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Tuesday - September 21

We must be in a car, since I hear car doors slamming. The engine starts and I hear tires spinning in the snow trying to gain traction so we can get to our unknown destination. The driver must have succeeded, because now I only hear snow being crunched by the weight of the vehicle. Damn it! I wish I knew what time it was before all of this crap happened. I wonder where we're going.

The driver and its passenger talk softly. I want to tell them it's rude to whisper around others. But somehow, I don't think these two guys care to have a lesson on etiquette. Wherever we're going, I know it's not the CDC. We would have been there by now. So, I wonder where they're taking me. This is not good.

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The heat in the incinerator continues to rise as a man stands in silence, patiently waiting for the temperature to reach three thousand degrees. The solitude man smokes a cigarette, deposits the ashes onto the cement floor, and mutters inaudible gibberish as he waits to fulfill his duty. Finished with his cigarette, he opens the incinerator door and flicks the butt into it, listening to the gas as it burns red hot. Checking the temperature gauge, he tsks his tongue in impatient disgust, as he waits for the temperature to rise ten more degrees before performing the gruesome task. Finally, the long awaited time has arrived.

The man goes to one of three gurneys standing before him. Without hesitation, he rolls one gurney towards the incinerator. Not caring who lies underneath the sheet, he pumps the gurneys rear end up, allowing it to tilt towards the incinerator's inescapable entrance. When the gurney's tilt reaches ninety degrees, the unsuspecting man unbuckles the gurneys occupant, allowing them to slide down into the incinerator to be burned to annihilation. The man lets the gurney down and rolls it back into place as he gets the second gurney and performs the ritual again, and then once more with the remaining gurney. After gurney three's occupant is safely in the incinerator, the man shuts the iron cast door and secures the lock, allowing permanent residency for the unfortunate ones who have entered the fiery furnace of hell for eternity.

"Is it done?" asks Madame President, as she enters the room unannounced.

"Yes, ma'am, it is."

"Thank you," she whispers to him, as he quietly exits the room.

When the president hears the door shut behind her, she walks to the incinerator, solemnly extends her arms out, lowers her head, then softly begins to pray in Arabic for Doctors' Julie Nguyen and Victor Parks, and also for the late former thug, Charles Stevens. After contemplating a few moments more, the president bows graciously and turns to exit the room of no return and foul stench. Even in an incinerator, the smell of burning bodies can never escape the air. It haunts the air as it moves silently among the living, reminding life that death is evident, that life does cease to exist, and that new life does rise from the ashes. No matter what species exist, death will always prevail, but never truly conquers; or so we thought.

As President Mansoor walks the eerie, silent halls of the CDC, she reminds herself that if what is about to happen fails, then humankind will cease to exist. If the virus cannot be turned around within the next twenty-four hours, the history of Earth's occupants will no longer be recorded. And the once abundant life that existed on this tiny planet will have died in vain, leaving no legacy for future humans to recall upon, to identify with, or to see the potential we once had; but instead, be tossed to the wind to evaporate in the patterns of time. We have only one chance at this, and it must work.

Arriving at lab four, President Mansoor enters the anteroom, walks over to the lab window, and presses the intercom to speak to Ted or Monica.

"Doctors, are we ready?" President Mansoor asks.