CHAPTER 1 – JUNE 16, 2020

Hatred. It filled her brain and drowned out everything else. Hatred refused

her the respite of sleep or the comfort that comes from close friends … a

lover even.

Her family; hate. Her job; hate. Her neighbors; hate. And, above all, hate

for the Cooper administration led by a racist, misogynistic, egomaniacal

rapist.

The only relief from the hate, the only thing that took her mind away

from her blinding hate, was revenge. Hence, stirred liberally within the

caldron of her brain was a plan. More than a plan, actually, it was a complex

series of activities for implementing her revenge and she was nearing the

end of those activities; her plan coming together with the help of others

who shared her hatreds.

She sat in her cramped, one-room studio situated on one of the worst

streets in Anacostia. The street was in an area on the East bank of the

Potomac River, an area unaffected by the gentrification that breathed new

life into other parts of DC Metro. Outside, she saw the rusted-out truck that

was there when she first stumbled upon this place nearly five years ago.

Surrounding the car was an accumulation of urban detritus blown down the

street during countless storms, only to find its progress impeded by the

nicks and crannies of metal that once represented a Ford F-150 pickup.

Inside the rusted bed, weeds grew in soil formed as organic matter

captured within the box decayed to form a dark, nutrient-rich substrate.

About a year ago, someone parked a bike with only one wheel against the

front bumper, where it lay undisturbed to this day.

But, she didn’t see any of this, nor did she notice the kids flowing down

the street from the bus stop a few houses to the right of her building. Today,

their normal whooping and hollering had new purpose as the school years

was over. Ahead of them were months filled with nothing more taxing than

playing outside.

Instead of observing her surroundings, she looked out the window, not

seeing anything as she mentally counted down the time until her petri

dishes relinquished the harvest she needed to move her plan forward. Later

today, when she was certain her movements were invisible to anyone

passing by, she would move the threadbare rug aside, pry up the three

loose floorboards, and drop down to a hidden crawlspace where her real

work awaited. Until then, she painted images in her mind; images of tears,

pain, and, ultimately, death.

To deal with the hours looming ahead, she spent her time drawing

images of the destruction she hoped would befall her enemies soon. Dark

images in charcoal on paper, smudged extensively to create a blurred

canvas full of dead. Or, she watched her small television, alternating

between Fox with its right wing lies and MSNBC, which told the same lies

and half-truths reinterpreted from the left. She hated them all for their lies,

disingenuous concerns that extended only as far as their ratings, and the

people duped into believing the lies and vitriol they spread. She wished she

could surrender to sleep, but it wasn’t worth the inevitable dreams that

accompanied anything more than a short nap.

As a child, the dreams scared her … made her cry out for help. But,

what responded to those uncontrolled cries was worse than the dreams

themselves because it brought a man with strong arms who wasn’t satisfied

with holding her, quieting her fears. He added to her fear by touching her,

forcing her to take him into her body until she bled. That’s where the hate

was born.

Later experiences fanned the initial flames of hate. The officer in the Air

Force who couldn’t keep his hands off her. He wasn’t satisfied with touching

her either, he buried himself deep in whatever orifice satisfied his whim,

then dared her to report his crime. Hate. Or the boss who constantly

ignored her protestations against the company’s behavior and relegated her

to menial tasks where her ability to blow the whistle on them was limited.

Instead he gave plumb assignments to sycophants who refused to stand up

to his unethical and, many times, illegal practices. What he and his minions

did resulted in hundreds of deaths on the part of unsuspecting patients who

turned to the products they made in hopes of a cure for their broken bodies.

Hate.

And, now you had an entire country led by some of the worst abusers in

history. People who rivaled the tyrants of old; concerned only with raping

the entire world for their own psychic and financial rewards. And their

leader … the man who choreographed the dance that would destroy the

planet, was the worst. He was the same officer who raped her with abandon

in a former life when she still cared about justice and decency. It was his

administration, with its kleptocracy on a scale unseen in a millennium, that

drove her hate over the edge. She could no longer argue against revenge

that she knew would end up harming innocents. There were no innocents

anymore.

