Free Deadline by Mira Grant Page A

“Statistically speaking, this can’t be happening.”
    “Maybe it was a glitch,” suggested Dave. “Statistical anomalies happen, right?”
    Becks snorted. “Yeah, and respected CDC doctors totally help their employees fake death by clone over statistical anomalies. It happens all the time.”
    “The data goes back ten years, and it’s consistent all the way through. Every year, more people with reservoir conditions die than can be supported by reasonable projections—not from spontaneous amplification, not because they were stupid, not for any reason that I can find. And no one’s ever said, ‘Hey, maybe something’s wrong here.’ ” She paused, shaking her head a little. “That’s not right. There have been project proposals that would have addressed these numbers, and somehow they always get shut down. There’s always something more important, more pressing, more impressive. Politics get involved, and the reservoir conditions get pushed to the back burner. Again, and again, and again.”
    “So what, you think it’s intentional suppression?” asked Alaric.
    “Last year, there was a six-billion-dollar study on a new strain of MRSA that’s cropped up in two hospitals in North Carolina. We could have done it on a third of the budget and half the manpower. It was busywork. There’s so damn much busywork.” She rubbed her temple with the heel of one hand, frustration evident. “The CDC is supported by the government. We’re supposedto be an independent organization, but that isn’t how the funding works out.”
    “Was Tate involved?”
    The question was soft, reasonable; it took me a moment to realize that I’d asked it.
    “Not with that study,” said Kelly. Hope flared and died immediately as she continued: “He was one of the supporters of continuing cancer research. You know, since cancer will become a threat again once Kellis-Amberlee has been cured. So more and more of our budget goes to things like that, and reservoir conditions just get ignored.”
hink itight="0em" width="27"> “How big a chunk of the CDC budget are we talking about?” asked Alaric.
    “Eleven billion dollars.”
    Dave whistled, long and low. “That’s not chump change.”
    “No, it’s not. I’d say maybe twenty percent of our research budget is actually being spent on research into Kellis-Amberlee-related conditions. The rest of it keeps getting siphoned off into studies that look good, but don’t
do
anything.” Her frustration was evident. “It’s like we’re being stopped from finding out what this virus really does.”
    Probably because you are,
said George.
    “I didn’t know that was possible,” I said. “You’re the CDC.”
    “And somebody has to pay the bills.”
    “Right.” I stood abruptly, stalking back into the kitchen with my mostly full Coke in one hand and the stack of papers in the other. Behind me, Kelly started to ask where I was going, and was quickly hushed by Becks. Becks understood. Becks always understands.
    The kitchen was cool and dark and, most important,empty. I put my things down on the counter, turned to face the wall, and began, methodically, punching it as hard as I could. The sound echoed through the room, gunshot-loud and soothing. My knuckles split on the fourth blow. I started feeling a lot better after that. I generally do. Pain clears the fog in my head, enough that I can
think
again. Besides, as long as I’m punching walls, I’m not punching people.
    Someone was using the CDC’s budget to control their research. Someone was funneling research
away
from Kellis-Amberlee, into diseases that weren’t an issue anymore and problems that shouldn’t even have been on the CDC’s radar. And Governor Tate had been involved. The man who killed my sister. The man who changed everything. If Tate had his bloody little fingers in the pie…
    If Tate was involved, so was whoever he worked for,
said George, as calmly as I couldn’t.
We have to help her. We have to find out