It seemed the snow would never end. It was not nearly as beautiful at night as it was in the day time. In the sunlight all of the melted, slushy parts of the white blanket could be seen. Once enough tires treaded over it, it became tracks of disgustingly gray and black sludge.
I hate winter…Matthew complained to himself. He was driving Caleb's car right now; he did not bother to get a rental when he arrived at Lambert Airport. He was not sure how long he was going to need stay. Before all was said and done, he would have to get one of his own. It was a good thing that Caleb worked at home and did not need to go to work.
Luxuries of writing novels, Matthew thought bitterly. He worked for the Times, had a desk, an office with a view and had to be there from nine to five, in case one of his informants called with a lead on a story. Caleb got to sit in his pajamas, in the comfort of his own home, writing whatever creativity was in his mind at that moment.
Lucky bastard, he thought bitterly, but with a smile. Matthew liked having the obligation to get up in the morning and actually go to work. If he were at home, it would not be long before he was watching movies or playing video games online. He would never get any real work accomplished.
I'll buck up and go for the novel eventually…the limelight is not big enough for me and Caleb.
Caleb wrote science fiction and fantasy novels. The recent viral spills that had taken place had catered to his muse. He did novelizations of the incident in Raccoon City, Maine, France, and Australia. A few others had followed in his footsteps, but he had already monopolized the market genre. After he had written the true story about every accident that had actually happened, he moved on to fictitious ones. Those were even more popular than the true ones, because his imagination was the limit as to what could happen; he had no obligation to convey actual events.
He had even dedicated one of the books to Matthew for scoring him an interview with the reclusive ex-S.T.A.R.S. member Barry Burton. Barry's spin on the mansion incident in Raccoon was the foundation of Caleb's first novel. It was a small token of thanks, but appreciated nonetheless.
Maybe I'll do it for him one day, Matthew pondered. He pulled into the parking lot of the facility that had always been a refinery to him, as long as he could remember. Now it was the home of Tri-Cell pharmaceuticals. It made no sense to him why they would need a facility that was used to convert crude oil into fuel.
That would be the first question that he asked he got the chance. He put the car in park, made sure he had his tape recorder and memo pad ready. He secured his press pass and drew up his hood. It was time to make some noise. Today was the grand opening of sorts of Tri-Cell's new 'research facility.' They were cutting the ribbon on the door and allowing local reporters and camera crews a small conference to take questions.
It's like they're trying to draw attention to themselves…guess they want to have the appearance of being transparent.
He walked into the first door he saw which lead to a lobby with plush, black chairs and sofas with stainless steel legs. The décor was very hip, modern, and very clean looking, exactly what one would expect from a pharmaceutical company. The receptionist was sitting aptly at her desk, her fingers pecking away at her keyboard, her eyes glued to the monitor. As Matthew approached she greeted him with a smile.
"Good afternoon, can I help you?"
"Yes. I'm here for the press conference," Matthew replied with a coy smile, as he flashed his press pass for her to see. She glanced at it nonchalantly and then grabbed a pamphlet from her desk.
"Go right through that door, down the hallway, take a left, and then your first right. The conference room is there," she replied. He smiled, gave her a nod, and walked briskly towards the door she pointed at. It led into a whitewashed hallway that echoed his footsteps as he walked. He could hear the sound of people talking and laughing in a room ahead.
He walked into a room full of chairs, reporters busily trying to reserve their seat in the front. When they had set their things down, they formed a line for the refreshment table. Matthew had been to enough of these to know that it was not being in the front that counted, but being on an aisle seat. You could lean out and get the speakers attention from any row, as long as you were in his immediate line of sight.
Matthew was surprised to find an empty seat in the fourth row aisle, left side. He set his stuff down, and looked at the refreshment table full of pastries, fresh fruit, bagels, muffins and other miscellaneous, stereotypical breakfast foods. He was not hungry; Caleb always kept a well-stocked fridge. He could use a cup of coffee though. Everyone was in line to butter their muffins, and the beverage table was quite a bit less crowded.
