Journey to the Catskills: The Battle for Control

Prologue

1969: The U.S. Surgeon General claims victory over infectious diseases. The people of the world are assured that the war is won and that the problem has been eradicated for all time…

1976: Ebola virus decimates two villages in Africa. The disease causes hemorrhages in vital organs and is spread through casual contact.

1979: Doctors in California began to notice a trend in the way young homosexual males were dying when their immune systems were overwhelmed.

1984: More virulent tuberculosis, resistant to drugs, was discovered in an Arizona hospital. Previously tuberculosis or TB was treatable with antibiotics but the new strain has put an end to the strategy of using this medication to combat the disease. It is common knowledge within the medical community that diseases are becoming resistant to current medications, that stronger forms of antibiotics are needed to kill off forms of infectious diseases. Older antibiotics, such as tetracycline, or erythromycin, are becoming almost ineffective against diseases they could once easily defeat.

1989: During a medical survey of several Greek hospitals, cases of bacterial antibiotic resistance, up to one hundred percent, were discovered.

1993: New viruses are beginning to appear around the globe, and there are fears that old diseases, once thought defeated, are making an appearance once more.

1995: A horse trainer and 14 horses died after being exposed to anew strain of the measles, the first reported case of a mutated measles in over one hundred years.

1997: There are just two know locations for the deadly smallpox virus. The first is located in a heavily guarded lab at the Center for Disease Control (CDC) in Atlanta; the other is located in a locked, but otherwise unguarded, file cabinet in a lab in downtown Moscow.

2001: Anthrax! Just the mention of this deadly man-made virus, causes fear, as case after case of the dreaded disease begin appearing around the United States, spread through the mail.

2004: The use of chemical agents by Iraqi militia forces against Coalition troops is on the increase, forcing some units to wear, or at least carry, their protective MOPP gear constantly.

2004: Iran signs an agreement with Britain, Germany, and France, stating they will not continue to attempt to produce plutonium for building a nuclear device.

2005: A rare form of the plague kills 61 miners in the remote wilds of the Congo in Africa.

2009: Swine flu spread from Mexico around the glove despite the best efforts of the World Health Organization to stop it.

PART ONE

The Crazy Days

Chapter 1

May 5th—Boston, Massachusetts—11:10 am:

Fear. You could feel it, almost taste it. It rose into the air almost as thickly as the black smoke that blocked out the sun around the city. The unseasonably warm weather seemed to intensify an already tense situation. Throughout the city panic had gripped the populace, who raced down the streets carrying their personal belongings. In this difficult atmosphere, police and National Guard troops faced an uphill battle trying to restore order.

Under orders from the Governor, roadblocks had been established at key points to prevent looters from leaving the area, which caused back-ups among the frightened populace, who could only watch as the flames crept closer, those in back pushing forward away from the flames.

Guardsmen and police personnel did what the could, but they were under orders to check everyone attempting to leave, hence the slow progress of passage for those unfortunate enough to be caught in the middle.

It was just east of Boston College that the first violence occurred, when angry and terrified people tried to force their way past a small number of soldiers manning two overturned grocery vans, which blocked one exit route. Falling back from the sheer number, and from an unspoken fear of contracting any disease, the Guardsmen kept trying to search the people pushing in on them. There was a sudden eruption of gunfire, probably fired by the unit’s sergeant, in an attempt to restore order and, as if on cue, the soldiers opened fire into the crowd. A new Boston Massacre, the papers dubbed it, had just taken place. Dozens were killed or wounded and an already tense situation became explosive.

Later that same afternoon, twenty-three Guardsmen, patrolling an area of South Boston, which had escaped most of the looting and fires, were ordered to secure the Federal Reserve Bank and South Station, the major train station servicing the South Shore. Advancing along Summer Street, they could see one building off to their right burning furiously, curiously the streets were abandoned. The smoke from the burning structure and the lack of people, gave the area the look of a battlefield.

Keep alert! Staff Sergeant Bernard Greishal, the patrol’s second in command, and the only black member of the patrol, said suddenly. He was regular Army, temporarily assigned to assist these Guardsmen, whom he held in contempt.

Lieutenant. Greishal said to Second Lieutenant Jonathan Wotowski, the platoon commander. I’m getting a bad feeling. We’re hemmed in here. Maybe we should pull back and approach from a different route.

It’s your imagination. Wotowski replied. We don’t have the time, and there’s still a lot of ground to cover before we reach our destination.

