ZE Outbreak Novel, Chapter 2

continued from chapter 1

Sunday, May 6, 2012

I woke up at 6 AM that Sunday, way earlier than my usual weekend routine. First thing I did was flip on the news.

"...with the latest on the Zeta virus outbreak in Japan. According to government officials, the situation is under control. The infection, while serious, appears to be contained within the quarantined zones. Japanese authorities have assured the international community that closing borders is a precautionary measure. Experts from the World Health Organization are currently assessing the situation on the ground."

I dragged myself out of bed, scrubbing sleep from my eyes as I stumbled to the kitchen.

"In other news, the economic impact of this crisis is already being felt globally. The Dow Jones Industrial Average plunged nearly eight hundred points at last night's close, marking one of the sharpest declines in recent history. Investors are reacting to the uncertainty surrounding the outbreak, with many fearing a global economic downturn..."

Words like containment and control felt hollow. Classic playbook to keep everyone calm while everything falls apart. I could hear panic in the newscaster's voice that she was trying to hide.

I fell back on my military habits: plain oatmeal, an apple, black coffee. Some routines you never shake, and right then, I needed that familiarity. Checking my email over breakfast, I found a message from Dr. Cohen sitting at the top of my inbox.

Sam,

I hope this message finds you well. I've always admired your dedication and level-headedness. I'm writing to you as your supervisor and someone who genuinely cares about your well-being.

The situation with the Zeta virus is escalating far more rapidly than the public is being led to believe. I urge you to take every precaution for your safety. Consider leaving the city, perhaps somewhere less populated. The data we're seeing is alarming. This isn't just another health scare. It's a world-altering catastrophe in the making.

Please take this seriously.

Stay safe,
Arthur

Not gonna lie—this freaked me out. He signed it, Arthur. All I could do was stare at name as my knees started to bounce under the table.

Over the last year, he had never signed a single email this way. Always A.C., his initials. It seemed like a small, insignificant change, but it meant something. This was real. I was on the fence before, but this email was a hard push.

Another email was from Jefferson University.

Dear Faculty and Staff,

As you are undoubtedly aware, there has been widespread media coverage regarding the Zeta virus outbreak in Japan. While the situation is concerning, it is essential to note that, according to leading health experts and our current understanding, the virus's impact remains localized and is effectively managed by Japanese authorities. We advise everyone to stay informed and maintain a perspective based on facts, not speculation.

In response to this evolving situation, Jefferson University is in continuous communication with the World Health Organization and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. We aim to remain fully informed about the developments in Japan and Asia. We are committed to following any guidelines and taking all necessary precautions as recommended by these organizations and the U.S. government. To further our understanding and preparedness, I have formed a panel of experts from our university to discuss and analyze the impacts of the Zeta virus. This panel will provide insights and recommendations on how we, as an academic community, can best navigate these challenging times.

As such, we expect all faculty and staff to report to work on Monday. It is essential that we continue our commitment to the mission of Jefferson University, especially in times that test our resilience and adaptability.

Sincerely,

Dr. Elaine Whitmore, PhD

President, Jefferson University

Dean of the School of Public Health

Translation: Keep showing up until the wheels fall off. I'd seen enough bureaucratic damage control in the military to read between these lines. They were forming panels while Dr. Cohen was telling me to get out of the city. Something wasn't adding up.

I sat at my kitchen table, pushing around the last of my oatmeal while the two emails churned in my head. Dr. Cohen telling me to run versus Jefferson telling me everything was fine. The military had taught me to trust my gut, and right now, my gut was screaming to grab my go bag, drive over to grab Gabriel, and get the hell out of Philadelphia.

But how could I do that? Would Gabriel’s adopted parents let me take him? And what if Jefferson was right, and the virus was contained. What if Dr. Cohen was having some kind of mental breakdown, making him think this virus was more than a simple infection? Lots of questions needed answers.

An hour later, I had made my decision. If things went sideways, I needed to be ready to bail. Maybe within days. I went through my apartment like I was prepping for deployment, beginning with my go bag. Old habits from the Army die hard. I'd kept one half-packed since getting out.

I spread everything out on my living room floor, laying it out like a gear inspection. I started loading it up: canned beans, tuna, trail mix, protein bars—stuff that would keep me going if things went bad. Water was priority one, so I packed several bottles and my filtration system from my camping gear. The first-aid kit was basic but solid: bandages, antiseptic wipes, painkillers. In went my LED flashlight, spare batteries, multi-tool, and that emergency blanket I'd never needed but always carried.