He walked over to the table, grabbed a small Styrofoam cup and poured some hot, black, wake-you-up, goodness into it. His mouth watered as the scent pleasantly invaded his nostrils. He sipped it carefully, so as not to burn his lips. It tasted bitter and cheap, but it was coffee. Satisfied, he took his cup back to his seat to find a young, blonde woman sitting in the fourth row, left aisle seat.
She noticed him as he took his seat across the aisle. He raised his eyebrows and felt warmth enter his cheeks. She was rather attractive, straight, blond hair, green eyes, pearly smile, and full voluptuous figure. He was not going to wait for her to introduce herself; he checked the nametag: Kasey F., Alton Telegraph.
The Telegraph was a local newspaper in the area. It was stationed in Alton, a few towns over from South Roxana, the city the refiners were in. Technically, the three different refineries were in three different cities: Hartford, Wood River and South Roxana. The cities were so close together they were really like one big city, built around the refineries.
"Hello," Matthew said.
"Hi there," she said, extending her hand, "I'm Kasey Feldman, Alton Telegraph."
"Matthew Peck, New York Times," he replied, taking her hand and shaking it firmly. One of her eyebrows went up as she glanced at his badge.
"New York Times, eh? That's impressive," she beamed.
"It's really not all that it's cut out to be," he assured.
"So what are the big dogs doing down in Podunk, Illinois?" she asked with genuine interested.
"I'm from here, actually…South Roxana anyway," he confessed.
"So you decided to catch this breaking news story while you were in town," she asked, sarcastically of course.
"Something like that," he replied, with a winked, and the conference began. A tall, brunette woman in her forties, with her hair pulled back in a tight bun took the podium. She tapped the microphone because there was no sound coming out. She began to speak, still with no amplification.
"…sting…There we go! Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Tri-Cell pharmaceuticals. My name is Jessica Granger, head of public relations for Tri-Cell. Before we take any questions, I would like for you to take a look at our presentation video, and I will give a basic overview of the company. I see that you have already helped yourself to some refreshments; please feel free to get refills and seconds at any time.
"I hope that you enjoy yourself today, and I look forward to getting to know you all better," she said, finishing her speech with a girly smile.
She's friendly…they all are.
The lights came down, as did a projector screen on the back wall. The video blue light hit the screen and in a few seconds the presentation began to play. It was the same old boring, bullshit presentations that all companies put up, with paid actors to give testimonials about the treatment or service they had received. In gave a look at the different divisions of the company, medical, chemical, research, and etc. Matthew scribbled down a few notes and names. They were kind enough to give the names of the heads of each department in the presentation.
Soon enough the video was over, more concise than he had originally anticipated. Kasey leaned over and whispered something to him.
"That was painless enough," she said. He just smiled, and gave a nod. He could tell that there were other stories that she would rather be covering than the grand opening of a pharmaceutical company's research facility. He could not say that he blamed her either, but if she knew what he knew…
The lovely, pleasant Jessica Granger began to explain what Tri-Cell was "all about" and how it planned to help the community by creating jobs, college-accredited medical internships, and one day, hopefully, a cure for cancer. She received some applause, and, at long last, it was time for the questions.
"Now, do we have any questions…yes! You, in the front," she said, pointing to a balding, fat man in a brown suit.
"I think that I speak for everyone when I ask, why did you pick the refineries as your facilities? Surely they do not meet all of the necessary health codes and requirements to be a medical facility," he asked. All eyes were on Jessica.
"We chose the refineries because of the state-of-the-art chemical labs and equipment that were installed here a few years ago. They will be perfect for our research division. Plus, there are dorms, shower-houses, office space" she replied. She might as well have read the canned answer off of a paper.
"What about the hundreds of refinery employees that are now out of jobs?" a young black man in the front asked, sticking his recorder forward to catch Jessica's answer.
"Our company added to the severances that their employers were already giving them whenever we bought the facility. Some of the chemical engineers were able to maintain employment, but most took the generous severance," she replied. Matthew was getting anxious. He could not expect a good time to interject his questions; they were all asking the same harmless questions that their employers had told them to. He leaned out and stuck his hand in the air.
