A researcher of deadly viruses goes on an ill-fated trip in a run-down apartment

complex.

“The United States Government does not take chances.

Not anymore, anyway.”

These words echoed through her head as she sat, uncomfortably, many hours into
the 16 hour Trans-Atlantic flight in the back of the C130.

"The C130J Super Hercules Troop Transport," the Lieutenant said, "Is one of the most
uncomfortable vehicles ever created. The word troop was only added as a lure to try
and convince perfectly reasonable people, well aware that this thing won't be
comfortable, that it was meant to move people from place to place."

They were standing on the tarmac of a military airbase, the sound of the running
engines droned on above him, the wind from the prop wash whipped her hair about.

"The 'troop' is a lie," he said again.

She was starting to like the man, who's skin was as black as any she'd ever seen,
and when he smiled, his teeth glimmered bright white, even in the dark running
lights in the back of the plane, she could barely see him, and since he seemed to be
resting his eyes, she could see them, but she could just make out the glimmer of his
white teeth. He'd met her that afternoon, at her office at the University, his cap
clutched in his hands, when he came in his dress uniform to tell her that they
needed her to come with them.

She was, at first, a little confused by the situation. She couldn’t understand why
these military men had just shown up in her office at the University. She was
working on her lecture for the next day’s class he had stepped into the room, saying
something about needing to take her to a meeting. She protested initially, but he
just calmly said, "I really must insist Ms. Barber."

He didn't say much as they sat through rush hour coming into D.C. from across the
river. They were in the vehicle for what felt like hours, and possibly even were
hours, but she couldn't tell, trying to stare out of the tinted windows of the SUV. She
pointed out, with exasperation, that if they were going into D.C., they could have let
her finish with her lecture for the next day's class first, because now she was going
to be horribly behind schedule, and they weren't going to arrive any sooner than
they would have if they’d waited a little longer.

There was not, though, any way of arguing with these people. Clearly, their mission
was to retrieve her and bring her to where ever they were going.
The back of the SUV was designed like a limousine, so that her row of seats faced
back, toward the last row, which faced forward. "Can you tell me anything about
what's going on?" She'd already asked several times, and the only information she'd
gotten was that he was Lieutenant Marcus Jackson, and that he was merely there to
pick her up and bring her, as quickly as possible to a meeting in Washington. This
information, she reflected, contained only one bit she hadn't already been able to
glean on her own. It was that his first name was Marcus.

They finally arrived, and she was let out in an underground parking lot, and she
realized that she had no idea where she was. The soldiers, Marines by the look of
them, were ushering her to an elevator just a few feet away, they had big black
machine guns that were hanging from clips on their uniforms. She noticed that it
seemed funny that they didn't have straps, as she'd always thought they'd been.

On the elevator was another world. While the parking garage she'd just been in
seemed completely unremarkable, and perhaps a couple decades old, she felt like
she'd just stepped onto some sort of futuristic tube transport. The entire car was
highly polished stainless steel. There were no buttons, and no lights that she could
see, even the actual light seemed to be just coming from all around them rather
than from some sort of tube or bulb.

Then the car moved. It went, as far as she could tell, straight down. It did this very
quickly, leaving her stomach, and most of her Caeser Salad lunch behind. It took
only a few seconds to reach their destination, and the doors opened and she half
stumbled off. It was like one of the express elevators that she used to ride when she
was a girl in Minneapolis, back when her papa used to take her up to the top of the
IDS building. You couldn't get there anymore, but she still remembered the
disconcerting feeling of those elevators.

There was a short hallway in front of them, and the Lieutenant led the way toward a
rather impressive set of double doors, which opened automatically as they
approached with a loud hiss, and a light electric whir from somewhere inside the
thick walls.

Then they were in a conference room, and there were several men seated at a large
table, all of whom seemed very important and impressive, and were either wearing
regal uniforms or extremely fine looking dark suits. She was directed to sit down,
and they proceeded to explain exactly why she was there, and what they needed
her to do.