A noise drew her attention to the window and she felt her muscles

tighten in preparation for a fight. Instead, she saw children playing in the

street; noticing them for the first time. She regretted the grief and pain she

would bring on their heads, but, better a quick death than a lingering one

as they watched themselves and those they loved dragged down by the

rudderless ship that was the coming reality.

A sound from her computer notified her of an incoming message. Wiping

the charcoal from her hands on her dingy blue jeans, she clicked the

keyboard to bring life to the screen.

Ah, a message from The Angel of Death. He probably wants an update

on our crop, she thought as she opened the message delivered through a

series of servers that bounced across multiple countries to disguise its

origin and destination.

Security was a paramount concern, hence precautions that bounced her

signal across a series of anonymous IP addresses. But, security didn’t stop

there. Her device was housed in a Faraday cage to keep out unwanted

electromagnetic impulses from lightening that might damage the device as

well as electronic efforts to intrude on the data within the computer. A

degaussing ring hidden beneath a painting near the door ensured that no

one who removed the device got any data—the ring irretrievably erased the

hard drive if the computer got within a few meters of it. The same was true

for law enforcement. If they removed her computer, there would be nothing

on it to implicate her or her partners in any illegal activity. A final security

measure involved a very intricate encryption of her own construction and a

series of booby traps that would erase the data if the wrong keystrokes

were entered..

But, people were a bigger danger than electronics and her experience

with people left her wary. Hence the reason she jumped every time she

heard a sound outside. Adding partners to this operation also involved an

element of risk that brought back memories of betrayal, pain, and anger

that made her uncomfortable. She preferred to work alone. But, for an

operation this size, she needed more people and, importantly, she needed

more money. Her partners brought both.

The danger inherent in partners was muted by their arrangement.

Neither knew the other; each using a code name for communications. And,

it wasn’t like they met for drinks after work, in fact, they’d never met in

person. They first connected in a chat room over their shared hatred for

President Cooper. After many months of shared vitriol, they felt a

connection and The Angel of Death suggested they move into a private chat

on the dark web involving a long series of anonymous servers. Even after

they were hidden from prying eyes, it took months before she felt

comfortable enough with the other members that she was willing to broach

her plan.

Everything is moving forward nicely. Can we rely on delivery in 2

weeks? She read from the screen.

I should be ready, she typed. Our friends are growing nice and plump. I

have the first batch awaiting transport in a powdered form. More are

growing as we speak. Within 2 weeks we should have the required amount

ready to be reconstituted with the nutrient bath I recommended.

That is good. We have arranged for the materials needed and a facility

that meets your requirements. Our people will pick up your product at the

arranged time, as agreed. Just like last time, leave the material double

bagged inside the last stall at the National Gallery ladies room on the first

floor. How long will they need to be in the nutrient bath before we can

move on to phase 2 of the plan?

The keys clicked softly as she confirmed details necessary to

reconstitute her brood safely. Everything would be ready for the 4th of July—

and a bang that no one in the crowd would expect.

Everything was going splendidly and she smiled for the first time in

years as she signed off.

CHAPTER 2 – JUNE 22, 2020

Angelica’s heels clicked rhythmically on the polished linoleum in Building

23 at NIH—National Institutes of Health. She couldn’t believe she’d been

working here three years already, the time seemed to have flown by. In

other ways, it seemed a lifetime since she left Mexico and her family, she

thought as she stroked her growing belly.

She’d never admit it to Juan, but she felt alive here in a way she hadn’t

at her clinic in Mexico. She missed the clinic and her patients, of course,

but here she felt like she made a bigger impact. Instead of helping people

one patient at a time, her work at NIH allowed her to help millions by

identifying new pathogens or determining the specific strain of pathogen

that made people sick around the world. Her work supported the

development of new drugs and helped physicians determined the best

treatment for patients infected with malaria, ebola, bird flu, and a host of

new infections that arose with increased frequency. At NIH, she felt a sense

of accomplishment that was bigger than herself.

