Pestilence: The Infection Begins

C
opyright © Craig A. McDonough 2016

This book is a work of fiction any relation to person’s or event is purely coincidental. No part of the work can be reproduced in any form without the author’s written permission.

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A
t Riverside Hospital on University Avenue
near the river of the same name as the city, Des Moines, it was an ordinary day. As ordinary as it gets for a medium-sized city. At 9:59 a.m., doctors, nurses and orderlies went about their business as usual while visitors wandered about, concerned for friends or loved ones who were unfortunate guests.

At 10:00 a.m., however, the shit hit the fan.

The first indication that things weren’t right came from the outpatient clinic. Panicked voices of doctors, nurses and patients could be heard from the consultation rooms. Next, the phones at the nurses’ station went berserk; almost all rang at once. There weren’t enough present to answer them all, but they did their best.

“Blood, blood, there’s blood everywhere!” one nurse called over the phone.

“They’re trying to kill us, they’re—” another screamed before the phone went dead.

A doctor ran down the aisle from outpatients. “They’re bleeding from their eyes, their noses, everywhere. It’s, it’s a fucking mess!”

Soon the staff who routinely went about their daily business steadily and efficiently ran through the first floor screaming for security.

“What is it, what the hell’s goin’ on?” CDC Immunologist Grace Delaney rushed out from an office behind the station. She raised her voice to be heard above the clamor of screams and telephones, but no one seemed to notice. “Nurse! What the hell is going on?” She demanded once more.

Beth Sanders, a recent graduate of nursing school, turned to answer Delaney, still clutching the phone she had been speaking into. “The doctors and nurses,” she held the phone out to Delaney to indicate she was speaking with staff over the phone, “they said the patients have become worse, and they’ve attacked them, even tried to drink their blood.”

“Drink their blood… what the—”

“Oh my God!” an orderly cried from the hospital foyer. “They’re sealing off the hospital.”

Sanders dropped the phone and followed Delaney to investigate. As the stepped into the foyer, reflections of red and blue flashing lights could be seen bouncing off the cream-painted walls of the hospital interior.

“Stay inside the building. Stay inside, do not attempt to leave. We have been authorized by the governor to use force if necessary,” a curt and officious male voice said through a bullhorn.

Outside the front entrance Grace could see several police vehicles, dozens of Des Moines uniformed officers behind them, and the camouflaged uniforms of the Iowa National Guard. What concerned Delaney more were the men from the Centers for Disease Control in the biological hazard suits just beyond the line of National Guard troops. She knew they were from the CDC because that was the type of suit issued; as an employee, she would know.

“You can’t do this, this is a hospital for Christ’s sake!” She marched toward the front doors as the hazard suits were busy sealing the entrance with plastic and tape. A portable decontamination chamber was also being constructed at the front doors. Presumably, this would be for anyone from CDC who ventured inside—fully suited—and to get a spray-down on leaving. There would be none of that for anyone inside the hospital; they weren’t leaving, that much was clear.

“Gimme a phone.” Delaney marched back to the nurses’ station. “Hello, hello… what the…?” She heard some strange beeps before the call was connected.

She received the same confusing answer but now realized all outgoing calls were being monitored—and prevented.

She explained herself as calmly as she could before eventually losing patience with the operator and demanding to speak with CDC Director Calgleef; it was after all, an emergency. A moment of silence followed as calls were connected before Calgleef answered. The director of the CDC didn’t appear too concerned by events, and Delaney was sure he’d been informed. Such a disposition only served to add to Delaney’s growing suspicions.

“Tell me one thing, how did you know the outbreak had worsened—do you have someone working for you inside?” He had to have ongoing knowledge of the situation, Delaney said to herself as she awaited his response.

“Of course we do Miss Delaney, you! Then he explained to her the CDC regulations for activating a quarantine.

“Do you intend to inform the public of the possibility of the Baltic flu right here in downtown Des Moines?”

“Have you gone mad, do know the panic that would ensue?”

“That’s not what I meant and you—”

“Dr. Delaney, come quick…” The voice belonged to Isaac Tilford, the intern who had accompanied Delaney all morning. Tilford was in his late twenties, tall, and resembled Matthew McConaughey with dark hair and a neatly trimmed goatee, a look Delaney found to her liking when introduced. But this was not a time to be thinking of romance.

