New York Times, February 16, 2014: "In an attempt to contain the H3N2 virus, today the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in conjunction with the United States Government issued a federal order of quarantine to be carried out by any medical providers upon patients that test positive for the H3N2 virus or are suspected of having the H3N2 virus. Entire hospitals have been dedicated to quarantining patients, with locations such as convention centers and public schools shutting down to accommodate the overflow of patients."


When the government issued a mandatory quarantine order for anyone testing positive or suspected of having the H3N2 virus, that's when the military showed up. There seemed to be a soldier posted at every doorway, continuously patrolling the halls, inspecting storage closets and just generally meandering around getting in everybody's fucking way. While they stood casually, smiled cordially, spoke politely, the M16 service rifles slung over their shoulders and held in the standard low ready position told a different story.

I observed the soldiers carefully out of the corner of my eye, paying close attention to the ones who gripped their weapons a little too tightly, the ones who seemed a little too eager, the ones whose gazes fell most often upon those they considered weak. As each day passed, I found my fingers brushing against my sidearm more and more, just to remind myself that at least I had some kind of defense should anyone decide to get trigger happy. I wondered if there would come a day that I wouldn't be allowed to have it anymore.

I traversed the halls of the crime lab, pushing past a group of military men laughing over their coffees in the hallway after they ignored me when I'd excused myself. I rolled my eyes, gripping the evidence from my latest scene – a dead couple found inside of their home, no evidence of trauma. From the copious amounts of over the counter cold medicines and tissue boxes, I could only assume they had died from the flu, just like everyone else these days.

I never thought the day would come that I'd actually yearn to be called out to a homicide or a suspicious death.

I found you inside of the lab that used to belong to you – that belonged to you again, for the past few months. The same lab that had exploded and thrown you through a glass window, that had left the constellation of scars across your back and shoulders. The first time I had seen them, you'd already forgotten they were there. They felt different than any part of you, and sometimes, if I closed my eyes, I could still feel them. Pink and raised under my fingertips, against my lips. I could still remember the shiver that would run down your spine if I touched them just so.

Lightly, I skimmed my hand across your back as I approached you. You looked up from the test you were working on, sighing heavily when you caught sight of the bags in my hands.

"Are they dead or alive?" you asked bluntly.

"Dead," I responded, frowning.

"Okay. Does it look like the flu?"

"Yeah."

"Okay," you repeated, nodding, as if coming to a decision. "Okay. Low priority. Put it in the low priority pile."

I dropped the evidence into a cardboard box labeled with today's date and priority level. It was already nearly filled, and the day had only started a few hours ago. There were several similar boxes all around the room with different labels, overflowing with bags and bags of samples to process.

"Here's some more swabs from the hospital," a uniformed soldier called from the doorway, haphazardly dropping a box on the floor. He kicked it underneath the counter beside three other matching biohazard boxes before leaving just as quickly as he'd arrived.

"Fuck," you breathed, your expression pained as you rubbed your forehead with your forearm, mindful of your gloved hands. I had never seen you this way in all of my years at the crime lab, looking so overwhelmed and defeated. Not even when you were pulling double-time in the lab and training out in the field while taking classes at UNLV to become a CSI.

I indicated the box the soldier had just dropped off. "What is that?"

"Overflow from Desert Palms," you responded. "Their lab can't handle all the flu testing so they're kicking back specimens to us. It's not rapid testing either, they want viral cultures."

I gaped at him. "How do they expect you to get through all of this and do the hospital's job on top of that?"

"I don't know," you said, and shrugged. "It's not like it matters anyway."

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice forceful in a flash of anger. "Of course it matters. They all matter, Greg."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "Are you fucking blind? Do you not see how backlogged I am? Months, Nick. Months. These samples?" You pointed to a box before kicking it violently across the room, crashing it into another stack of boxes that seemed precariously close to toppling over. "These are from December. December! And I'm the only one running them – I don't even think there's a day shift tech anymore! Not that any of these samples are even still viable, but that doesn't matter, either. You know why?"

