Flipping a few pages back, Sutton looked at the page and then clicked his mouse, looking at the computer screen. “For every adult that survives, there will be six kids,” Sutton offered and Jackson tapped his arm, showing him a page from the folder.
“Oh, sorry,” Sutton said. “The same age group is also showing the largest non-infection rate.”
Looking up at the ceiling as his mouth moved while whispering numbers, Sutton turned to the president. “Something like eleven kids for every adult that survives or is naturally immune, so the team’s prediction of a mean of twelve million in a year won’t be correct if we don’t get a vaccine. Adults are over ninety percent mortality with no medical care.”
“Sutton, if God came down and gave you the vaccine right now, how many could we save?” the President asked.
“Well, first I would ask God to give it to everyone,” Sutton mumbled, grabbing a pen and started writing on a sheet of paper. “With a hundred chickens that don’t die, in two weeks after we get the vaccine, we would have a thousand shots a day coming out.”
“FUCK!” the President shouted, jumping up and agents burst in the room. “We are the most powerful nation in the world and are getting our asses kicked by a tiny virus!”
“Dr. Sutton,” Paterson said in a low voice. “If you look toward the back, you will read about a dozen chicken farms losing half of their flocks over two days.”
Sutton sprang to his feet with wide eyes, “Get me some of those damn chickens that survived! Our entire medical flocks were wiped out!” he bellowed and Paterson scooted back from the table in shock. “Paterson, what do we make our vaccines from? All the pharmaceutical chickens died because the virus is very lethal to them. In Atlanta, they have fourteen that survived out of our flock of three thousand. You get us some chickens that don’t die, we have a shot!”
Paterson turned to the president, “Send someone to get the fucking chickens!” the President screamed.
“Paterson!” Sutton shouted as Paterson jumped up. “You might have just saved us, but keep the chickens outside. Have someone care for them in a hazmat suit.”
“A hundred?” Paterson asked, grabbing the phone.
“You have troops around here, send some for chicken feed and bring as many as you can get,” Sutton said.
Kenner, the Secretary of Defense, stood up, “How much does a chicken eat a day?” he asked, grabbing a phone.
“Just get all the damn chicken food you can!” the President bellowed and Kenner stabbed the phone with his fingers punching buttons. “I don’t know where you get it, but I don’t care if you shoot someone to get it!”
Everyone turned to Paterson as he bellowed into the phone. “You tell that cocksucker if he orders those chickens killed, I’ll kill his fucking kids with his wife’s teeth!”
Paterson stopped, listening to the phone. “I’m the damn Secretary of Homeland and you tell the Secretary of Agriculture that I outrank his ass! I will kill that motherfucker!”
The president stormed down the table and ripped the phone from Paterson. “This is the President. If he orders those chickens killed, I’ll have a chopper fly him fifty miles out over the Atlantic and throw his ass in! Unless everyone there wants to die, shut the fuck up and listen!” the President bellowed so loud that his face turned purple.
Lowering the phone, the President turned to Paterson. “Where the fuck are they located?” he growled.
“Bunker in northwest Tennessee,” Paterson answered and the President pulled the phone back to his ear.
“Is John nearby because I don’t know why I’m talking to you?” the President snapped as Sutton grabbed a sandwich, taking a bite and watching the show. “Hello, John,” the President said and tapped a button on the phone and the monitors around the room blinked before showing an older man with salt and pepper hair.
The President looked at the camera in the phone and everyone saw John sweating on the screen. “Are you disobeying a direct order from the President?”
“Sir, protocol clearly states we have to kill all livestock that are infected,” John answered in a quivering voice.
“You’re fired,” the President snapped. “You, with the black hair behind John,” the President shouted at a young intern who pointed at his own chest. “Yes, you. You’re now the acting Secretary of Agriculture, get the word out now not to kill any chickens that survived on those chicken farms.”
“Yes sir,” the young man said. “What do you want done with them?” he asked, pulling out his cellphone and tapping the screen.
“The Secretary of Homeland will tell you,” the President said, standing back up and Paterson reached over, picking up the phone and the screen went blank.
“Kenner, find someone to shoot John with a slow, dull bullet,” the President said, walking past. “That bastard loves playing games.”
Reaching for his soda, Sutton froze. Then he slowly started chewing again and grabbed his soda. “Um, Mr. President?” Sutton said and Jackson kicked him under the table.
“Yes, Dr. Sutton,” the President said with a smile.
“Were you kidding?” Sutton asked. “Because if you weren’t, can we, like, keep him in a cell? I don’t have genetic mice here to test my vaccine on.”
“Delay that order, Kenner. Throw John in a cell until Dr. Sutton finishes with him,” the President said, sitting down. “Very good, Doctor.”
“GENERAL!” Kenner screamed into the phone. “I don’t know where you get chicken feed but if you find a chicken farm, I’m sure they will have chicken feed. Now get the hell out there and find some!”
Kenner slammed down the phone and reached in his pocket, pulling out a medicine bottle. “That’s a good idea,” the President said. “Sarah, can you get me some Motrin?”
“Yes sir,” she said and left the room.
“Sutton,” the
