There’s one—his name is Daniel

Mr. Clark Weasley sat at his desk, sifting through the documents in front of him. The contents of the documents were far from comforting. 

The deep creases on his forehead and the way his glasses perched precariously on his nose spoke volumes about his stress and fear. 

As he read through each document, he muttered to himself, "This is not good." 

Standing up from the desk, he walked over to the large glass window of his office. His reflection stared back at him, a man who had served his country for thirty years and earned numerous medals. 

"I've given advice to presidents and formed international partnerships," he spoke to himself, his voice barely a whisper. 

"But today, I fear losing my image. They'll accuse me of something I didn't commit."

Clark moved to the other side of the room and opened a bag of records, feeding them into the projector. 

The first image flickered onto the screen, showing a young boy lying dead in his home, a plate of food scattered around him, the mess staining the carpet. 

"This is saddening," he murmured, the sight tightening a knot of dread in his stomach.

He played another record, and the screen displayed a lab filled with animals—cats, dogs, pigs, and hamsters—all wide awake, their eyes reflecting the sterile lab lights. 

"Those poor creatures," he thought, 'The virus is kicking in faster than we anticipated.' 

The next image was even more disturbing. The science lab was in disarray, and Dr. Evan Rick lay dead on the floor beside a water wheel, which continued to spin. 

The wheel was connected to the same circuit as the lights, which needed to stay on for the cameras. 

Clark remembered Dr. Rick's lecture to his students. He had said, "The circuit must remain intact , if the light goes off, the wheel would stop moving. We keep the lights on for the camera."

Clark shuddered at the memory, his fear mixing with a sense of helplessness. 

'We were supposed to be the guardians, the protectors.' He dry-swallowed a lump in his throat, his mouth parched with anxiety. 

Clark switched on the next video, and the screen showed an alarm that was always green but had now turned a bright, glaring red.

The digital clock on the screen read thirty-seven minutes past 3 in the morning and sixteen seconds. The red alarm lights pulsed ominously, casting a sickly glow over the room.

From behind him came a brief burring noise, like a distant alarm that hadn't quite reached full volume. Turning around, he faced the source of the noise.

"Yes? Come in." Clark commanded

Clark turned around to see Kevin Jones standing in the doorway. Kevin looked grave, his skin a slaty, unhealthy color. The sight sent a chill down Clark's spine, intensifying his already mounting fear.

'More bad news,' Clark thought.

Clark's eyes widened, his mind racing as Kevin delivered the news. The gravity of the situation hit him like a freight train, and he struggled to maintain his calm facade.

"Hey Kevin," Clark spoke quietly, his voice almost a whisper in the tension-filled room.

Kevin nodded and took a deep breath before starting. "I don't know how to describe all this..."

"Well, this is already bad, so I would suggest you just go with the flow," Clark suggested, trying to offer a semblance of reassurance.

Kevin nodded understandingly, his expression still grave. "Those men who handled Matt's body are through their prelims at Port Pirie Healthcare Department , and the news isn't good."

"So you mean all of them?" Clark added, his voice tinged with anxiety.

"Five are for sure," Kevin replied, his tone heavy with dread. 

"There's one—his name is Daniel... ummm, yeah, Daniel Rhett—who's negative so far. But as far as we can tell, Matt himself was negative for over fifty hours."

Clark's stomach churned, the implications of Kevin's words sinking in. "So, Daniel could still turn positive?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Kevin nodded, his face etched with worry. "It's a possibility. We're monitoring him closely, but if he doesn't then we will have a new case..."

"If only Matt hadn't run away from the center," Clark said, his voice thick with frustration. "The security there... all dead."

Kevin nodded, his expression grim. He had more to say, and it was written all over his face.

"Go on," Clark urged, sensing the weight of Kevin's words.

"We've quarantined Port Pirie," Kevin began, his voice steady but tense.

"We've isolated at least 20 cases with constant complaints about minor flu, headaches... and they're the ones who are symptomatic."

Clark's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. "Is there anything in the news?" he asked, fearing the spread of information almost as much as the virus itself.

"No, nothing significant," Kevin replied, shaking his head. "Most media channels are reporting it as a seasonal disease circulating."

"Hmm... what else?" Clark questioned, his tone sharp, desperate for any scrap of information that could help them contain this nightmare.

Kevin hesitated, the words catching in his throat. "There is a very serious matter..."

Clark's heart skipped a beat. "Spit it out, Kevin," he demanded, his voice a mixture of fear and urgency.