Ready to go?” Larry asked. He’d follow Sean, and Sharon would meet them at the school where the games would be played. She had no desire to watch any game her daughter wasn’t in, so she’d leave right after the first game was in the books. Jessica needed to stay with her teammates and watch the second game. It left Sean tasked with getting her home, despite how he felt.



“Yeah I’m ready, let’s hit it,” Sean said and bundled up for the outside.



He got in the car, started it, and wished again for seat warmers. The radio added to the pounding in his head, so he shut it off as a guy reported on mysterious deaths somewhere. Sean welcomed the quiet and pulled out of the work lot.



With Larry close behind, he turned in at a burger joint. They went inside and took their places in the line. Once they were served, they ate in a rush and headed for the school.



Sean and Larry found decent seats in the lower level of the gym. They were off to one end, but what mattered most to Sean was they were against the wall below the upper deck. His back was killing him and he wanted a rest of some sort. The wall would do the trick. Although he was far from comfortable, it was bearable. Air from the ventilation system hit him in the face, giving him welcome relief from his fever. A short time later Sharon and Katy joined them.



The game went well for Jessica’s team, and after a see-saw first half, they pulled away in the second. As the buzzer sounded ending the game, the team turned into a single exultant mass of hugging girls before they formed a line to slap hands with the other team.



Sean remained in his seat, happy for Jess and her team, and waited for the second game. He enjoyed the games even if his daughter wasn’t in them, and was anxious to see the top team. Buoyed by the first game and his fever controlled for the time being, he leaned against the wall feeling better than he had for hours and hoped it would last.



The teams in the second game had finished their warm-ups and gone to the locker rooms for the last word from their coaches when Jessica emerged and worked her way through the crowd to him. “Dad, I scored twelve points!” she stated, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice.



“I saw, kiddo, you did great. Good job!” She gave him a hug and went back through the crowd to her teammates.



Few people who’d attended the first game wanted to leave without seeing the state’s top team. The largest crowds always turned out when they played. One of their players had drawn interest from coaches at top division one colleges all over the country. Adding to the carry-over fans, a steady stream of people filed into the gymnasium until it was standing room only at tipoff. Sean began to question his decision to stay. The gym got stuffy, the moving air no longer relieving him, and the Tylenol didn’t seem to be doing as much good.



Once the game was underway, however, he was glad he’d stayed. Though not competitive after the first quarter, it didn’t disappoint him in the least. He was able to ignore his aches and pains for a while as he watched the leaders and pictured how Jessica’s team would match up against them.



At halftime, the woman beside Sean stood and tapped the shoulder of the boy with her. “We’ve got to go. It’s past your bedtime and you’ve got school tomorrow,” she told him.



“But Mom, I want to see the rest of the game,” he whined.



“So do I, but you’ve got to get to bed,” she said.



Sean watched the woman make her way towards the exit. “She’s got to be nuts,” he told Larry. “That girl is on fire tonight.” The girl Sean referred to, the one who had the attention of college coaches, had twenty-eight points in the first half. “They might not ever get the chance to see a performance like this again,” he said.

[bretf]

Chapter 8



As they sat around the table at supper, Chad, the twins, and Lisa, all told Dan about the day. Alison and Brooke used their alternating way of talking as they seemed to share the same thoughts.



“It sounds like you had a good day,” Dan said. “I guess I had a good day too because everyone decided to work instead of talk about football. Lee pushed hard to make up lost time, but we still have to work Saturday.”



“That’s a bummer,” Chad said looking at his plate and was reminded of something. He held up a carrot, and said, “I checked on everything in the greenhouse this afternoon when I got the carrots for supper and tomorrow’s lunch. The dirt is still too cold for seeds to germinate.”



“Thanks, Pal. This cold spell needs to snap before we’ll see any change. But since we have everything ready, getting the seeds in will go fast once the soil warms up,” Dan said.



They lingered at the table longer and talked more about the day before they cleaned up. Once everything was washed, dried, and put away, they went to the living room for an hour of television. Dan nodded off in his chair before the program was over.



The next thing he knew Lisa was nudging him awake. “Hey, Hon,” she said. “Let’s go to bed. The kids went a while ago.” She held his toothbrush out to him.



It’d been a tough day, and Dan was glad to get ready for bed. He hadn’t exaggerated at all. Lee had pushed them hard and he was sure there’d been a lot of grumbling at the watering hole that evening. Lee had been all over the shop and didn’t even have his coffee cup. If his tone and presence didn’t say he was serious, his empty left hand shouted it.



Dan flicked the television back on as he brushed his teeth. The weather report should be on soon, and he hoped the forecaster would predict the end of the cold spell. Not only predict it but say it was being pushed out by a Chinook that night. He was sick of winter. The news anchor was on, one of those news readers he was certain was hired more for her looks than her abilities. Her left hand played with her hair for a moment and Dan rolled his eyes.



“We have disturbing news from San Francisco today,” she read. “Several bodies have been found in motels throughout the metro area. We go now to our affiliate station in San Francisco for more on the mysterious story.”



“I went into his room and he didn’t wake up. I opened the curtains and shook him and my hand got all wet. When I moved the sheet, he was covered with nasty blotches that were draining all over the bed.” The distorted image of a woman in jeans and a sweatshirt was talking into the camera.



The camera shifted to a sharply dressed woman with styled blonde hair. “Those are the words of the terrified housekeeper who made the grisly discovery at the Golden Key Motel. The dead man checked into the motel two weeks ago and was only seen on rare instances. The man’s body is in the hands of the medical examiner. Officials have yet to issue a statement on the cause of death. The Centers for Disease Control is also investigating the death and has declined to comment. Authorities have released this photo of the man from security cameras. They are requesting if you have any information concerning him, you call immediately.” A phone number showed along the bottom of the screen under the man’s photo.



Dan’s hand was frozen on his toothbrush while he listened to the reporter.



“For more of our team coverage on this breaking story, we go now to Katie Johnson in San Mateo. This is Valerie Brown, KPIX5.”



The second woman reporter was in front of the San Mateo police department with the departmental spokesperson. Dan remained transfixed during the report. When she finished, he went to the bathroom to spit and rinse, troubled by what he’d heard. They found over fifty bodies in seedy hotels all around the Bay area? Man, it’s a good thing Sean got out of there when he did. That is so strange, he thought.



He returned to the living room to listen to the rest of the news before heading to bed. “Well that’s good,” he said once the weatherman quit babbling and got to the forecast. “It’ll warm up for the weekend, and of course he’s never wrong. No more than five days a week, anyway, but it looks like it’ll be a nice day for a drive.”



#



Dan pushed the sports section across the table for Matt and kept the front section like he did every morning. Matt filled Dan’s coffee cup and pushed it back towards him. He got the milk out of the fridge and topped off his coffee without comment. “Are you done with the front section? I’d rather see what they have to say about that stuff in Frisco instead of the sports. Besides, football’s over,” Matt said.



“Yeah, I finished it,” Dan said. “It’s pretty bizarre. But it doesn’t have much more than what I saw on the news last night. It’s like the authorities are restricting information.”



Matt sat down and started to read the front page story. After a few minutes, he turned to page six and read the continuation of it, finished, folded the paper and tossed it into the middle of the table.



“You’re right; they didn’t say much of anything. But I heard something on the radio I didn’t see in the story. A guy with the Coroner’s Office let slip they all appear to be Middle Eastern men. I doubt it was a ritual suicide, so what would they have been up to? It doesn’t sound good to me.”



John sat down beside Matt, staring at the front of the newspaper and the bold headline, and shook his head. “That is so crazy,” he said.



More guys entered the room and got coffee. The news out of San Francisco was the main topic of conversation. That and grumbling that they had to work the next day instead of having a full weekend. The door opened again and Sean walked in.



“Boy, did you get out of Frisco in the nick of time. It looks like a dang nasty bug hit there,” Fred told him.



Sean’s answer was a rasping cough.

[bretf]

Chapter 9



“TEN-HUT!” the United States Marine corporal barked out and swung the door he guarded inward. He stood at attention in his pressed dress uniform as Janet Morton, the President of the United States, entered the Situation Room followed by California Governor, Hank Bruner.



“At ease,” the President said to the group of men and women who’d stood as she entered the room. They relaxed slightly but remained standing until she took her seat at the head of the table. Only then did they and Governor Bruner sit. The people seated around the large conference table were the members of the National Security Council, with the additional presence of the Centers for Disease Control Director, Rick Jordan. Like Governor Bruner, he was not a member of the council. CIA Director Marcus Young, while not a regular member, was also present. A notable absence from the Council was Vice President Leland Anderson. The walls of the room held large video screens, at the moment showing two maps. One was of the San Francisco area, and the other, a map on the continental United States. Numerous red dots marked both maps.



“Thank you for coming on short notice, Director,” the President said to Jordan. To the rest of the assemblage, she said, “This meeting was called due to events in San Francisco. I believe you all know Director Jordan and Governor Bruner.” Nods were exchanged around the table.



The President continued, “The United States has been subjected to a suspected terror attack with a genetically altered strain of smallpox. It was directed at San Francisco and the Super Bowl. Besides the confirmed deaths, new cases of the ailment have been reported at all area hospitals. Symptoms are characteristic of both smallpox and Ebola. At this time, no one has taken credit for the attack. Governor Bruner?”



Hank Bruner cleared his throat and spoke. “Thank you Madam President. As has been reported, starting yesterday morning, numerous bodies have been found in the San Francisco area. They all appear to be of Middle-Eastern descent, all males, and all with lesions common with smallpox. The body count is currently one hundred forty-one.



“Two days prior to the discovery of the first bodies, hospitals in the area experienced a dramatic increase in patients seeking medical attention for flu-like symptoms, and the number of cases has escalated upward rapidly. Emergency rooms in the Bay area are overcrowded, and hospital staffers have failed to show up for work. They fear a smallpox infection they may take home and spread to their families.



“We’ve tried to keep a lid on the story with little success. Despite our efforts, the media is broadcasting nonstop, calling it a possible weaponized smallpox outbreak. As would be expected, the internet contains wild speculation of various scenarios, however, the most accurate reports have gained the most traction.



“We are critically short of medical personnel, our resources are overwhelmed, and I’m prepared to call out the National Guard to maintain order. I am going to declare a state of emergency, and Madam President, I request you do the same. I will go before the news cameras in a few hours. I would like to be able to tell the people of California they will all get smallpox vaccine within 72 hours.”



Director Jordan stared at him, the look cutting deep. “Governor Bruner, I have to ask this. Were you at the Super Bowl or any of the festivities associated with it?”



“No sir, I wasn’t. I was in Mexico on a trade mission,” the governor answered.



“That brings up another point,” the President said. “Vice President Anderson was in San Francisco and attended the game. He is currently in a contamination room at Walter Reed Medical Center. Director Jordan, if you will.”



CDC director Jordan glanced at the papers before him and began to brief the council on smallpox. The video screens on all walls displayed a series of slides on smallpox as the director talked. “The majority of the information I have is from actual cases. Based on past outbreaks of smallpox, conservative estimates of transmission were placed at ten to one. In other words, each person who had the disease passed it off to ten other people. However, those numbers were from a period when the populace was less mobile than today. With modern conditions, coupled with the attack coming where and when it did, we believe a transmission rate of fifty to one is more realistic.



“Smallpox we are familiar with has an incubation period of nine to seventeen days. Based on the number of cases arriving at hospitals in the Bay area, we believe we are dealing with an incubation period of fewer than seven days. By the time the first victims are diagnosed with smallpox or whatever this is, the disease will have begun spreading to the second generation of victims. Victims of both the first and second generation will have traveled to other cities in that time. Since few American doctors have ever seen a case of smallpox, and since the initial symptoms resemble flu, diagnosis is slow.”



Jordan paused and drank from the water bottle in front of him. The director’s words were met with stony silence as each member considered what he’d said and the possible impact of the crisis. They’d never faced anything like what Jordan was describing and were dumb-struck.



Jordan resumed his address, “Traditional smallpox is fatal in the range of thirty percent of the cases. Of course, the fatality rate with this strain is unknown. Vaccinations against smallpox were discontinued in the United States in 1977 when the disease was eradicated. Most people over seventy have been inoculated, but it is unknown if it will give any protection. It is believed immunity is good for five to ten years.”