Wotowski was new to the Guard, this being his first command and he didn’t like Greishal trying to take over. He was sure the sergeant was simply trying to foul him up before the men, and he would have no part in that. Everyone easily noticed this attitude and it had caused a rift to grow between Grieshal and himself, and though he wouldn’t admit it, the rift bothered him.

Greishal shook his head as he continued to walk. Alright boys, keep your eyes open and spread out. If we walk into trouble I don’t want a single blast to take everyone out! He looked over at his platoon commander, knowing what he was going through. It’s always the same, he thought, the up and coming young college graduates always thought they knew more than he did. Well his sense of danger had kept him alive more than once, ever since his days growing up in Chicago, to his peace keeping days in Iraq. And things were not good here. He felt he had to try once more to convince the lieutenant to pull back and try a different route.

Look, L.T., I think we’re heading into trouble!

As Grieshal tried to make the lieutenant understand, Sergeant John Powers turned away from the two men and scanned one of the nearby buildings. Like Greishal, he didn’t like this area and the hairs on the back of his neck were warning him they were in danger. He thought it would be best as well if they moved over a couple of blocks. It wouldn’t take long and they could double-time to the bank. As he looked at the building, he noticed something move behind one of the windows. Not taking chances, he swung his M—4 toward the window as he shouted a warning. Ambush! Just as the shooting started.

Stunned by the unexpected contact, and not trained as well as they should have been, most of the men looked up rather than taking cover, a mistake which cost many their lives. Only a few reacted. PFC Lenny Johnson, armed with a SAW, (Squad Automatic Weapon) a reduced version of a machine gun, managed to get off several rounds before a bullet plowed into his arm and then another into his heel. He took cover behind some overflowing garbage cans, only then realizing he’d been hit, and began yelling for the platoon’s medic.

Private Andrew ‘Smitty’ Sims, had been wounded in the right thigh and chest with the opening burst. The pain was excruciating and he had trouble just trying to breath, let alone reaching for the receiver attached to the radio he wore on his back. Slowly inching his hand to the receiver, he fought back waves of pain, like nothing he had ever experienced in his life, and he had just reached the instrument when a high powered bullet smashed into the back of his head, ending his movement.

In those first two minutes, thirteen Guardsmen were hit, most fatally, and as the shrinking number of survivors tried to regroup, their attackers concentrated on them.

Though wounded, Johnson managed to silence a lot of the opposition with a sustained burst from his machine gun, giving the rest of the patrol a chance to seek shelter as their attackers ducked back from the deadly hail of automatic fire. His effort allowed to Private Dan Chesterfield the chance to blow-out the second floor of a small building with the 40mm grenade launcher attached to the underside of his M-4. The M-203 was a short stocky weapon that could hurl a projectile several hundred yards. Though a one shot weapon, it was effective against positions too far away for grenades, and was used by all the armed forces, including the National Guard. Then his next two shots finished off the third floor and he charged the now silent building, firing off a full clip once he was through the front door, but it was unnecessary. Two silent forms rested on the floor and there was no one else around.

In the confusion outside, Greishal managed to take cover behind a car, taking a couple of shots at a figure in a darkened window. He thought he saw the person fall backwards, as if hit, searching for another target, he saw the remainder of his unit, wasting ammo. He had a hurried flashback to his days in Baghdad. been trained to conserve his ammo, look for a target before shooting, but these guys were firing off full clips at random. Then he saw the Lieutenant. Wotowski was laying behind a fire hydrant, his leg bent at the wrong angle and Greishal knew it was broken and that he must be in tremendous pain.

Running toward the Lieutenant, Greishal fired off a few shots at another target, carefully deciding on his next move. He spied Chesterfield entering the building ahead and when he reached Wotowski, reached down with one hand. Come on, lieutenant! Let’s get out of here!

Wotowski grabbed the outstretched hand and pulled himself up, the pain in his leg causing him to black out, and Greishal was forced to throw the man over his shoulder as he made his way toward the building, Chesterfield had entered.

Chesterfield, now joined by another Guardsman, Kevin Kelvin, saw Greishal coming toward them and attempted to provide cover, but there were so many targets, they knew it was a futile. Then Chesterfield saw several bullets hit Greishal, who fell just short of the doorway. In a flash, Kelvin was out the door, and under covering fire from Chesterfield, dragged first Wotowski, then Greishal inside.

