Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

“Especially if they learn the government knew about the outbreak and kept that knowledge to themselves.” Sunnie scooped up a strawberry. Raising the spoon, she willed her mouth to open. Her closed jaw throbbed.

“Exactly.” Crossing to the sink, her aunt removed the wash cloth from its position draped over the faucet, wet the fabric then scrubbed at the coffee droplets on the counter. “Study after study has shown the people will keep the faith as long as they feel the government is dealing honestly with them. If the President would only make a statement about the possibility of an outbreak, thousands might be saved.”

“But word is getting out.” Setting the spoon back into her oatmeal, she jerked her head to the closed computer. Not that her aunt could see, she was too busy cleaning the Formica off the countertop.

“Rumor is and that’s something.” After rinsing the washcloth, Aunt Mavis wrung the water from the cloth. Her knuckles turned white and the fabric twisted into a tight rope. “The Chinese government is holding a press conference since it’s been rumored that they have on-going influenza cases.”

Sunnie glanced toward the bedrooms. Somewhere there was a case from a Chinese spy that had been used to make a comment on the Redaction in Action list serve last night. “Your suitcase.”

“Exactly.” Aunt Mavis slapped the towel over the faucet and wiped her hands on her pants. Wet marks scored the tan Dockers. “It also means we’re not alone in trying to get the word out, as only someone in the CIA, FBI or NSA could have leaked the source to the reporters. Not everyone agrees with the politicians. Now we wait to see what China says during the press conference.”

“Then what?”

“If China confirms their cases, then our job is done. If not…” Aunt Mavis shrugged and picked up her mug. “Well, there are too many variables to guess. Besides we have more pressing matters.”

Sunnie dropped her container on the counter. More pressing than the return of the Redaction? The congealed oatmeal barely quivered. She was almost afraid to ask. “Like what?”

“Plague, Hanta Virus and typhoid, to name a few.”

Plague. The Plague as in the Black Death. She felt her jaw drop. Cold air skimmed her teeth and stripped the moisture from her tongue. Of course, that plague. As for the others, who knew what they meant but it couldn’t be good. “Where did those come from?”

“Rats.” Aunt Mavis tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. “That’s why we were having a burn the trash day, to control the population or at least keep it at bay in the neighborhood. You should come out and join us. Everyone who’s left is there. It’s kind of part block party/part wake. I just came in to refill my cuppa.”

Sunnie blinked. Her aunt wanted her to go outside when she’d just confirmed the Redaction was out there, floating in the air. Was she nuts? Maybe it would be safe with one of those white suits or SCUBA gear. “Maybe later. I wanna check the boards.”

“Okay.” Aunt Mavis kissed her cheek before cupping her chin.

Just like Mom had done. Sunnie gasped.

“Oh, and Sunnie, eat your oatmeal.” Her aunt winked on her way to the door. “We can’t afford to waste food, especially now.”

That was pure Aunt Mavis.

“I was going to.” Sunnie sniffed despite the sting of tears. Thank God that hadn’t changed. Silently, she prayed it never would. Turning to the window, she watched a flake of ash settle on the windowsill.

Jogging over to the truck, David ignored his rumbling stomach. Breakfast could wait. He cracked a yawn and heard his jaw pop. So could a nap. If this was Patient Zero, then he needed to know. His men needed to know. Climbing into the passenger side, he sank onto the seat. Plastic crinkled under his butt. Pulling the stiff bag out, he eyed the MRE. Hot damn! He’d get breakfast after all. “Did you pack the full body protection?”

“Sure thing, Big D.” Private Robertson tossed the papers about the plague’s and Hanta virus’s symptoms onto the console between them before climbing inside. “Hey, you don’t think that these two…”

“Are Patient Zero and a spare?” Pulling his switchblade from his boot, he flicked open the knife and slit across the top of the tan bag. “Yeah. It’s a possibility. And one that we can’t ignore.”

“God-damn-fucking-shit-eating-scum-sucking-bastard.” Robertson slammed the door and rammed the keys in the ignition. The engine roared to life before he slapped it into gear. “Who’d have thunk, I’d be praying for the Black Plague over the damn flu?”

“Exactly.” David fished out the heating sleeve, added his beef pot roast pouch then plucked the water bottle from the cup holder in the center console.

The truck bounced over the potholes in the asphalt. Robertson rested his wrists on the steering wheel as they headed for the exit. “What’s our chance of survival?”

Bent at the waist, David made sure his face was concealed from his subordinate. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” The truck began to slow.

David concentrated on pouring just the right amount of water into the sleeve while the private aimed for every pothole. The men didn’t need to know they faced overwhelming odds. Especially since they faced an enemy they couldn’t shoot, bludgeon or evade. After adding the bags to his MRE wrapper, he folded over the top, propped the food against the hump in the center of the truck, and sat up in his seat.

“What does that mean?” Robertson’s foot jumped along the floorboard while the guard slowly opened the chain link gate. “Thirty-five percent like the initial Redaction?”

Opening the vanilla shake pouch, he emptied the water bottle inside, folded over the opening and shook it. “Higher.” Much higher. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent when all was said and done. The thought stuck in his craw. “But we’ll survive. And we’ll save as many civilians as we can.”

He hoped.

Robertson’s leg continued to bounce as they rolled onto the street.

Yeah, it was a great morning conversation—the equivalent of getting a Dear John letter while taking enemy fire and having the trots. Freeing his fork from its plastic prison, he cleared his throat of platitudes. No use pretending there wasn’t a shit storm on the radar. “Where are the bodies?”

David tapped Robertson’s arm, offering him the drink.

The private glanced at the pouch before shaking his head. With one hand still on the wheel, he twisted the GPS, aiming the screen at David. “Here.”

The red arrow aimed at a house off of Baseline. Damn. They had been there yesterday, replenishing supplies. Could they already be exposed? His stomach clenched. Well, if they were, he knew how to deal with it. Antivirals. There were enough for him and his men. He backed the map out a bit. “And the rest of our squad?”

“Sector G.” Robertson braked at the stoplight and fiddled with his sleeve jacket. “They’ll be doing the normal rounds and rendezvous with us at Baseline and Seventh Street to feed the neighborhoods we missed yesterday.”

In the intersection, the Marine on duty waved them through.

Robertson scratched his arm. The truck remained stopped.

“Sector G is ten miles from where the bodies are. Our men are safe.” As safe as they can be with the Grim Reaper looming over the city. “We’ll stop and pass them this information on our way.” Setting the shake on the floor, David grabbed a paper off the seat and opened the door. The Marine fingered his SAW. A little jumpy today. But then again, they had been attacked last night. “Wait here.”

Flashing both palms and the paper, he jogged through the intersection.

The Marine slid off the tank, while two more popped out of the top. All of them wore masks. Word had spread. “Sergeant Major.”