A number of people at the table looked more troubled.



“Isolation is our only sure defense, though we will use the vaccine we have. Only twelve million doses of vaccine for smallpox are available, and as I said, it is unknown if it will be effective against this strain. The worldwide supply of vaccine is sixty million doses, but twenty-five percent of it is believed worthless due to inadequate storage in certain countries.



“The CDC has sent one hundred fifty thousand doses of smallpox vaccine to California, with vaccinations restricted to health care workers, infected people, their close contacts, and investigators,” the director continued.



Governor Bruner looked like he’d been punched in the gut. “But there are forty million people in California . . . and one million in San Francisco alone,” he sputtered, grasping the fact the country was woefully short of vaccine.



“Governor, allow him to continue, please,” President Morton stated.



With a nod to the President, director Jordan continued. “Isolation is achieved by the “Ring Method”. It is the forced quarantine of infected individuals and the mandatory vaccination of anyone who may have been exposed to them. It is the method used to successfully eradicate smallpox in the 1960s and ‘70s. This worked because the vaccine is effective for anyone who has been exposed to traditional smallpox.



“The attack obviously occurred from February third through the eighth, when the city was host to the Super Bowl. The second generation of cases began showing strong symptoms two days ago, February tenth, and we expect this wave to continue at least through the fifteenth.



“Urgent action is needed to stop the spread of the disease, but a modern, urban, mobile population, coupled with a limited supply of vaccine, doesn’t offer encouraging prospects to control the outbreak. It will be extremely difficult to contain since people from every state and at least two hundred nations attended the game and related activities.” In a soft voice, spoken almost as an afterthought, he said, “If not impossible to contain.” Louder he said, “I might also note the maps that were up earlier; the red dots indicate areas where emergency rooms have seen an upswing in patients presenting flu-like symptoms.” The room was again filled with stony silence.



Bryan Miller, Presidential Chief of Staff, turned towards Central Intelligence Agency Chief, Marcus Young, and broke the silence. “Marcus, what can you tell us?”



Young looked up from the papers in front of him, and said, “The agency believes the virus came from a Russian program. Twelve months ago, Sergei Bubka, a lead researcher in the Russian biological weapons program, disappeared without a trace. Field agents have gotten mixed signals if his absence is a concern in Moscow. Whispers indicate he may be in Syria. Our assets in the field have made locating Bubka their top priority.



“Several years ago, Dr. Vladimir Pasechnik defected from the USSR. He had been with the Soviet biological warfare program of the 1980s. According to his information, the Soviet view of World War III included the possibility of biological and chemical-tipped missiles being lobbed into the United States.



“The former Soviet Union is believed to have developed smallpox as a biological weapon in the 1980s. In 1992, after the fall of the Soviet Union, Boris Yeltsin admitted the existence of the secret program and promptly discontinued it, or so he claimed. In truth, the program was simply downsized. However, thousands of scientists and technicians were out of work. The agency feared the unemployed scientists may have sold their expertise and samples of smallpox to other nations. We believe Bubka may have been the latest to sell out.



“Dr. Ken Alibek, the former deputy chief of Biopreparat, the civilian arm of the Soviet Union's program, stated that the Soviets had been working to genetically alter smallpox virus, and had explored combining it with Venezuelan equine encephalomyelitis and with Ebola virus. The entire thrust of the Soviets' biological warfare program, according to Dr. Alibek, was to develop agents "for which there was no prevention and no cure".



“Additionally, the late Dr. Nelja Maltseva is thought to have given the genetically-altered strain of smallpox to Iraq. However, this was never confirmed and was not used against our troops in either Gulf War.



“The danger has been that suicidal terrorists, if they were able to get hold of the smallpox strain, would infect themselves and walk among us in crowded cities. Once infected, people are contagious for seven to ten days. Even smallpox that has not been genetically altered is still a virus, and viruses do not respond to antibiotics. We questioned if Muslim terrorists would really consider this, knowing it would most likely spread globally. With the rise of Al-Qaeda and ISIS, we no longer have doubts. They believe most practicing Muslims are unfaithful and Allah would save only the truly faithful. Their beliefs dictate all unbelievers should die,” Young said in conclusion.



“Thank you, Marcus,” President Morton said. “Waylon, what do you have?” she asked Federal Bureau of Investigation director, Waylon Platt.



“Madam President, at this time we have two hundred and fifty agents being vaccinated and sent to San Francisco. Agents already in San Francisco have been vaccinated. The first of the dead men to be positively identified is a known jihadist by the name of Abdul Mueed. He was known to be in Afghanistan and Pakistan until nine months ago. At that time, he and a large number of jihadists disappeared. We believe other known jihadists will be identified amongst the dead in San Francisco.



“Mueed entered the country under a false name with a passport issued in Dubai. We have confirmed a number of other false passports from throughout the Middle East, thought to be for Mueed’s companions in the morgue.” Platt continued to account for most of Mueed’s movements during the time he’d been in the United States.



“Thank you, Waylon. All right people, how do we address this?” Bryan Miller asked.



The meeting turned into a fast-paced discussion, the merits of a wide range of ideas debated. It was decided they had to enact isolation and the ring method, though it wasn’t known if the vaccination would be effective. The FBI was tasked with gathering data on everyone who went through the Bay area in the time frame, and coordinating with local authorities and the CDC to enact the isolations. The Council discussed whether schools and public meetings should be curtailed until the crisis was over. The decision to allow them to continue would prove to help spread the virus.



The discussion in regards to the remaining vaccine and how it should be distributed turned contentious. After the heated debate, it was decided a large number of the available doses would be sent to all military bases and National Guard units, even though all troops who’d been deployed to the Middle East had been previously inoculated. Equally imperative, healthcare facilities would receive the vaccine for staff; those personnel must be inoculated first. Governor Bruner was disappointed with the decision, but the vaccine on hand would only go so far. Research for an effective vaccine had to begin immediately with all available resources.



The governor would, in fact, activate the National Guard, after the members were inoculated. Other states would be put on alert.



A major concern to deal with was what to tell the public. At the end of another heated discussion, it was decided to fully inform the populous in order to ensure cooperation with efforts to control the disease. The internet was flooded with misinformation. To counteract it, the President would inform the nation with the truth in a widely broadcast address.



A somber President Morton left the Situation Room with Bryan Miller.



“Ma’am,” Miller said. “You haven’t mentioned your son.”



President Morton took several steps in silence, her face twisted with pain. Her son Johnny and his family had been in San Francisco for the Super Bowl and had attended a number of activities. “He was hospitalized yesterday, along with his son. Cindy is showing symptoms but isn’t in the hospital,” the President said quietly.



They walked without speaking for several more steps before the President said, “This may be the most important speech we’ve ever had to make, Bryan. How do we assure the public we can contain this thing when I feel nothing but dread after that meeting?”



In addition to the nation, the President would address all foreign nations they could feed the speech to. Not only the content of the speech would be important, but the delivery also, in the face of possible chaos.

[bretf]

Chapter 10



Dan sat in the shop lunchroom and read the account of the President’s address from the previous evening. The more he read, the more his hand trembled. His coffee mug was off to the side of the newspaper in a puddle where it’d sloshed when he set it down. A line of coffee on the table and newspaper marked the mug’s passage. And the coffee he’d drank threatened to come back up.



He didn’t want to be there; he’d had plans, after all. But after he read the news report and grasped the implications, he regretted going to the shop at all during the week. It felt like a giant fist was wrapped around his guts and squeezing. It was like a horror movie, only he was in it, not just watching it. It couldn’t be true!



Along with the verbatim account of the President’s address, the front section of the paper contained nothing but stories related to the disease. Despite the heat in the room, Dan was chilled to the bone.



He was so intent on the article and what it meant to everyone at the shop, the story . . . it . . . it . . . The ringing phone made him jump and suck in a sharp breath. His heart pounded in his chest, and when he could breathe again, it was a ragged gasp. He got to his feet, his legs unsteady, and answered the phone after the fifth ring. “Good m. . . morning . . . Robinson . . . Fabrication . . . this is Dan,” he stammered into the phone.



He listened for a bit and sucked in another sharp breath and closed his eyes. The hand not holding the phone receiver grasped the countertop; he needed the extra support. Quietly, he said, “Okay . . . thanks for calling . . . Sharon.” He listened more and said, “Sure, I . . . I’ll let Lee know . . . as soon as I see him.” He listened again while she spoke. “That’s fine Sharon . . . go get the door . . . It must be important for . . . visitors this early . . . You take care now . . . I hope . . . you both get to feeling better . . . bye.” The last sentence was spoken in a whisper.



He hung up the phone and stared at it, his vision blurred, and grasped the countertop with both hands to steady himself. The uneasy feeling spread and threatened to consume him. The unseen fist squeezed tighter. It couldn’t be real; it had to be a bad dream.



“Did you say, Sharon, as in Sean’s wife Sharon?” Matt asked from behind him, making him jump again.



Dan had a sudden intake of breath. He let the breath out slowly while he turned around and stumbled back to his seat. He didn’t trust his legs to hold him up while he answered Matt.



He stared at the bold headline on the front page and said softly, “Yeah . . . that Sharon.” Looking up at Matt, he saw a grim look, certainly mirrored by his own face, and his vision blurred again. Grim acknowledgment it wasn’t a bad dream; it was real. “She . . . she called to say Sean . . . wouldn’t make it in today . . . They think he caught . . . the flu . . . from a guy on the plane . . . out of Frisco, and now . . . she’s coming down with it,” he said and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.



He stared at the indistinct shape of his coffee cup, and with a trembling hand, he picked it up. More coffee sloshed out and he set it back down. He had to look anywhere but the paper and Matt’s face . . . He put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands and said, “God Matt, how could this happen?”



Matt didn’t answer, but walked to the coffee maker, dumped the spent coffee and filter into the trash, put in fresh, and started the second pot. For the second day in a row, he didn’t comment about raw milk as he topped his cup off. After his coffee was the way he liked it, he sat across the table from Dan. Dan looked up when he sat and wiped the tears from his face. Matt’s calm presence was comforting. Matt pointed to the top story in the paper. “Did you watch the President last night?” he asked. “I did, and I didn’t sleep too well afterward.”



“No, I was out in the shop, so no TV or radio,” Dan said. “Lisa and the kids had an activity at church, so the TV was never turned on. I was just reading the story though . . . From what I read, I think we should be quarantined.”



“That’s what I thought too,” Matt said. “Excuse me if I’m out of line here, but since you’ve been around Sean have you and Lisa . . . well . . . you know . . .” Matt trailed off, unable to finish the question.



He didn’t need to finish; Dan had read enough of the report to know what he was alluding to. “Yes,” Dan said in a strangled whisper and sob. “Lisa and I . . .”



They were both quiet for a long minute, before Matt said, “We have to hope Dan. Maybe Sean does just have the flu, not that stuff, and he hasn’t passed it on to any of us . . . So, did Sharon give you any specifics?”



“Well, as I told you, she said they thought he caught the flu from a guy on the plane. Then she said he ached all over and vomited a few times last night, and had a nasty rash. I’d just gotten to the symptoms of the crud in the article when she called.” Dan took a tissue from his pocket and wiped his eyes, looked back down and started reading. He uttered a rare string of obscenities before he read out loud, “Following the incubation period, a sudden onset of flu-like signs and symptoms occurs. These include fever, overall discomfort, headache, severe fatigue, severe back pain, nausea, and vomiting.” He read further and cursed again, and said, “That sounds like Sean. He’s had a fever, headache, and backache the last two days, and now Sharon says he has body aches and is vomiting.”



Larry stepped in through the doorway and looked at them. Dan and Matt’s dark moods were impossible to miss. “Hey guys, whose dog died?” he asked.



“Have you heard any news?” Matt asked him.



“Nah, I was at the basketball games last night with Sean, and the news was over when I got home,” Larry said and looked around. “I didn’t see his car outside, but I didn’t figure he’d make it in this morning. He looked like crap last night and went and puked once. He left before the second game was over, so you know he felt horrible to do that.” Matt and Dan exchanged resigned looks with each other. “And I had a disc playing in the car and haven’t heard any news. Why what’s up?” Larry asked.