The pack was getting heavy, but I'd learned the hard way. Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.

Keep in mind that I wasn't some super soldier. No special forces training, no secret agent skills. Just a guy who'd learned some basics and analyzed data for the military. Everyone thinks military service means you're automatically prepared for the apocalypse, but that's Hollywood talking. Real life isn't a movie where the ex-soldier turns into Jason Bourne the moment things go bad.

I stared at my shaking hands as I zipped up the bag. Yeah, I knew more than most people about survival, about weapons, about staying alive in bad situations. But a full-scale outbreak? Keeping Gabriel safe when the world goes to hell? That was different. I had faith in myself, sure, but faith doesn't stop your hands from shaking when you realize you might be responsible for whether your little brother lives or dies.

I pulled my Glock 17 from its lockbox next. It was nothing fancy, but it was reliable and practical. I'd thought about getting a shotgun when I first moved in, but these walls were paper-thin. One blast and I might take out Ms. Klein next door, or worse, her cat, Shadow. The cat was probably the only thing about that apartment I actually liked. The Glock made more sense anyway. I gave it a quick once-over, making sure everything was clean and working right, then packed it with a box of 9mm rounds, cleaning kit, and holster.

But a handgun wouldn't cut it if things really went south. I needed to see Jack O'Connor at Liberty Arms. I'd been hitting his range for years, and if anyone in Philly knew their weapons, it was Jack. Former Marine, ran his shop like he was still in the Corps. Everything was organized. Everything was legal and by the book. He'd know exactly what I needed for whatever was coming.

First though, I had to make the call I'd been dreading. Connor, Gabriel's adoptive father. Mr. Big Shot Attorney would probably be busy, but this couldn't wait. I pulled out my phone and stared at his number for a good minute before hitting dial.

The call went straight to voicemail. I took a breath before speaking. "Connor, it's Sam. Look, we need to talk about Gabriel. It's extremely important. I need you to get back to me today as soon as possible. Please, it's urgent." I hung up, feeling my stomach twist into knots.

I was grabbing my keys to head out when my phone rang. Connor's name lit up the screen.

"Sam, I'm at church. I stepped away at the earliest chance. What's wrong?" He always sounded impatient when he spoke with me.

"Connor, have you heard about the virus outbreak in Japan?"

"Yes, I've heard some bits and pieces, but what does this have to do with Gabriel?"

"It's about to hit America. And when it does, things could escalate quickly. We need to be prepared."

"That's an extreme overreaction." His voice rose. "You pulled me out of church for this?"

"I'm serious, Connor. This virus isn’t like anything we've dealt with before. I'm wondering if I should get Gabriel out of the city."

I heard footsteps on his end. When he spoke again, his voice was a controlled whisper of anger. "What the hell is going on with you? You sound like you're on drugs or having some kind of mental breakdown. Whatever is going on with you, leave my family out of it. I don't want you talking to Gabriel about this. You're only going to scare him."

Things had been tense with Connor since I got back from the military. When I was deployed, he'd been fine. Birthday calls and holiday cards didn't threaten him. But something changed when I moved back to Philly. It wasn't that he felt threatened by me. I knew better than that. It was something else I couldn't put my finger on.

"He’s my brother. If I need to talk to him, I will."

He exhaled hard into the phone. "I'm asking you to stay away, Sam," he said, his voice unusually low, almost at the level of serial killer. "If I have to take things further, I will."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's not worth discussing right now. You can't fill his head with things that will make him stress out and worry. If you love your brother, consider the effect you have on him."

That hit home. Gabriel had struggled with anxiety since Mom died: depression, panic attacks, the works. Maybe Connor had a point. Was I about to throw his whole world into chaos? But the clock was ticking. How could I not try to protect him from what was coming?

Connor cleared his throat. "I need to get back inside. We'll talk again later today, but leave Gabriel alone." The line went dead.

I stood there with my phone, feeling completely useless. The conversation had gone even worse than I'd expected. Not only had he dismissed my concerns about the virus, he had threatened me.. But I couldn't let him stop me. I would take down a thousand Connors to save Gabriel. His life might depend on what I did next. I couldn't second-guess myself now, not with everything at stake.

