December 23rd

Hartworth, Montana

For the first time in hours, Edward decontaminated and sat in his special office in the lab, an environmentally controlled area that he felt was safe from any 'Hartworth' air. His eyes shifted to the activity outside the lab. He monitored it through the computer screen while speaking to Bill Lange on the speakerphone.

He knew he'd have to get suited up again. However, first he needed coffee. The eight hours there seemed like days.

"The Secretary of State has already been in contact with the Soviet Prime Minister," Lange said. "They're working with the Soviet Weapons Commission to see if this is theirs."

Edward scoffed a tired laugh. "Of course it's theirs. Christ. Dr. Paltrov, whatever his real name is, came from there. He worked there, constantly communicated with them."

"I know. But it isn't our job to accuse the Soviet Union of withholding information or covering it up."

"They must not know, or they think it was destroyed," Edward suggested. "Who in the h.e.l.l would allow humanity to get devastated by a virus if they could stop it?"

"Maybe they can't," Lange suggested. "Maybe the only one who could shot himself in the head."

Edward grumbled.

"Ed, we have to start working on this stat, you know it. If there was a higher level than level four, this would be it. This is a lockdown project."

"I know."

"Probability is high, Ed, that these cases in Billings are EPV-71."

"I know they are, especially after seeing those concert tickets," Edward said. "I knew we'd get reports after that bulletin, but I didn't expect it so fast."

"The reports were in before the bulletin, they were just in queue with every other health incident that gets reported. They weren't flagged until we looked."

Edward sighed. "I'm wrapped up in this town. How many now?"

"Ninety-one cases, thirty deaths in Billings. Numbers are gonna grow. That's not including the five in Seattle."

"So all the trouble this guy went through to seal this town was in vain. We could have been brought in days ago."

"Yep," Lange replied. "But could we have stopped it?"

"I don't know if anything can stop this. I don't even want to think about three days from now."

"I already have Walker on this. Hopefully, he'll crack it soon."

Edward nodded, not as if Lange could see him. He then noticed someone waving to the camera. He turned up the volume.

"Dr. Neil!" The worker called through his suit. "You have to see this. We are locking it on now."

"Be right out," Edward said, then turned his attention back to the phone. "Bill, I have to call you back. They found something."

He ended the call and looked at the computer one more time. He watched crew workers carrying a long tube, a large flexible tube, not easily maneuvered. It was a safe way, a walkway from one safe area to the next.

Edward suited up and left the lab. The safe way was already sealed to a CDC mobile truck, sealed to the airtight compartment. The other end of the tubing was closed tight until it was locked in or latched to its destination.

The truck was parked outside of the police station.

When Edward arrived, the crews already had the tubing inside and down the bas.e.m.e.nt door. He couldn't get through.

"What's going on?" Edward asked.

"We were combing," a worker said. "We went downstairs to the holding area and noticed a door was shut to the holding cells. When we looked through, we saw a survivor. Not sick. We didn't want to chance opening that door in case it kept out the germ. We're almost hooked up. We have someone suited up down there."

"Walk them through to the truck?" Edward asked.

"Yes, sir. Getting the bubble ready. He'll walk right into that."

"Good. Good," Edward said with a swat to the worker's back. "He or she survived this long, let's keep them safe as possible. Better yet, maybe they're immune."

The prospect of a survivor in the dead town renewed Edward's hope. If the individual was immune, then others would be, too, and the odds of defeating EBV-71 grew.

He headed from the police station to the truck and waited inside.

The survivor would walk straight up the ramp, through the tube, into a plastic cage, a protective bubble with its own air supply.

Edward anxiously awaited the survivor.

"'Patient seems to be in fair condition," Edward noted in his computer, notes that he would send directly to the CDC. "He is slightly lethargic and fades in and out of a conscious state. He exhibits signs of confusion. This is attributed to hypothermia and dehydration. He shows no outward sign of the virus but does have an insignificant flesh wound on the lumbar region. Patient claims it is a gunshot wound and a safety/survival belt prohibited the penetration of the bullet. It is noted that Doctor Monroe did find a large belt in the holding cell. It is difficult to fully a.s.sess the patient because of protective surroundings. Patient claims he tended to the wound and has been in the holding area of the police station for six days. He has eaten, but states it became difficult to swallow once his water supply had finished. Observation and testing is recommended."