“Well, you heard about the weird crap in Frisco, all those dead guys, right?” Matt asked.



Larry said he had, and sat down at the table with a cup of coffee. Dan pushed the newspaper to him and pointed with his shaking finger to the top story.



“You need to read that,” Matt told him.



The phone rang while Larry was reading. Matt stood to answer it, but it was picked up in the office. “Lee must be here,” Matt said. “I guess we’ll get the official word before long.”



Dan had stopped shaking enough he could raise his coffee cup without spilling it, and though it’d gotten cold, he and Matt sat and sipped their coffee in silence. All the color drained from Larry’s face while he read.



More of the crew straggled in, and the phone rang with more calls while they sat and waited for Lee to make an appearance. What conversation there was, was hushed in the room usually boisterous before work. Half the crew was in the lunchroom when Lee emerged from the office. The men were silent and all eyes were on him.



Lee was pale, like most of the crew. He looked at each of them in turn and spoke. “Men, thank you for coming in . . . although after I heard the President’s address . . . I don’t believe any of us should be here.” His voice caught more than once. “I’ve been on the phone at length with the owner . . . Mr. Robinson . . . this morning. It was the second long talk I’ve had with him this week. Thursday afternoon . . . he was in my office, and he told me all about his weekend. He went to the Super Bowl . . . and stayed at the Fairmont.” Lee’s voice caught again, and he wiped at his eyes. “I told him one of the shop guys, Sean, was in that very hotel. We laughed at the chances of that, and he went on to tell me all about it.



“This morning when we talked . . . we didn’t laugh. Mr. Robinson is sick, very sick. Last night he had a couple of visitors from the Centers for Disease Control, and he and his family were quarantined in their home. The CDC people were all decked out in contamination suits. According to the man in charge, the FBI has put together most of the movements of several of the terrorists. One of them in particular worked in food service at the Fairmont.”



Lee stopped talking and dabbed at his eyes before he continued. “The very hotel Mr. Robinson and Sean stayed in. The FBI has recovered aerosol cans that tested positive for the virus inside the ventilation system of the hotel.” Again his voice caught, and he turned away from the crew, held his face in his hands and shook.



The clock on the wall was loud, as Lee regained his composure. When he turned back to face the men, he said, “We all have to go into quarantine. I don’t have any idea what will happen so I guess you should all take your personal tools home, just in case–”



The rest of the sentence went unsaid. The door to the office opened and the receptionist entered, followed by two men in puffy blue body suits and helmets. The lead man did a fast survey of the crew. “It looks obvious you know why I’m here. My name is Frank Jeffries. I am with the Centers for Disease Control. This facility has been exposed to the virus from two separate sources, with continued exposure from Mr. Sean Jackson. Last night, and this morning, we have confirmed both men have contracted the virus. This facility will be sealed off, and each of you required to go into isolation. We ask you to do this voluntarily, but we will do forced containment if it becomes necessary. Voluntary isolation would be in your best interest. You will be confined to the comfort of your own home. If you refuse to comply, you will be detained in a holding area with other people who refuse. I want you to think hard about that. The odds of contracting this disease increase dramatically if you are held with other people who have been exposed.” He watched them for a reaction. It looked like a good group of people who could be reasoned with, but nothing was ever certain. Most of them stared at him with a look of resignation, a couple nodded. He breathed easier when he didn’t see defiance on any of the faces.



“All right, I’m glad you all understand. I need each of you to fill out these forms.” Jeffries opened the bag he had slung over his shoulder and removed a stack of papers. It looked awkward with the gloves he wore. “Please take one and pass the stack on,” he said and placed the stack at the end of the table. Reaching back into the bag, he removed a packet of pens and set them with the stack of forms. When he walked to the table, Dan noticed the man’s companion was holding a pistol in his right hand. Evidently, they didn’t expect the news to be handled well everywhere they went.



Jeffries continued to address the men. “The most effective weapon at hand to battle this virus is through isolation of everyone exposed, as well as isolation of anyone they have been in contact with. You need to write down everywhere you have been, as well as the names of everyone you have made personal contact with this week, their addresses if possible, and where the contact was made. Consider if you’ve had contact with another person and they catch it, the disease spreads that much faster. The form has space for you to write down anything you think might be relevant, and if you run out of space, turn the paper over and write on the back side.



“Until the crisis is over, you cannot go to a store to pick up food or supplies. Doing so would expose more people. Your needs will be taken care of. In addition, you and everyone you had contact with will be given smallpox vaccine. It is imperative everyone who has been exposed to have no further contact with other people. Failure to cooperate will result in instant incarceration.”



“Sir,” Larry said. “Uh, I was with Sean the last two evenings, you know, the guy who was at the Super Bowl. He’s, well, uh, he called in sick today. But I guess you know that. But anyway, well, for the last two nights, we, uh, well, we were in a gymnasium packed with people for a basketball tournament.”



“Oh Jesus,” Jefferies muttered, shaking his head. “Can this get any worse?” He glanced at the man with him and sighed loudly.



Jefferies turned back to address the men. “You will each receive follow up visits at your home, once all the information you have provided is entered into the national database. At the home visit, you and your family will receive your vaccine, and you may be asked for more information on your activities for the last week. Your family will also be asked to provide information about their contacts this past week.” He turned away, shaking his head and muttered, “A basketball tournament, oh Lord, help us.”



Dan and Matt were the last from the shop to leave. Matt helped Dan load his tools, and then Dan returned the favor. They looked at the shop for a minute without speaking, before Dan said, “Matt, you know you’re like a brother to me. You always said you’d come over to my place when the stuff hit the fan, so why don’t you come now. I’m going to camp out in the shop until it’s safe to be around Lisa and the kids. We can set up a cot for you too. It would beat staying at your apartment by yourself. Two-person card games beat solitaire.”



Matt kept looking at the shop and cleared the lump in his throat. “Thanks, I appreciate it, but I’ll have to turn you down. You heard the man. I work a lot closer to Sean than you, so if one of us was to get sick, it's more likely to be me. I wouldn’t want to give it to you if he didn’t.”



They stood silent again and stared at the building. Matt broke the spell first. “I better be going. Take care, buddy. Your family needs you.”



“You take care yourself. I still have a couple of good fishing holes I haven’t shown you yet.” Dan grasped his friend and fought the tears that threatened to burst out. “Stay well, brother.” He stood and watched Matt back out of the parking lot and drive away.



Dan walked back to the lunchroom and sat down, taking the notepad and pen from their spot by the phone. After he had a list of items written down, he called home. “Hey, Sweetheart,” he said when Lisa answered. The term had none of the enthusiasm it usually had when Dan used it.



“What’s up, Babe? You don’t sound good,” she said.



“No, it’s not good, not at all,” Dan said and went on to explain the morning. “I can’t be around you and the kids until we know I’m not contagious. I’ll be staying in the shop for the duration, so I need you to set it up for me before I get home. I’ll need food, water, a bed; you know, everything for me to camp out until this blows over.” He listened for a bit and considered what else he might need. Direct communication would be out, so he decided he’d rely on the FRS, the Family Radio Service radios, the small, improved walkie-talkies, and asked her to get one out for him with fresh batteries. After listening again, he said, “Definitely, the camp toilet, and –”



“Sir, I have to ask you to leave. You’re the last one, and we’ve got everything sealed up but the side door.”



Dan looked up from his list and spoke into the phone, “Hang on for a bit, Hon.”



He looked up at the man in the blue suit – he’d given his name, hadn’t he? Dan was sure he had, but he’d had trouble concentrating ever since he’d sat down to read the paper. He looked up at the blue suit. The light reflected off the plastic face shield. There might not even be a real person in there, Dan thought. He looked a moment more, willing it to be a person, a real person, with real feelings and emotions behind the reflection. Dan had never thought of the lunchroom lights as harsh before, but when he saw the light reflected by the impersonal plastic face shield in the blue suit, it was.



“Please,” he said, though he thought it was hopeless. “I’ve got my wife on the phone. I’m asking her to get my shop set up for me so . . . so I don’t have to be around her . . .” Dan broke down and sobbed. He could care less if Blue Suit saw. “So I won’t be around her . . . and my kids,” Dan choked out. “I need a couple more minutes . . . Please.”



#



Behind the mask, Frank Jeffries looked at the man and closed his eyes. He pictured his own wife meeting him at the door after a hard day. And his daughter Rebecca. She tried to be indifferent since she was in high school – but when she was younger, she greeted him with more enthusiasm than her mother did. And the boys. Since he’d become a teenager, Josh was also growing indifferent when Frank got home at the end of the workday, but Ben, still young and gentle was always happy to see him.



He didn’t know when he would see them again, maybe not for weeks. What if he were in the same position as the man before him? Quarantined and concerned he would contaminate his family.



The impassive plastic mask looked down at the shop worker’s face, wet with tears running down it. The man was unashamed to expose himself; to show his love and concern for his family. Frank Jeffries, the man inside the impassive blue suit said softly, “Take as much time as you need, sir.”



“Thank you, I’ll only be a couple more minutes,” the man murmured. Speaking back into the phone, he said, “Okay Sweetheart, where were we?”



#



Chad was standing at the corner of the carport with a concerned look on his face when his dad drove in and parked his pickup truck. “Dad . . .” he said, unsure what to say. All thoughts of the day’s trip to Hamilton had evaporated.



“You better step away Chad, just in case,” his dad told him



After Chad did as he was told, Dan got out of the pickup and looked at his family, all watching him. Chad had moved closer to his mom and sisters where they stood at the back step and followed Dan’s movements with puffy, red eyes. Tears ran down Lisa, Brooke, and Alison’s faces.



“Hey guys, thanks for setting up my new apartment for me. I guess I’ll have to skip Valentine’s Day festivities with you tomorrow, but I’ll be thinking of you,” Dan said.



Lisa made a choking sound, and said, “Forget Valentine’s Day. You can show me you love me every day after you walk out of the shop healthy when this is all over.” More tears ran down her cheeks.



They stood and stared at each other for a minute, and another minute, in silence. Dan pulled his eyes away first and looked in the pickup. The tools could stay. The shell was watertight, and it was under the carport. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d need anything out of the toolbox any time soon. There was no reason to leave his lunchbox, though. He would still need to eat, if he could anyway after the morning he’d had. He got the lunchbox and went to the door of the shop and stopped.



“Chad, you’ve got to be the man of the house,” Dan said. “Once I go in the shop, I can’t come out until we know I’m not contagious. You’ll have to take care of my part of the chores. I wish I could help, but I know you can handle it. I’ve got all the faith in the world in you. Help your mom out and watch out for your sisters.”



Dan stood uncomfortably, looking at the people he loved more than anything and fought down the urge to go pull them all into a tight embrace. He hadn’t gone into isolation yet and he already missed them terribly. “I’d better get inside,” he said over the lump in his throat. He turned and walked into the shop. The door closing sounded too loud.



The room was comfortable despite the outside cold. The fire was going in the woodstove and had taken the chill from the air. Dan looked around. Lisa and the kids had set the room up to be a decent apartment in the short time they had. As he scanned the shop and its contents, he couldn’t think of anything else he needed. Except for his family. His heart ached for them.



A noise at the door drew his attention. Lisa stood at the other side, her face pressed against the glass. Dan crossed the space to the door and held one hand flat against the glass pane. Lisa matched it. Dan pressed his face against the glass directly in line with hers. They stood that way, their faces pressed together, yet separated by the pane of glass as tears tracked down their faces.

[CountryGuy]

Damn good story and scary as hell.

[bretf]

THANK YOU, COUNTRY GUY!


Chapter 11



Dan had never endured longer days in his life. He did get a few minutes of relief though when a woman blue suit showed up the first full day he spent in the shop. She provided the only direct human contact he had. It wasn’t face to face of course, with hers hidden behind the plastic shield and her voice muffled by the suit, but it was better than solitary confinement. She’d already inoculated Lisa and the kids and got the information on everyone they’d been in contact with. She inoculated him, and although he’d provided details on all his contacts since Sean's return the previous day, she asked if he’d thought of anyone else he may have missed. Then she was gone mere minutes after she’d arrived and he was alone.



