Part 19 (1/2)

Ground Zero 9

December 23rd

Hartworth, Montana

In the time it took for Edward to cross the street to the expedient lab, the forces had arrived. Ma.s.sive numbers of vehicles pulled into town, and Edward instructed them to get situated and wait for his directives on the search. He knew the teams would search and retrieve as they combed through every square inch of Hartworth and beyond.

But first, the town doctor.

He had to be the one, Edward figured, who wrote the journal. It was too precise about too many things. Edward grabbed the journal on the way to the town doctor's place.

The doctor's office was located on the bottom floor of the house; Edward's initial team was there, all four of them. He went upstairs and entered the bedroom where Goldman waited. There were two single beds; the body of a younger man, decimated by the illness, was on one bed, and next to him was the body of an older man. He had a single gunshot wound to his head.

”Makes no sense,” Goldman said. ”The other bed shows signs that someone else was sick. There are syringes. Towels. The other bedroom as well. Yet, only the boy has the virus.”

Edward stepped closer. ”Do we have a name?”

”Vladimir Paltrov. Russian immigrant, came to the US thirty plus years ago. He was an easy run, ran his name while waiting on you. He was under constant observation for about ten years. A doctor in Russia was always in contact there.”

Martha entered the room and handed the journal to Edward. ”Handwriting is a match on the charts downstairs.”

Edward crouched down for a closer examination. ”He has to be the one that brought it in. Has to be. But I thought Ebolapox wasn't invented until the 1990s.”

”No,” Goldman said. ”Some say 1976. Remember, we have nothing. It was a paper study.”

”This is our man. Not a sign of the virus,” Edward said. ”The other patient may have been moved to the fire hall. Who knows? But this other guy ... do we know his name?” He indicated the young man.

”Roman Paltrov. Son.”

”Also patient zero,” Edward said. ”Look at the nose; it deteriorated from the disease. We haven't seen a single victim like him. He's the furthest along. Bet he was first. So he's patient zero. This explains all the medical attention in this room.” Edward stood. ”It's sort of piecing together now. Paltrov had the bug here somewhere. The son found it. Released it. Paltrov knew it, and that explains why they shut the town down.”

Martha interjected, ”That doesn't explain why the sheriff nor the doctor showed no symptoms.”

”He's easy,” Edward said. ”He had an inoculation. Surely, there isn't an antidote or the son wouldn't be sick. No, there's a vaccine for this. Bet me. I can't be sure about the sheriff. But him ... this helps. If this is his, and this was, as we think, a Cold War bioweapon, then maybe the Soviets have an answer to this bug if it gets out of control or if it broke barriers.”

”Hey, Ed,” Harold called out. ”We got a problem.” He turned holding a wallet. ”This belongs to the son. What day did you determine was the release date?”

Edward answered, ”December 16th.” He looked at Harold and extended his hand. ”What is that?”

”Concert ticket stubs,” Harold answered. ”At eight p.m., he and someone else went to a concert in Billings.”

”Don't tell me.”

Harold gave him the stubs. ”December 16th.”

Edward glanced at the ticket stubs, to the bed, and then back to the date of the concert. ”Let's just hope I'm wrong on the date. If I'm not, let's hope this release happened after this concert.”

Chapter Twelve.

Lincoln, Montana

December 19th

There were three sounds in Emma's living room: the crackling fire, the sniffles of sadness, and the nearly silent shuffling of papers.

Emma sat on a small footstool with a box before her, and next to that a stack of photographs. She looked at each one, and then placed it in the box.

The hour was late, but she wasn't tired. Cody slept on the couch. Emma ceased letting the child out of her sight. Andy just sat and listened.

She hadn't heard from her father all day. Last conversation, Stew called Andy. That was it. Emma had given up hope.

”This is my life,” Emma told Andy. ”I'm going to spend the rest of the night just writing the story of my life,” she spoke sadly. ”That way, if someone finds it, whether they're officials, people in the future, or another civilization, they'll know. They'll look at this and see people lived and were loved in this world. We just didn't make it.”

Andy reached out and grabbed her wrists. ”It's n ... not over.”

”Not yet,” Emma said. ”This is the big one, Andy. People always think I'm crazy with this end of the world s.h.i.+t, but this is the big one. It took a town, now Lincoln is under. You said you called Bob in Mead; they have it there.” She shook her head. ”Heather called me in the morning and she was sick. She went to Billings the night before. Now ... either she caught it in Billings, or she was sick when she went. In either case, it's in Billings. Yeah ... we may be fine for now. We may even be able to outrun it. Stay ahead of it. But eventually, it will catch us when we have nowhere else to run.”

”May ... may be-be a cure?”

”Maybe,” Emma said. ”But it could be too late. I bet in a week the West Coast is down. If it is in Billings, it's made it out of Billings. Someone took it elsewhere.” She winced as if in pain. ”Planes. One plane ride. But ...” she sighed. ”It doesn't matter. I always thought it would. I always thought I'd care, that I'd want to survive. But honestly ... my daughter is dying, if not already gone.”

”Cody ... n-needs you.”

”What kind of life would it be?”

”What ... ev ... ever you m ... make it for her. R-Richie is not s-sick.”

Emma nodded. Her eyes lifted when a light from outside flashed. She stood and turned to the window. ”Headlights?”

Andy stood and joined Emma at the window. The vehicle began to back from the driveway, flicking its lights. Andy and Emma rushed to the front door. As soon as they opened it, a squeal of feedback rang out in the dead silent dark.