Of course, she couldn’t stay away from practicing medicine all together.

She still spent many Saturdays treating patients at an inner city clinic run

by a group of Catholic nuns. As Juan predicted in his arguments for coming

here, there were poor people who needed affordable medical care

everywhere. It was enough.

In fact, it was more than enough. She had Juan and their relationship

flowered over time from love to adoration to a feeling that they were parts

of the same person; that their lives before they met were incomplete. This

baby, due in less than four months, would add a new dimension of joy to

their lives.

And, Ricardo, who’d decided to Americanize his name and now went by

Richard … Rick, for short. He was such a delightful child and had been ever

since he joined them 2 ½ years ago. He never complained, despite his

continuing struggles in school. He was almost 13 when he arrived, but was

placed in the 6th grade because he was so far behind other kids his age with

his rudimentary English and huge holes in the limited education he received

in Mexico. At least his diminutive stature kept him from towering over

classmates that were several years his junior. He was turning 15 in a few

weeks and they were taking a last road trip to Mexico before the baby was

born. She couldn’t wait to see her family and friends again.

Rick missed his mother, she was certain, but he was able to talk to her

sometimes when she was clean. At first, it seemed like she’d be one of the

lucky ones … the ones who got clean and stayed that way. She spent months

in the rehab center Juan arranged for her, afterwards, she went to work at

one of the Maquiladora plants and things seemed to be going well. She got

a decent apartment, even a mobile phone that allowed Rick to talk to her a

lot more. Then, about a year ago, she started using again and … No one had

heard from her for four months now. Juan’s FBI friends put out feelers and

Angelica’s family scoured the area looking for her, but so far no one seemed

to know anything about her. If they could find her, she hoped that Rick and

his mother could spend some time together during their visit.

Enough of that, she thought. There was work to do and she needed to

focus on her upcoming meeting, although she couldn’t figure out why the

FBI was here? Today, she’d come in early to meet with her group before the

FBI team arrived. They’d discussed trials for the new malaria vaccine that

were going on in Africa. Preliminary results seemed good, especially in light

of the partial failure of limited trials in three African countries a couple of

years ago. Unexpected side effects forced the WHO—World Health

Organization—to stop the earlier trial. After years of development, animal

trials, and limited human trials, the flawed serum was being replaced with a

new one that was only now deemed ready for testing again.

Luckily, the earlier trial wasn’t a complete failure. Infants immunized

then were showing markedly reduced incidence of malaria compared with

unimmunized children and results from that trial helped speed development

of the new vaccine, that was both more powerful, and had fewer side

effects, based on preliminary data.

She was in a great mood, except for some nagging discomfort over not

knowing the reason for the FBI’s visit. Juan, who worked in the FBI Drug

Interdiction Office, knew nothing that would explain such an unusual

meeting. He did know both John Boyd and Jacob Mainz, who were coming in

to meet members of the infectious disease team and had great respect for

them. Juan gave her a little background on Jacob and John, highlighting the

rescue of Jacob’s wife who had been held by the Gulf Cartel; an experience

she knew way too much about.

She entered the large conference room they usually used for

departmental meetings and small, internal conferences. The FBI team was

already there and had their presentation ready. In addition to Angelica, Drs

Thompson, Rau, and Chang were there representing the senior researchers

at NIH.

“I’m sorry. Am I late?” she said, glancing at her watch. “I was going over

preliminary results from the malaria vaccine trials with my team. I hope I

didn’t keep you waiting long,”

“You’re just on time. We were early,” said Dr. Thompson, who lead her

unit. He was older and what little hair remained on his head was silver. Tall

and thin, he’d worked for NIH since receiving his PhD in epidemiology in

1974 from Harvard. He was brilliant, but he lacked people skills and often

came across as gruff or irritated.

“I hope the results are promising,” said Dr. Chang. She headed toward

the coffee urn and soundlessly motioned to ask if Angelica wanted one too.