Each day dragged on at an unbearably slow pace. He would sit or stand in front of the window and watch his family do the chores and long to help. Chad had added morning milking to his duties and continued to make sure the greenhouse was tended. The girls did their chicken chores. Lisa helped them with the firewood, dumping a wheelbarrow load daily in front of the door to the shop, and after she was gone, Dan would move it inside, safe from the weather. He ached to go outside and take the wheelbarrow handles from her, or go to the barn and encourage Chad while he milked the cow. Instead, he stayed alone and lonely.



Lisa talked to him over the FRS radio daily. She filled him in on the details of the visit from the blue suits, how the kids were doing, what they'd eaten for dinner. And she always told him how much they all missed him.



On the fourth day of confinement, Dan decided the camp cot was a crummy bed to sleep on too many nights in a row. Instead of getting used to it, he got up with a backache. By noon, he had a headache to go with it.



He pulled out the paper from Blue Suit - he still couldn’t remember the man’s name - and re-read it. The main things he got out of the treatment section were to remain hydrated and take acetaminophen for fever. He made tea from dried elderberries, seasoned the drink with honey and cinnamon and sipped it constantly throughout the afternoon and evening. It was accompanied by acetaminophen at regular intervals. By early evening, he ached all over and was running a fever.



His ringing cell phone jerked him out of his stupor. Matt’s shaky voice was on the other end. “Hey buddy, how’s it going over there?”



“Not so good. I think I’ve got it,” Dan said. “It came on today. When I read the papers those guys gave us, everything fits. I guess I need to call and let them know. What about you; you doing okay?”



Matt didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was tremulous. “No man, I’m not okay. I started to feel wrong last night, and it’s hitting me hard.”



“Can you drive?” Dan asked. “If you can, you need to get over here. We don’t have to worry that you’ll give it to me. I have it, too. Maybe if we help each other out, we’ll have a better chance.”



“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Dan. That’d be two sick people around your family instead of one,” Matt said.



“They’re staying away from me and I’m totally isolated in the shop. I have a lot of my home remedies, and you know they always help out with a cold or the flu. You don’t have anything like that at your place. So come on, get over here. I’ll set up a second cot.”



It took more coaxing before Matt gave in. He knew he should stay at his apartment, but the last few days had literally driven him up the wall. Besides, when he died, and he was certain it was going to happen, he wanted his best friend to know. He didn’t want to die alone in an apartment, undetected for who knew how long.



He sent an email to the contact on the paper the blue suits had given him to let them know what he was doing. The computer alerted him he had a new email within a minute, but he ignored it and shut his computer down. He was sure they’d ordered him to stay in place. He picked up his bag and left before they could intercept him.



Dan had a cot with bedding, elderberry and honey tea, and Tylenol ready for him when Matt arrived. He also had a disgusting concoction he’d made from vodka, elderberries, red clover blossoms, and old man’s beard tree moss. It was horrid, but they both choked down a double-shot. They settled into camp chairs facing the woodstove, comforted by the companionship although they both felt miserable. They were jerked from their quiet conversation when both their cell phones received a text. It was from Lee to everyone in the shop. “Guys, I’m sick. Sharon Jackson and the girls are bed-ridden. Sean passed away this morning.”



Dan stared at his screen, while Matt slammed his hand down on the nearby workbench and cussed the terrorists. When Matt had calmed, Dan keyed the mike on the FRS radio and gave Lisa the news, trying without success not to cry.

[bretf]

Chapter 12

“TEN-HUT!” The marine corporal snapped as he swung the door open and stood at attention while the President entered the Situation Room. The National Security Council was gathered for the second time since the dead terrorists had been discovered in San Francisco.



The President took her seat and addressed the members of the Council. “Before we proceed with the meeting, an update on Vice President Anderson is in order. He is on life-support in Walter Reed and is not expected to survive the day. In addition, Secretary of State Phelps is hospitalized with symptoms of the disease.” The room was quiet as the members digested the news.



Bryan Miller broke the silence. “Governor Bruner has closed all schools and universities and canceled all sporting events in the state of California. He gave consideration to closing all stores, but malls are deserted, both in California and the rest of the country. Stores that sell food are a completely different matter.



“Panic buying at supermarkets and resultant shortages are occurring across the nation. Rumors of possible closures, consumers stocking up so they won’t have to go out, and shortages of truckers due to illness and reluctance to venture out, all contribute to the problem. The delivery system has nearly ground to a halt. In addition to supermarkets, gun stores are also selling out,” Miller added grimly.



He nodded and a news clip appeared on the video screens. Thomas Peterson, the governor of Texas, was shown. He announced the suspension of all travel between “the Republic of Texas” and the surrounding states and Mexico. He urged all governors in the US to follow suit. He stated it was up to the individual states to stop the spread of the disease, as the federal government was either unable or unwilling to stop it. As a result of that failure, Texas had no choice but to exert its legal right and secede from the United States.



The video stopped, and Miller continued, “The lack of vaccine, at least an effective vaccine, and actions by states to stop the epidemic has led to serious economic disruption and civil unrest in every major city.” He looked at President Morton and nodded that he was finished.



“That is very troubling Bryan,” The President said. She turned to Waylon Platt. “Waylon, what do you have?”



The FBI director glanced at his notes, and said, “Nothing good, Ma’am. We’ve received reports of people with dark complexions who appear to be Arab-Americans being assaulted on the streets. Four mosques have been defaced and three more burned in the last twenty-four hours alone. Yesterday, four youths in downtown Atlanta were shot dead, apparently because they looked Middle Eastern.”



“Americans killing Americans; as if we don’t have enough problems,” Miller said. “Where are we with the investigation in San Francisco?”



“In San Francisco, we have linked most of the original men found dead to Al-Qaeda and ISIS. However, the investigation has slowed dramatically as the majority of agents in the metro area are ill.” He shook his head and added, “And tracking down all possible carriers who were in the Bay area is a staggering, if not impossible task.”



“Our operatives in the Middle East agree with the terrorist links,” Marcus Young said. “Scores of jihadists dropped off the radar to participate in this operation. Also, our assets have confirmed Sergei Bubka is in Syria, although we have not been able to pinpoint his exact location. All evidence points to Bubka and a strain of the disease he engineered in Russia is what we face. In addition, Syria has vaccinated their military and the ruling party.”



The President closed her eyes, lowered her head and rubbed her forehead. When she looked back up, her eyes shot daggers at Director Young. “Marcus, I want that man’s exact whereabouts, and I want the vaccine the Syrians are using. Do I make myself clear?”



Young met the stare. He hadn’t achieved his position by being timid, especially around women. He nodded and answered, “Crystal clear, ma’am. Oh, and one more thing,” he said as if it was an afterthought. “The Russians are known to have a stockpile of traditional smallpox vaccine, but it hasn’t been made available. However, they are inoculating their leadership, military and health facility personnel, with an unknown vaccine.”



The President’s stare intensified at the audacity of the man. “I want that vaccine; it is imperative we get it!” she stated and slammed her palm down on the table while she glared at him. She held Young’s gaze for a full minute before she redirected her stare to CDC Director Rick Jordan. “Director Jordan, your turn, and please have something positive to report.”



“Madam President, I’m afraid positive news is hard to come by. The only thing I have anywhere close is one team working to find a vaccine thinks they have made progress with blood samples from the few survivors. But this thing spreads too fast for proper research and testing. The team has done limited tests on patients with high exposure levels to the disease. The test vaccine kills as many as it saves. That sums up all of the positive news I can share.”



The “good news” over, Jordan continued. “This virus is distinctive; it doesn’t act like anything we’ve ever seen before. It manifests itself like smallpox, but it spreads easier and faster. With traditional smallpox, a person had to show symptoms following the incubation period before they became contagious. This virus does not follow that pattern. It appears to be contagious during all stages. It’s like smallpox on steroids.



“As of this morning, two hundred thousand people have been reported dead and more than one million are known to be infected in all fifty states. Besides the United States, the epidemic is confirmed in more than one hundred fifty countries. Those countries are asking for the vaccine, which, of course, we cannot provide. Health care personnel report the disease kills ninety-five percent of the people who contract it. The current vaccine has shown effectiveness in fourteen percent of reported cases. Hospitals everywhere are overwhelmed; employees refuse to report for work or have contracted the disease despite being inoculated. Vaccination sites are overwhelmed by thousands of people demanding vaccine.” Director Jordan sighed heavily and flipped his notebook closed.



Before Miller or the President could ask for a report from anyone else, National Security Advisor Steve Williams spoke up. “Due to the overwhelming number of people who demand vaccine, violence has broken out at the vaccination sites. Two sites have been destroyed by riots. The National Guard units and police are unable to contain the violence. They suffer from the same staffing difficulties as hospitals.



“The federal government is widely criticized from all quarters for failure to have an adequate supply of smallpox vaccine on hand. It wouldn’t matter if we did. As Director Jordan stated, the genetic strain is resistant to the vaccine. Still, criticism is coming from all fronts, Governor Peterson the most vocal.



“The lone pharmaceutical company capable of producing smallpox vaccine says at most, it can produce five million doses per month if all FDA regulations are waived.



“Most countries have closed their borders. The southern border of the United States is a killing ground. A reverse migration is underway due to the epidemic. Instead of immigrants entering our country, they flee in droves. The border has become high security for Mexico. Mexican troops shoot and kill anyone entering their country.”



“Ma’am, if I may, I would like to clarify certain things for you,” Attorney General Elaine Birch said. “The Stafford Act, the Posse Comitatus Act, the Federal Quarantine Law, the Insurrection Act, and Martial Law are all laws designed to invoke federal authority in the case of a national emergency. Among other things, the laws allow you to declare a national emergency and use military troops to quell civil disturbances. Additionally, they authorize the forced inoculation and isolation of anyone who could spread the disease, travel restrictions, and disposal of bodies in ways contrary to religious or personal beliefs. It would not be popular, but you may suspend habeas corpus, arrest without due process, and curtail other liberties as needed.”



“Thank you, Elaine. We may be past that point,” President Morton said. “Director Richter, we haven’t heard from you,” the President said to FEMA director Monte Richter.



“Madam President, most of what I have, has been addressed by others, so what I say may be redundant. “Health care facilities have become nonfunctional in many communities due to overcrowding and worker shortages. At least fifty hospitals have closed their doors in California. National Guard troops are providing security at hospitals in forty-three states, though they are short on manpower. The Guard is delivering food and critical supplies where they are still able. Many states have prohibited public gatherings, restricted transportation, and closed airports.”



“Anything else to add?” The President looked around the table. When no one responded, she said, “So what are we going to do?”



Alan Brown spoke first. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had been silent up to that point. “We lock down all the bases,” the general stated.



“General, please explain,” Miller said.



The general thought it should be self-explanatory. “We have to maintain a powerful military. We can’t allow our armed forces to be weakened while the rest of the country is vulnerable. If that happens, we’ll be a sitting duck. Numerous entities would love nothing more than to take a shot at us when we’re weak. We can withstand a few hits, but if we’re weakened too much, we will fail. It is imperative we remain strong.”



“So you advocate we let the rest of the nation suffer? The reports we’ve had indicate the troops are needed to maintain order domestically. The police and National Guard are out of resources and being overwhelmed,” Birch said.



A heated discussion ensued. The President stopped it by ordering the General to lock down all overseas bases, but prepare domestic troops for peace-keeping duties at home. The General didn’t look pleased.



After further discussion, the council decided to leave the quarantine issues and control of the National Guard units in the hands of the states, unless the federal government was requested to step in. At that point, control would be transferred to FEMA.



A knock on the door interrupted the meeting. The marine allowed a man to give a memo to Director Young. He read the paper, then said, “Syria has evacuated the area around a suspected bioresearch facility near Salhab. Activity at the facility appears normal, however, a ten-mile radius around it has been abandoned.” The group needed little discussion to determine the meaning of the action.



The talk returned to how best to deal with the virus and stopping its spread. It was contentious; everyone had strong opinions about what should be done. They were all powerful people accustomed to having their way.