# #

I left my apartment and headed for Brewerytown, trading the familiar streets of Center City for grittier territory. Two bus rides gave me plenty of time to watch Philadelphia roll by, each neighborhood telling its own story. The gap between rich and poor felt sharper today, like everything else.

Something was off about the city's rhythm. People were going through the motions of their Sunday routines, but there was this underlying current and tension that nobody wanted to name. Maybe they'd seen the same news I had, or maybe they just felt it in the air.

Brewerytown wasn't trying to be Center City. It had an equal mix of rundown houses with new developments. Gentrification was the name of the game. You could stand on any street and find a drug house on one side and a half-a-million-dollar flip on the other.

Liberty Arms fit right. I'd spent enough hours at the range out back to consider it a second home. The display windows showed off their usual array of firearms and gear, but today they looked less like merchandise and more like necessities. I pushed through the door, setting off the bell overhead. The place was packed for a Sunday with maybe a dozen people milling around.

Emily and Rahim were working the floor. Jack's daughter had her mom's looks and her dad's no-bullshit attitude. Rahim knew his stuff too. That guy could break down any weapon blindfolded and put it back together just as fast. They were both tied up with customers, moving between questions about ammo and concealed carry permits.

"Good to see you!" Jack said from behind the counter. Arthritic hands slid across the glass. Even with those twisted digits, I wouldn’t doubt him in a gunfight. Besides that, he was like a role model to me. I had barely known my father, and if I had to choose anyone else, it would be the man who stood before me behind the counter.

"Seems like you're swamped today."

"Word about that infection thing has people thinking about protection. When things are normal in the world, business is good. When things are bad in the world, business is great." His eyes swept across the shop. "What brings you in? Looking for something specific?"

"Yeah, I need to add to my home defense. Thinking about a shotgun, a rifle, a few other things." I kept my voice low enough to sink into the general buzz of anxious customers.

"I understand. Let's see what we have for you."

He led me toward the back of the shop. The back room hit me with that familiar smell of gun oil. Metal cabinets lined up against the walls, stuffed with enough parts to build an armory. The massive workbench looked like an autopsy table for firearms, with gutted weapons spread out. Old photos of vintage guns stared down from the walls.

"Take a seat." He gestured toward chairs, and he closed the door behind us. I felt my leg bouncing as I sat.

Jack sat on a folding chair and pressed his fingers together under his chin. The guy was Philly Irish to his bones. He was built like a brick row house with just as much history. Salt-and-pepper hair topped a face that had seen enough shit to fill a manual. Even in his everyday plaid shirt and work pants, he moved like every step was tactical.

"So what's this all about?" he asked, and I could tell by his tone this wasn't going to be your typical Sunday sales pitch.

"Like I said, home defense." We both knew I was lying. You couldn't bullshit Jack. Part of his DNA was reading people. He gave me that look that made me feel about ten years old.

I sighed. "Like everyone else, I'm worried about this virus. I want to make sure I'm prepared for whatever happens. I want to protect myself and my brother if things get bad."

Jack leaned against the workbench, folding his arms over his chest. "Every so often, something big happens that shakes everyone up. Pandemics, wars, you name it." His eyes went distant. "I remember back in '91, during the Gulf War, folks were panicking, thinking it'd lead to something bigger. Everyone wanted a bunker full of guns. And it wasn't just wars. Take Y2K, for example. The turn of the millennium. People were convinced computers would crash, banks would fail, society would collapse. They were coming in here, buying up everything they could to prepare for the worst. It was fear, plain and simple, driving them."

He focused back on me. "What I'm saying is that fear can make people do all sorts of things. It's not about the event itself, but how people react to it. The Gulf War, Y2K, now this virus...each time, it's fear of the unknown, the what-ifs. That's what drives people through my door."

He chuckled. "I love making a sale, but I don't wanna take your money based on fear. These things, they blow over."

"I appreciate that, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. Even if this virus situation calms down, I'd still use the guns. Maybe even head to the range with you."

He smiled. "Now that's a plan I can get behind. I've got a range set up in the Poconos, near a cabin I own. How about we make a weekend of it? A bit of shooting, some hunting. It'll do you good."

The offer felt like a lifeline back to normal. A weekend away from the growing tension, focusing on targets and fresh air. "Sounds like a great idea. We should schedule that. Now let me buy some of those guns."

Jack led me into what I'd come to think of as the vault, a room where the real inventory lived. Each weapon had its place like books in a library.

