Deadline

You really think it’s insects?

“I don’t think anything else has this kind of distribution pattern.” One of the few saving graces of Kellis-Amberlee has always been the fact that it’s a very hands-on virus. Unless you’re in the unfortunate two percent of the population at risk for spontaneous amplification, you have to either die or get bitten by someone who’s been infected before you have a problem. Giving it any sort of a distance-based vector changed the entire game… but it was still a speed killer, taking over bodies and rewriting instincts in a matter of hours. With modern quarantine procedures and our constant, comfortable societal paranoia, even an airborne strain could be controlled.

But an insect vector changed everything. Just ask the people living in parts of the world where malaria is still a problem. Ten-dollar mosquito nets can save entire families from a slow, agonizing death—assuming they don’t get torn. Or stolen. Or left ever so slightly ajar one night, allowing one tiny bug to slip unnoticed through the mesh and deliver a stinging bite filled with microscopic death. But malaria’s a parasitic infection. That’s part of why it does so well with the whole mosquito gig. It’s little and it’s quick and it’s very well-suited to the life cycle it’s evolved for. Kellis-Amberlee is a huge, unwieldy virus, microscopically speaking, and it doesn’t have the flexibility of malaria. Marburg Amberlee provided most of the structure when it combined with the Kellis flu strain, and it was a filovirus. They’re big. So I had to be wrong. I had to be totally off-base, taking swipes at shadows. I just needed Dr. Abbey to tell me that, so we could move on to looking for answers in someplace a little bit more realistic.

Shaun? George sounded almost timid for a change. She didn’t like this theory any more than I did. Check your mail.

I allowed my eyes to focus on the screen. The top item in my in-box was from an e-mail address I recognized all too well, and it was flagged Urgent. The little status marker was blinking bright red, which meant every possible “read this immediately” switch had been flipped, some of them maybe more than once. I took a breath, sent a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening, and opened the message.

For a long moment, everything was silent.

Oh, said George, finally. I guess that answers that.

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess it does.”

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: The current outbreak.

Ten points, kid: You got it faster than I expected you to. The yellow fever epidemic of 1858 happened after a tropical storm blew infected Aedes aegypti mosquitoes over from Cuba. The city of Memphis was nearly wiped out. Hundreds of thousands died.

Tropical Storm Fiona originated in Cuba.

This time is going to be much, much worse, because the mosquitoes may have been blown in by the storm, but they’re not tethered to it—some of them are probably already breaking away and infecting random people in the countryside. It’s just not enough to cause the mass horror we’re seeing in the storm zones. People and their shotguns can keep up with it, and as long as Fiona keeps going, the majority of the bugs will stay with the winds. That means they’re concentrated, creating a steady critical mass of new infected to share the joy and make it a real community barbecue.

My lab has moved. If you need to evacuate your current location, download the attached file and upload it to a GPS unit you don’t mind destroying. The directions will last for approximately five hours before the virus included with the file burns out your CPU. Attempts to extract the directions without uploading them will result in the file self-destructing and possibly giving you a nice little surprise as an added “you shouldn’t have f**ked around with me when I’m in this kind of a mood” bonus.

If you must go outside while the sun is down, wear long sleeves and bug spray. I recommend Avon Skin-So-Soft. It’s a bath product. It smells like someone fed a Disney Princess through a juicer, but it works better than anything else on the market. Really, I recommend DDT and prayer. Sadly, those aren’t available for sale.

You have twenty-four hours before I move again. I will not transmit directions a second time.

Good luck. You ass**les are going to need it.

Dr. Shannon L. Abbey

I read the e-mail twice, making sure I understood exactly what it said. Finally, I sent two copies to the house printer and leaned back in my chair, bellowing, “Mahir!” A minute passed with no reply. I ied again: “Mahir!”

“What in the bloody blue blazes are you shouting about now?” he demanded, shoving open the kitchen door and storming toward me. The bulldogs scrambled out of his way, demonstrating more in the way of self-preservation than I would have credited them with. One small brindle even mustered the courage to bark at Mahir’s ankles. I felt an unexpected pang. We were going to have to evacuate. If not immediately, then soon. The CDC knew where we were, and in the chaos of the second Rising, not even Maggie’s parents would have the reach to keep us all safe.

Between the van and George’s bike, we could easily take the five surviving members of the team. But there was no way we’d be able to take the dogs.

“I need a thumb drive,” I said.

Mahir stared at me. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, in a measured tone, “that you just yelled like there was some sort of emergency on—when there is an actual emergency on, no less, which means we’re all a trifle jumpy—because you needed a thumb drive?”