At the close of the meeting, Marcus Young left the room with a number of assignments. It was imperative they find Sergei Bubka’s exact location and ascertain what the Salhab facility produced. He was also tasked with determining if the Syrian government had any accountability for Bubka’s presence in the country. In addition, Young’s people were to obtain samples of the Russian and Syrian vaccine. He asked if he should also discover the long searched for formula to turn lead into gold while he was at it. That might be easier to accomplish in two days.



The comments drew more intense glares from the President. “Don’t push it Marcus!” she snarled. “I want results, not whining. I can still fire your ass if you’re not man enough to perform your job!”



Brown’s duties were no less daunting. Not only were his troops to begin peace-keeping duties, but they would also man depleted supply lines. He shook his head in resignation. He also had two additional assignments. He was to formulate plans for a strike on Syria. The first option was for a surgical strike on the facility where Bubka was located. The second option was more drastic. If the government was found to be culpable, it was time to give the world a lesson. It would have to be more memorable than Iraq and Afghanistan. A response would be required to make even the most militant group stop and reconsider before deciding to screw with the United States, even in her weakened state.



The final assignment was a re-visit of plans the country had worked on and updated time and again since the end of World War II: The Russian menace. All evidence pointed to their biological weapons as the source. It could have been a rogue researcher, or it could all have been a smokescreen and they were ready to attempt what they hadn’t attempted during the cold war. It was too coincidental they appeared to have a vaccine but chose not to make it available.



Miller’s staff was to craft a strongly worded statement to the Russians. Their response would be key to Brown’s planning. Bryan Miller was on edge when he left the meeting. As if the crisis the nation faced wasn’t enough, the statement had to be forceful, but not touch off World War III. Added to that, his staff had to prepare a speech for the President. President Morton would address the nation in two hours. They had to relate the gravity of the crisis, appeal for all Americans to remain calm and work together to defeat the virus, and heed the advice of their elected leaders and health officials.



Three hours later, a somber President Morton left the Press Room. Miller joined her and they walked down the hall together. “You know Bryan when we did that parody video “Between Two Ferns with Zach Galifianakis”; I feel he asked me the wrong question near the end.”



“Ma’am, what question was that?” Miller asked.



The President didn’t answer the question. Instead, she said, “Why did this have to happen on my watch? Why couldn’t Trump have had to deal with it?”



“Ma’am, we can get through this,” Miller said. “I’ll admit things look grim, but we’ll pull through.”



“I’m not so sure Bryan. Anyway, the question Zach asked. It wasn’t ‘what is it like being the first woman President?’ Instead, he asked ‘what it’s like being the last woman President?’ The way things are going, maybe he should have asked me what it’s like being the last President, period.”

[bretf]

Chapter 13



Chad walked towards the shop and paused, hoping to see his dad through the window. He was disappointed yet again. It’d been two days, two long days since he’d seen his dad. The three days prior, Chad saw him looking out nearly every time he walked past and they’d talked when his dad moved his firewood inside. But since the day Matt showed up, nothing had been visible. He peered at the window and didn’t see any movement inside the building or his dad’s face near the window.



Earlier in the day Matt arrived, his dad made a request that hadn’t sunk into Chad at the time. He’d asked for numerous wheelbarrow loads of firewood to be dumped at the shop door, enough to last him up to two weeks or longer. And when he moved the firewood inside, he insisted no one be anywhere near. Chad watched from the house, yearning to help him, but his dad’s orders held him in place.



That was the last time he’d seen his dad; when he’d carried the final block of firewood inside and closed the door behind him. Later that evening, his mom told him his dad and Matt were both very sick. He hadn’t seen a flicker of movement through the shop window since, not one. But at least smoke still came from the chimney.



For Chad, his routine was nearly normal, but it felt like much had changed in the past few days. He did his chores and school lessons like before, but neither he nor anyone else ever left home. Although he’d always liked their home and the things he did there, it was different being required to stay. They didn’t get together with the other homeschoolers and participate in group activities or go to the library. It was like being in a labor camp and he hated it.



But the worst change was the hole left by his dad’s absence, and he hated it most of all. They didn’t discuss their respective days after Dad got home from work, do the chores together, and work on any of the innumerable projects which accompanied warmer weather.



He continued to the barn, milk bucket in hand, wishing his dad could’ve been outside with him to enjoy the day. It’d been a wonderful day after the cold spell they’d endured and his dad loved the season's change when winter’s icy grip was broken. The days were warmer, the nighttime freezes not as hard, and green shoots were popping up on the south side of buildings. Chad and the girls had taken advantage of the warming trend and put seeds in the flats in the greenhouse the day after the quarantine started. It was strange doing it without their dad.



As he walked, he looked around and saw so much more that needed to be done since the weather had warmed, and it would be up to him to do it. The boy looked back at the shop with a twinge in his chest. It would be impossible to fill his dad’s shoes.



Chad stopped as an idea came to him. If his dad couldn’t go to the greenhouse, maybe he could take the greenhouse to him. Earlier in the day, he’d made sure everything inside it was all right. Fragile seedlings were visible in one bed and new shoots were busting out on the plants they’d overwintered. His dad would be happy to know what was going on, even if he couldn’t see any of it. Chad would make up a pot of plants and put it at the shop door for him. It might cheer him and Matt up to see green, growing plants; it was certain to cheer his dad, anyway. He’d do it right after he finished with the cows.



Chad did his chores as fast as he could and went to the house and set the milk bucket on the counter. His mom wasn’t in the kitchen, but he knew she’d take care of the milk when she saw it. Besides, he had a job to do. He hurried out to the greenhouse.



The salad greens they’d overwintered looked vibrant with the warmer weather. They were straining for the sunlight, and flush with new growth after months of little activity. Chad filled a wide pot with moist soil and transplanted a clump of spinach into the center of it. It was crowded, but he added four rosettes of corn salad around the spinach. Brushing the dirt off his hands, he stepped back and scrutinized his work. While not an arrangement a florist would ever make, he knew his dad would like it.



He set the pot up outside the shop door, using a block of firewood as a pedestal. He looked it over again, and satisfied with his work, knocked on the door, and retreated to the back steps of the house to wait.



The wait was long enough he questioned his decision to disturb his dad. He must be asleep or really sick to take so long to get to the door. When the door swung open, Chad gulped and wished he could take back the last few minutes; he never should’ve knocked.



His dad swayed, unsteady on his feet. One hand clutched the door, and the other was pressed against the door jamb. He was flushed red with fever, and his face and hands were covered in darker red splotches. His jaw shifted around like the inside of his mouth hurt, and he raised the tissue in his right hand to dab at his nose. The movement was gentle like his nose was tender to the touch.



Dan looked at his son, confusion evident on his face. Chad fought the urge to cry at the sight. His mom talked to his dad over the radio and told Chad he was sick, but Chad hadn’t imagined him in the state he was in, so much worse than he’d ever pictured. Why did I have to knock on that door, he demanded to himself. It shouldn’t have been too hard to figure out his dad was in rough shape. Sniffing loud, he pointed to the pot and said, “Dad, I’m . . . I’m sorry. I . . . I didn’t realize you were so sick or I never would’ve disturbed you. But I . . . I made up that pot of greens for you. I thought you’d like it,” he said.



Dan looked down, recognition slowly registering on his face. His dad looked stronger at that moment and stood a little straighter. Dan looked back at Chad with liquid eyes and said, “Thank you, son. This is just what I needed today. It’s perfect.” He bent over with careful movements and picked up the pot. He gave Chad one more look, and said in a cracking voice, “This is worth more than you can ever know. I love you, son.” He turned away, stepped carefully into the shop, and pushed the door closed with his hip.



Chad stood on the step and stared at the closed door, no longer able to hold his tears back. His voice shook as he whispered, "I love you, too, Dad.”



His dad had always been so strong, able to do anything. But he looked like a different person. He was weak, vulnerable, and helpless. It didn’t seem possible he could be in such a state. Tears ran down Chad’s cheeks and he wiped them away with his jacket sleeve. He had to be strong, not stand around bawling. His dad needed him to do what he couldn’t. No one else could do it, and letting his dad down was unacceptable. He sniffed loudly, steeled himself and went in the house.



The milk bucket was untouched on the counter where he’d left it. He got a clean jar out of the cupboard, put the strainer cloth across it, and started pouring the milk through. The girls were at the table, each bent over a coloring book with crayons scattered around. “Hey Ali, Brooke, do you know where Mom is?” he asked.



Brooke looked up and said, “She went to her bedroom and told us to color or read. We asked her to come and color with us, but she said she couldn’t.” Brooke picked up the red crayon and went back to working on her picture.



When he had the milk in the refrigerator, and everything rinsed and put away, Chad walked towards his parents' bedroom. “Mom, do you know if we have any pruning shears that aren’t in the shop? I know Dad would be working on the fruit trees if he could, so I wanted to start prun –” He froze when he stepped into the hallway and saw the doorway to the bedroom. It was covered over with plastic. The hum of a fan came from deeper in the room, but he couldn’t see it through the milky surface. He had no way to know it was in front of an open window, pushing the air from the room, away from the rest of the house where the kids were.



“Mom, wha, what’s going on? What is all this?” he asked, his voice shaky. He was still off-balance from seeing his dad so transformed and had no idea what to make of the doorway. He didn’t know whether he should wait for his mom or run and hide in his bedroom.



His mom appeared from her bathroom, indistinct through the plastic. “Chad, honey, I should have thought of this sooner. I’m so sorry I didn’t. But I need to stay away from you and the girls. This, well . . . you know I was . . . closer physically . . . to your father, and well . . . from what I've read and heard on the news, it’s possible he was contagious.” Lisa was glad the plastic obscured her face so Chad couldn’t see it redden at the mention of their physical closeness. She hoped he didn’t ask for further explanation. That’d be too awkward. “So I need to stay away from you and the girls just in case. If I do get the virus, it's less likely you kids will catch it from me this way.”



His voice filled with anguish, Chad said, “No, Mom, not you, too!” he wailed. He pictured his dad, holding the door to stand up, and his eyes flooded with tears.



“I hope I don’t get it, honey, but it’s a possibility we have to consider. I feel fine, but your dad did too, right up until it hit him. So we need to discuss a very important matter. I really don’t want to put this on your shoulders, but we need to take precautions. I need you to take care of the girls. Until we know I’m safe to be around, I need you to carry even more of the load.”



“MOM, NO!” His face was stark with despair.



“Chad, honey,” Lisa said, trying to keep her voice steady, and not let her fear show. “I have to tell you what a wonderful job you’ve been doing since Dad went into isolation. I’m so proud of you, and I know your Dad is, too.”



Chad wiped at his face, and in a soft voice said, “I saw him a little while ago, you know. I planted a pot with stuff from the greenhouse for him. I thought it might cheer him up. When he opened the door and stood there . . .” he sobbed before he continued, “I almost didn’t recognize him . . . He . . . he’s not going to get better, is he? I’ve read a lot about it on the internet.” Chad sniffed and looked back at his mom. He longed to see her face clearly. “And now you might get it too.” He sobbed louder.



“Oh, honey, I hate to admit it, but, well, yes. Your dad is getting worse. But you know when you get sick, you always get worse before you can get better. And well, we have no way to know if he’ll get better or not. And because he’s getting sicker, that’s why I have to do this, in case I get it too. And that’s why I need you to take care of your sisters and everything else. We all need you to be strong, honey. You can do anything that needs to be done here. Yes, you’re young, but you know how to do all of it. I know you can do it. If anything comes up you aren’t sure of, well, I’m right here. I know you can do it. Will you?”



Chad wiped his eyes and in a soft voice said, “I guess I’ll have to . . . won’t I.”



“Thank you, honey,” his mom said, softly. “Now, please go get your sisters.”



He returned moments later with Alison and Brooke.



“Mom, what’s this in your door? I can’t see you very well,” Alison said.



“How do I get through this? I want to see it from the other side,” Brooke chimed in, pushing a finger against the plastic.



“Girls, I need you to stop and listen please,” Lisa said. “This is to keep me apart from you. You know how Dad went into the shop to stay away from us so we wouldn’t get sick? Well, I might get sick too, so I can’t be around you guys until we know for sure. So, no Brooke, you can’t come into the bedroom. Now, I want to be sure you understand; you can’t come in and I can’t come out.”



