Sector C (19 page)

“I want to go with you.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Not only could she help him, it would give her something to focus on.

“It’s gone beyond just livestock, you know.”

“I know. So does the CDC. Containment first, followed by the elimination of the priority hosts. Once that’s accomplished, they’ll take whatever measure is needed next.”

“Meaning?”

“Trust me,” Mike said gently, “you don’t want to go there. Not until we have more proof as to the vector. There’s going to be panic enough over this as it is. I’ve seen the simulations, even participated in mock drills. There’s always been high concern for the beef supply and there are plenty of containment scenarios outlined for dealing with outbreaks of various kinds in beef cattle. None of them end pretty. Not for the animals and not for the country.

“Think of the supply chains upstream and down.
Grain producers, shipping, supermarkets, fast food chains, restaurants.
Then there’s all the industries impacted by the by-products from rendering: everything from pharmaceuticals and soaps to garden supplies and clothing. And that’s just domestic. Export presents a whole different set of issues — lost dollars, of course, but even relations with the EU and Japan.”

“It won’t matter that it’s just three states, will it?”

“Might as well be the whole country. Look, I need to check in to see what else I can do. Probably not much — my job’s mainly to trendspot before an outbreak. Can I meet you here tomorrow morning at eight?”

“Sure. I ought to have the quick-test results on the tiger sample by then, assuming I can get anything. I’ll get the rest of the head shipped off before I leave tonight.”

“You’ll be OK? I know it’s been pretty rough on you. And, honestly, it’s gonna get rougher.”

“I read somewhere that a crisis is simply a crucible for defining the character of the person that you really are.”

“Dante said something a little more to the point.
That the darkest places in Hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.
Let’s go keep our butts out of Hell, shall we?”

IT WAS NEARLY 8:00 WHEN Donna delivered the packaged tiger’s head to the UPS depot in Williston and nearly 9:00 when she finally drove her truck up the driveway to her modest single-story ranch house on the 30 acres she called home. One day, she kept promising herself, she’d build a barn and
get
a few horses, but for now work kept her too busy caring for other people’s animals to find time to care for her own.

There were the two stray cats that came around for the occasional handout, but they didn’t really qualify as hers, nor did they require the kind of attention horses or goats or other livestock did, especially in the winter when weather demanded twice-a-day feedings and plenty of maintenance to keep a barn clean and water warmed above freezing.

There was Alfie, of course, who did demand attention, but because she was generally always at Donna’s side, Alfie’s needs were almost a seamless extension of Donna’s own. They ate together, went to work together and slept together in the same bed. Only now, with Alfie sick, did Donna feel the dog was in any way an intrusion on her time. An intrusion that Donna gratefully accepted for the unconditional and untiring companionship Alfie provided. The dog was her constant, and Donna was looking forward to curling herself around the
border
collie tonight, burying her face in Alfie’s soft fur and crying the tears that had been building up all day.

Events overwhelmed her. Exasperation over a disease she hadn’t been able to diagnose that had turned into a major health crisis nearly overnight. No, she could pinpoint it better than that. Since Mike had shown up. Not that he was the cause, of course. She had a better grip on reality than to blame him for anything that had happened since his arrival. But he
had
been the catalyst. He was the triggering factor that plunged her into this series of events that were now derailing her life. Not that the events wouldn’t have played themselves out regardless, but without Mike she would have been farther removed from them.
An observer rather than a participant.

The jury, however, was out on whether or not that would have been a good thing. As an observer, she would perhaps have more time to think and react. But she would also have more time to feel.
And to be manipulated by her emotions.

All in all, Donna had to admit she was glad to be a part of the CDC investigation. What she found harder to admit, even to
herself
, was that she was glad to be working with Mike. He was so — comfortable.
Smart, but in an off-hand geeky way, not in an obnoxious prove-it-to-the-world kind of way.
Funny, but the stupid, self-effacing kind of funny, not the sharp-witted, intimidating shtick that could grow wearisome fast.
He struck a good balance of being easy to like and easy to be with. She felt grounded when she was around him. And grounding was what she desperately needed right now.

She stepped into the dark house and flipped a light switch, briefly disappointed Alfie wasn’t in the living room to greet her. That was simply selfish, of course, since the dog was probably in the bedroom getting some needed rest on a comfortable bed. She dropped her keys and wallet on the coffee table on her way back to the bedroom.

“Hey girl, ready for a late supper?” she asked as she turned on the light.

The bed was wet with saliva at one end, urine at the other. In between, Alfie lay, silent and unresponsive. No thump of a tail or flick of an ear to indicate she’d heard Donna come in. No blink of an eye or lick of a nose as Donna leaned over her. Knowing what she’d find, knowing it would break her heart, the vet still had to lay a trembling hand on the rigid chest, slip her fingers around the ribs and squeeze gently,
feeling
for the beat of life.

Her knees gave without her being conscious of them doing so, and she slowly collapsed by the side of the bed, her hand clenched in Alfie’s fur, tears dripping across her cheeks and off her chin, falling on the damp sheets.