Angelica nodded and Dr. Chang returned to the table with two cups.

Angelica and Dr. Susan Chang were good friends in a world made up almost

entirely of men, at least at the administrative levels of the agency. Susan

was a tiny Asian woman who came to the NIH after working with the WHO

for many years.

With introductions accomplished, Jacob approached the computer and

the FBI got down to business.

The computer came to life, displaying images on the large screen that

hung from the dropped ceiling.

“I’m not sure what I’m seeing,” said Dr. Thompson.

“These are message intercepts uncovered in a chat room on the dark

web,” said Jacob. “As part of our job, the Cyber Counter Terrorism Unit

monitors conversations in a number of sites not addressable using standard

protocols—a place commonly called the dark web—using an algorithm to

find potential danger. We constantly tweak the algorithm so that, as the bad

guys come up with new ways to create harm, we find them. After Saddam

Hussain used chemical weapons on his own people in 2017, we added more

words related to chemical and biological weapons to our algorithm. We

discovered these in a routine sweep and thought they might mean

something, but we wanted insights from the experts. Ever since Reagan

shut down all US efforts to develop biological weapons in 1972, you are

those experts.”

“We appreciate the confidence you have in us, but we’re not familiar

with this technology. Can you give us some guidance?” said Dr. Thompson.

“Sure,” said Jacob. “I understand this stuff can be a little intimidating to

those who aren’t familiar with the acronyms. Notice, here … and here,” he

said pointing to the word Yersinia pestis, Y. pestis, for short. “We know this

is a very dangerous bacteria responsible for both Bubonic and Pneumonic

plague and we have some general idea of its morbidity and mortality from

our friends over at the CDC. We’d like to know more about the bacteria …

where you can get it … how it behaves in the environment. Stuff like that.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Dr. Rau, who was their resident expert on

plague. ‘Y. pestis is a very bad bacteria, causing both Pneumonic and

Bubonic Plagues. It is sometimes called the Black Death and it killed nearly

1/3 of Europe’s population in the mid-1330’s. What makes this pathogen so

dangerous is that it is ridiculously easy to grow and can prove virulent for

hours after exposure to the environment, unlike many pathogens that die

quickly without a warm host. They’re easily aerosolized and patients

exposed don’t show symptoms for two to seven days. This allows infected

individuals to spread the bacteria every time they cough or sneeze. The

spread follows a typical pattern as it moves from individual to individual,

but Y. pestis crosses the species barrier and can infect many mammals, not

just primates, which is rare.”

“Has there ever been a major outbreak of Pneumonic Plague?” ask John

Boyd.

“It’s rare,” explained Angelica. “Bubonic plague is more common and

Pneumonic plague is commonly a result of untreated Bubonic plague …”

“The last known outbreak was mid-2014, when a very small number of

people contracted the disease after exposure to a pet, a dog, I believe, who

died of the disease,” said Dr. Thompson.

“Yes,” added Angelica, “but we’ve not seen anything on the order of the

outbreaks in the middle ages.”

“Do people still die from Y. pestis?” asked Boyd.

“Yes,” replied Dr. Chang. “Although, as Angelica, er Dr. Martinez,

pointed out. Plague is more of a middle ages disease than something we

worry about today. It’s very easily treated with certain antibiotics, like those

used to combat Anthrax, although regular penicillin has no effect on disease

progression. That’s why we don’t see massive outbreaks. Infected

individuals don’t wander around for days or weeks spreading the disease.

With modern diagnosis and treatments, we can quickly isolate infected

individuals and treat them. Most patients make a full recovery after a

course or two of treatment. The problem occurs when Y. pestis is

misdiagnosed, as was the case with the outbreak in 2014, and the wrong

treatment prescribed.”

“Moreover, human-to-human transmission is only one part of the

scenario leading to ‘The Black Death’,” said Dr. Rau who encountered a

mini-epidemic of plague during his residency in Malawi back in the 1950s.