On the C130, she'd learned to block out the sound of the huge prop engines droning
on and on. She'd learned to ignore the sounds of the various metal buckles on
straps that rattled and banged against the fuselage. And eventually, she slept.
She woke as the huge plane was making its decent. She turned and looked out of
the little porthole behind her. The sun was bright, though she'd left in the late
evening; it was now mid-morning on arrival. The desert expanded, vast and huge
into the hills and mountains, which seemed impossibly far in the distance.

The lieutenant was there then, ushering her out of the back, which opened like a
huge mouth into a ramp. At the base was a small convoy of black SUVS, very similar
to the one she’d ridden in from the University in Virginia. There was another soldier,
who looked she was no more than 16 years old, holding the back door of the third
SUV open, Lt. Jackson directed her toward that door, and then, after grabbing some
of the things off the plane and putting them in the back of the fourth SUV, he got in
with her.

“It’s going to be about an hour’s drive from here to the building. If you’d like to try
and sleep again, you’re welcome, but I can tell you from experience that it’s tough
to sleep in these things, the roads around here aren’t exactly well paved.”

She watched out of the windows, wondering at the fact that she was now in another
country. Not only was she in another country, but she was in an actively war torn
country, and she was on the way to study what might be the first active case of
ZBHVH3 in 10 years. She was also terrified.

“Can I look at the photos again?” She asked the Lieutenant. He handed her the
entire dossier, and she suddenly felt more important than she’d ever felt in her life.

She studied the photos again. There were 3 victims, so far. She had written a paper,
and had most extensively studied the virus, which is why the military came to her.
They had already identified it as a potential diagnosis, and had confided in her that
they really hoped she could prove them wrong.

The problem was that there had only ever been a diagnosis of this particular viral
infection 4 times in the last 30 years. Both had happened in very unusual
circumstances and had very little documentation. She had actually studied only one
of 5 known tissue samples and had only her own studies to base her conclusions on,
and they weren’t positive conclusions.

The SUV bounced along the desert road past a few mud huts, small huddled
communities of poor and oppressed. Slowly, though, the landscape began to give
way to more developed homes and businesses. Eventually they were driving
through the main street of a medium sized city. The buildings, while larger and more
advanced, were still fairly rudimentary. She also noted that it was a rather
monochrome, everything was a shade of desert color.

“We’re coming up on the apartment complex.”

She turned and looked out the windshield to see a large building completely
covered by plastic with a plastic tube leading to a large tent that encompassed a
major part of the street. There were many soldiers posted all around.
“As I said before, Dr. Barber, we’ve completely sealed the building. We’ve had our
own people set up the lab, and everything is ready for you.”

The lab, as the Lieutenant called it, was filled with equipment that Dr. Jeanine
Barber had been begging her grant board for years to get, and some that she
hadn’t even had the opportunity to request yet. She tried to temper her excitement
over the equipment with the fact that there were people inside that were really sick.

It took several minutes to get into the bio-contamination suits and pass through the
quarantine seals. She had several soldiers that had volunteered, or, more likely,
were volunteered, to act as assistants to her. She set them to work, initially, on
setting up the equipment, and then insisted on going inside to meet with the
infected.

“Dr. Barber, you’re here because you’re the most knowledgeable person in your
field on ZBHVH3 virus.” The man at the head of the table was talking, and she felt
herself intake harshly.

“Has there been an infection?” She asked, before she could catch herself, then,
“There hasn’t been an- It’s nearly impossible!”

The man was dressed like the ever important, high ranking Generals she saw on TV,
and assumed that he probably was. He was an old man with white hair cut very
short against his wrinkled head, and though he was old, he looked rugged, and
powerful.

