FIFTY-FIVE

Washington, D.C.

SECRET SERVICE LINED the hallway in front of and behind him. They cleared the way, allowing for a quick departure and absolute secrecy. No one other than the man at his side, and the loyal protectors he would leave behind, would know the president of the United States had abandoned his post.

He felt awful for doing it, for the ruse, but some matters had to be attended to personally. And that meant leaving the White House. That meant breaking the quarantine. Not that the quarantine mattered anymore. Every major network was carrying the story now.

When the tenth victim, a second survivor, had been diagnosed, the doctors went to the press despite a warning from the FBI. The press coverage, as usual, was sensationalized. Not only was Brugada held responsible for the ten known victims in Washington, D.C, but also every death across the country with an unknown, unusual, or suspicious nature. According to the press, the current death toll was approaching five hundred.

Religious leaders, the more charismatic the better, were being interviewed about Armageddon, which provided an endless stream of “the end of the world is nigh” sound bites. Paranoia spread. People either locked themselves away or hit the streets. Those in their houses made the right choice, but more than a few became violent with anyone on their doorstep. Those in the streets adopted a carpe diem mentality.

Riots erupted in Los Angeles and Chicago.

And the press ate it up, fueling the end-of-days flames. Especially Fox, whose broadcasts took on a religious fervor. Acts of violence went uncensored. Journalists in the studio spoke with animated gesticulations, pitching voices, and wild eyes. Those on the streets cursed, shoved the drunk, and in Los Angeles, came under gunfire.

As Duncan passed by a now-empty office, he heard one such dramatic newscast come to a halt with, “We interrupt our continuing coverage of Pandemic Twenty-ten with a message from the president of these United States of America.”

He paused at the door, looking at the wall-mounted TV. His face appeared, grim and serious, but with a practiced spark of hope. The words he had spoken an hour previous were still fresh in his mind. “Friends, we find ourselves in a difficult and troubling situation.”

“Sir,” Boucher’s voice interrupted the TV as the recorded Duncan went on to explain the disease and provide a more accurate portrayal of the situation. Washington, D.C., was under quarantine. The airports had been shut down. And while neither a curfew or martial law had been ordered, they were options on the table in cities where looting had become rampant. And then he gave them hope. America’s finest were on the task and he was confident—confident—a solution would be found.

“Sir,” Boucher repeated.

Duncan looked at him.

“Are you sure about this?”

“I am.”

“You’re taking a big risk.”

“The whole world is at risk.”

Boucher let himself smile. “You’re a better man than most.”

“We’ll see.”

“And when the world comes knocking at our doorstep tomorrow morning? They’ll expect to hear from you again, you know.”

“I’ll be back in time for breakfast.”

Boucher rolled his neck, popping a few vertebrae. “And if you’re not?”

“If I’m not back? Then it won’t matter, will it?”

A frown creased beneath Boucher’s mustache. “No. It won’t.”

They resumed walking, leaving the recorded Duncan behind as he continued to urge calm. After two flights of stairs they entered an underground parking garage that exited four blocks away inside what appeared to be a personal garage. An array of black SUVs and stretch limos filled the space, all heavily armored and ready to speed the president away in the event of an emergency that Marine One, the president’s personal helicopter, couldn’t handle (should Washington’s airspace become compromised).

But Duncan didn’t approach the black vehicles. Instead he walked up to an unassuming Hyundai Entourage. It was as heavily armored as the rest of the vehicles in the garage, but when he drove it with a baseball cap on his head and dummy children strapped into the backseat, no one would recognize him for who he was.

Boucher handed him the keys. “Never pictured you as a family man.”

The van’s lights blinked twice as Duncan unlocked the doors. “Never too late to start, right?” He climbed onto the driver’s seat.

“Superdad.”

“Dom, listen,” Duncan said, his voice low so the Secret Service men guarding the garage entrance couldn’t hear. “If things get worse, lock down the cities. Keep people from moving. If people are smart, we can keep this thing contained.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, ask the FBI to send some guys with guns to Fox and let them know what it’s like to have fear shoved down their throats.”

Boucher smiled. “My pleasure, sir.”

Duncan started the van, rolled down the window, and steered for the exit. He leaned out the window as he passed Boucher. “Up, up, and away.”