“The real problem underpinning ‘The Black Death’ was rats who carried the

disease. Fleas carried on the rats were infected with Y. pestis and, as the

rats moved around, the fleas carried the bacteria with them. Because

Europe suffered severe rat infestations during that period in history, there

were plenty of fleas to infect humans with their bites. Rats boarded ships,

carrying Y. pestis with them as the ships visited foreign ports. A recipe for

disaster.”

“And that’s another factor that reduces cases of the plague in modern

cities,” said Angelica. “Most modern cities have effective methods such as

regular garbage collection, that reduce the number of rats living in close

proximity to humans.”

“What would happen if someone mimicked the rats—caused some type

of wide dispersion of the bacteria. Say, for instance, they detonated a bomb

… a dirty bomb filled with Y. pestis?” asked Boyd. “Would the heat from the

blast kill the bacteria?”

“It depends on the amount of heat generated by the explosive,” said Dr.

Rau. “One of the nasty problems with this pathogen is that it’s very stable at

temperatures over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. That explains why our immune

systems aren’t effective at wiping out the bacteria. One of our best defenses

is a fever, which raises body temperature and kills many pathogens. Also,

because Y. pestis is rare, we don’t have natural antibodies to the bacteria

and the body can’t generate them fast enough to stop the bacteria before it

kills the infected individual. Without treatment. Thus, the human body has a

difficult time killing the bacteria with its normal arsenal of fever and

antibodies. Casualties might be very high unless stopped quickly with

appropriate treatment. Especially in our modern world where aircraft are a

much more efficient tool for spreading disease.”

“Is there some way we can we protect people from someone dispersing

Y. pestis? A vaccine or something?”

“Dr. Martinez, this is your area,” said Dr. Thompson.

“Well, unfortunately, there’s little we can do proactively to protect

people. There’s no vaccine against Y. pestis, although we’re working to

develop one along with several groups in Europe and Asia. Because

outbreaks are so rare and treatment is normally very effective, few

governments have the desire for spending the time and money it takes to

develop such a vaccine. The money allocated is very small.

After infection, we have a whole arsenal of treatments. Antibiotics work

in most cases, if the right antibiotic is given and the person is treated early

in the process, before the disease damages the lungs or other organs.

Coughing, pneumonia, and other respiratory symptoms are common in

those infected, as are infections of the lymph nodes in the Bubonic form of

the plague. If an outbreak occurs in a major metropolitan center, human

contact through normal daily activities can spread the disease with

alarming efficiency. Every cough or sneeze spreads the disease and infects

hard surfaces that can harbor bacteria capable of infection for several

hours. If patients don’t seek treatment within a very short window, the

plague has a mortality rate of over 93%. And, a massive outbreak might

overload the capacity of our healthcare system to treat critically ill patients,

including the very real potential of running through the available stockpile

of drugs that are effective against Y. pestis.

I’m sure your research predicted massive casualties from a major

outbreak as most individuals infected die after a short, but very unpleasant

illness.”

Boyd looked over at Jacob, who still stood near the projector. These

doctors had just confirmed their worst fears.

CHAPTER 3 – LYNCHBURG, VA 2000

The days were getting longer, which, for most people brought joy and hope.

Spring was in full bloom, with the promise of summer making a brief

appearance over the last few days when the prevailing winds were from the

south. Students anticipated summers without waking up at 6am, teachers

breathed a sigh of relief that grades were almost ready to turn in, and

workers enjoyed the freedom offered by sidewalk cafes instead of cramped

offices, where they consumed their lunches during the harsh winters.

But, for Jody, the rapidly approaching end of school brought fear for,

when the semester ended at Old Dominion State, her half-brother, Daryl,

would return to torment her until it was time to return to campus in the fall.

While the school year was far from pleasant, summer was a horror film.

And, the worst part was, no one cared.

