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Authors: Craig DiLouie
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says: GIVE US VACCINE OR FREEZE.
Hardy snorts derisively, then blinks. “Uh, can they do that?”
Jackson says, “I’m Security, not Facilities.”
But air conditioning is blasting through the air vents and the temperature in the Security Command Center, already maintained at a chilly sixty-five degrees to keep the guards awake, is already dropping.
“Lovely. Is there anything we can do to shut it off, chief?”
“Not that I can think of, Dr. Hardy,” Jackson shrugs.
The Center is about twice the size of the scientists’ private offices, with a desk in the center of the room where Jackson is now sitting in an ergonomic chair, reeking of nervous sweat and stale cigarette smoke. The operator’s workstation contains a control console and PC with a graphical user interface, telephone, randomly scattered office supplies, and storage. A digital projector mounted on the ceiling displays the security camera images on large screens on the wall facing the workstation.
Hardy has only been in this room once before. It is strange to think that behind a random door in one of the Institute’s utilitarian, blindingly white corridors is a highly sophisticated security apparatus enabling a single operator to monitor all of the public spaces in the building on giant wall screens.
Unfortunately, while the Security Center’s equipment allows them to watch the mob downstairs, it offers nothing in the way of help to get rid of them.
This is too important, Hardy thinks. The nation is counting on us. We have grown pure samples of the virus. We are working on genetic characterization. And after that is wrapped up, we can start in earnest on a vaccine. If only you will let us.
There are so many lives at stake right now.
“Actually, there is maybe one thing we can do,” Jackson says quietly.
“What’s that?” Hardy says with interest.
“We could always, you know, give them what they want.”
“But we don’t have a vaccine yet!” Hardy explodes.
Jackson shrugs, unconvinced.
“Maybe I should go down there with some syringes and pump them full of saline,” Hardy sneers. “Then they’d leave and we could get back to, you know, trying to save millions of lives by developing a real vaccine.”
“I don’t know,” Jackson says. “I don’t think that would be very ethical.”
“Say it with me, Stringer: ‘There is no vaccine!’”
“I heard you. You don’t have to shout at me.”
“And we’re not going to get one with this mob of assholes down there, either. We’ve got maybe ten people at most working in the labs right now.”
“I mean, they really don’t pay me enough to put up with this. I used to be a cop, you know. People in my neighborhood used to show respect when I walked down the street.”
“CDC said they were coming to secure the facility, but so far they haven’t come. We have almost no food, no place to sleep, and no way to keep up the current level of our research effort with this skeleton crew. And that means no vaccine, okay? All these people are doing is taking a big risk of getting themselves killed when the Army shows up.”
And even if they could work without interruption, it would still take months before a vaccine is produced in any real quantity, Hardy reminds himself. After they create the formula, factories have to manufacture enough of the stuff to inoculate the health workers and then the government and then the Army and then the rest of America’s population of more than three hundred million. By the time they start inoculating the general population, it will be months after the vaccine is created.
By then, the Pandemic will be over—in North America, anyway.
But that’s not the point. The point is they have to make a vaccine to stop the virus from flaring up again months after that and starting this whole nightmare over again. Pandemics occur in two to three waves. A vaccine will stop the second wave in its tracks. It could even purge the world of Lyssa entirely.
On
Hardy snorts derisively, then blinks. “Uh, can they do that?”
Jackson says, “I’m Security, not Facilities.”
But air conditioning is blasting through the air vents and the temperature in the Security Command Center, already maintained at a chilly sixty-five degrees to keep the guards awake, is already dropping.
“Lovely. Is there anything we can do to shut it off, chief?”
“Not that I can think of, Dr. Hardy,” Jackson shrugs.
The Center is about twice the size of the scientists’ private offices, with a desk in the center of the room where Jackson is now sitting in an ergonomic chair, reeking of nervous sweat and stale cigarette smoke. The operator’s workstation contains a control console and PC with a graphical user interface, telephone, randomly scattered office supplies, and storage. A digital projector mounted on the ceiling displays the security camera images on large screens on the wall facing the workstation.
Hardy has only been in this room once before. It is strange to think that behind a random door in one of the Institute’s utilitarian, blindingly white corridors is a highly sophisticated security apparatus enabling a single operator to monitor all of the public spaces in the building on giant wall screens.
Unfortunately, while the Security Center’s equipment allows them to watch the mob downstairs, it offers nothing in the way of help to get rid of them.
This is too important, Hardy thinks. The nation is counting on us. We have grown pure samples of the virus. We are working on genetic characterization. And after that is wrapped up, we can start in earnest on a vaccine. If only you will let us.
There are so many lives at stake right now.
“Actually, there is maybe one thing we can do,” Jackson says quietly.
“What’s that?” Hardy says with interest.
“We could always, you know, give them what they want.”
“But we don’t have a vaccine yet!” Hardy explodes.
Jackson shrugs, unconvinced.
“Maybe I should go down there with some syringes and pump them full of saline,” Hardy sneers. “Then they’d leave and we could get back to, you know, trying to save millions of lives by developing a real vaccine.”
“I don’t know,” Jackson says. “I don’t think that would be very ethical.”
“Say it with me, Stringer: ‘There is no vaccine!’”
“I heard you. You don’t have to shout at me.”
“And we’re not going to get one with this mob of assholes down there, either. We’ve got maybe ten people at most working in the labs right now.”
“I mean, they really don’t pay me enough to put up with this. I used to be a cop, you know. People in my neighborhood used to show respect when I walked down the street.”
“CDC said they were coming to secure the facility, but so far they haven’t come. We have almost no food, no place to sleep, and no way to keep up the current level of our research effort with this skeleton crew. And that means no vaccine, okay? All these people are doing is taking a big risk of getting themselves killed when the Army shows up.”
And even if they could work without interruption, it would still take months before a vaccine is produced in any real quantity, Hardy reminds himself. After they create the formula, factories have to manufacture enough of the stuff to inoculate the health workers and then the government and then the Army and then the rest of America’s population of more than three hundred million. By the time they start inoculating the general population, it will be months after the vaccine is created.
By then, the Pandemic will be over—in North America, anyway.
But that’s not the point. The point is they have to make a vaccine to stop the virus from flaring up again months after that and starting this whole nightmare over again. Pandemics occur in two to three waves. A vaccine will stop the second wave in its tracks. It could even purge the world of Lyssa entirely.
On
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