For a time — a long time — her ragged breathing was the only sound in the still of the night.   

MIKE WAS ALREADY AT THE CLINIC waiting in his SUV when Donna pulled off the road and onto the bit of asphalt that served as the parking lot. Her immediate reaction was irritation seeing him already there. An intrusive presence in a private world that had closed around her during the night as she labored over Alfie’s grave.

She needed more time to grieve, alone, for Alfie, for Chad, for the ranchers. And she needed more time to accept the realization that had imprinted itself with voracious certitude when she’d given herself a moment to think.

Irrational as it was, she had put Alfie in the ground whole, unable to even consider laying a scalpel to her, much less ratcheting apart her ribs or sawing her skull open. She didn’t need confirmation that the dog had died of the same disease everything else in the county was dying from.

It was when she was cleaning the lingering vestiges of death from her bed that the idea edged itself into her consciousness. The sad but simple chore of stripping the bed and placing the fluids-soaked sheets in the washing machine suddenly became a sinister act. She had stared at the naked mattress, studying the stain patterns with the intensity a fortune teller studies tea leaves in the bottom of a cup.

When the realization hit, it had struck her marrow deep. It wasn’t that she had ever considered herself invulnerable. It was simply that she hadn’t really considered herself at all. But the stained mattress and the wet sheets drove home the point of her vulnerability like nothing else had. If her theory was correct and the tiger had started the spread of this disease through its urine and saliva, then her very bed was now likely prion-infested.

And not just her bed.
How many times had she encouraged a wet-tongued kiss from Alfie? How many sick patients had she touched barehanded, collected blood from without donning gloves first? There just weren’t that many diseases transmissible from her patients to humans to warrant the same precautions
that human health workers
had to take. In veterinary care, disposable gloves were generally worn to keep the vet clean, such as during a necropsy, not to minimize risk of infection, unless it was to minimize the spread from animal to animal.

In the midnight hours she had dumped extra bleach in the laundry and dragged her mattress outside with no clear thought as to what to do with it other than get it out of the house. When she finally slept, it was wrapped in a blanket from her closet on the narrow sofa in her living room. It didn’t escape her that it was a barn-door response and that the horses had no doubt left the building weeks ago.

Wanting nothing more than to be left alone this morning, Donna reluctantly opened the truck door. Physically and emotionally exhausted, unsure how much longer she could continue functioning effectively, she waved Mike to follow her into the clinic to talk.

THE WOMAN SHAMBLING OUT OF the pickup hardly resembled the feisty vet Mike had first met. Not that
he
looked — or felt — much better. It had been a long morning already fielding questions about his reports from Kevin and the others back in Atlanta, who passed the answers up to Washington. He had even sat down to breakfast with the CID team that was staying in his same hotel to discuss the news they’d woken up to.
News that would soon change not just this rural community or county or state, but the fabric of America itself.
Unlooked for and unprepared, the world was about to be introduced to
Variant Trans-species Spongiform Encephalopathy
. VTSE would also carry the inelegant scientific notation for the new cross-species prion variant: PrPXs.

Before the end of the day, Mike was sure the media would dub the disease with a name that might not be as accurate scientifically but would capture its essence much more creatively.

As he’d been doing compulsively over the last three hours, he checked the time. Barely after 8:00.
Time enough to see what Donna had found with the tiger.
He followed her into the clinic and to her office.

Mrs. Rourke had discharged the last of the patients yesterday, sending the healthy ones home and those still needing treatment to Dr. Abroudi. Instead of Mike and Donna being greeted with the usual cacophony of barking dogs, neighing horses and bellowing cows, the building was eerily quiet. Without the background noise, just the act of opening the door and stepping inside felt wrong this morning. Even Mike had developed an expectation of what the clinic
should
feel like. Strange, he thought, how buildings could have character like that.
Hospitals, schools, libraries.
The smells, the ambience, the very attitude of the people passing through the doors loudly declaimed each building’s purpose, and any deviation sent a clear message even to the casual observer that something wasn’t right.

Donna was certainly coming across that way, too, this morning. Hair hastily pulled back into a crooked ponytail, untucked shirt tail, and the hollow, blasted look to her eyes told Mike that her night had been even rougher than his.

“Everything OK?” he asked when they reached her office.

For a fleeting moment she thought to tell him about Alfie. He had seemed compassionate enough about her reaction to Chad’s death, but she still wasn’t sure where Mike fell on the continuum of understanding when it came to dogs. And right now she didn’t need the added burden of derision from him or anyone. The risk simply wasn’t worth it. So she swallowed her grief, pushing it aside to deal with later when she was alone again. “Sure. It was just a long night. I didn’t get much sleep.”

Mike frowned. That much was obvious and not any more than he could determine just from looking at her. There was more she wasn’t telling him, but he would respect her privacy and not push. And even as he was deciding that unconsciously, a part of him consciously wished she felt comfortable enough to confide in him. It wasn’t a very reasonable thought since they’d only known each other for three days now. But given the unreasonable circumstances they were living through, normal rules could perhaps be bent. “If it helps, I didn’t get much sleep either.”