While those two men were being worked on, the survivors of the patrol made their way to the building. Johnson was helped in by Sergeant Powers. Brian Peterson came flying through the smashed front window, aided by the explosion of a molotov cocktail. This device, actually a bottle filled with a mixture of tar and gasoline, had first been used during the Midnight, when Finnish soldiers, having nothing to use against the Russian tanks, devised the weapon.

Corporal Richard Giles, the oldest man in the patrol, and also armed with an M-203, a 40 mm grenade launcher mounted beneath the barrel of his M-4, was next in. Last inside were the first aid man, Maxburn, who staggered in under the load of an unconscious, Private George Blackman.

Once inside, Powers saw the lieutenant and Greishal on the floor, and began issuing orders. His quick thinking saved the patrol from annihilation. Maxburn! He shouted above the gunfire. Check on the others when you’re done with Blackman! He looked at Johnson. You okay for the moment?

Yeah, fine. Johnson replied, as he pealed off his boot.

Alright, get the SAW from Chesterfield and place it by the front door. Giles, check out the rest of this place, make sure no there’s no other way in. Kelvin and Peterson, you check out the floors above, let me know if you see any problems. Let’s move people!

As the men carried out their assignments, Powers took stock of their predicament. It was bad, but not terrible. They were low on ammo, but it wasn’t crucial yet. Three men were badly injured and needed immediate medical attention, and somehow he’d have to get in touch with headquarters and have them send help. He looked at Maxburn, who was now looking over the lieutenant. Smitty had the radio.

Where is he?

He didn’t make it. Maxburn replied, not bothering to look up.

Okay, we’ll have to make due without it. If no help shows by night, we’ll stand a better of chance of retrieving the radio in the dark. Till then we stay put. Then as an afterthought, added, And, Johnson, when the others get back, spread the word not to fire unless they have a definite target. We have to start conserving our ammo. No telling how long we’ll be here.

Hey, Sarge. It was Maxburn.

What’s up, Max?

Both Greishal and the lieutenant are dead. There was’ t anything I could do. Hell, I ain’t no doctor." He added quickly.

Take it easy, Max. How’s Blackman?

He’s okay for now. I gave him a shot of morphine, but he’s going to need a doctor to remove that bullet.

Okay. He answered, suddenly realizing that he was in complete control of these men. Their lives depended on his making the right moves and he didn’t like it. Nevertheless, someone had to take charge.

Giles, take the lieutenant’s pistol and split up his and Greishal’s ammo. They won’t need it anymore and we might… His voice trailed off as he looked at Maxburn. Keep a close eye on Blackman, and let me know if his condition worsens.

Maxburn nodded and turned away.

The shooting had all but stopped and Powers found a moment to collect his thoughts concentrating on the events which had led up to this day. Just two months ago he had been a telephone repairman and new he was trapped in an old store with people outside trying to kill him, people he didn’t even know. It was just so unreal. He looked outside and caught sight of his comrades, lying where they had fallen. Quickly he turned away, not wanting to look at such a sight, but then he spied Maxburn spreading a poncho over the bodies, noticing how each man’s boots stuck out from under the covering. The boots were highly polished, except where one was partially covered with blood. It’s such a waste, he thought, remembering his wife, Francine and how he had quieted her that last morning, telling her everything would be alright.

But things kept getting worse, first the disease causing panic, then the riots and his being activated. Then when he had finally gotten the chance to get home and check on her, he found their apartment destroyed, the building burned to the ground, he hadn’t even been able to identify her body and had to rely on dental records. When she had needed him most, he hadn’t been there for her, and he had managed to keep the thoughts of her away, until now. He kept asking himself how it had all occurred…

Chapter 2

March 12th—Middle East:

In an attempt to redirect internal anger at the staged elections, the Iranian leadership launches a large scale invasion of western Afghanistan, claiming they were invited by the local militia forces in that area to help liberate them from American imperialism. U.S. forces respond with air strikes against Iranian military targets, and the rapid deployment of ground troops into the disputed zone and forcing the Iranians back. At the same time, Russia, in support of the newtreaty with the United States and coalition forces, stage large number of troops on the border of Iran and launch bombing raids into the eastern portion of Afghanistan, while allowing U.S. planes to use their forward airfields for resupply of their troops.

March 14th—Shiraz, Iran:

There is a revival of anti-American and anti-Russian sentiment within Iran. Western intelligence agencies report their suspicions that Iran has successfully developed nuclear weapons, and missiles capable of carrying the device, causing a tense situation to become even more. Information is sketchy, since the CIA has few field agents still operating in the country, almost all of them in the capital Tehran, and this lack of intelligence causes them to miss another important weapon source. Biological weapons.