Suddenly, you lost all steam, leaning heavily against the counter, gripping the edges in a way that made me believe it was the only thing stopping you from hitting the floor. I fought the urge to go to you, to support you, comfort you; you were so tightly wound, your body trembling with tension, I was afraid the slightest touch would cause you to fly apart at the seams.

"Because they're all dead," you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Every name I pull out of there and run through the database comes back. They're dead, Nick. Every single fucking one of them."

"So is Finn," Sara said quietly from the doorway. Her eyes were red, jaw clenched in an effort to control the quivering in her lip. "I went to her apartment. I hadn't heard from her in weeks. I went to check on her, to see how she was feeling. I had to break in through a window."

She raised her right hand, covered in scratches that extended down her arm. Quickly, I reached for her, pulling her into the lab and guiding her to a stool. She sat without protest, almost dazed, and I kept one hand at her elbow, the other across her shoulders to support her. You clumsily climbed over some boxes to pull a first aid kit out of one of the cabinets, upending one of the boxes and scattering bags of samples all over the floor in your haste. You didn't even give the mess a second glance as you swiftly went to work examining Sara's wounds.

"She's gone, guys," she continued, shaking her head. "I was too late. She's gone."

"It's not your fault, Sara," I stated, only then realizing she was clutching an evidence bag. "What is that?"

"Swab," she replied simply, and I nearly scoffed. Only Sara would consider the evidence at a time like that. "I wanted to be sure…that's what killed her."

"Has anyone heard from Hodges?" you asked suddenly. I could see the frown etched deeply on your face, your brow knotted in concentration as you dabbed at Sara's scrapes with a cotton ball doused in antiseptic. You looked up and met my eyes. I shook my head. Sara glanced up, coming out of her trance with a sharp exhalation.

"I haven't heard from Henry either," you continued, tossing bloodied cotton into the biohazard bin.

"Russell's been out too," I said quietly, a sinking feeling in my gut, twisting at my insides and I almost felt as if I might throw up. "David. Brass."

"God," Sara breathed. "What's happening to us?"

Shouting from the hallway pulled all of our attention to the glass windows of the lab. We watched with wide eyes as a group of soldiers escorted several employees down the hall, physically holding them in a way that indicated there was no negotiating in the matter.

"Please!" Mandy from fingerprinting pleaded, and I absently wondered if she had lost her glasses in the commotion and whether or not she would need them. She was crying, and I could see the grip on her arm was tight, even from across the hall. My body vibrated with the urge to move, to help her, but the M16s clutched tightly in the solders' hands kept me rooted to the spot. "Please, I don't need to go to quarantine! It's just allergies, I get them every year!"

"Can't we at least run the testing first?" an officer I vaguely recognized from the day shift asked, his expression full of fear. "We have a lab right there! They can run the testing! It only takes a few minutes!"

"This is unconstitutional!" exclaimed an ambulance chaser I'd often seen in the LVPD waiting room, a balding older man that I didn't know the name of. "I'm a lawyer, I know my rights! You can't do this!"

"At least let me call my wife," the officer continued, but the soldiers' faces remained impassive as they ignored the pleadings from their captives. "Just let me call my wife so she knows where I'll be!"

"I can give you a sample right now!" Mandy cried, before turning to look at us through the lab windows. I felt Sara's form stiffen in my arms, my own posture straightening with surprise at the attention. "I can give you a sample! Please, take a sample. Don't let them take me without a sample! Nick, Greg, don't let them take me! Sara, please!"

We'd all heard stories about the quarantine zones. Anyone that had ever entered one had never returned. They'd either died or had gone missing, unaccounted for somewhere in the system. Only God knew what had happened to them. I gripped Sara's arm tighter, my other hand that had been resting across her shoulders reaching out across her back to the other side of her, where you stood. I touched your arm, grabbing your attention. You both turned to look at me.

I'm sure the terror on your faces was reflected on my own.

"We stick together now, okay?" I said, my voice hoarse. I gritted my teeth, biting back the stinging in my eyes. You and Sara both nodded numbly. "Just the three of us. We stick together."

We never saw Mandy again.


To be continued...