All three knew that Tamiflu helped treat most known varieties of influenza, but it was no cure. There was no cure. There had been only 253 confirmed cases of H5N1 bird flu in the world. A total of 148 of them had resulted in death—a 58 percent mortality rate.

The Spanish Flu of 1918, H1N1, which resulted in the death of an estimated 20 million people, had only a 2.5 percent death rate for those infected.

            They were standing in the corridor where no one could hear them.

            “We’ve got bird flu,” said Barney.

            “All flu is technically bird flu,” said Eleanor. “All flu viruses originated in birds, some maybe thousands of years ago. A bird can be absolutely normal and carry more than 200 different flu viruses, viruses that keep changing and sometimes get passed on to humans who...sorry. I’m not telling you something you don’t already know.”

            Neither Barney nor Mac responded.

            Eleanor considered telling them that the samples of the tissue of victims of the 1918 Spanish flu were misunderstood by the public and the press. The H1N1 Spanish flu virus was only a far, far distant cousin of the present H5N1 strain. The century-old samples offered no hope of a treatment for today’s strain, though a study of all aspects of that pandemic was yielding information on how to contain what might now be happening.

            Cole Younger Smith died.

            And Sal Pangione came into the ER, gave his name and said he thought he was “all of a sudden coming down with the flu,” as if having that stupid sonofabitch rear end him outside the ER and cough in his face hadn’t been enough.

            Within five minutes, Salina King and her boyfriend, Wallace Beatts, were feeling the first effects of the flu.

They had been sitting across from Sal in the waiting room. Wallace had a broken ankle.

            “It can’t spread this fast,” said Barney Fried. “And it can’t manifest itself this fast.”

            “Tell that to the virus. It can do whatever it wants to do,” said Eleanor Wosniak.

            They were drinking dank coffee from styrofoam cups in the ER office. They had been joined by August Turner, 43.  Tall and wide, he looked more like the college linebacker for Florida State University that he once was than the state epidemiologist he was now. He was also a lawyer.

            “So what do we do?” asked McMillan. “We’ve got seven cases now.”

            “Normally, we’d call for a voluntary quarantine of people who might be infected,” said Turner. “It worked in Canada for the SARS outbreak.”

            “This isn’t ‘normally,’” said Eleanor.

            “It is not,” Turner agreed. “I think we need approval from the governor’s office for me to go to a judge and get a mandatory quarantine order. Agreed?”

            “Agreed,” said Eleanor.

            “Agreed,” said Barney.

            Mac nodded.

            “Call security, lock down the ER. Everybody in it is quarantined, including you two, me, everyone. I’ll call the police. They’ve got an emergency plan for things like this. You say Smith vomited outside?”

            “Yes,” said Barney.

            “Was it cleaned up?” asked Turner.

            “I’m sure it was,” said Barney.

            “Find out how it was disposed of,” said Turner. “And, pending a judicial order, quarantine the person who cleaned it. New cases?”

            “One, the nurse who swabbed Smith and Pangione’s throat,” said Barney.

            “How’s she doing?” asked Turner.

            “She’s alive,” said Barney.

            “All calls from the media will be referred to a number in Tallahassee, the Department of Health Public Relations Office,” said Turner. “We’ll pass out that number on a card to the entire hospital staff. The PR office will refer the most sensitive calls to me. As of right now, no one leaves the hospital. We ask them nicely, explain that we have an emergency. The words ‘bird flu’ are not to be mentioned.”

            “And what if they still want to leave?” asked Mac.

            “I’d better call the governor and find a sympathetic judge right now.”

            Turner took out his cell phone and speed dialed a number while Eleanor moved off to the ER waiting room.

            Barney and Mac excused themselves to get back to the growing number of confirmed and suspected cases.

            As they walked past scurrying nurses and staff, all gowned, gloved, masked and goggled, Sandford Ledger, the ER intake staffer on the desk, walked past him holding his stomach with both hands and looking pale, very pale. A nurse hurried over to keep Ledger from falling. And for the first time since he had looked down at Cole Younger Smith, Dr. Barney Fried wondered if he would be next.