Iranian scientists in the city of Shiraz, several hundred miles south of Tehran, were hard at work on a variant of the dreaded ebola virus. Iranian agents in the African country of Chad, had secured a module of the deadly virus. Ebola hemorrhagic fever is a severe, often-fatal disease that first appeared in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Humans infected with the virus can spread it through the air, with symptoms mimicking those of a common cold, though after a short time, the disease can be identified by the red blotches under the skin. The scientists were attempting to mask the disease and to make it even more difficult for medical personnel to identify the virus; allowing it to be spread further before it was discovered.

Sirah Al’Habib was the man in charge and he was pushing his men to complete the final step as quickly as possible. Under pressure from the Iranian ruling council, Al’Habib had been instructed to develop the virus and prepare it for transfer. His argument that the Americans would be able to prevent it being released in their country had fallen on deaf ears, just as he had ignored the concerns of his research team. Not a researcher himself, Sirah had been placed in this important position simply because of his hatred of America. His team had argued that they were by-passing many safety procedures, but he didn’t care. He didn’t actually care about safety, just results. He had a plan to unleash the virus and he wasn’t about to let some safety concerns get in his way, so he told his team to move the process along, and to trust their safety in Allah.

Fearing that the ruling council might change it’s mind with further delays, he pushed his team to complete the process, and after a grueling stretch of almost 40 straight hours, his team informed him that the virus had been completed. In a state of ecstasy, he quickly transferred the virus to a travel bag before leaving on a special plane in the early morning hours for Tehran.

Back in the lab, a technician accidentally knocked one of the remaining test tubes with the virus off the table onto the floor where it cracked slightly. The technician inspected the tube, and satisfied that the glass was still intact, and afraid of what might happen to him if the accident were discovered, quietly transferred the deadly contents to a new test tube and ignoring safety protocol, placed the cracked tube in the one pocket of his protective suit. The cracked vile still held remnants of the virus which slowly leaked into his pocket. Once he was sure no one was looking, he quietly removed the tube and tossed it in the disposal box, breathing a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been discovered, but he forgot to secure the open pocket in his haste.

With the research now complete, the researchers were finally allowed to leave the lab, and happily they tramped through the open biometric door and into the wash area, where their suits were sprayed with a mixture of alcohol and ammonia before being allowed to move into the changing room. The technician’s pocket filled with the mixture and remained there as he left the wash area and removed the protective headgear of his suit in the changing room. It was only as he placed the suit in his locker that he was aware of his mistake. He looked about the room quickly, sweating now and realizing that his life would be in danger should the accident be discovered. Quickly he scooped the mixture from his pocket, then washed his hands, but the disease had already infected him, having been released into the air when he cleared the pocket. He left the research facility quickly, breaking into a run when he heard the alarm sound behind him.

March 15th—Tehran, Iran—6:37 am:

Al’Habib departed from his plane and made his way to the ruling council building, now housed in the former American Embassy. As he made his way through the guards along the front entrance to the main building, he paused for a moment and stared at the photo of the Ayatollah Khomeini, remembering his childhood as he stood outside this embassy and watched as hundreds of Iranian students stormed the compound and took the Americans hostage. That was a great day, he thought, but it’s nothing compared to what will happen after we unleash the virus. The thought made his chuckle under his breath. All they had to do was to get clearance from the ruling council, merely a formality, then he would cross the border into Pakistan and board an airplane for South America. He wasn’t worried about repercussions for his country, they were after all separated by an ocean. He stopped his dreaming and hurried to the council, who were waiting anxiously for him,

Assalamu’Alaikum, Sirah. You have news for this council? The Imam, (leader) asked.

Wa’Alaikum Assalam. Sirah responded. Yes, I have very glorious news, we have the virus, and we are ready to strike.

Allah be praised. The Iman responded. The Qawwam will be pleased. Come, he and the others are ready.

As the two men walked toward the waiting council, Sirah became aware that Imam Al’mali was looking at him. He stopped mid-stride. What are you not telling me, Imam?

I know you have been working hard, but our glorious council has concerns.

Such as? Sirah asked, feeling rather uncomfortable.

This virus. How safe is it, now?

There is no fear of contamination. It is safely encased in a container on my aircraft.

Then I take it you have not heard about the research facility. There was an accident.

