Page 103 of The Presidents Shadow

WE ALL GET better. Quickly. Easily. Our extraordinary muscle aches disappear. The raspy, burning soreness in our throats disappears as well.

But, as has been consistent in our lives lately—the best news is almost always followed by the worst news.

When I contact Dr. DaSilva to let her know about our almost miraculous recovery results, a different person appears on the screen, a young man I’ve never seen or heard of before.

He cannot be more than twenty-five years old. He wears a black T-shirt along with large glasses in thick black frames. He is a no-nonsense, very self-important sort. He waits for no explanation or introduction.

“Dr. DaSilva is unavailable to take this call. Therefore, I have been tasked with responding.”

The terse voice? The formal manner? The enormous seriousness of this young man is confusing to me. What’s going on?

“Who are you?” I ask, but I have already formed an opinion. I believe this young man is likely an AI creation. So many people these days are living in a world of bots. Dr. DaSilva must have generated an assistant to help with her workload.

“My name is David Preston Klehr, and I am—”

Suddenly the man claiming to be David Preston Klehr disappears from the screen and is immediately replaced by Dr. DaSilva herself. At least, I think it is Dr. DaSilva herself.

“My apologies, Lamont,” she says in a nervous voice filled with anxiety. “I am sorry, but David is my finest subordinate. I task him with taking my calls when I am unavailable.”

I continue to be confused. I am especially confused by the title of “subordinate,” but I want to engage immediately with Dr. DaSilva.

“I wanted to let you know that the medication you sent me is, in a word, wondrous.”

She reacts with neither joy nor satisfaction, which makes no sense.

“I am thrilled to hear this, Lamont. However, we have a related problem. One that I fear may be unsolvable.”

“Go on,” I say.

“There is an extraordinary infestation of Newbola Strong in West Africa. Check your geo-monitor.”

Margo, who has been monitoring this conversation, adjusts an adjacent screen to reveal a map from DaSilva’s team of the affected area.

“The areas shaded in burgundy are the major areas of the viral horror. The areas in green are predicted to be hours away from the same medical crisis. We are talking about thousands of victims, perhaps hundreds of thousands, who will—as you yourself have now experienced—suffer incredibly, perhaps even die.”

I take in the map quickly. Both Niger and Nigeria are completely painted in the color burgundy. The color extends through all of neighboring Mali and begins to slacken off—but only slightly—as it encroaches on Mauritania. The rest of the map’s western corner consists of blotches of green.

“How fast can we get your remarkable medicine to these people?” I ask.

“That’s the problem. This is the worst viral invasion the world has ever known. So many people are stricken. We have absolutely no manufacturing capabilities available,” she says.

“But, Doctor,” I say. “Only minutes ago, not more than a half hour, we received these miracle capsules from your Upper Manhattan pharma manufacturer.”

“Have you not seen the news?” Dr. DaSilva asks.

“No, I was busy dying,” I snap back.

“Lamont,” she continues. “The world has changed in that half hour. The building that housed the capsule maker was struck by multiple explosions. They leveled the building. Even worse, they killed all seven of the people who were working on production.”

“Surely, there’s someplace else—”

“Certainly there’s someplace else. We have sent our analysis and formulae to our partners in Bloomington, Indiana, and Casper, Wyoming. But they won’t be able to supply us with anything for at least three days. Part of the difficulty of creating—”

I interrupt.

“Save the explanation about what we can’t do,” I say. “I need to focus on what we can do.

“And what is that, Lamont?” Dr. DaSilva asks. I know the answer, and I give it to her.

“I’ve got to go there.”