“But how are you going to read us our bedtime story?” Brooke asked.



Alison added, “Who's going to make supper?”



“That’s the next thing I wanted to talk to you about,” their mother said. “Chad will do those things instead of me. You have to listen to him and do what he says as you’d do for your father and me.”



“But he’s not our dad,” Alison said with a snort.



“No, he’s not, but until Dad and I are back with you, you girls have to mind Chad like he was Dad. All right?” Lisa said.



“Okay, I guess. Can I go color now?” Brooke asked.



Lisa assented, and the twins left Chad standing alone in front of the plastic covered doorway.



“I’ll be right here, honey, if you need to talk through anything. I probably won’t get sick, and this will just be a precaution,” she tried to reassure him.



Chad didn’t believe what she said, not after seeing his dad, and didn’t think she did either.



“Chad,” the girls called in unison from the kitchen. “We’re hungry.”



He sighed and looked at the shadowed form of his mom through the plastic, turned, and walked to the kitchen with slumped shoulders.



#



Lisa’s eyes followed her son’s retreating shape. Earlier, when he went out to do the chores, he’d been a capable, determined young man. At the time, although she was buoyed by what she saw, her heart longed for her innocent little boy. It tore her apart to place more burdens on him.



He was very mature for thirteen, but that was the kicker, he was only thirteen. The virus was robbing him of his innocence and forcing him to grow up too fast. To judge by the timbre of his voice, the determination she’d seen earlier was gone, replaced by fear; he was a scared boy who needed comforting she couldn’t provide. Instead, she had to ask even more of him. It was crucial for the family that he rise up and assume the duties of not one, but both parents. He was so young . . . but if he couldn’t step up, then what?



“Oh girls,” she murmured. “Please do what he says and don’t fight with him.”



She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Again, she wished she could hold and comfort him.



She needed to tell him more, yet without seeing his face clearly, she knew he was feeling overwhelmed, so she’d held back. She hadn’t voiced her greatest fear. What if this horrible . . . stuff . . . left him and the girls orphans, or worse, only spared the girls. She couldn’t make him face that possibility, not yet anyway.



#



Dan stared at the pot of plants he’d placed near Matt’s cot. His wet sleeve jolted his mind back to what he was doing. He removed the dripping washcloth from the bucket of cold water, wrung it, and folded it into a strip. With the utmost care, he wiped Matt’s face and laid the cloth across his forehead.



Matt’s eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. “Thanks, buddy,” he croaked out. Dan had to strain to hear.



“Sure. Now, I want you to open your eyes and try to sit up.”



“I can’t man,” Matt rasped.



“I’ll help you,” Dan said, and put his hands behind Matt’s back and lifted. Dan had to do all the work. Matt was too weak to help and it was all Dan could do to raise him. When Matt was upright, Dan’s left arm remained at Matt’s back, supporting him. Dan said, “I’ve got more Tylenol and elixir for you.” The tablets had been smashed to a powder, and along with a crushed multi-vitamin, were stirred into a spoonful of applesauce. Dan spoon fed his friend as he’d done for his kids when they were small. He took the spoon away and tipped a mug of sweetened elderberry tea to Matt’s mouth to wash it down. After a couple of painful swallows, Matt raised a hand to stop him. Dan lowered the mug, wishing he could get Matt to drink more. “Now a shot of elixir.”



Matt’s face, already in a grimace of pain, tightened more. “That stuff’s horrid.”



“Yep,” Dan said and dribbled it slowly into Matt’s mouth. Less than half was down when he coughed, spewing most of it out.



“Can you open your eyes?” Dan asked.



Matt’s eyes opened; mere slits.



“I want you to see what Chad did for us,” Dan said. Can you stay up if I let go?” A slight nod of Matt’s head was the answer.



Dan held the flowerpot in front of him. “Look at this, buddy. He made it up for us. You see that? It’s alive and growing. You’ve got to be like these plants. They fought and struggled all winter, and now they’ve shaken it off and are growing again. You can fight this Matt. You can get through it.”



Matt’s eyes closed again, and he groaned. “I don’t think so. I’m going downhill fast.” The words were a little easier to hear after the tea, but only a bit. What strength he had mustered failed, and he fell back onto the cot before Dan could set the pot down and help support him.



“Let me get you some broth,” Dan said. He took the saucepan of chicken broth from the woodstove’s top and checked the temperature. It was too hot, so he mixed a little in a bowl with an equal amount from a jar on the workbench. Dan picked up a nearby turkey baster and drew broth into the tube. “Here you go, buddy. Sorry, but it’s still not that sodium laced stuff you would get at the grocery store. Just our boring home-made broth.” He put the tip of the baster between Matt’s lips and dripped in a little fluid at a time. Matt’s throat worked in painful swallows. Matt raised his hand and tapped Dan’s arm to stop him from giving any more.



“Okay, I’ll get you honey now,” Dan said.



Dan picked a wooden match out of the box on the bench and dipped the smooth end into a dish of honey. He moved it to a bowl with crushed, dehydrated elderberries, coated the honey with the fine berry pieces, and slipped the end of the matchstick between Matt’s lips. He knew elderberries were beneficial to fight flu but had no idea if it would help with the virus they battled. It was all he could come up with when Matt wouldn’t eat. It gave him some calories and might help against the virus, but it was a pitiful amount. He did it three more times before Matt shook him off.



When the honey had dissolved off the matchstick the final time, he bathed Matt’s face again and replaced the washcloth. The effort of helping Matt left him exhausted. He wanted to collapse in his chair, but put more wood in the fire before he did. The lesions in his mouth made it painful, but he choked down a shot of his vodka elixir and washed down his own Tylenol and vitamin with a large glass of water. He followed it with the remaining broth from the bowl and saucepan. The chair was a welcome relief when he plopped into it, and despite his fever, he pulled a blanket over his legs.



He picked up his cold cup of elderberry and honey tea and sipped. Nursing the tea, he stared at the pot with its greenery, lifted by its presence. Mentally, he thanked Chad again for the bit of cheer in his dreary existence.



Matt’s glistening pock-marked face drew his eyes, and the cheer the plants had given him evaporated. Matt was the best friend he’d ever had. He closed his eyes, trying to erase the vision from his mind and replace it with Matt of a week ago, happy and healthy. His disease-ravaged body was soon asleep.

[bretf]

Chapter 14



President Morton took her seat at the head of the table in the Situation Room and looked at the remaining members of the National Security Council. Two additional seats that’d been occupied for previous meetings were empty. Presidential counsel David Scott and Secretary of the Treasury Pamela Case were both in Walter Reed Medical Center receiving treatment. For all the good it would do. All signs indicated Secretary of State Phelps wouldn’t live long, and a state funeral ceremony was planned the next day for Vice President Leland Anderson.



The President’s staff had assembled a list of candidates to replace Anderson, but she’d yet to give it consideration. It needed to be done soon; things were bad enough without considering a Republican, Speaker of the House Will Roberts, was next in line for the oval office until the position was filled.



And on top of it all, the epidemic was personal. The President’s own son, daughter-in-law, and grandson were among the dead. Her husband Jack demanded she avenge them. Find whoever is responsible and annihilate those bastards! You’re the leader of the world’s most powerful nation, after all!



For the President, there was no escape from the crises. At the office as well as the residence, it was always there. She sighed, looked at the empty chairs, and snapped a question to CIA Director Young, “What do you have, Marcus?”



“Ma’am, we have unequivocal evidence Bubka is in the compound in Salhab, and we’ve obtained samples of the virus confirming Salhab as the source of the pandemic.” Young referenced the documents before each member of the council as the information found on the first page flashed onto the wall displays. "Also, we have confirmed he is there at the behest of the Syrian government.”



Jack’s words reverberated in her mind. Annihilate those bastards! She had to ignore it for the time being. She was a mother, but she was also the President of the United States. “What about the vaccine the Russians are using?”



Young squirmed and said, “We haven’t been as successful with it. Our operatives have gotten nowhere.”



Morton glared at him. The lack of a viable vaccine would destroy the country. Jack’s voice returned and she squelched it. “We might as well look at what your spooks have managed,” she snapped.



The room was quiet while everyone went through the information.



Miller looked up from his papers at Director Young. “These are authentic? You aren’t photo-shopping Bubka to give us the answer we want to hear”



Young’s eyes shot daggers at him. “I assure you,” he said with ice in his voice, “Everything in these documents is true. We also have a credible Syrian defector who claims Syrian based extremists are behind the attack with full governmental involvement. Syria has denied it of course, and has also warned they will retaliate against any United States attack in ‘highly damaging ways’.” Young continued to glare at Miller until he looked back at the documents in his hand.



FBI Director Platt took advantage of the stare-down to report. “Now if you will direct your attention to the displays, this is the image of a letter received by four prominent newspapers in our country. The letter demands the United States withdraw its forces from the Persian Gulf, Afghanistan, and Saudi Arabia. The author of the letter claims responsibility for the smallpox attack, and the letters contained a fingerprint of the smallpox strain which matches the strain causing the epidemic. The letter goes on to state unless U.S. forces withdraw in one week, the attacks will be renewed.”



The President quickly read the document. “Thank you, Waylon. But the letters carry little weight with me. The damage is already done, and I’ll be damned if I sit on my hands and let it slide. General, what is your response to this?”



“Ma’am, my personal opinion is that cesspool has been a boil on our ass for far too long,” General Brown said. “The second set of documents before you contain two scenarios. With the first scenario, a surgical strike carried out by a Seal Team to remove the Salhab facility and Bubka, you can lance that boil and leave it to fester up again. The second scenario will ensure we won’t ever have to deal with that particular boil again.” Young paled while he read the second option.



“Ma’am, the Russian’s have always been very touchy regarding Syria. We need to take their response into consideration when deciding how to react,” Secretary of Defense Paul Batt said.



“Speaking of Russia,” Bryan Miller said, “They maintain complete deniability. They strongly state that as we well know, their biological weapons program was ended by Boris Yeltsin in 1992, and our claims of the source of the virus are false. Furthermore, they claim they are administering the same vaccine as everyone else. They finish their response with a strongly worded statement that we should be very careful before we make false accusations, as such libelous talk could result in dire consequences.”



“Ma’am, this morning we identified a Russian Federation submarine approaching Norfolk. When we made contact, the skunk fled back into deep water,” General Brown said.



President Morton voiced a colorful description of the Russians. “Anything else internationally?” she asked.



“Ma’am, the Chinese are mostly quiet, but we’ve detected troop and naval movements. We believe they’re positioning for the perfect moment to seize Taiwan. North Korea has massed troops on the border with South Korea. India and Pakistan have increased their verbal barrage at each other. The Middle East is its normal killing field, although attacks on our forces have lessened in Afghanistan,” Secretary Batt reported.



The President stared at the ceiling for a few moments and then asked for a progress report on the disease.



“Ma’am,” CDC director Jordan said. “I’m afraid my report is not good.” He began to make his presentation while the same information was displayed on the video screens. The number of confirmed smallpox cases was over forty million, with one million people dead. Officials speculated the number of unconfirmed cases and deaths could double both those numbers. The epidemic was confirmed in one hundred eighty-three other countries. Although the investigation suggested all cases were related to the initial attacks in San Francisco, the evidence didn’t rule out additional or ongoing attacks. The disease was spreading too fast to be certain of anything. In the past twenty-four hours alone, seventy-eight thousand new cases had been reported. Of the dead, two thousand had been from reactions to the experimental vaccination.



“None of the original vaccine remains. The tests of the experimental vaccine are still inconclusive. Results are mixed as people continue to die after being inoculated while others live. The researchers have made little progress,” Jordan said.



“Director Jordan, what is your worst case scenario?” President Morton asked.



“It is stark Ma’am, very stark. We estimate by the end of the second generation which will be March 1, one hundred million will be infected and ten million dead. By the end of Generation Three, around March 20, over four hundred million will be infected with twenty-five million dead. By the end of Generation Four, around April 5 which is eight weeks after the start of the epidemic, one billion will be infected, with one hundred fifty million dead. Those numbers might be controllable if they were centralized. However, with infected patients everywhere, we’ve been unable to contain it. Beyond Generations Four Ma’am, the spread of the disease is, well, let me say the world has never seen anything like this before. It may well be a slate wiper.”



