Paradeisia: Origin of Paradise by B.C.CHASE Page A

feeling everyone watching him expectantly while he listened to the person on the other end.  After he hung up, he said, “They say the pathologist's assistant at the hospital has the virus.  It appears our worst fears are true: the virus has transmitted.”
    There was a hushed silence in the room for a moment.  Karen stood up, “Okay, I need everyone to listen, and listen good.  Starting now, we're in national health crisis mode.  This is command central: every piece of information, every directive passes through this gate.  First, I want quarantines.  No one comes or goes from St. Joseph's until I say so.  Send a team down there; call the police, whatever you need to do.  And I want anyone who so much as looked at the original victim within the last week quarantined.  This is an unprecedented situation, we are going to take unprecedented steps. 
    “Now I know you guys are used to doing research, but I want containment.  I don't care if we never know how this thing got here as long as nobody else gets it.  Flex your muscle first and ask if you had the authority later.  There will be hell to pay if this becomes a nightmare on my watch.  Am I clear?”
    Everyone nodded, except for the ball-cap guy, who said, “But we don't know anything about it.  We can't really label it a national health crisis until we have done research.”
    Karen gave him such a severe look that he stopped chewing his gum.  “I don't know who you are.”
    He volunteered, “Guy Giordano.”
    She rolled her eyes, “And I didn't want to know.  But my name is Karen Harigold, I'm Secretary Health, and it's a national health crisis because I said it's a national health crisis.  Got it?”
    “Yeah,” the guy murmured.
    “And, Doctor Compton?”
    “Yes?”
    “Call Fox News.  Tell them about the St. Joe's quarantine.  Anonymously.”
    “Just as long as I don't end up with an espionage charge like James Rosen.”
    “Very funny,” she said.  “I hardly think you're on the top of the President's hit list...”  Then she struck out for the door.  “I'll be back ASAP.”
    Doctor Compton asked, “Where are you going?”
    She spun around and swore: “I'm going to the White House to get my quarantine order.”
     
     
    St. Joseph's Medical Center
     
    Sarah Rodriguez and Doctor Burwell sat across from one another at a desk in the quarantine area.  They were talking over a meal of hospital food somebody had brought for them.  Their first date, really, Doctor Burwell thought to himself.  And they were both having a good time, until Sarah suddenly grimaced.
    “What's wrong?” Doctor Burwell asked.
    “My stomach.  I don't think it likes these noodles.”
    “You want some Pepto?  I'll call for them to bring some over.”
    “Thanks,” she managed to smile appreciatively.
    Doctor Burwell picked up the phone and dialed four digits.  “Hey, yeah.  Can somebody send some—” Doctor Burwell stopped. 
    Sarah cried out, reaching for his arm, “John!”
    She had never used his first name before.  But now, she was squeezing him with a surprisingly warm hand and gasping in what appeared to be terrible pain.
    Doctor Burwell yelled into the phone, “Send some people in here now!”
     
    Sarah's swallowed eyes were rolling as her head dropped to her chest.  Doctor Burwell rushed around the table to hold her up, but she slipped into unconsciousness.   He wrapped both arms under her and lifted her up to carry her to a nearby bed.
    Doctor Kingsley entered the area wearing a mask and gown, followed by a team of doctors.  Doctor Burwell knew enough to stay out of their way as they flew into a blur of activity.  Just as they were attaching the patches from the respiratory monitor, Sarah opened her eyes and cried out in agony, vomit gushing from her mouth and nose.
     
     
    China Academy of Sciences
     
    Doctor Ming-Zhen said, “Oh, they call them 'primitive' primates.  But there's nothing primitive about them.  They were