Another man took over, a younger man with thin wireframe glasses, and a Clark
Kent hairstyle, “Ms- Dr. Barber. We’ve had people on the ground for two hours trying
to verify, unfortunately, there’s hardly any credible information available and we
really only have your paper to work from. You’ve seen the virus first hand, and we
hoped that you could perform the first hand analysis and give up the verification we
need.”

She didn’t know what to say, but was saved the trouble of thinking of something, for
at least a few moments by another man in a uniform, “We know that time is of the
essence. We’d like you on a plane and in the field, leaving now, we’d have you
there, under cover, within 18 hours.”

“Under cover?” She asked.

Someone else spoke, this time, she couldn’t see him in the background, “Forgive
him, he doesn’t know how to speak civilian. He means that this whole this is very
top secret and hush-hush, and we’re not going to do anything that might get out
into the media.”

She squinted a little, trying to make out the voice. She thought, strange as it was,
that it belonged to the President himself, at least it sounded like him, but without
the crazy accent he always used. She was so busy doing this that she didn’t realize
that it had been decided she agreed. Of course, though, she’d agree. She had
dedicated many years of her life to the study of this virus. It was, in her opinion, a
nearly perfect virus. It held a sort of mystique for her. As she was escorted out to
the elevator again, someone told her that she’d have everything she needed when
she arrived.

Inside the building was dark. Very dark, and stiflingly hot, and the enormous suit
she wore didn’t help. It had a small fan inside that worked to help circulate the air
some, but it wasn’t much help.

She walked through the small entryway which led directly to a set of stairs. On the
stairs were two soldiers wearing bio-suits, and 3 who were not, both were talking to
each other in hushed tones.

“You know, they’re just gonna-“ started one, but he was cut off by another.

“Shh, shhhh,” said the other, “they aint gonna do shit like that.”

One of the soldiers, wearing the bio suit, stepped up, “you’re the Dr. they sent
down?”

“Yes, I need see the infected.”

One of the soldiers that weren’t wearing bio-suits stepped up, the one who’d
quieted the other, “Fourth floor, Third door to the left off the stair case, the door
that’s just splinters now. We’re the ones that found ‘em. Simple raid, supposedly
small group of “terror suspects” were having a meeting. Turned out to be a family of
sick sand-ni-”

She gasped and he didn’t finish his sentence. He dropped his eyes, somewhat
sheepishly, and returned to the alcove beside the stairs with the others. She looked
up the stairs. It was an open stair case that led up, there were three units on each
side and the floors were open to the stairs. She could see the doors to the units on
the next floor about to the right, but other side and other floors were blocked by
flights of stairs.

There were two soldiers accompanying her, one was a Private Martinez, the young
woman who’d opened her door when they arrived, the other was a Corporal
Donahue, who was, she believed, her translater.

They made their way, slowly in the bulky suits, up the stairs. Through small windows
at each level there were streams of light that came in, focused at points on the
floor. They accented the swirling dust in the air. Over the sound of the small fan in
her suit, she could make out, barely, the sound of people behind each of the doors.
There was mostly just conversation in a language she couldn't understand, but also
she could occasionally make out a television show or cartoon here and there.
When they finally reached the unit, there were two more soldiers in suits standing
guard at what was left of the door, which was broken and splintered so that only a
sliver of the hollow wood still hung. It swung slightly as they brushed past it and
stepped inside.

Inside the apartment was, in her opinion, another world. It was very dark and simply
decorated. The walls were painted brown, or perhaps stained brown. The furniture
reminded her of the 70's styles that were part of her youth.

They immediately in the living room, and she saw the first infected and was
shocked. The leasons on his face and arms were more substantial now than she had
expected. He sat, hunched over, smoking a cigarette. He didn't bother to look up as
they entered.

She stood there looking at him, and finally realized that she was supposed to be
doing something. She stepped toward him, and he looked up at her. There was
anguish in his eyes, and she felt a pang of sorrow, knowing that this man would be
dead within 24 hours, probably sooner. She hoped he couldn't see her pity.

"You can just speak, I'll translate for you," said Cpl. Donahue.