“I can see you have your hands full, Miss Delaney. I’ll call you soon. This is strictly precautionary, and as soon as we can confirm there is no danger of an influenza outbreak, the quarantine will be lifted. Until then.” Calgleef used the interruption to end the conversation.

“Wait, hold on you… bastard!” She slammed the phone on top of the counter.

Well at least he confirmed the flu is the concern.

Delaney then accompanied the young doctor who looked like he’d seen a ghost—which he practically had—but only after she admonished him for continually calling her ‘Dr. Delaney’.

“How in God’s name did this occur, how?” she asked as she followed the first year doctor back to the outpatients’ clinic.

T
wo Weeks
Earlier

G
race Delaney arrived
at her office in the CDC complex in Atlanta, Georgia, an hour earlier than usual. An urgent meeting of immunologists, virologists and biochemists had been called by Director Andrew Calgleef to discuss the worsening situation that was the latest influenza outbreak in Europe. They’d christened it the “Baltic flu” because the first cases reported came from that region. After grabbing an obligatory coffee, she found herself a seat in the conference center to listen to what Calgleef had to say.

“This should be interesting,” she said to a colleague.

“To say the least.”

The CDC director went straight to the podium—no introductions, he was all business. After he welcomed everyone, he warned not to breathe a word of this meeting to anyone, then continued. First he quoted the latest figures of the afflicted in Europe, including the UK, and cases that had now been reported in the Middle East and in the northern African countries. He then confirmed the fatality rate, which at first seemed extraordinarily high, in particular for the first-world countries of Europe, but those were the facts.

“The president,” he looked up from his notes and made a brief sweep of the gathered faces, “has been on conference calls for the last forty-eight hours. He initially wanted to fly to Europe to address the matter but then would have become a victim of his own policies and wouldn’t be able to return, regardless of how protected he was from the disease.” Calgleef paused to allow the additional information he added to sink in. The president had just two weeks prior enacted a policy that suspended all flights from Europe and the Middle East from entering the United States. Canada and Mexico had done the same.

“This outbreak of influenza, the worst since the Spanish flu of 1918, appears to be some form of a mutated strain and will exact a heavy toll on the world. More than just the loss of life and the health costs incurred, the economies of many countries are now grinding to a halt. Factories and office buildings have closed as people are forced to stay away, manufacturing and trade have almost halved. The president and Congress know this will affect the United States, but the country will manage as long as there is no great loss of life or a major portion of the population waylaid because of the disease.”

“So far he’s told us how bad it is but not on how we plan to combat it,” Delaney’s colleague whispered.

“Don’t worry, he’ll get to it, if there is one.” Delaney was well aware of the director’s roundabout ways.

“With this in mind the president has used his emergency powers to allocate funds for an immediate vaccination program across the United States, which we, the CDC, will be given the mandate to oversee the distribution and implementation of and—”

Vaccine? Immediate implementation? What the hell?

“Excuse me, Director Calgleef.” Grace Delaney stood and issued her challenge.

Calgleef looked long and hard at her for a moment, an uneasy silence filling the air, before he permitted her to continue. If she were a less attractive or a member of his own sex, Calgleef wouldn’t have given her the time of day.

“Have I missed something? I, as most here do, receive updates on the crisis in Europe, and there has been no mention of a development of a vaccine—or did that happen overnight?”

A murmur of laughter went around the room, but no one made themselves too obvious—Calgleef didn’t tolerate insubordination well.

“Ah, Miss. Delaney… we can always count on you to be the one fish that would swim against the current, can’t we?” The director waited until she sat down. “As it’s been brought up, I’ll share this piece of information. The US government entered a contract with the leading pharmaceutical company, Thorn Bio-Tech Industries, to develop a vaccine for the North American market. The CDC will have a major say in the control and implementation and—” He stopped himself when he saw he was about to be interrupted once more. “Yes, Miss. Delaney?”

“Did you say develop a vaccine, Dr. Calgleef?” She hated addressing him so formerly. Words like asshole or shit-head were more apt, but it was a meeting after all.