Fifth grade was coming to an end. She’d done well, earning mostly As in

everything, and her backpack held ribbons, certificates, and small trophies

she received at today’s recognition assembly. But, unlike many of the others

who received awards today, she was trudging home rather than enjoying a

more tangible reward, like a trip to the local ice cream store or a more

elaborate gift from parents thrilled with the accomplishments of their

offspring. Her parents didn’t attend today’s assembly … didn’t snap photo

after photo on their iPhones … didn’t envelop her in their arms when she

returned from collecting her many accolades. She was used to it, but the

hollowness in her stomach attested to her loneliness.

Instead of heading straight home, she went to a place in the woods near

her home—her place. She found this small glen a couple of years ago when

she was seeking refuge from her family. It was near the banks of a small

creek and she enjoyed the sound of water, the call of birds hunting in the

shallow water, and the lush foliage nourished by the nutrient-rich water

cascading from higher elevations as snow melted along the Appalachian

Mountains. Her little creek, swollen by a heavier than normal winter snow

season, moved quickly over rocks as the water wound its way to the James

River. Her spot, bounded on three sides by dense growth and virgin timber,

offered the perfect spot for someone who wanted privacy and a place to

escape. A tree, hollowed out by some long forgotten catastrophic event,

such as a bacteria or fungus, was her hiding spot. She wrapped her trinkets

in an old grocery bag she found blowing in the wind and tucked the package

deep into the hollow. Already, several similar packages rested comfortably

in the tree’s embrace.

After she was sure the trophies were well-hidden, she sat with her back

up against “her” tree, trying to work out a strategy to survive another

summer. It was dark and safe hidden deep in the forest and she wished she

could stay here forever. But, it would be worse if she didn’t return home

before the street lights came on, so after some time, during which she

couldn’t think of a single plan, she shouldered her backpack and retraced

her steps.

“Where have you been? It’s almost supper. Go wash up and set the

table,” said her mother when she entered the cluttered kitchen through the

back door. Through the haze of numerous cigarettes smoked in the enclosed

space, she could see her mother moving unsteadily toward the oven and

knew she’d probably been drinking since she finished her first cup of coffee

around noon, which was when her mother normally woke up.

After seeing all the well-groomed moms and dads at today’s assembly,

her mother looked even shabbier than usual. Her hair, which she knew had

been a vibrant red in some distant past because she’d seen photos of

happier times, was now a color that defied description—something between

a mousy brown and orange—and escaped the ponytail to hang down in

greasy tendrils. Her mother’s dress, which Jody thought she’d seen her

wear for the last four days, gave off an offensive odor combining cigarette

smoke with bourbon and stale sweat. And her eyes had the unfocused look

they often did, indicating she’d started drinking hours ago. Her face, after

years of abuse, was filled with deep crevasses and lines, giving her the

crinkled look of an old piece of yellow crepe paper that had been

haphazardly stuffed into a drawer.

Jody trudged up to her room and dumped her backpack beside the

scarred desk, then down the hall toward the bathroom she’d soon share

with Daryl. Just the thought of having him home, of what he would do to

her, made her stomach flop and her face sweat. She splashed some water

on her face and wished it were as easy to rid herself of Daryl.

Back in the kitchen, she ignored the TV blaring some show, although she

caught a glimpse of the talk show host interviewing a well-dressed woman

about depression as she passed the device. She took down three

mismatched plates, one with a crack beneath its glaze, and rummaged in a

drawer for forks among the jumble of cutlery thrown among old

matchbooks, a spool of thread, and a few paperclips. There weren’t any

clean cups, so she washed her favorite, a giveaway from some fast food joint

with its faded image of Piglet.

Her shoes stuck to the linoleum as she moved to the dining room, which

was really more of an alcove adjacent to the kitchen, and set three places as

far apart as the table allowed. Her family didn’t enjoy leisurely meals and,

instead, ate efficiently then left the table after exchanging as few words as

possible to spend the rest of their evening in their own pursuits.

“And, make some Kool-Aid,” she heard over the sound of the TV.

Her dad walked in just as she dumped a heaping cup of sugar into the

pitcher already bright blue from the powder.