He started with a shotgun, a Remington 870. Some weapons just feel right, like they were built for the spaces between thoughts and actions. The AR-556 came next, and it was lighter than I expected.

"These are solid choices," Jack said, moving to the handgun section. He showed me a Glock 19, but I had its big brother at home. Then he brought out a Sig Sauer P226. Now that was interesting. The balance was perfect, like a natural extension of my arm.

Catching my lukewarm response to the Glock, Jack's eyes lit up. "Hold on," he said, disappearing behind the counter. He returned with a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver. "Sometimes simpler is better."

He was right. The revolver had a perfect weight to it, with six rounds of pure reliability. I decided on the Sig and the Smith & Wesson.

I caught myself getting excited about the purchases and had to laugh. Here I was, geeking out over firearms like some gun nut in a survival blog. But with the world starting to feel like a powder keg, I figured being over-prepared beat the alternative.

Jack walked me through the ammunition choices with the patience of a professor. My military background meant I knew most of it, but I let him talk, partly out of respect, partly because he occasionally dropped gems of knowledge I hadn't considered. Besides, I was into gun porn.

"Buckshot for the real deal, birdshot for practice," he said. When he got to the hollow points, I just nodded. There was no need to mention anything about these, since I'd seen firsthand what they could do.

He threw a flashlight mount for the shotgun and a laser sight for the handguns. I almost declined the laser sight, old habits dying hard, but Jack made sense: "At night, with adrenaline pumping? Better to have it and not need it."

When he rang it all up, he hit me with his friends-and-family discount and threw in enough ammo to make me wonder if he was running a charity. The final damage was just under $2,500. I tried not to think about how many months of coffee and takeout I'd just burned through. If the world didn't end up going to hell, my accountant was going to have some questions about my "emergency preparedness" spending.

# #

I was arranging my new hardware in a metal box in my closet when my phone rang. Amber. We'd barely progressed beyond texts and those awkward hallway moments where we both tried to decide who goes first.

"Hey, sorry...I hope I'm not bothering you, but I really needed to talk to someone." She was trying to sound casual but had a tiny shake in her voice.

"It's fine. What's going on? Is everything okay?"

"It's getting scary here. We have workers from all over Asia, even some from Japan directly. They're getting calls and messages from their families..." Her voice cracked slightly. "The virus is way worse than what's being reported. Their relatives are saying entire neighborhoods are being quarantined. And we're all stuck here together, in these tight spaces, and I keep thinking...what if someone's already infected? What if they're not telling anyone because they're scared of being quarantined? We can't exactly go anywhere, and everyone's talking about it, all the time, and I just..." She trailed off, her breathing quick and shallow.

"It's going to be okay. I'm glad you called me. When are you docking in New Jersey?"

"Another day at least. Cape Liberty on Tuesday. A friend's picking me up."

"Listen, you're safe on the ship while it's at sea. The virus can't reach you there." My voice shifted automatically into what my brother called my 'big brother mode.' "Trust me, if anyone was infected, you would know it. There's literally no way for that virus to reach you. Being at sea is probably the safest place right now."

I heard her exhale slowly. "Thanks. I needed to hear that."

"Of course. Keep in touch, and I'll help you figure out your next steps once you're back." I hesitated, then added, "I'm here if you need me."

She didn’t speak for a few moments. “Still there?”

"Yeah. Thanks. And Sam…can we talk until I fall asleep? It would really help."

"Of course."

I settled into my reading chair by the window. Below, a squirrel was engineering its latest high-rise in the lone spruce tree, right outside my window.

"Do you have a favorite book?" she asked, her voice sounding softer.

"Ever read 'The Count of Monte Cristo'?"

"No, I haven't. Don't judge me." She let out a sleepy laugh.

I pulled the book off my shelf and began the story, keeping my voice low and steady. "'On the 24th of February, 1815, the lookout at Notre-Dame de la Garde signaled the arrival of the three-master Pharaon, coming from Smyrna, Trieste and Naples...' " As I read Dumas' familiar words, I heard her breathing slow and deepen. "'The ship drew on toward the port with skillful seamanship, and in a few minutes the hundred and fifty or two hundred ships that lay there had their perfect view blocked by this new arrival...'"

It didn’t take long for her to fall asleep, and I kept talking long after that, spinning out Dumas's tale of revenge and redemption into the quiet night. Finally, I ended the call and leaned back, eyes closed, wondering if Dantès had felt this protective of Mercedes before everything went wrong.

continue to chapter 3