Paul raced out after him, down the hall of the CDC bunker, to the infirmary. Rows of beds surrounded by plastic tents spread out before him. Paul could see only blurry glimpses of what lay inside each plastic box. What he didn’t see scared him most. No motion, no lights, no rhythmic “beep, beep, beep.”
He walked deeper into the room. He pulled the plastic back at the closest bed. The cardiac monitor was silent, dead, turned off. The patient that lay below it was still. Blood flowed from her mouth, staining the white sheets.
Paul slowly walked over to his sister’s bed. The same.
“Survival rate?” he asked the technician in a lifeless tone.
“Zero percent.”
Paul trudged out of the wing, dreading every step, forcing himself to go on. He was hollow, truly hopeless, for the first time since the outbreak had begun, since Martin Grey had invited him to Geneva twenty years ago and told him that he needed his help with a project that could save humanity in its darkest hour.
At the Orchid Ops room, the glass doors parted again. The screens that had displayed the Symphony algorithm result a few hours earlier had been replaced with a map of the world. It bled red with the casualty statistics from around the globe.
The faces around the room reflected the quiet horror of the image on the screen. Solemn stares greeted Paul as he stepped inside. There were fewer faces peering at him than there had been. Some members of the team were plague survivors, immune, just as Paul was. But for most, Orchid was their key to survival, and it had finally failed them. Those team members were in the infirmary. Or the morgue.
The remaining men and women, who usually hovered around the tables pacing and arguing, all sat silently now, dark black bags under their eyes. Full Styrofoam cups of coffee littered the tables.
The team leader stood and cleared his throat. He began speaking as Paul advanced into the room, but Paul didn’t hear a word. He focused on the map, as if in a trance, as if it were drawing him in.
Boston Orchid District: 22% of total population confirmed dead.
Chicago Orchid District: 18% of total population confirmed dead.
He scanned the statistics.
In the Mediterranean, just south of Italy, a single island glowed green, like a single pixel that had burned out or malfunctioned.
Paul pressed the interactive screen and the map zoomed.
Malta
Valletta Orchid District: 0% confirmed dead.
Victoria Orchid District: 0% confirmed dead.
“What is this?” Paul asked.
“A ruse,” one of the analysts shouted.
“We don’t know that!” another put in.
The standing team leader held his hands up. “We’re getting mounting casualty reports around the world, sir.”
“Malta hasn’t reported?” Paul asked.
“No. They have. They report no casualties.”
Another analyst spoke up. “The Knights of Malta have issued a statement saying they ‘provide shelter, care, and solace in this dark time of crisis and war as they have before.’”
Paul glanced back at the map, unsure what to say.
“We think,” the team leader began, “that they’re simply trying to perpetuate the myth of the Knights Hospitaller, or worse, to attract any able-bodied individuals to help them hold the island.”
“Interesting…” Paul mumbled.
“Everyone else is reporting anywhere from fifteen to thirty percent casualty rates at this point. We think the numbers in some places are a little off. The Vatican Orchid District is claiming twelve percent; Shanghai-Alpha District is thirty-four percent, while Shanghai-Beta is roughly half that…”
Paul wandered toward the door, his mind racing.
“Sir? Is there another therapy?”
Paul turned to the analyst. He wondered if the White House had put a man on the team, someone who could report back to his superiors with a firm up or down on the latest treatment, an informant that could tell Washington whether to proceed with the takeover of Continuity and then the Euthanasia Protocol.
“There is… something else,” Paul said. “Something I’m working on. It’s related to Malta. I want you to contact the directors of Victoria and Valletta Districts. Find out whatever you can.”
Paul’s assistant ran into the room. “Sir, the president’s on the line.”
CHAPTER 76
Over the Mediterranean Sea
It was quiet in the large helicopter, and David credited the slight vibration for helping Kate fall fast asleep shortly after boarding. He sat straight up against the seat, staring out the window. Kamau and Shaw were up front, in the cockpit, with Kamau flying; Janus and Chang sat across from him. Both wore exhausted, impassive looks on their faces, like kids on a family vacation who had played too long and were well past their nap times.