"You there, fourth row," she said, pointing to Matthew.
"Does Tri-Cell's virology department have any plans, or progress on developing a cure for the T-virus?" Matthew asked. There were a few gasps. Even Jessica was a little taken back.
What's the matter? They didn't prepare you with a canned answer for that one, did they?
"I have no comment on that, sir…"
"Matthew Peck, New York Times," he interrupted, "now when you say 'medical research,' what kind of research are you referring to?"
"All of the research conducted at Tri-Cell is for the betterment of humanity. We are always looking to develop new medicines and better treatments for…"
"I was just curious, as to whether or not anything is going to be done concerning the recent outbreaks across the U.S.," Matthew pressed.
"It is unfortunate what is happening, but Tri-Cell is in no way involved…"
"I wasn't accusing Tri-Cell of any direct involvement, Miss Granger, but curious if there were any efforts being made to resolve the current dilemma, a vaccine perhaps," Matthew asked.
"Mr. Peck, I am unclear as to why," she started again, stammering, stumbling over her words.
"Did the funds necessary for this facility come from government funding? Is there an expected viral attack coming in the Midwest?" he asked.
"Mr. Peck, I think that your interrogations would be better directed towards the Umbrella Corporation. They are the ones responsible for the creation of the T-virus, and its sale on the black market. The United States government is looking to develop a vaccine for the virus, as you well know," she replied haughtily. She was about to move on to the next question, but Matthew was ready to drop his bomb.
"What is your comment on the fact that Vincent McFadden, ex-executive for the Umbrella Corporation, is now the CFO for Tri-Cell? Is he suspected for involvement with the creation of the T-virus?" Matthew asked.
"I…uh…" she stuttered. At that moment, the fire alarm sounded. A cool, pleasant, female voice calmly alerted them to make their way to the nearest exit.
"Please…everyone! Stay calm! Make your way out the door and to your left!" Jessica said through the microphone. Matthew was out the door in a flash, a huge smile on his face.
That went better than I could have expected.
He had to take the long way back to the parking lot. They wanted everyone to stay together until the firemen arrived to ensure that it was a false alarm and there was indeed no fire. He had certainly ruffled their feathers, and given just enough information for other reporters to start asking similar questions too. It was just the right kind of squeeze for them to tighten their security a bit.
He pulled Caleb's keys out of his coat pocket and hit the unlock button. The taillights flickered to life, and the clicking sound of the locks disengaged sounded through the air. He also reached for his cell phone, ready to call Caleb to let him know how it went.
"Hey! Matthew! Wait!"
He spun to see the cute blonde…Kasey, hot on his heels. If she were any less good-looking, he would not have given her the time of day. Something about those full-pouting lips and a face full of adorable freckles made him stop.
"You were holding out on me," she accused. She was not mad; there was a huge smile on her face. "I knew there had to be something going on if the New York Times was trying to get a scoop."
"Sorry about that…kind of a professional secret," he joked.
"You really put the squeeze on them in there. I seriously doubt that convenient fire alarm was an accident. My question to you is this: what are you trying to do? You're not staying to get an official statement from them. The only way you're not going to let them keep quiet about their involvement with the T-virus and Umbrella is if you know something already," she said with a snicker. Matthew held his hands up as a reply, shrugging. He was not about to give her any more information.
"You don't miss much do you?" he asked.
"So you're not gonna give me anything?" she demanded.
"If the shoe were on the other foot, would you?" he asked. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Information was essential in the journalism business. If you knew something that no one else knew, you got the lead story, the paper bought your article. That's just the way that it was.
"Sorry, honey. It's business," he winked. He got into Caleb's car and started to drive away. She pounded on the window and motioned for him to roll it down. As he obliged, she furiously wrote something on a small piece of paper. She tossed a business card through the opening.
"Call me," she insisted, making the motion of a phone to her ear. He nodded, still with no intention of sharing any information with her and rolled up the window. The tires spun a little on the treacherous snow as he dialed Caleb's number.