President Morton closed her eyes and shook her head, willing it all to go away. She opened her eyes and looked at the Attorney General. “Elaine, you're next up. For God's sake, tell me you have good news.” It was obvious by her hollow tone she didn’t expect any such thing.



“I'm sorry, ma’am, but my news is also grim. Violence has spread across the nation as individuals try to keep others suspected of having smallpox at a distance. We have reports of police officers and civilians killed when the police try to escort infected patients to isolation areas. Hospitals which remain open are full and have become subject to riots by people who can’t receive treatment. The National Guard is undermanned and unable to keep order. Army troops delivering food have come under gunfire in numerous locations. Civil order is breaking down everywhere.”



“Also,” Miller interjected, “We are suffering severe economic damage. Most businesses are closed and massive traffic jams are occurring across the country as people try to flee the disease. Traffic jams are outside of most every city nationwide. People flee with no destination in mind trying to outrun the virus. All they accomplish is to spread the disease faster. Most state borders have been closed, but it is ineffectual without the manpower to enforce the closures.



“A New York Times poll indicates most Americans think the state and federal governments have lost control of the epidemic. A CNN/Gallup poll says sixty-three percent of Americans think the President should use nuclear weapons against any nation proven responsible for the smallpox attack.”



Again the room fell silent while the members of the National Security Council dwelled on the ramifications of what they’d heard. The nation was unraveling and the assembled group of powerful people taxed with preventing such an occurrence was powerless to stop it. A palpable weight of despair filled the room.



The President cursed and stood. She looked hard at Miller. “Get Roberts in here. I need a cigarette.”



“Ma’am?” Miller asked, unable to complete the question.



“No, I don’t want him here, but we find ourselves stuck with him as next in line for the Presidency. Besides, we’ll be roasted for whatever we do from this point forward, so we might as well share the heat with him. Now get him in here,” Morton snapped.



The meeting re-convened ten minutes later. They began by briefing the Speaker of the House. When Will Roberts was caught up, the President scanned the room. “So is there anything we can do to combat this pandemic? Anybody? Mr. Speaker?”



Roberts remained silent.



“Continue to push for a vaccine,” Jordan said. “It is our only hope at this point unless we can get our hands on the Russian vaccine.”



“Does anyone else have any ideas for dealing with the crisis?” the President asked. Again her question was met with silent stares.



“Since no one has anything to help with the main problem, do any of you have input concerning our response to Syria?” the President snapped. “Mr. Speaker, what do you recommend our official response to Syria be?”



“Madam President, I wouldn’t presume to formulate the nation’s response to this.”



“Bullshit! And you won’t tell your guy at the Post how we screwed up, either. So no, Mr. Speaker, that answer won’t do. How would you respond to this?”



“Since you insist, Ma’am,” Roberts delivered the words with a hard stare back at the President. “I would take the General’s second scenario and turn Syria into a bad memory. I would send a message to the Muslim world and the world in general that if they screw with us, they will be vaporized.” The President gave a very slight nod to the Speaker when he was finished.



“Ma’am!” Elaine Birch shouted. She’d seen the nod of confirmation. “You can’t be seriously considering this. We can’t use nuclear weapons. It’s against everything we stand for. This convoluted conversation shouldn’t be taking place. It’s a conversation Trump would be having, not this administration.”



“Madam President, I must concur with Ms. Birch,” Marcus Young said. “We have too many friends and assets in the region. Consider what this would do to relations with other countries.”



Morton narrowed her eyes as she looked at Young. She’d heard rumors the man was Muslim. Yes, he’s showing his true colors now. He cares more for his Islamic brotherhood than what they did to our country, what they did to my son, she thought to himself.


“Secretary Batt, do you have anything to say?” she asked.



“Madam President, earlier I said we need to consider Russia’s response to any action we take. That said, our country is weakened and growing weaker daily. As you are so painfully aware, the vaccine we had available is ineffectual. The virus is spreading through all our domestic bases and a few overseas. Isolation of most bases is no longer an option. We are rapidly losing our ability to conduct conventional warfare. We are weakened Ma’am, and being further weakened with each passing hour. In a very short time, we will be vulnerable on all fronts. I recommend we implement the general’s second option and deploy nuclear weapons on Syria, Russia be damned. We have to show strength before the rest of the world realizes how vulnerable we are.”



“MA’AM, YOU CAN’T—” Young shouted, but the President cut him off.



“Marcus, I want to hear what the others have to say!”



National Security adviser Steve Williams agreed with Batt. “Ma’am, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I believe Secretary Batt is right. If we don’t send this strong message, our country will soon be subject to another attack like the one in San Francisco or something else we haven’t considered. We have to become ruthless, and that is through the use of nuclear weapons.”



Young’s eyes widened.



Waylon Platt nodded his head at the comments from Williams and Batt. “Waylon, are you in agreement?” the President asked.



“Yes Ma’am, I am,” he said, keeping his answer short.



“Director Jordan, although the final decision rests on my shoulders, I would be interested in hearing your opinion on this matter. How do you think we should deal with the Syrians?” President Morton asked.



“Thank you, Madam President, but I can’t give a recommendation for military action. I’m here in an advisory role from the CDC.” He stopped and held up one finger, and started to talk again, showing more emotion than at any time when reporting the status of the pandemic. “But in my equally important position as an American Citizen, I welcome the opportunity to respond to your question.



“Ma’am, I am OUTRAGED those people would let this loose on our soil. I am OUTRAGED the ones who did it are making demands that we sit on our hands and do nothing. I am OUTRAGED people in this room are willing to go along with those demands and let those bastards get away with this.” He directed glares at each of those people. “I am OUTRAGED that our way of life has been destroyed. Yes, parts of our society still exist, but as I said earlier, this is a slate-wiper. Our society is dying. OUR GLORIOUS COUNTRY WILL BE DESTROYED BY THIS! A remnant, a small remnant, may pull through, but what legacy will we leave them? Will we leave them with pride that we fought back? That we took the hardest hits ever seen in any model of warfare and we struck back with equal force and saved those remnants? Or do we allow that remnant to be under the thumb of whichever petty dictator is strong enough to take charge of that remnant? I am OUTRAGED to contemplate our strong nation, weakened though it will be when this has run its course being reduced to such a state.” He stared the President down with the most intense look while he finished.



President Morton heard the outrage from her husband echoed again and felt her own outrage.



Jordan continued, “So in my role as an American Citizen, I will be further outraged if my President does not set an example in Syria, an example that will get everyone’s attention, that shows we are not going to lie down and take this from anyone. I advise, Madam President, that you turn the sand of Syria into a glistening patch of glass.” The room was silent for a few moments, a few surprised looks shot at Jordan.



“Director Jordan, you make a very compelling case,” the President said. She looked around the room and addressed everyone. “Not to shortchange anyone's opinion but when the director spoke of the remnant, the few who will survive this pandemic, I couldn’t help but think of my grandchildren and the legacy we will leave them if they manage to be in the remnant who survives. What will we leave them?” The President was quiet, looking at each person individually before she continued speaking.



“I am resigned to the fact we can’t do a thing to stop this, that the death knell is being rung for our proud country. Based on that, I will not allow the Syrians to get away with this. I will not bow to their pressure. General Brown, I want the final plan to eliminate that boil from our ass on my desk within the hour. And one more thing, General. It is in consideration of Secretary Batt’s concerns. Following the strikes, control of the missiles will go to the commanders. In the instance any retaliation is detected, they can’t wait for my response. At such a time, they will have to react instantly.



“Bryan, you have statements to prepare. Mr. Speaker, I want a meeting of the leadership in the Oval Office in one-half hour. This meeting is adjourned, and God help us all.”



“BUT MA’AM, YOU CAN’T DO THIS!” Young shouted at the President’s retreating back.



Elaine Birch sat, clearly stunned. General Brown had a satisfied look on his face while he gathered his material. Jack Morton’s words echoed in his wife’s head as she walked briskly from the room, “Annihilate those bastards!”

[CountryGuy]

Another great piece... The repercussions, retaliations and possibilities of what will come from where are almost inconceivable.

[bretf]

Thanks, CountryGuy!


Chapter 15



It was close to normal, but so different that night for Chad and his sisters. They brushed their teeth, washed, and got their pajamas on. Chad put wood in the stove and adjusted the draft for the night. Then they kneeled outside their parent’s sealed bedroom doorway and said their prayers. Their mom was an indistinct shadow on the other side.



After telling their mom goodnight, the kids went to the girl’s room and Chad read out loud. After his sisters learned to read, he’d balked on occasion when asked to read to them. But not after their mom’s announcement; reading the familiar children’s book helped distract him. He needed the diversion.



Though he rarely minded helping his parents, it felt like his head would burst from the idea of filling in for both of them. He didn’t know if he’d be able to do any of it, let alone everything that would need to be done. So he read longer than their mom usually did. With a sister pressed in on each side of him, he drew comfort in the upside-down world. They didn’t say anything, but the girls seemed equally comforted.



After he closed the book, he told his sisters, “Good night,” and went to his bedroom. He pushed his curtains aside and looked out into the dark. The side of the shop was visible if he got at a sharp enough angle.



His dad had left a light on since he got sick. Chad stared with longing at the light and thought of how weak his dad was. He wished his dad had never caught the disease and his mom wouldn’t end up in the shop too. He kept his face pressed against the glass until he was chilled through. Leaving the window, he crawled under the covers and murmured into the dark room, “Please God, don’t let Mom get sick. Ali and Brooke and I need her. And please get Dad and Matt better.”



#



Dan jerked awake, the sudden movement causing pain to shoot through him. His breath came in gasps while he tried to get under control. It wasn’t only the pain that made him gasp. The dream had been so vivid. Lisa was in it, holding his hands. “Come back to us, darling; we need you. Matt needs you.” She pulled his arms, and her words echoed in his mind and pulled him to consciousness.



Dan struggled to sit upright and focus on his friend. The sight drove the dream from his mind. Matt’s skin was flushed red from fever and marred by numerous blisters. His breathing was labored with occasional gasps. Dan groaned as he stood and went to the water pail. He carried it to Matt’s cot and peeled the blanket back. Matt’s chest was like his face; the skin bright red with fever and covered by sickening blotches.



Dan placed wet washcloths over as much of Matt’s body as he could and dabbed softly at his face. The wet cloths that’d woken him previously failed to rouse him. Dan thought his breathing was easier after applying them; at least he made himself believe it was. He dribbled a few drops of water between Matt’s lips and wanted to give him more, but was afraid to. The last thing Matt needed was to gag and start coughing. He also put a small drop of honey in Matt’s mouth.



The fire was down to a few glowing coals, so Dan added wood and opened the draft. He didn’t want more heat in the room, but he didn’t want the fire to die completely either. It took too much energy to restart a cold stove, energy he didn't have to spare. He’d close the draft again when the wood caught. The water in the teakettle was still hot enough to make tea, so he set a cup to brew and had a shot of the nasty vodka elixir, followed by a cup of water, and a cupful of chicken broth while he waited.



His own fever was still high but seemed somewhat controlled by acetaminophen. According to the note on his small whiteboard, it’d been long enough since his last dose that he could take more. In his fevered state, he couldn’t remember when he’d taken a dose, so he wrote the time down. He took more, noted the new time, and checked on Matt again. The washcloths were warm from contact with his skin, so Dan went through the motions of changing them to try to drop Matt’s temperature.



The actions sapped what little strength he had. He collapsed in his chair and pulled a blanket around him, his cup of tea in hand. Matt’s chest rose and lowered in a steadier rhythm than when he’d awoke, so Dan dozed, thinking they’d cleared a hurdle.



#



Dan woke and peered out of slits at the clock, then at the window beyond. It was only two hours since he last cooled Matt down and it was still dark outside. Through muddled thoughts, he had the sense something had woken him, but what? A wheezing breath from Matt’s cot answered the question. He studied Matt while his awareness increased and felt more helpless than at any time in his life.



The realization of what he was seeing made him want to curl up in a ball and close off his mind. Nothing he’d done appeared to have any effect on Matt's fever. NOTHING! He’d administered smashed Tylenol and wet washcloths as often as he was able; water and broth were carefully dribbled into Matt’s mouth. The room had cooled off, the fire smoldering, but Matt’s fever raged. None of it seemed to do the least bit of good. With every passing hour, Matt faded more.