“Not blueberry again,” he said without acknowledgement.

She knew he would be unhappy with whatever flavor chosen, so she just

shrugged and continued stirring the brightly colored liquid. Meanwhile, he

tossed his keys on the hall table and returned to fill a glass with ice and the

freshly-made Kool-aide before heading for the dining room. Once there, he

tipped the vodka bottle, adding the equivalent of three shots to the glass. If

today were typical, he’d down several of these before passing out in front of

the TV that normally showed some banal crime drama or idiotic comedy

program. In the morning, he was often still slouched in the recliner with an

empty glass and a full ashtray on the table beside him. The next day, she

tried to make her lunch startled him awake and he’d weave into the kitchen

and pour some day-old coffee into a coffee cup. His face would carry the

imprint of chenille and his breath would fill the tiny kitchen with a smell

that reminded her of the alley in back of The Pig, a local bar favored by her

parents and their friends.

“Bring my dinner when it’s ready,” he grunted and headed toward the

living room.

Not bothering to look up from her scrutiny of a hangnail on her left-hand

ring finger, Jody headed back upstairs without answering him. Downstairs

she heard the sounds of her parents arguing over control of the TV remote.

The volume of their argument increased until she heard the familiar sound

of flesh against flesh, then a shrill scream and the sound of her mother

stomping up the stairs. Jody rose to close her door as quietly as possible

because violence in this house had a habit of flowing downstream and she’d

learned to be invisible when someone felt the need to slap someone around.

She opened her backpack, pouring the pile of papers—mostly exams and

other assignments bearing large, red As, some with little smiley faces—into

the center of her bedspread where they looked like the junk they were.

Gathering them up, she dumped the lot into her already overflowing trash

can then tamped them down with her foot to keep stray sheets from

escaping.

When she was sure it was safe to leave the relative safety of her room,

she went into the kitchen and filled a plate with the disgusting brown goop

her mother had boiling on the stove and took it to her father. Then she

turned off the burner, made herself a peanut butter sandwich, forgoing jelly

after noting that there was mold on the rim of the grape jelly jar, and

headed back upstairs.

She sat at her desk and pulled the crust off her sandwich before taking a

bite. It wasn’t very good without jelly, but she didn’t relish the idea of

eating whatever it was in the pot. Her mother wasn’t a good cook when

sober, but, when drunk, she put anything that struck her fancy into her

pots. Once, when her mother was on a real bender, Jody found an old scarf

shredded along with the chicken and some sorry vegetables in a bubbling

pot.

She finished her sandwich and ate a small, scarred apple she’d saved

from her lunch for dessert.

CHAPTER 4 – WASHINGTON, DC 2020

“Senator, it’s time to leave for your meeting,” her assistant said as he

handed her the file containing briefing papers and reports she’d need for

the meeting of the Senate Committee on Health, Education, Labor, and

Pensions.

“Thank you, Robert,” she said as she powered down her iMac and

grabbed the black jacket she’s draped over the back of her office chair.

“Any word on where we stand on the new healthcare bill? Does the chair

think we have the votes to override the President’s veto?”

“It doesn’t look good. I checked with his admin a half hour ago and he

said his boss was still calling in chips to get the votes he needs, but he

thinks they’re still short.”

Senator Hill shook her head and gazed out the window at the crowd of

folks waiting to tour the massive rotunda, with its busts of those who

founded this republic and made it the great place it was today. Some of

them would die without the protection for pre-existing conditions provided

in the bill, but President Cooper didn’t seem to care. His party voted to

repeal legislation that, among other things, allowed those with pre-existing

conditions to buy reasonably priced health insurance as part of the

Affordable Care Act passed by the administration of his predecessor. Anger

against this change swept Democrats into office, where they held a small

majority in both houses. After gaining control of the House and Senate,

Democrats fought hard for this bill, but Cooper’s veto looked like it would

keep it from becoming law.