“Yes, I did and I know what you’re thinking, as any immunologist naturally would. Let me assure you, there are hundreds of biochemists from around the world—who were already here before the sanctions, I might add—and they are working around the clock to develop a vaccine in a large enough quantity that will allow us to begin a vaccination program. While the initial batch is being distributed, manufacture of the vaccine will pass on to the United States under FDA and CDC regulation. In the meantime we are to use an experimental serum, also developed by Thorn Bio-Tech, to begin a program to immunize the elderly or sick who would be more susceptible to the disease. Thorn are leading the way in the development of a vaccine against this, this pestilence. Does that answer your question, Miss. Delaney?”

“Well not exactly.” She didn’t like long-winded explanations. As a perfectionist she felt the longer it took the more there was to hide. “As we all know, flu shots are at least a year out of date by the time they’re released. Vaccines released this year were developed last year or even the year before that, and flus, viruses change. They adapt differently every year. I find it hard to accept that a shot has been developed or tested or will be in such a short time. I’m extremely hesitant to endorse any experimental drug without adequate testing. My concerns, you understand, are about the public safety, and the release of untested medicines, I might add, is against the FDA and our own charter, I believe.”

All eyes in the room were on Delaney. She had a point, and the other immunologists and virologists knew it but didn’t have the confidence to stand up and say so. Calgleef fiddled with the buttons on his brown suit jacket, then placed both hands on the lectern.

“Part of the president’s executive order, Miss Delaney, included the waiver of the regulations. He believed the prevention of this flu was more important. Half the damn country could be at risk from this virus if we wait for the proper testing, and if that happened, we’d never get on top of it. There is a strong resemblance in the characteristics of this Baltic flu and the Spanish flu, and that’s what the experimental vaccine is primarily made of. It may be just a stop-gap measure, but that’s what we need while the proper vaccine is developed. It’s all we have, Miss Delaney, nearly forty percent of people over fifty-five have contracted it throughout Europe, and for those in their seventies it’s a much higher percentage with an equal mortality rate. Factories, offices and business of all forms have closed or are barely managing; the shipping lanes are closed as are all international flights. I don’t need to tell you what this would mean to the United States, Miss Delaney. So if you know of a better way, I’m all ears.”

Calgleef was almost right, she admitted to herself—what else could be done? He did enjoy belittling her in front of the meeting, she noticed.

Bastard. He’ll get his!

They couldn’t sit on their hands and let the virus take hold of the country like it had with Europe. With the high-speed travel and rush-rush of the American lifestyle, the disease would inundate the country within weeks.

“No, sir, I don’t have any other suggestions, and I see your point,” she added to show her support. Always proud of her work, she wouldn’t let anyone down, not when it came to diseases of any kind, or do anything to create dissension. If that meant showing public support to someone she thought of as little more than a bureaucratic bumbler, then so be it.

Lives were far more important than her ego, but fears that an improperly prepared vaccine could cause more harm than the virus bothered her. When things weren’t perfect it bothered her. In her position she was bothered most of the time.

I
n her office with a coffee
—today would be a big coffee day—Delaney had two laptop computers on her desk. Armed with the latest information provided by Calgleef, she began crunching the numbers. In her position at the CDC, she had access to the most up-to-date information, and the figures she had didn’t correlate with Calgleef’s. Again and again and again she ran the numbers through the computer, through a separate calculator and in her handwritten notes; it didn’t add up. She drank the last of her lukewarm coffee down and got up for another. She had her own coffee pot in her office, and her own coffee, Jo’s French dark roasted, was her favorite. She went over the numbers again in her head as she filled the water and added the coffee grounds. It reminded her of the time she’d tried to paint a portrait in high school. She’d painted many landscapes and received many compliments for her work but had wanted to paint a portrait for a long time. The completed product wasn’t bad, damn good when you considered it was her first, but it wasn’t perfect and that pissed her off no-end. She couldn’t put her finger on what the actual problem was, but it was there and that made it worse. In frustration and anger she’d taken a putty knife and hacked the painting into slasher death.

“If it can’t be perfect, then it just can’t be!” she remembered saying to the scattered remains on the floor.

