The plague. Its gone now. The scars remain. The carriers stayed in the shadows.
Terminal Six, western edge of the city. Rising glass fronts to capture the rapture of the setting sun. The upland range reaching to pull the sun down into a bed of darkness. The stars coming out to witness the day’s end.
If it was just the plague.
The International Terminal was the showcase of the West. Its 25,000 people a day, was a small city pushing in and out the doors. Eventually there would be stowaways. The brown ones. Why would anyone bring them along?
The baggage area. Hundreds of bags. A small tear in a suitcase, an escape. The fleas come first. Submerged in the carpet. A traveler feeds their need. The bacteria festers. In a week, the respiratory conditions meets a high fever. The dozen infected across the country are the first warning. Retracing the lines back takes time. The third dozen, brings black legs as Septicemic Plague announces its presence. A drop in the travel bucket. It’s been the weeks.
Center for Disease Control doesn’t see the plague often. In a month, across the country never. The travel. They all traveled. Their stop was the same. But an airport is a large place for a flea. Or the rats, they came in on.
It would have been fine. Quick treatment. Isolate the area. But what happens when the rats stay in the duct work?