The Coward's Way of War (38 page)

“Clever,” the President sneered.  She ticked off points on her fingers.  “The companies are failing because their workforce – and their customers – are either dead, dying or unwilling to come to work, either because they’re working with the emergency services or they’re simply scared of catching Henderson’s Disease.  And if we nationalise them…what happens next?  Can nationalising them make them instantly profitable?”

“No, Madam President,” Gayle agreed.  “There is immense pressure for an emergency order that will force people back to work or face criminal charges.”

“There’s no point in passing a law that will not be obeyed,” the President said, rolling her eyes.  “We cannot jail half the country.”  She shook her head.  “I think that we had better start nationalising Arab-owned companies and business interests – at the very least, we have to keep their money frozen to prevent them from using it – but after that I think we’re going to need to keep our hands off the economy.  There's nothing we can do to make it work until we get the entire population immunised.”

She sighed.  There were times when she wished she hadn’t ever considered running for President.  “Let me know who’s pushing the bills and perhaps I can have a word,” she concluded.  “And as for the Saudis, all we can do is wait until our forces are in place.”

***

Nicolas took one final look at the body and gently drew
the cover over her head.  Cally Henderson’s survival – she'd survived longer than anyone had thought possible – owed more to intensive medical treatment than to her own fortitude.  She’d been given a level of treatment and medical care that would have been denied to anyone below the President, yet all it had done was prolong her agony.  By the time death finally came to claim her, her entire body had started to collapse under the weight of Henderson’s Disease.  The recordings had shown her screaming in pain, her delirium affecting her words and thoughts, before sinking back into an unholy stupor.  The first known victim of the disease had finally passed away.

He was pensive as he passed through the decontamination chamber and climbed into the helicopter for the flight to the White House.  Wildfire had hoped that they could, through studying Patient Zero, learn how to defeat Henderson’s Disease.  They had failed and the worst of it, at least in Nicolas’s eyes, was that they had caused an innocent girl more pain than anyone should have had to bear.  The criminals he had deliberately infected had deserved their fate – or so he told himself – but Miss Henderson had been innocent.  He’d read the profile the FBI had drawn up on her, an astonishingly complete and detailed file that had only made her more real to him.  She’d had three boyfriends in her time, all of whom had loved her dearly before she’d moved on from them; she’d even tried a lesbian relationship with one of her girlfriends.  She’d had dreams of becoming an architect and had even been saving up for studying with one of the masters, yet all of her dreams had been cut short.  Her face seemed to shimmer in front of him, the unmarked face he’d never seen in real life.  She had deserved far better than to die, helpless and away from those she had loved. 

There were new fires burning in Washington, despite the best efforts of the fire department.  The shortage of food was beginning to bite, according to the media, and he knew that they were underestimating the situation.  The starving crowds had attacked army vehicles, stealing food and water before running back into the suburbs and distributing it themselves.  Only a heavy cordon around the White House and the other government buildings had prevented them from being overrun by the mob.  Nicolas had heard that it was worse in other cities.  There were even reports that some desperate people had resorted to eating their pets, or even cannibalism.

He gazed down at a soup kitchen as the helicopter began its descent.  It was a sight out of nightmare, or out of the Third World, not the United States.  Whatever many politicians had claimed over the years, the poor in the United States lived far better than the poor – or even the wealthy – in many Third World states.  That wasn’t true now.  The United States was becoming a land of starvation, with hunger threatening more people than Henderson’s Disease.  The army cordons surrounding the cities were reporting more attacks against their patrols, attacks composed of people desperately trying to break out and escape into the countryside, where they were sure there was a land of milk and honey.  He tried to push the thought out of his head as the helicopter landed and the Secret Service vetted him quickly; it was too much to handle.  His father had come to the United States in hopes of a better life; his son would inherit a broken land.  Silently, he cursed Prince Mukhtar under his breath.

“Madam President,” he said, as he was escorted into the Oval Office.  “I'm afraid I have bad news.”

The President listened tiredly as he told her about how Miss Henderson had died, without even the hope of a cure.  Wildfire, the CDC and every other research company in the United States – if not the world – was searching for a cure, but so far nothing had materialised.  Mass production of the vaccine had begun, at least, but distributing it was the real problem.  There were even reports of people
refusing
to be vaccinated, despite the fact that anyone without a valid vaccination certificate wouldn’t be allowed into populated areas.  They didn’t trust the government to produce a proper vaccine.

“I think we have to face up to the truth,” Nicolas admitted.  Wildfire had been created to deal with such contingencies, but he had never imagined that he would be the one on the spot.  “The cities have become unmanageable.”

“I know,” the President said.  The reports were grim.  Between Henderson’s Disease, the rioting and plain old human fear, most of the people who made cities work were not reporting for duty.  The results had not been pleasant.  “How do you suggest we deal with it?”

Nicolas opened his briefcase and drew out a contingency plan, one no one had ever expected to actually put into operation.  It had taken several days to update it, because even Wildfire’s most paranoid researchers hadn’t wanted to think about the plan.

“This is Operation Exodus,” he said.  “We complete mass vaccination outside the cities; we’re already working on that, so we should be able to get most of the population vaccinated before too long.  Once we complete that operation, we start moving people out of the cities and into refugee camps nearby, where they can be isolated and quarantined – and vaccinated.  We keep them for five days, to make sure that they’re not infected, and then we start moving them further away.  Once we have evacuated the cities, we can begin clearing them over the coming years.  The remaining terrorists will have the choice between surrendering or dying when they finally catch the disease.”