Edward finished his notes, hit send, and stood. He turned to the protective bubble. The man inside sat against the wall, his knees brought close. "Mr. Lewiskowski."

He lifted his head. "Del. Just ... call me Del."

"Del. This is where I'll leave you for now. I apologize for the protective room, but it's needed. We don't know if you were exposed to or were shielded from the virus. However, we are transporting you now. Give us a few hours and I promise to make you more comfortable."

"Where am I going?"

"Atlanta, to our facility there. It is best."

Del's head lifted. "Atlanta? I'm not sick. Just ... just been in that cell too long."

"Yes, well, you happened to also be the only person left alive in Hartworth."

Immediately, Del's head dropped to his knees and his arms wrapped around his legs. He released a quiet sob.

"Are you all right?" Edward asked.

"My daughter was here in this town."

Edward felt his breath leave him. As a father, he could relate to what Del felt. "I am very sorry. So you're from here?"

Del shook his head. "No. I was on my way to find her. That's when they got me. At the roadblock. I'm from Lincoln."

"I see."

"Is Lincoln okay?" Del asked.

Edward lifted his hands. "I honestly cannot tell you because I don't know. I will soon, though. That's where I'm headed."

"Is there any way you can get word to me?" Del asked. "My son is there. My granddaughter."

"I'll get word." Edward watched Del lean back and close his eyes in exhaustion and sadness. He excused himself, wished Del luck, and left the trailer. He'd more than likely see Del again when he returned to Atlanta. However, first Edward had a stop to make.

Lincoln, Montana was next on his list.

The home in Hartworth that placed that final call was empty. That's what Edward was told as he and Harold made their way to Lincoln. It was forty miles north; they were hopeful, but not for long.

Edward knew as soon as they pa.s.sed the 'Lincoln Five Miles' sign. The roads were snow-covered and untouched. Not a single tire track. As they rolled into town that late afternoon, it was a repeat of the nightmare in Hartworth.

Only there was no roadblock with a dead man holding a gun. There was nothing. No lights. No automatic Christmas music chiming in the silence. In fact, the town had no indication of Christmas at all. Nothing. It was snow-covered, dark, and dismal.

It was a two-block, one-stoplight town, and they barely made it down the first block when Harold hit the brakes.

Edward was too busy looking around to notice. However, Harold did.

At the end of the second block, a man stood by a large truck.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Edward asked, then opened the car door. He checked his suit connections and stepped out.

Harold joined him.

The man walked further away from the truck and more into view in the center of the street, and as Edward and Harold neared him, he dropped to his knees and his head hung forward. It looked as if he collapsed in emotional exhaustion more than anything else, but Edward couldn't be sure.

He and Harold raced his way. When he arrived, he expected the man to lift his head and show how sick he was. But when Edward called out, "I'm Dr. Edward Neil from the Centers for Disease Control. Are you okay?" the man shook his head and looked up.

Edward gasped.

He wasn't sick. Not at all.

"Are you ill?" Harold asked.

He shook his head again and brought his hand to his face. The man then began to cry. Was it out of relief, sadness, and exhaustion, or all of the above?

Edward asked. "What happened here? Where is everyone?"

The man, without looking, only pointed to the truck.

Edward walked to the large construction dump truck. As he approached, he saw another truck around the corner. He could only a.s.sume that truck was the same as the one before him.

The entire back portion as filled with bodies. Edward only needed to look at one victim, just one, to know what killed them.

"It's ours," Harold said.

Edward returned to the man. "Everyone?"

He nodded.

"Everyone in town?"

Another nod.

"You handled these bodies, you were around during all of this, and you aren't sick?"

"No," he finally spoke.

"Were you ever?"

He shook his head.

After a deep breath, Edward extended his hand to the man. "I need you to come with us. Okay? You'll have to come with us."

Slowly the man stood.

"What is your name?"

"An ... Andy."

"Andrew Jenkins?"

Andy gave a surprised look to Edward.

Repeating, "Come with us," Edward led him toward their SUV.

Andy Jenkins was not sick. Unlike Del, he was out in the open and dealt with the ill and bodies yet did not succ.u.mb at all. Why?

Edward immediately put faith in Andy Jenkins, the lone survivor of Lincoln, Montana. Faith that Andy held answers Edward needed. He wasn't ill; somewhere in his body could be a clue to defeating the deadliest thing Edward ever witnessed. Not only that, but Andy was also the last person to talk to anyone in Hartworth.

Andy Jenkins received that last call.