She looked down at the man and introduced herself. She talked with him for a few
minutes, learning about him and when the symptoms presented themselves. After
this she went into the bedroom where he said his wife and daughter were laying,
both were, he said, worse than he was.

He was right. When she enter the bedroom, she found both of them, mother and
daughter, lying on the bed together. Both were shivering almost convulsively, and
she shuddered to see them.

She had to fight to get onto the initial research team for the virus. She had found
information, quite literally hidden away, in a paper on the desk of one of her
professors. She was immediately fascinated by the properties and nature of it.

While its name implies a combination of several minor viruses, this particular strain
is amazing because of its apparent ability to continually over-power and add
components of other viruses it encounters to itself. She had wished she could have
named it herself because she felt it would have been both funny and appropriate to
call it 'The Borg' virus.

She was fascinated at how long it took to find the original virus in the infected tissue
samples they had, it was so completely buried in the other 3 components it had
encountered. It had, by all regards, taken the most important aspects of the other
viruses and added it to itself, and it seemed that resistance really was futile (which
was the how she really wanted to end her paper, but on the imploring and urging of
her colleagues, she left it out).
Now, standing here, she was realizing several things: first was that seeing this virus
in real life, in its full force was frightening, the second was that it was infecting and
progressing much faster than she thought that it could, and finally, that the wounds
here looked nearly identical to those of the original victim, whose tissue she’d
studied.

She confided this to her chaperones, and had to stop Cpl. Donahue has he started
translating, hushing him.

Her case had been left in the other room, so she went out to it, and got out the intial
supplies that she would need. She instructed Pvt. Martinez in the methods of
drawing blood for testing, and marking the containers, and left her with the man in
the living room. She took Cpl. Donahue with her into the bedroom.

The young girl’s breathing was shallow and weak. The mother’s breathing wasn’t
much better. She stood over them, taking note of how fragile they both appeared,
and again realizing that their deaths were both imminent. Again, she had to force
herself to focus on the work and not the people involved.

After gathering blood and tissue samples, she hurried back down to her lab to begin
tests and studies. It didn’t take long, with the advanced equipment at her disposal,
to be able to verify that this was a strain of the virus. She discovered, however, that
there were some differences, and as she studied and tested, those differences
began to scare her. She asked to speak to the Lieutenant, and within a few minutes
she was given a phone, the lieutenant on the other end.

“Have you made progress, Doctor?”

“I have, but I’ve found a few things that have me concerned.”

“I won’t guarantee I’ll understand what you’re saying, Doctor, but I’ll try and relay
the information the best that I can.”

She looked at a series of print outs and glanced up at a few screens on monitors
that were display various pieces of information, as if to verify what she was about to
say, even though she’d already double checked her work. Triple checked it as well.

“There are a lot of anomalies here, but this seems to be an identical strain to the
one that I studied.”

“So you’re sure it’s the same virus then?”

“No, that’s just it; it’s not just the same virus, it is the exact same strain. Although it
seems to have gained some new characteristics along the way, including some
intrinsic qualities belonging to four other viruses, it is the same virus that I studied.”
“We appreciate the verification. You’re free to study the infection inside the building
now, find out if the infection has spread, and how badly.”

With that, the line went dead, and she set down the handset. Something about this
didn’t add up. Why was the same virus that she’d studied years ago suddenly
appearing here, over 5,000 miles away? How, from an isolated set of cases,
restricted to two possible victims without the widespread infection that would have
come from additional infected, with such a limited number of tissue samples
available.

She tried to focus in on the research, she when back inside to talk to the family.
Back in the apartment, she found the man still sitting on the couch, still smoking.
She asked him again, through her translator, how he might have been infected.

They were in the middle of speaking with the man when there was a massive
explosion, and as the building caved in on itself, and fire poured in through the
cracks on the floor, the words echoed in her mind again, “The United States
Government doesn’t take chances. Not anymore.”