“You’re talking about permanently reshaping America,” the President said.  “Is this really necessary?”

“We’ve lost control over most of the inner cities,” Nicolas said, grimly.  “I fear that most of the people living within the cities will die, unless we get them out of that environment and vaccinated – and we can’t do that in the cities, not with the chaos and anarchy on the streets.”

He hesitated.  “Madam President, America is already being reshaped,” he said.  “Whatever happens, nothing is ever going to be the same again.  We can only try to make the change as…less painful as possible.  Whatever we do, people are going to die.”

Everyone hates to be told that
‘Momma Knows Best.’  But then, there are times when Momma does know best.  How many times have I been challenged by someone who thinks that reading a medical textbook – and perhaps skipping directly to the sections on sexual parts – makes them a medical expert?  I have twenty years of experience working in Public Heath and half my patients treat me as a leper.

-Doctor Gillian Brownian

Near Mannington VA, USA

Day 34

“There’s a van coming up the drive,” Janet shouted.  The oldest daughter of Jim’s younger brother, she was not only easy on the eye, but a great shot.  She regularly took home trophies for shooting, even though some of the older members of the family muttered that it was not exactly a lady-like sport.  “I think it’s the nurse.”

Jim scowled.  The family had debated for hours over registering to be vaccinated, even though most of the parents had insisted that their children should be vaccinated, even if it meant revealing their existence to the local government.  Jim had wondered if they would ever be considered for vaccination, but two days later an email had arrived informing them that a representative from Country Health would pay them a visit, with the vaccination kit.  The family had spent hours hiding everything they didn’t want the government to see – Jim couldn’t see the government worrying over illegal weapons at a time like this, but others were more paranoid – before finally responding and inviting the nurse to come visit.

He watched as the three vehicles advanced up the driveway.  One was clearly an older ambulance, pressed into service for the emergency; the other two were military jeeps, each one carrying three armed soldiers.  They were clearly on alert, swinging their weapons from side to side, although Jim had no idea what threat they expected to face.  Who in their right mind would shoot up a vehicle carrying vaccinations?

The vehicles stopped outside the gate and a short woman stepped out of the ambulance.  Jim felt his heart sink, for she reminded him of a social worker one of his friends had been involved with, long ago.  The bitch had thought that she ruled the world, just because she could decide who received government aid and who didn’t, and exploited her advantage mercilessly.  She had taken delight in her position and how it allowed her to reward those who grovelled to her…and punish those who wanted to maintain some semblance of independence.  The nurse – or perhaps she was a doctor – had a characterless face, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun and a no-nonsense attitude.  He hoped she was competent, at least.

“Mr Revells,” she called.  Her voice was prissy, but there was no undertone of malicious delight in her voice.  “I am Doctor Gillian Brownian.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Jim said, untruthfully.  “Do you wish to come in?”

Gillian gave him a sharp look.  “If you wish to be vaccinated, yes,” she said, dryly.  Jim unhooked the gate and beckoned her inside, closing it before any of the soldiers could follow her.  He half-expected them to force the issue, but they seemed content to wait with the vehicles.  Gillian set off towards the farmhouse and he found himself following her.  She moved remarkably fast for such a short woman.

“I understand that you supplied us with a precise list of people,” she said, passing him a paper copy of his email.  “I need to know if that list is accurate.  I cannot vaccinate you unless I vaccinate all of you at once.”

“The list is accurate,” Jim said, pushing a slightly-injured tone into his voice.  Gillian wouldn’t know it, but they had considered concealing the presence of some of the adults.  “Is the vaccine dangerous in any way?”

“Vaccines can be dangerous, but not being vaccinated can be far more dangerous,” Gillian said, briskly.  “I assume you read the declaration of martial law.  You can be shot for not having a vaccination in some places.  If you wish to refuse to be vaccinated, now is the time to say so.”

They reached the farmhouse and Gillian marched right in.  “We do want to be vaccinated,” Jim assured her.  “Where do you want to start?”

Gillian placed her bag down on the table and produced a small array of hypodermic shots.  Jim hadn’t seen them outside television before, for they were only usable once and the user was intended to dispose of them once they were used.  They were tiny button-shaped devices; one press against the skin and whatever they contained would be injected into the body.

“We have to worry about infection,” Gillian explained, seeing his questioning look.  Once these have been used, they’ll be melted down and recycled.  We have to avoid using anything that can be used twice; we don’t want to spread the disease further.”

She placed two seats together and looked up at him.  “Who wants to be injected first?”

Jim frowned.  “I will,” he said, taking the other seat and rolling up his sleeve.  He flinched as he felt a cold object being pressed against his arm and braced himself, expecting a stabbing pain, but there was nothing.  Gillian removed the injector from his arm and dropped it back in her bag.  “You didn’t do anything.”

Gillian chuckled.  Oddly, her smile transformed her entire face.  “Oh yes I did,” she said.  Jim looked at his arm and blinked in surprise, seeing the red mark fading away into nothingness.  “That gets people every time.  Don’t worry; you were injected with vaccine…if you’ll look this way, please.”