***
Three days later, Frances was sat on the edge of his bed reading the latest news reports. With such failure on his part now made public, Frances felt complete shame and hopelessness, and had given the poor chaps at RAND a piece of his mind. He'd apologise later, but for now, was running out of options.
There was a knock on his door. "Frances boy, are you in there?"
Frances allowed the huge frame of Paulie into the cramped room, his huge belly barely covered by his suit jacket. They shook hands. “Are you OK?" asked Frances.
"I'm fine. More to the point, are you OK?" Paulie peered at the unshaved, dishevelled Frances. "You look like crap."
Frances sighed and sat down. He needed help, and the last remnants of his pride vaporised. "It's this virus. I can't contain it, I can't stop it. RAND can't develop a cure for it. Quarantine won't stop it."
"Sounds nasty."
Frances scowled at Paulie's lack of concern. "That's it? A throwaway comment?"
"What did you want from me - hysterics? Look son," Frances's bed squealed out as Paulie sat next to him, "if you can't prevent it, kill it. Have you started culling the infected?"
"I don't think I can."
"You can, and must. Without the herd, we're screwed. Everything revolves around there being a flock to work with."
"I know, I know." Frances stood and paced, his stomach a mass of acid and knots. "What if it does go apocalyptic?"
"Dunno,” Paulie admitted. “All I know is that this infection has now gone public, and the shareholders want a meeting with us. That’s what I came to tell you.”
Frances's blood ran cold and his skin prickled. "Paulie, I can't see them! I'll go insane!"
"I remember the first time I saw them." He looked at his feet. "I cried afterwards. I don't mind telling you that." There was silence, then Paulie stood. "Tomorrow at 9am, Ops area. Meet me at 8, and we’ll go through a few things that may help. Just remember, they’re not here to harm us.” He turned to leave, then added, “Not yet.”