Ellen Brazile stared at three files open on her computer. The first was the genetic blueprint for a superbug she’d created called Minor Roar. The second file contained a vaccine for Minor Roar. The third spelled out the entire genetic sequence of the Chicago pathogen. Ellen made a call. Jon Stoddard’s voice rang hollow over the speaker.
“You have something?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right down.”
“That’s not necessary.”
She’d told Stoddard she needed space. He was more than happy to give it. No one wanted to be the white coat on the hook if the pathogen went truly global. So they’d posted a guard with a gun in the hallway outside her lab and left her alone.
“Talk to me, Ellen.”
“I sent some data to your computer. It’s a DNA blueprint of the pathogen.” She paused. “And a possible vaccine.”
Silence. “How possible?”
“I think it will work.”
“Why am I hearing a ‘but’?”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
Ellen had jotted down some talking points on a piece of paper. Now she balled up the page and threw it in the trash.
“I told you earlier I felt the pathogen acted much like one I’d created in our lab.”
“You told me they were different.”
“They are.”
“I think that’s a more appropriate way to characterize things, don’t you?”
“The pathogen I created is called Minor Roar. I designed it as one of our nightmare scenarios-the virulent properties of anthrax and Ebola, altered slightly and embedded in the infrastructure of a flu virus.”
“Theoretically, shortening its incubation period and rendering it capable of airborne transmission.”
“That’s right. If Minor Roar had been released in its original form, the death total would already be north of ten thousand. This strain, while related, seems to require much closer, more intimate human contact for transmission.”
“Which is why we have only a few hundred dead?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“So we can contain this thing?”
“I created a vaccine for Minor Roar. With some modifications, it might provide a measure of protection.”
Stoddard paused. “How long until we can have it online?”
“Three months, minimum. Until then we keep the sick in isolation and slowly pare down the infected areas.”
“What about those already infected?”
“Anyone infected is dead, Jon.”
Another pause. “You realize we’re heroes, Ellen.”
“Five hundred people dead is not the work of a hero. Besides, we got lucky. Extraordinarily lucky.”
“It’s not luck, Ellen. It’s you. Your work, the work of our lab, have been able to stop what might have been a global pandemic… ”
“I harvested most of the pathogen’s DNA from the blood they drew from my sister’s body.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s nice.” Ellen looked down at her hands and wondered when they got so old. Stoddard’s voice came down the wire.
“Ellen… ”
“I’ll begin outlining protocols for manufacture of the vaccine.”
“Heroes, Ellen.”
She cut the line and clicked on the genetic readout for Minor Roar. Ellen stared at the constellation of chromosomes floating on her computer screen, then pulled up some data on infection rates for the last six hours.
There was a noise outside. Ellen walked to the door and glanced down the hallway. It was dark, the only illumination a cluster of security lights at either end of the hall. Ellen looked for her guard, but he was gone. She went back inside and pulled out the travel bag she’d packed. Then she opened the bottom drawer of her desk and took out the small revolver she kept there.
They’d be waiting downstairs. Or somewhere. Staring at her like their god. Until she gave them what they wanted. Then she’d be their lamb, marked and left for slaughter.
Ellen stuck the gun in her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and left.