Free Quarantined by Joe McKinney Page B

kill chickens from various parts of the GZ. Then I perform a test on them to determine whether or not they are infected with the influenza virus. If I detect the virus, then I compare my new sample with the genetic fingerprint of archived samples and attempt to extrapolate the direction of the antigenic shift.”
    All of that was said in a matter of fact tone, but it was obvious that he was trying to talk over our heads, just to prove the point, I guess.
    Chunk cocked his head to one side doubtfully. “I see,” he said.
    “Yes,” Cole said, sneering. “Of course you do.”
    I stepped in at that point so that Chunk wouldn’t squash the poor man.
    “Dr. Cole, we’re here investigating the murder of Dr. Emma Bradley. What we’re looking for—”
    “Who did you say?”
    “Dr. Emma Bradley. Do you know her? She was with the World Health—”
    “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “Yes, I know. The World Health Organization. She works with Dr. Myers and that fat, disgusting French woman at the Arsenal Morgue.”
    “That’s right. How well did you know her, Dr. Cole?”
    “Well, I,” he began, but faltered. “Not well, I guess. By reputation, mostly. Whenever I go to Arsenal, it’s Myers I prefer to deal with. He’s a bit of an eager pup, but at least he’s not as full of himself as the rest of those people.”
    “You said you know her by reputation, doctor. What exactly does that mean?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “What was her reputation? Do you mean her professional reputation, or was there something else?”
    “She’s Laurent’s trained pit bull,” he said. “From what I hear, she was supposed to be the bright light of the bunch.”
    “You don’t sound impressed,” I pointed out.
    He shrugged. “Dr. Laurent and I have fundamentally different views on the nature of this epidemic. She believes that her people need to focus on developing a live virus vaccine for the primary strain of H2N2. And there’s a chance—a chance, mind you—that in six months they’ll have a vaccine that will minimize the impact of the disease among the local population. But I believe they’re ignoring the real danger.”
    “Really? What’s the real danger?”
    I could hear him breathing through his gas mask, sudden, deep inhalations, like he was hunting for the right words. Finally, he said, “Did you know we lose 36, 000 Americans a year to influenza? I mean, not counting what’s going on here in San Antonio.”
    I shook my head.
    “We do. It’s a staggering number. And the really scary thing is most of those deaths are to mildly virulent strains of the flu. Pedestrian stuff, at least compared to H2N2. What we’ve experienced here in San Antonio over the last few months is the most virulent strain of the flu ever seen. That’s the strain Dr. Laurent and her staff are trying to produce a vaccine for. But I have found evidence here, in the chickens wandering these yards, of two newly reassorted strains of H2N2 that make what we’ve seen so far look like the common cold.”
    “You reported your findings?”
    “Yes,” he said. “I’ve reported my findings.”
    “And?”
    “And the problem is simple prejudice.”
    He said it like it explained everything, which of course it didn’t.
    “I don’t understand, Dr. Cole,” I said.
    He let out a frustrated sigh. This was an old argument for him, something he’d explained and complained about more times than he cared to remember. He pointed over our shoulders. “You see that orange warning notice on that light pole over there?”
    “Yeah,” I said. The MHD warnings were everywhere. You couldn’t turn around without seeing one.
    “If you read the last warning, it says ‘Stay away from strange and foul smelling areas.’ That was added at the insistence of our fearless leader, Mr. Martin Klauser. The man’s not even a doctor, for Christ’s sake. He heads up the public health agency of the seventh largest city in America, and the man has no medical knowledge