“We have no confirmation that such an attack is imminent,” Ludlow replies. “We ask citizens to remain vigilant but not to give in to fear or panic. We are prepared.”
Another hand rises near the back of the room. A man from The Standard Times half stands before asking his question, adjusting the microphone clipped to the front of his jacket.
“Sir, can you confirm reports that sections of the reinforced border zones have been breached?”
A ripple moves through the press—murmurs, the faint tapping of keys as several reporters begin typing.
Ludlow exhales slowly before answering, his expression carefully neutral.
“There are ongoing conflicts along several border regions,” he says. “Our borders have been strengthened considerably over the past few years, and our military is actively responding to any threat or situation that arises.” He pauses just long enough to let the words settle. “At this time, there is nothing our forces cannot manage.”
Carson sweeps the room again.
Still clear.
No unusual movement.
“Yes,” Ludlow says, pointing at a reporter from the WC Associated Press.
The man rises. “Mr. President, regarding the epidemic—do we have any indication of a cure yet, or anything that can slow the virus once someone is infected?”
Ludlow folds his hands on the podium. “Nothing official at this time. However, our medical teams are tracking promising data. We’ve identified individuals who appear to have natural immunity, and studying those cases may help us understand how to slow the progression or even develop a viable treatment. For now, the testing is still in the early stages.”
He pauses only a heartbeat before addressing the matter further. “What I can say is that our experts are working around the clock on this. Every resource we have is being directed toward containment, treatment options, and long-term solutions.”
President Ludlow clears his throat and gestures to a man across the room. “Yes, you.”
The reporter rises, someone Carson recognizes from repeated briefings—a national desk reporter known for dry humor and borderline snark.
“Mr. President, there’s a growing narrative that all of this looks… well, biblical. That we’re headed toward The End of Days. Should Americans be concerned? Are we entering… apocalyptic territory?”
A few uneasy chuckles ripple through the room.
President Ludlow gives a small, knowing smile—the kind a steady leader uses to lower the temperature without trivializing the concern.
“Well,” he replies, “I think we’ve all seen a few tabloid headlines lately that could give anyone heartburn.”
More light laughter.
Carson notes that the shoulders in the room drop a fraction.
Ludlow continues, voice warm but firm. “Look, I understand why people are anxious, and to those of faith, I can say this. We’ve had catastrophic earthquakes before, storms that broke records, serious disruptions to our food supply—and of course, viruses in the past that have cut down the world's population. It’s a lot. And when a lot happens all at once, it’s human nature to look for bigger meaning or bigger explanations than what science can provide, especially as we haven’t had time for our scientists and experts to study these phenomena and give us answers just yet.” He pauses, choosing his next words with careful deliberation. “But here’s what I want the American people to remember: we have incredibly smart men and women working around the clock to do just that.”
There’s a heavy pause after this statement.
The reporter slowly takes his seat. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
More hands rise to get the president’s attention.
Ludlow’s gaze roams the room, and his fingers on his right hand tighten around the edge of the podium. “You there,” he says, pointing at a male raising his hand a few rows back.
The man stands—a long-trusted White House correspondent, Miguel Hartman. Carson has seen him in and out of the West Wing for two years. No history of instability. Nothing concerning in his file. “Sir,” he says, “how will the administration?—”
Carson hears movement. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The reporter's questions become white noise as he searches for the source. He scans to the right side of the room, but finding nothing, checks the left—just in time to see the real threat.
Agent Lewis.
One of their own.