Yes, I am aware. One of our guards testing the room after our research staff left, discovered small traces of the virus in the air. I have already ordered the research team to report back to the facility. The fools might have infected themselves. I do not know how, but it doesn’t matter. They’ll all be rounded up and tested. If any are infected, we’ll eliminate them.

Though Al’mali was used to the tough nature of Sirah, his disinterest in their survival surprised even him. Careless researchers are one thing, but America is a powerful enemy. He paused for a second before continuing. "How will you be able to transfer the virus to them?

Their defenses are formidable."

Sirah hinted at a smile. I have thought this through for a very long time, and yes, you are right. America has a powerful defense. But, I must ask you this. How do you attack an powerful enemy? They have such a strong military they could, as they say, ‘gobble us up’

The Imam smiled back now, reassured that Sirah had indeed been thorough. You look for a weakness in their defenses, of course. You have of course found such a weakness? Sirah, his smile now very evident, nodded. I have indeed. When the enemy has a powerful mouth, you strike at their bottom.

Their bottom?

Yes, the bottom of the beast, or in this case, another infidel state. Mexico.

Chapter 3

March 17th—Roanoke, Virginia—7:56 am:

Charlie Winslow lived in an old Victorian house his parents had helped him purchase just outside the city. Most people would describe him as a bit short and somewhat pudgy, though they would almost all agree he lived a desirable life; he had a good job, a new girl friend, smart car and many friends, which he made easily. His parents however were a different story.

They were almost aloof and he was troubled by their lack of communication, something which could describe a number of people today. Letting Charlie make his own decisions was their answer to just about everything, and whenever he sought advice about a personal problem, his father would order him to handle it.

Many times, Charlie was reminded of the time when he was ten and was being threatened by a neighborhood bully. Instead of advice on how to deal with he problem, his father simply told him to fight his own battles and not to be a sissy.

But Charlie was too scared to fight, instead he would race home after school each day and hide in his room, afraid that the bully was outside, waiting to pounce on him, and so, he just stayed home, playing with his computer, or watching old war movies. His favorite pastime was to pretend he was a fearless leader of men, like the ones he watched on television, dreaming he was the hero who fought off the enemy attack and saved his men from annihilation. There was no bully in those movies to worry about.

Eventually, his father was promoted and the family moved away from that town, and Charlie was excited beyond belief. His life was changed and he was determined to make the best of it. At his new town he made as many new fiends as he could, and as he got older he kept making more, not realizing why. He still dreamed of leading men in battle someday, but as time went by, he never thought that dream would come true.

Today though, the dream wasn’t on his mind as he peddled furiously to work in the morning. Taking advantage of the unusually warm weather, Charlie peddled to work on his bike. He liked the feeling of the breeze in his face and the workout was good for his body, and it helped to clear his head, leaving his mind free to wander. His thoughts drifted to his new job, the one his father had insisted he get after graduation from the University of North Carolina. With his father pulling a few strings, a first for him, Charlie found himself working at a small research company, producing computer parts, utilizing his talents as an electrical engineer.

After all, his father had reasoned with him one night, in an unusually pensive mood, you have the schooling, so why not use it.

His company had merged some time ago with another that provided research for the federal government, and Charlie had been transferred to Roanoke. Finding a house within his price range, and a new girlfriend to help him furnish it, he purchased it and settled into his daily routine, giving the appearance that he had it all. But things weren’t all that well for him lately.

He hadn’t told anyone, but the ‘good life’ was really getting to him. His relationship with his girlfriend was in trouble, and his boss was constantly reminding him that this new company expected results, and whether it was with him, or not, was totally up to Charlie. The company was competing for a government contract to produce sophisticated electronic systems, like compact radar sets and laser weapons for less money than their rivals, and Charlie’s work load had increased tremendously. His new supervisor was constantly on his back about his job performance, and this morning, Charlie was trying to figure a way the company could compete.

If he could just come up with a plan, then maybe he’d get his supervisor off his back. The morning air was just cool enough this January morning for him to be chilled when he arrived at his job, and the sweat he had produced felt clammy on his back as he walked his bike to the stand. Locking it into place, he headed towards the executive gym where he would shower and get dressed before his supervisor arrived.