Dan checked the pulse in Matt’s arm and compared it to his own. Matt’s felt a lot weaker. Matt’s breathing was easier to gauge, and beyond a doubt, it was getting worse. It appeared each breath was a struggle, accented by a gasp at irregular intervals. Dan watched Matt’s struggles and scanned the papers from the blue suits again. He didn’t see anything on them he’d missed previously, in fact, he’d read them so many times he had the section on treatment memorized.



He taxed his brain for anything else he could do, anything at all, but he found it hard to concentrate with his pounding head and the near-overwhelming fatigue. He’d grown used to the body aches, but the throb in his head wouldn’t be ignored. Again, he had the urge to curl into a ball and close everything out. A louder than usual ragged gasp from Matt drew Dan’s attention. Dan was filled with despair as he looked at his friend, knowing he couldn’t do a thing to help ease his pain.



The absence of sound registered to Dan, and the comprehension Matt hadn’t taken a breath since the loud gasp rocked him. If it had been one minute or one hour, he couldn’t tell. He had no idea how much time had passed since that breath. He’d been relieved when he noticed Matt’s neck muscles relaxed and thought he was resting easier. When full comprehension came to him, it felt like a hard punch to the gut. He dropped to his knees at the side of Matt’s bed and grasped his friend’s hand. “NO!” he tried to yell at the ceiling. Instead, it was a weak croak. He gripped Matt’s hand tighter and bent his head over the still form. Tears ran down his face and dropped onto Matt’s still chest, absorbed by a washcloth.



Dan hadn’t exaggerated when he’d told Matt he was like a brother. In fact, he’d understated it. Matt was closer to Dan than his brother Del had ever been. Dan stayed bent over him until he was cried out. He had no comprehension of how long it was. Time no longer had meaning to him.



Dan had never seen anyone die before. It wasn’t like he’d seen on TV and movies countless times. Matt didn’t have a chance to make a memorable final statement. He faded more and more until he gasped his final breath and everything stopped, including the pain. Dan found no solace in it. Pain was a part of life, and Matt’s had been snuffed out prematurely. He felt a fire build inside, filling his emptiness.



He’d always told the kids hate was an unhealthy, wasteful emotion. There was no reason for it. Anger maybe, but never hate. But at that moment, he felt hatred, deep burning hatred for those responsible.



More time passed while he raged inside. As the rage diminished, mental and physical exhaustion won out. His face settled against Matt’s motionless chest, and sleep took him again.



#



Chad was out of bed and had the fire burning in the wood stove well before the first light of dawn, as he’d done every morning since his mom had gone into isolation four days earlier. His dad had taught him to start a fire when he was eight, much to his mom’s consternation. She was terrified he’d burn himself. He was very cautious, however, and learned to get the fire going safely. It was only after he became overconfident he got burned. That lesson reinforced everything his dad taught him about safety around open flames. Following the burn, which he kept hidden from his parents, he was always cautious around the fire.



The cow was fed and milked, the milk strained, and everything cleaned and put away when he heard his dad’s voice from the FRS radio in his mom’s room. “Hey, Lisa,” His dad croaked.



#



Lisa flipped the covers on the bed back and sat up with a groan. She pinched her eyes closed against the shooting pains in her head and fumbled for the radio. She’d see what Dan needed and consider what the pains meant later. “I’m here, Hon.”



The radio was quiet and Lisa was set to confirm she was listening when Dan keyed his radio. “Sorry Hon, I . . . couldn’t find the right words. I need you to do something. You need to let the blue suits know . . . Matt . . . passed . . . away . . .”



“Oh, honey, that’s terrible. I’ll try to get ahold of them as soon as I can. Can I do anything for you Hon, anything at all?”



“Nah, just let them know. And . . . well . . . ask them if they can bury him here.”



Lisa had to restrain herself from going straight to the shop to comfort him. Anguish was evident in his voice on top of the pain and weakness from the disease. But considering how she felt, she’d be able to offer comfort soon enough. She never got back pain or headaches. The presence of both meant only one thing.



She rubbed her temples with her eyes closed and mentally ripped into herself. How could she have been so stupid to stay in the house with the kids? She’d avoided contact with them and wiped down everything she touched with bleach before going into the negative pressure isolation room. She prayed it’d been enough, and she hadn’t passed it on to them.



“Chad, honey,” she called softly through the doorway. She hoped he was in the house and would hear her without disturbing the girls.



“Yeah, Mom,” he said, from beyond the plastic barrier. His quick response, so close, made her jump. It took a few deep breaths for her heartbeat to return to normal.



“Oh, honey, you startled me. I didn't know you were there. Did you hear what your dad said?”



“Yeah, I did,” he said, flatly.



“Okay, so I need you to go to the computer desk. The papers from the CDC have contact information. You need to follow their directions, and let them know about Matt. Can you do that honey, since I can’t?”



“Yeah, Mom, I can. I'm sorry about Matt.”



“And Chad, one other thing,” Lisa said with a sob. “I’m going to the shop with your dad. I’m afraid I’ve caught it.”



#



Chad put a hand out against the wall as the room started to spin. It couldn’t be happening. Not Mom, too. Their world was being ripped apart.

[bretf]

Chapter 16



Lisa stared at the phone on the nightstand, steeling herself to make the call. While she didn’t want to bother her sister Heather, it had to be done. Matt’s death at the same time she was coming down with the disease made it all too obvious. The kids would need an adult and Heather was the only choice. Dan’s brother in Chicago wouldn’t care and couldn’t be bothered with taking in his brother’s orphaned children. She had no one else to turn to.



Heather was eight years younger than Lisa, and though they were sisters, Lisa had been a second mother to her. It was a role she’d been forced to fill when their parents died in a tragic car accident. Lisa was eighteen at the time with her whole life mapped out ahead of her, ready to take on the world. She was a freshman in college, at school for three months when their parents were making the drive for Dad’s Weekend. Heather was with friends and their parents took advantage of the occasion to get away together.



Lisa was giddy with excitement to show her parents around the campus. When the knock on her dorm room door came, she was confused to see a police officer and a woman from administration. Her world and her dreams were crushed by the actions of a drunk driver. Devastated, she left school and returned home to take care of Heather.



It was a challenge. Each was full of resentment at the situation. For Lisa, her dreams were over and she was stuck raising an ungrateful brat. Heather hated being told what to do by her sister and created no shortage of headaches for Lisa. To escape her overbearing sister, she enlisted in the army the very day she was old enough. It wasn’t long before she decided Lisa’s discipline wasn’t so tough after all. She grew up more in the first three months in the army than she’d done in the previous three years.



At first, Lisa was glad to see her gone. Her free time was taken up more and more by a man she’d met at church. But Heather’s absence left an unexpected hole in her life. Heather felt it as well, and the sisters’ relationship strengthened, although they were far apart. Heather realized her sister was wiser than she’d given her credit for. They both came to appreciate the other and regretted how they’d acted for too long.



Lisa encouraged Heather to take full advantage of any educational benefits she could. Heather listened and enrolled in college once her enlistment was up. She’d left college with degrees in biology, and wildlife ecology and conservation. That led to a job where she was safe from the disease at the moment, research of declining bird populations in the least populous area in the state.



Lisa dreaded pulling her out of her safe isolation, but the kids would need her soon. Memories of her own life after being thrust into a like situation made it worse, but she didn’t have any other options. Lisa picked up the phone’s handset and choked back a sob. She said a silent prayer before pressing the final number.



After four rings, Lisa was concerned the call would go to voicemail. That was the last thing she wanted. Heather had to pick up! It was the final time she’d talk to her sister, and it shouldn’t be a message on a machine.



The phone rang again. “Please Heather, answer. I won’t know you’ve heard this if I don’t tell you directly,” Lisa murmured.



The sixth ring was cut short, and Heather answered, distracted. “Hey, Sis, what’d I do, mess up our lunch date? I thought it wasn’t until next week."



“No, that . . . that’s not why I called,” Lisa said.



“Wow, Lisa, you sound like crap. Are you sick?” Heather asked. The distraction was gone, replaced by concern.



“Yeah, I’m sick . . . Have you been catching any news?” Lisa asked.



“Of course not; I’m in the middle of writing my paper and didn’t want to be disturbed. You know how it is. A bomb could go off, and I'd never know it hit me! Why, what’s going on?” Heather asked.



Lisa certainly knew how her sister could be; totally immersed in her work. She’d recently completed the field studies and was compiling her findings for publication. When it came time to prepare her data for release, she became a virtual recluse. Thank goodness for caller ID or Lisa was sure Heather would’ve ignored the phone.



“Maybe it’s better you’ve been cut off from the news . . . because . . . it’s horrid. It . . . would’ve been better if it was a bomb that went off . . . There’s a big epidemic, or pandemic, whatever . . . going around . . . I’ve heard it called both,” Lisa said.



“Wait a minute! A pandemic? What is it?” Heather asked. “Is it the bird flu they’re always worried about?”



“No, it’s . . . not bird flu. The news says it’s . . . modified smallpox. Terrorists . . . let it loose at the Super Bowl, and it . . . spread worldwide,” Lisa said.



“You’re right, that would be horrid if, oh shi . . . Lisa, no.” Heather whispered the last as she got the full meaning. Lisa must have it.



“Yeah, I’m pretty sure . . . I’ve got it,” Lisa answered equally quiet.



“Oh, Lisa, is it possible you’re wrong? What about Dan and the kids?”



“No . . . I don’t think I’m wrong,” Lisa said. “It started the very same way for . . . Dan, and now he’s totally covered with lesions . . . and very . . . sick . . . Do you remember his friend . . . Matt? He got it . . . around the same time, and . . . and,” Lisa forced the words out, “He . . . died from it . . . last night.”



“Oh my God! Lisa, that’s terrible. What can I do to help? Are the kids all right?” Heather asked.



“That’s why I called, Sis. The kids . . . are all right for now . . . and I pray they stay that way. Dan went into isolation in the shop as soon as he found out he’d been exposed . . . but I guess he found out a day or two too late . . . He and I . . . well . . . I had a better chance of getting it from him than the kids do,” Lisa wiped her nose, and said, “I’m going to join him . . . in the shop . . . Chad will have to take care of the girls and the place.”



“My God, Lisa, he’s so young,” Heather said.



“I know . . . that’s why I called you. Heather . . . from what I’ve read . . . Dan and I . . . well . . .” she sobbed into the receiver. “I hate to do this to you . . . but the kids are going to need you.”



“Oh Lisa, you think it could come to that?”



“Yes, I do . . . According to the news, less than ten percent survive this. Matt didn't. Dan is so sick, and . . . I’m not sure he can hang on. I'm just starting to get sick and I feel awful. So I need your promise you’ll take the kids if we don't make it,” Lisa said.



Heather raised a tissue and wiped tears away from her cheeks. “Of course I’ll take them. But Lisa, you better beat this thing. You have to beat it.”



“I’ll do my best. And Heather, stay away from people. Don’t get near anyone, no one at all. This stuff’s supposed to be airborne. Now I’ve got to get out of the house. The longer I’m here, the more chance of exposure the kids have. Love you, Sis . . . and . . . thanks.”



“Love you back,” Heather said.



#



Dan came out of a fever dream and sensed, more than saw, the presence of another person. He was confused. Matt had died; it wasn’t a bad dream, was it? Had the blue suits showed up to take him, coming in without him hearing? He forced his eyes open and focused on the other person. His eyes widened. “Lisa? Oh, God, what are you doing here? You can’t be here. You need to leave!” It came out as a croak, though he tried to shout.



“I can’t, Hon. I can’t be around the kids anymore. It’s safer for them this way,” she said, and lost her tenuous control and broke down sobbing.



He stared at her in confusion. It took nearly a minute for what she meant to sink in. When it did, he groaned and closed his eyes tight. “Oh, God, no! Not you, too!”



Lisa sat on the edge of his cot and took his hand. Dan pulled her into an embrace, glad to feel her in his arms again, but horrified with what it meant. She buried her face against his chest and cried.