She hated to do it, but she had to call off of work. She could barely make it to the stairs, let alone the office. She paused by the door of each of her children's rooms. Her daughter slept soundly, but her son was restless, tossing and coughing.

Poor thing, she thought, they must have both caught it from the same source.

As she headed to the stairs to retrieve her phone on the first floor, her husband, Darrell, called to her.

"Viv? You okay?"

"Yeah," she coughed. "Really sick. Go back to sleep. I'm gonna lay on the couch."

"You need anything?"

"No. Just sleep. Thanks." She walked slowly down the stairs. Her plan was to get a drink and call the doc, but she only made it to the bottom of the stairs when she heard a knock on the door.

It wasn't even six in the morning; who would be knocking, she thought.

She peeked through the drape.

Doc?

Vivian opened the door. "Doc?"

His eyes cased her up and down. "Oh, Vivian. Are you ill?"

"Yes, I was just getting ready to call you. What's going on?"

"Vivian, the town is under quarantine," Val spoke softly. "We believe a man from Omaha brought something into the town, so we are taking precautions."

Vivian's hand shot to her mouth. "Do I have it?"

"You may. I'll need to examine you," Val said. "We are asking all those who may be infected to come to the fire hall and stay clear of those who are not ill. Can you do that?"

Vivian nodded. "I'll get my things and be right there. Should I be worried?"

"No. No, not at all." Val waved out his hand. "It'll be over in a few days."

Vivian thanked Val. He turned and left and she closed the door. She felt horrible, and a quarantine in town was frightening. But Vivian felt better knowing she only had to suffer just a couple of days.

Heather had never been so sick in all of her life.

She vomited the last bit that was left in her stomach, and it felt as if there were a hole in her abdomen, a vague nothingness that knotted and pulled.

Her skin hurt, worse than any sunburn she ever had in her life.

Choking on something, Heather woke from a sound sleep. She didn't know what it was that choked her, but it was gone. She was groggy but managed to roll out of bed. Standing was a ch.o.r.e. She had to hold on to everything to stand and balance. Roman was still sleeping in the single bed next to her.

Heather wasn't a doctor, but she was smart enough to know something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

Why did Val not take them to a hospital? She looked down at her forearms. They were black. Not purple or splotched, black as if they were rotting. Roman was worse. His face was black, his neck swollen.

She was certain, without a doubt, that she'd vomited blood, but it was dark. Surely, Val had to see the severity in that.

About four steps from the bed, Heather started to cry. She could barely walk. Her thoughts were on her daughter. Her baby girl. How she wanted to see her and hold her again. And Heather thought of her mother. Even though she was a woman, she felt like a little girl, so desperately needing to hear her mother's voice, to feel her mother's arms.

Where was she? Did she not know she was ill?

Maybe not.

Maybe Val never told her mom.

A noise outside caught Heather's attention, and she weakly made her way to the window. She parted the drapes to peek out. It was barely light out yet the street was busy.

The second story window allotted her the vantage point of seeing the fire hall two streets over. People walked slowly in there. A fire truck flashed its light as if it was a beacon.

Heather didn't have much energy left in her. What she did have she was going to use to the fullest extent.

She had to find the phone and call her mother.

FLASH FORWARD.

Ground Zero 6

December 23rd

Hartworth, Montana

"How in the world does a town just shut down?" Edward questioned as he sat with Harold, going through the journal.

"This is something we can't put together before everyone arrives, you know that," Harold said. "We can try. But it's a lot."

Edward shook his head. "They lied to the people of this town. Half the people thought some brain virus making everyone crazy was infecting the world, and the other half knew there was an illness in Hartworth. How did they pull it off?"

"The ill were too sick to care, and the ones hiding didn't believe anyone," Harold guessed. "Martha finished the fire hall body count."

"And?"

"Two hundred and twenty."

Edward rubbed his eyes. "Which means that people are in their homes."

"There are a lot of gunshot victims, self-inflicted as well."

"This man ... or woman," Edward pointed to the journal, "is the one we need to find. Who wrote this?"

"He's more than likely dead."

"I know. Any word from Martha on the last phone call? It was placed on the 20th."

"She's looking for him now. We don't know this town. She and d.i.c.kson should have some answers soon," Harold said.

"Maybe our caller was the journal keeper," Edward guessed. "He or she thought they were saving the world. They believed the quarantine would work. Listen to this ..." Edward read. "December 17th, four p.m. We have secured perimeters. No one has entered or left town. I believe this is contained. At this point we have checked in over one hundred people at the fire hall. I believe these are initial ground zero release victims. As long as no one at ground zero left town we are good. Like the measles or conjunctivitis, EPV-571 is not contagious until the onset of symptoms. Problem is, when do the symptoms actually start? What is the initial symptom? It could be a sneeze, a cough, or a chill. That is the scary part.' Edward stopped reading.

"Whoever wrote the journal has full knowledge of the bug and had it before the release."

"Agreed," Edward said.

"So why did they write the journal?"

"That's the easiest question to answer," Edward replied. "For us. For those who found the town. To know what happened. To let us know what it was and what it does. To know this virus. I think they did it just in case it broke the barriers."

Harold pointed to the notebook. "They knew the bug well. I think we're good. Small town. Isolated. The germ moves so fast it kills its host before the host can infect anyone. In hindsight, one day was all the town needed to be shut down; after that, keeping the people in here was effortless because all were infected. I'm optimistic, Edward, that it didn't leave this town."

"I hope you're right," Edward said, glancing to Harold. "Because G.o.d help us if it did."

Chapter Eight.

Lincoln, Montana

December 17th

Not that Stew minded bringing that bushel of tomatoes into Bonnie's Diner, he wouldn't have offered if he did, but he did mind the fact that the door was open and not a soul was in there. Coffee was made, pastries were out, but there wasn't a waitress or Bonnie around.

He put the bushel in the back, calling out as he did.

No answer.

He stepped behind the counter. The grills were warm, the coffee smelled fresh, but no one was around to cook or take orders.

The bell above the door caught his attention.

"You cooking today?" asked the male patron in a joking manner.

"No, I'm a little curious where everyone is. The diner is open and Bonnie isn't here."

"Maybe she ran home."

"Maybe." Stew poured a cup of coffee for himself and one for the man who sat at the counter. "It's still early." Holding his coffee, he pulled his phone from his pocket. Still no word from Heather. He was starting to worry.

"Can you put the television on?" the man asked. "Remote's near the toaster."

"Sure thing." Stew grabbed the remote, clicked on the set, put the remote before the man, and walked around to the patron side of the diner and slid onto a stool. The moment he did, the news caught his attention. A blazing fire, but Stew couldn't make out what they were saying.

"d.a.m.n shame," the man said. "Hear it's arson. Entire motel in Billings went up. No one lived."

Stew's eyes widened. "That's in Billings."

"Little trucker style motel."

Stew wasn't certain what motel or hotel Heather stayed at, but he immediately jumped up from his seat, tossed money on the counter, and flew out the door.

He hoped and prayed the entire way to Emma's that the fire wasn't the reason he hadn't heard from Heather. He didn't know what he would do if that were the case.

Del's hand tapped on the steering wheel to the beat of the song. It was a catchy tune, a rough draft, a demo submitted by the songwriters. Del loved it.

He turned down the volume and lifted his phone. He hit redial on the last call he placed. Of course, the last time he'd called Tanya, the woman from Hartworth he was sort of seeing, she didn't answer.

Figuring she'd slept in, Del tried again.

This time she answered.