Chapter 4

March 19th—Mexico—8:10 am:

The morning dawned gray with a threatening sky and one could almost smell the impending rain, but for one passenger at the main terminal in the Mexico City Airport, the weather wasn’t a concern. Exiting the plane from Lisbon, Sirah, quietly made his way past the other travelers, carefully shifting his eyes from left to right. He had arrived at his final destination after a round-about route, flying from Iran to Saudi Arabia, then to Egypt, then Spain, and then to Portugal, and now, some thirty two hours, landing in Mexico, his final destination.

As he approached customs, he noticed the single American scanning individuals as they entered the terminal, and he struggled to suppress a shudder. Even here, the American CIA has their tentacles. Well it’s too late.

He walked quickly toward customs, wanting to push the older woman with her three children out of the way when they temporarily blocked his path. He saw the path clear to his right and moved quickly in that direction, aptly dodging one of the youngsters who cut in front of him. The old woman yelled, he wasn’t sure if it was at him, or at the child, but he quietly moved on without looking back.

As he approached customs, he noticed the soldiers armed with automatic weapons. They were professional, neither smiling, nor grimacing; well, so was he. As he waited for his turn, he threw a casual look over his shoulder, and saw what he feared most. The CIA agent was staring in his direction, occasionally looking down at a series of photographs in his hands.

Sirah smiled under his breath, as he shifted the bag in his hand, and in a carefully rehearsed move, reached in and removed his passport, rubbing his hand briefly over the vial of aftershave. It was there, and if need be, he could open it in a second. It would mean his death, but it would also unleash the death that was contained within.

He chanced a second look at the CIA agent, the man watched him for a second more, then shifted his gaze to another group of departing passengers. A few moments later, Sirah, his passport now safely back in his bag, casually headed toward the door. Once there, he hailed a taxi, and as he entered, he threw a casual glance back toward the airport door. That was when he received the greatest shock he ever had. The man he had guessed was a CIA agent, was standing there, watching him. His blood ran cold for a moment, and he quickly sat down and clutched his bag to his chest. He had been prepared to die before, but once past the danger, he was elated. He didn’t want to die, not yet. He wanted to be able to continue his plan and watch as America died, but that looked less and less likely now.

Still, the CIA man let him leave, and he had the deadly virus. He would have to act quickly. There was still a chance he could complete this part of the mission and fly out to complete the next portion, but if the enemy knew he was here, the mission was in jeopardy. He would have to act quickly and take the next available flight out. Phase one of his operation was about to be completed, and phase two would be the final strike, but time was his enemy now.

Chapter 5

March 20th—Mexico—10:07 am:

Utilizing a rented van, Siarh was now ready to strike. Swathed in protective clothing, he cracked opened the side door and simply squirted the virus out in short streams, splashing the deadly liquid onto any innocent victim who happened to walk into his path. In minutes the virus had spread quickly to numerous victims, who inadvertently passed it along to others in their travels. Located in such a centralized location, the virus is quickly spread throughout the city, and very soon reaches the airport, where those who are infected transfer it throughout the entire country, and to locations beyond its borders.

The virus was released in the center of Mexico City, and the virus is operating as designed. It takes several hours or days to infect it’s host lungs before showing masking itself first as the symptoms of a minor cold. Depending on the host’s immune system, the effects are different with each person, but once embedded, it immediately begins to spread throughout the entire body.

It takes several days to incapacitate the host before they seek medical attention, but doctors soon discover that the cold symptoms are resistant to all known antibiotics, concentrating in the lungs before spreading throughout the rest of the body. Embedding itself in the warm membrane of the alveoli, the virus first appears to be a strain of some type flu, though once entrenched it gains strength. The unusual thing is that it doesn’t seem to affect everyone the same way. Because of its location in the lungs, the disease now becomes an airborne virus, which is rapidly spread through common contact, a cough or sneeze, even in some cases through rapid breathing.

Even with the use of surgical masks and gloves, the disease can penetrate layers of cloth, which comes as a dismay to medical personnel. Only the use of full biological suits, which are in short supply in Mexico, prevents the drug from spreading to these protected health care officials.

Once firmly embedded the virus causes the lungs to deteriorate and the victims cannot take in enough air to support their bodies; while more attacks the body’s vital organs, mostly the liver and kidneys. Some people last in this condition for weeks, but most succumb within five or six days. The virus also has an unexpected result, it weakens a bit as it travels, allowing people to survive longer and longer, but in the long run, the results are always the same, death occurs. The C. D. C after making a preliminary report that the disease appears to be synthetic in nature, and they have classified it as a terrorist attack. In time open sores appeared on the victims, causing a general warning to be spread, but it was too late. The