building we’re sitting in.”
We both looked around the room, suddenly the more sinister for its location.
“We’ll go on air once they start,” Wilson said. “Feds think they’ll have most of the fences finished by dawn.”
“You have any say in that?”
The mayor shook his head. “For the last five hours, the area’s been operating under martial law.”
“You gonna use that term in your dog-and-pony show?”
“Hell, no.”
“I went on the city’s Web site today, Mr. Mayor. You have one page of information on biological and chemical weapons. The gist of it is this: cover your nose and mouth; wash your hands with soap and water; watch TV.”
“You think any of us like this?”
I let my eyes travel back to the windows. I could see the lights and hear the steady thump of a chopper in the night. “Can I still get out of here?”
“Leave it for tomorrow. We’ll get you out.”
“Who’s we?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Wilson got up and moved to the door. “I’ve got the top two floors in this place. Find a hole and climb in. Watch some TV. Once we get started, I’m gonna be the only thing on.”
“Good luck.”
“No shit. And, Kelly?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Come tomorrow, do what you have to. If the bags come back to this office, give me the courtesy of a call before the feds. I’ll do the right thing.”
“Can I believe that, Mr. Mayor?”
“You think I love my city?”
“Actually, I do.”
“All right, then. Now get out of here and let me lead.”
QUARANTINE
Some died in neglect, others in the midst of every attention. No remedy was found that could be used as a specific; for what did good in one case, did harm in another. Strong and weak constitutions proved equally incapable of resistance, all alike being swept away, although dieted with the utmost precaution. By far the most terrible feature in the malady was the dejection which ensued when any one felt himself sickening, for the despair into which they instantly fell took away their power of resistance, and left them a much easier prey to the disorder; besides which, there was the awful spectacle of men dying like sheep, through having caught the infection in nursing each other.
CHAPTER 33
They waited until dark to bring in the fences. Workers dressed in NBC suits unloaded trucks and took crowbars to crates. They dug posts and unrolled lengths of steel mesh. Two layers of fencing went up, with twenty yards of space in between. Each was topped with a double strand of concertina wire, the outer fence also covered over with sheets of reinforced wood so no one could see in. Or out.
The barriers were constructed under the silent and subtle protection of Chicago police, who diverted traffic, and federal agents, who dealt with any “problems” along the perimeter. Under an emergency federal order, all television and cell phone signals inside the “protected zones” were jammed at 11:00 p.m., replaced by a message telling citizens the outage was a planned one and “limited service” would be restored by seven the next morning. Washington also hit its Internet kill switch, shutting down ISP providers inside the affected areas.
Just before midnight, the government posted soldiers at the front doors to Cook County Hospital, Rush Medical Center, and Mount Sinai Hospital. Twenty minutes after the soldiers showed up, the staff at Cook walked out. The doctors and nurses told officials they wouldn’t go back into the ER until they got NBC suits, just like the guys with the guns. For half of the staff, it wouldn’t matter. They were already infected.
A mixture of Homeland Security, FBI, and military filtered into the streets. Clad in NBC suits and carrying automatic weapons, they shut down all major intersections and closed whatever was still open-mostly bars and restaurants, gas stations, convenience and liquor stores. They herded people back to their homes, arresting anyone who gave them trouble and arranging “temporary shelter” for those who were stranded in a restricted area.
Reactions ran the gamut. Some people screamed at the hooded figures with guns. Others fainted. Three went into cardiac arrest. On the West Side, bangers and wannabes alike broke out windows and took what they wanted while they could. In Oak Park, people grabbed for their cell phones-a primal urge, apparently, both to share their outrage and record it. Overall, however, regular folks mostly went along. That surprised Washington, but the reality was when a cop in an NBC suit pointed a gun and told you to stay inside, you did exactly that. Until someone told you different.
CHAPTER 34
Three miles east of the rising fence lines, Missy Davis’s night already had “suck” written all over it. Missy went to Vassar, summa cum laude, fifth in her class, should have been first. Yale Law School wanted her. Or at least they’d sent her a letter. So did Stanford and the University of Chicago. She settled on Northwestern and a master’s in journalism. It was supposed to be a Christiane Amanpour redux, or some Anglo-Saxon version of such. It wasn’t supposed to be the overnight assignment desk. She ripped another piece of copy off the printer and trudged it across Channel Six’s newsroom.
“Missy, print out a hard copy of the ten o’clock rundown as well, will you?”
Ted Henderson was the overnight news editor and her boss. Missy had Ted pegged from the opening moments of her job interview. He’d worn a starched blue shirt with a black bow tie and had trouble moving his eyes from Missy’s legs (which had looked appropriately spectacular that day in a Zac Posen print). He’d offered her the position ten minutes into the interview. She’d smiled and accepted. And here she was, stuck in newsroom hell with a career middle manager, ripping scripts and running feeds to nowhere.
Missy dumped the rundown onto Ted’s desk and walked back to her own. Missy had four TVs tuned to the competition, a bank of police scanners, and a two-way so she could talk to her street crews and live trucks. It was past midnight, and the assignment desk should have been fairly quiet. It wasn’t. A little over an hour ago, there’d been reports of a possible hazardous-materials spill on the West Side. She’d sent a photographer over, a veteran stringer by the name of Dino Pillizzi. Dino had tried a couple different routes to the reported accident, but was turned away by police. Dino couldn’t figure it out. Neither could Missy.
“I just got another text from Dino,” Missy said.
“What does he say?” They were the only ones in the newsroom, and Ted Henderson spoke without looking up from his computer screen.
“He still can’t get into the haz mat.”
“Tell him to buy a fucking map.”
“He’s not lost. He can’t get in.”