Grown-up now, she didn’t lose control of her temper as much except when at home—she was of Irish heritage after all. But she still got pissed when things didn’t turn out how she wanted or expected. And near enough was never good enough; not for Grace Delaney. Never.

“The spread of the flu actually seems to be slowing or at least stabilizing,” she said as the dark liquid dripped into the pot. The aroma of coffee made her office one of the most visited of all on the third floor of the Tom Harkin Global Communications Center in Atlanta. When she’d been promoted several years back, she’d moved into the Global Communications Center particularly because of the almost instant communications ability with anywhere in the United States and many countries around the world. It didn’t make any sense to go ahead with an untried vaccine if the influenza wasn’t as active. There may be time to conduct tests after all. She thought about this as she poured her coffee and looked at the clock on her desk.

She’d placed a call ten minutes ago to a noted professional in the same field as her in Brussels. He’d been busy at the time, but his assistant promised he would return the call as soon as possible. It was while waiting that she checked the numbers over and over. She’d just sat down with her steaming hot coffee when her phone rang.

“Dr. Moya?” she said into the phone. Inter—office calls wouldn’t come through this number. “Good, I’m good and you?”

She listened to his response before she explained the reason for the call. Not that Moya wouldn’t have a good idea. He was after all a leading doctor with the European Center for Disease Prevention and Control who, like her, specialized in the management of contagious diseases immunology. With a global emergency over the Baltic flu underway, it wouldn’t be too hard to work out the reason.

“Dr. Moya, I have the latest data here in front of me—supposedly just hours old. I double checked with several health departments and agencies across Europe, and the numbers are way off.” She paused to look at her final figures she’d written down. “It seems that the rate of infection has slowed across Europe. Are you able to enlighten me any further?”

“You have indeed done your homework.” Moya had an enthusiastic tone to his voice. Not one that would be expected from a doctor facing the horrors of a pandemic.

Moya was able to validate her findings, expressing his belief that, while this was the worst case of influenza to hit Europe since the H1N1 influenza pandemic of 1918, a.k.a. the Spanish flu, the battle may have turned.

“There have been many casualties, as you are aware, but those have been mainly the old and the infirm. In the Middle East it appears that younger people were affected, but this had more to do with living conditions in the rural villages. This flu still pales in comparison to the pandemic of 1918, but I think we may have it on hold. What news can you tell me of your government’s decision to proceed with the development of the vaccine?”

Delaney was stunned by Moya’s question. As if warm water had been poured down her back, she felt a hot flush all over.

How did he know about the government’s position or about the development of a vaccine? Calgleef gave the impression at the meeting that the information regarding the vaccine was a closely guarded secret between the US government, the FDA, the CDC and Thorn Bio-Tech.

Something else is going on here. I better play my cards close to my chest.

“I don’t know anything of a vaccine, Dr. Moya, I—”

“Weren’t you at the meeting chaired by Calgleef?”

Delaney felt an unsettling shiver as her hot flush turned ice cold.

It was obvious Moya was a lot more informed than she’d first thought. It was time she threw her cards on the table.

“How do you know about the meeting? It was for CDC personnel only.” She kept her tone cordial despite her growing curiosity.

“Dr. Delaney, I’m on the oversight board at Thorn and have been a leading proponent of the vaccine. Noel Thorncroft, the CEO and owner, had to wait for your government’s approval before development could proceed. It’s a very expensive procedure, as I’m sure you understand.”

She wasn’t sure what she understood now. Taken aback by Dr. Moya’s knowledge of proceedings here in the US and the news he’d become a board member for one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world, which had just signed a lucrative deal with the US government, she would have to tread warily. Though the two had briefly met, what details she knew of Moya came from her search on the Internet. He was a strong advocate for government control of emergency services such as medicines, health and hospitals, and strongly opposed to private ownership. She had even found a transcript online of a speech he’d delivered some years back while visiting Cuba entitled “The Dangers of Private Ownership in the Health System.” This was radical left wing stuff, and she wasn’t comfortable reading it.

“So, Dr. Moya, am I correct in assuming you are in favor of the experimental vaccine being rushed through without having been screened?”