Her shoulders slumped as she remembered the brave individuals who

shared their stories during committee hearings; bringing pictures of loved

ones who died for want of treatment. She felt like she’d failed them.

“Alright. Thanks. I guess we’re going back to the drawing board to find

something that will plug the holes in the dyke that is the American

healthcare system.”

Inside the committee room, most chairs were already occupied with

other members so she stopped to chat with a few of them before moving to

take her seat. Today, they were getting a briefing from the CDC and NIH on

the spread of Zika, which had raised its ugly head recently in Alabama and

Kentucky. Once confined mainly to South America and only brought to his

county by visitors to countries where infected mosquitos carried the virus,

this year’s epidemic seemed to have taken a deadly turn, with person-to-

person transmission. The committee was considering special appropriations

for the agencies to investigate treatments, possible vaccines, and

procedures to stop the spread of the disease.

“Dr. Thompson, thank you for making the trip to Washington to share

your expertise with our committee,” said Senator Gomez, a moderate

Republican from Arizona. “I know of the recent outbreak of Zika in several

southern states. What can you tell us about this.”

“Thank, Senator Gomez. After several years without incident in the US,

we have 16 confirmed cases of Zika—5 in Kentucky and 11 in Alabama.

Luckily all had mild cases of the disease and none were pregnant, so we

don’t have to worry about microcephaly, which is very serious. After a week

or so of fever, muscle pain, conjunctivitis, and other minor illnesses, all the

patients recovered completely.”

“So, you agree there’s little cause for concern with such a minor

outbreak,” said Senator Houston, a right-wing Republican from West

Virginia. “It seems premature to appropriate funds for a case of the

sniffles.”

“With respect, sir, I don’t agree. The disease is serious in pregnant

women, whose children are born with serious birth defects that can be fatal.

A more serious concern is the spread of the disease from person-to-person.

Outside of a few cases where the virus spread through intercourse and a

handful of laboratory infections by those working closely with the virus,

we’ve never seen transmission by humans. After extensive work, our

epidemiologists tracked this outbreak to a single individual who likely

contracted this disease after traveling to Brazil. It’s likely she was infected

by a mosquito, but subsequent spread of the disease is almost certainly

through human contact as everyone infected can be traced to contact with

her. My guess is that the virus mutated during the winter when mosquitos

are less active and has returned in a more virulent variant. We need to learn

more about it, develop vaccines and better diagnostic tools so we can stop

its spread.

Another problem is that the disease is relatively benign so infected

patients often don’t seek medical care, especially those without health

insurance.” At this remark, several committee members shared looks heavy

with meaning. “Thus, the outbreak could easily be more severe than just

those 16 patients,” said Dr. Anand, from the CDC.

“Moreover,” added Dr. Thompson, “it’s likely patients can spread the

virus before they are aware that they are infected. That means the disease

could easily reach epidemic proportions without an immediate plan for

arresting transmission.”

Senator Hill was concerned as she witnessed the discussion evolve along

party lines, with Democrats and moderate Republicans seeming to favor

some type of appropriation bill, while senators from the right took a laissez-

faire approach that favored a wait-and-see attitude, despite warnings from

both the CDC and NIH against such an approach. They warned that the

disease could quickly exceed the capacity of local districts to treat patients,

leading to an epidemic. They also estimated 10% of pregnant women might

deliver babies infected with the virus and many would be born with

microcephaly.

The meeting lasted more than two hours and, at the end, nothing was

decided regarding introduction of an appropriation’s bill to the full Senate.

Afterwards, she caught up with Dr. Thompson in the hallway.

“Dr. Thompson, thank you again for sharing your expertise with us

today. I’m sorry we couldn’t put forward legislation to fund more research

and testing on a vaccine. But, I wanted to ask you another question … about

our preparedness to handle an epidemic not just of Zika, but any virus

within the US. Are we adequately prepared for something like that?”

“That’s a long answer. The short answer is, no. After several rounds of

funding cuts, our ability to respond to an epidemic is severely limited.”

“Thank you for your candor.”