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had come over for the day? Where would they go?
    At the end of the street, which was the highest point on land, he could see clear past both sides of the island, as well as the ferry terminal. Hundreds of people loitered around the landing dock in hopes that the ferry might return and take them back to the mainland. If the ferry system remained suspended, where would all these people stay for the night? There were only two hotels on the island, and they were completely booked throughout the summer months. There were five bed-and-breakfast establishments, but they couldn’t begin to handle the crowds that had traveled to the island for Art Fest. If something happened—and God forbid it did—these poor people would be stranded and on their own.
    Technically, Cooke’s Island was a borough of Portland. On numerous occasions it had attempted to secede from the city and become its own entity, but the islanders had recently voted, by a razor-thin margin, to remain part of the city. If a full-fledged quarantine took effect, which was the official policy in an emergency situation such as this, there would be no officials from the city crossing over to organize the frightened masses. As it stood, only two police officers were stationed here that could coordinate efforts. Tag figured it would be up to him to create a contingency plan for the island and to fully see it through, especially now that he’d been given the antidote to the virus.
    Despite the lack of ferry service, the crowds strolling about seemed happy and not yet concerned about the postponed service. Either that or they were not yet fully aware of the shutdown. The bars and restaurants appeared full and humming with activity. People walked around eating gelato out of cups and snacking on hot dogs and thick slices of Sicilian pizza from Nunzio’s. Many had cell phones up to their ears and were speaking to friends or loved ones as they walked or pushed baby strollers around. The sight of all these people using their cell phones sent a chill down his spine, and he wondered what to do. Should he try and convince them all to get off their phones? More than a few would tell him where to stick it, he knew. And he couldn’t blame them. Who’d ever believe that a radio frequency could trigger a debilitating virus lodged in their brain? Even he didn’t fully believe it. Not the best way to instill calm and order in the general public, especially when the goal was to keep everyone on the island and not in a panicked rush to get off it.
    He walked along the sidewalk and toward the community center, keeping his eyes and ears open for anything suspicious. The early evening air felt warm and dry, and a cool ocean breeze made it even more comfortable. As he approached the community center, he could see the long line of people standing in front of the door, waiting to get inside. He saw that it was five past seven. The Center must have extended its hours because of the surge of people still trying to get inside.
    Rather than walk in through the front and cut the line, he took a right down the alley and headed for the back door. He turned the handle but discovered it was locked, so he banged his fist on the wood until someone opened it. Walking inside, he could see a large crowd of people shuffling past the booths, gazing intently at the various works of art. Rectangular in shape, the community center seemed the ideal place to house the festival. Patrons filed around in an orderly, clockwise fashion, taking in the various exhibits before moving on to the next booth. He looked around for his wife and found her at the far corner of the room. A large crowd had gathered around her booth, examining all the colorful glass-blown sculptures she’d arranged in hierarchical fashion. He recognized the sculptures as strains of Ebola, Marburg, anthrax and avian flu among the many other lethal viruses known to man. The idea of creating glass art sculptures in the shapes of lethal viruses struck