THE best thing about FFN is you can make the people do what ever you want. So io've made this little fic up. I haven't seen one like it on the ARFandom, and thik it might just be waht it lacks.

The sun was hot over the African soil. Beth rubbed the gritty, sticky gunk out of her eyes. She was a free lance reporter, currently writing a story about the continued unrest in Sudan. The lack of coverage was appalling, but American audience back home found it hard to connect with the poor, determined people if they had not seen it personally. A trap flapped in an almost nonexistent wind. A child's cry could be heard over the soft noises of a few hundred displaced people. Beth hurried on. Her last stop, her clincher, for this story was a scene that was about to play before her. She ducked into a hut made of metal scraps and plastic sheeting, thin enough to be plastic wrap. Inside was a young girl, no older then seventeen. The girl was wrapped in bright swaths of fabric and looked concerned. A child sat on her lap. She's no more than a child herself Beth thought. She shook herself. Now was not the time. Beth leaned forward to look at the baby. Through the translator Beth learnt that the child was not the girl's. The girl, Aziza, found the child while gathering water. That had been three days ago. The baby had gotten staidly worse. It was shriveled looking, eyes open and fist punching the air. Beth reached out to touch it. A hand wrench her arm back.

"No!"

Beth looked behind her. The translator, a grizzled man of about fifty, shook his head.

"You can not touch." He whispered.

"Why not?" Beth asked, at normal volume. The baby twisted it's head to look at them. The translator jumped back in fear.

"It's a baby." Beth snapped. Stooping, Beth clucked at the bundle. She wiggled her fingers over the child's head. It stretched, grabbing for them. "It won't hurt me."

She turned to send the translator an I-told-you-so look, and the baby caught her pinky in its hands. A small moan escaped its little lips. It brought the finger towards its mouth.

"Look! It's hungry! You need to feed it!" Beth turned properly around to look the translator head-on. There was a thump behind her. Aziza had dropped the baby, and backed to the far was of the hut, pressing her body into it. She began to jabber rapidly.

The translator began to speak rapidly.

"You can't let it eat you. You have not protected yourself."

Beth snorted, "Protect myself? We need to protect the child!"

The child rolled onto its back, and crawled toward Aziza. The girl lashed out, her foot catching the infant and propelling it across the room. It rolled to a rest at Beth's feet. She scooped it up. The child moaned again. Beth cuddled it close. It moaned louder, heaving on her clutch. Beth popped her thumb into the child's mouth.

The translator let out a yell, and jerked on Beth's elbow. The infant snapped its mouth shut. Aziza screamed. The shriek rattled through Beth. The mouth worked on Beth's thumb.

Open

Shut.

Snap.

Snap.

The baby only had one tooth. It was desperately gumming on Beth's finger. Beth let out a gasp as the tooth nicked the skin by her nail. She pulled out her hand and watched the blood drip onto the dirt floor.

Aziza howled.

**

Jack threw another newspaper on the kitchen table.

"Man, these guys are dropping like flies."

Alex looked up. BETH SUNDERHAUS' HUSBAND NOW KILLED screamed the headline.

Alex picked up the paper and scanned the article.

A few days ago, after returning home from a recent station in the Sudan region of Africa, an American reporter by the name of Beth Sunderhus (who was working with BBC on the political climate in the African country) succumbed to a mysterious illness. Before her death, Sunderhus complained of headaches, severe muscle cramps and nausea. She was rushed to the hospital , and later died of a brain hemorrhage. Until recently, she was survived by her husband Nick. He too had began to complain of the same symptoms. Mr. Sunderhus was eating lunch with a few friends when he had a sudden swelling of the brain. He was rushed to the hospital, where he later died.

"It was really strange," a friend said about the incident. "He seemed to be having a seizure and started moaning and stuff. Really creepy. Like a zombie."

Doctor Winter, of Cambridge University, said these signs are common of a sudden…

Alex put down the paper. He didn't want to read any more.

Jack tapped the article. "It's right up the street."

Alex looked at her in confusion. Where the Sunderhus family had lived was nowhere near King's Road. Then he looked at the map so kindly displayed on the front page.

"Do you think it has something to do with them?"

Jack nodded. "I bet my life on it."

Alex sighed. "What do you want to do? Go knock on the door and say 'Hey, some American reporter died of a strange African illness, you want to tell us anything?' They'd laugh. No. better yet! They'd sent me to Africa to find out what it is. It's probably some man person killing off reporters or something."

Jack wasn't listening. She was scanning the paper again, thinking. Suddenly she bit her lower lip. A worried look entered her eyes. Her brow furrowed and she looked like she was about to cry.

Alex stood up. He had no idea what Jack a just read, but it was bad.

Craning over her shoulder, he asked, "What's wrong."

Jack put the paper face down on the table. "It just reminded me of something I read a few years ago. It's nothing."

Alex squeezed her arm. "You sure?"

She nodded and rubbed her eyes. Then she was bright a chipper again.

"Alex, school. Now. Education is very important."

Alex grumbled and headed out the door.

When he turned back to waved, Jack had her back to him, and had picked up her phone.

**

Mrs. Jones stood in front of Alan Blunt. It wasn't often she was nervous, but it wasn't often MI6 got something like….this. It was MI5's area. Homeland security and all that.

"The Prime Minister is trying to trip us up." She said. "He's looking for a reason to drag us to court."

Mr. Blunt shook his head. "No. He's desperate. Parliament is thinking of closing down the Chanel Tunnel."

"They can't do that."

"They can, and they will. This is not the normal strain. It naturally mutated, and is now spread by any form of human secretion. We have no way of stopping it, and it will become rampant. Once this gets into the illegal organ trade, everything is finished."

"Has it?"

Mr. Blunt laid a clipping on the desk. Mrs. Jones closed her eyes.

"How many?" she whispered.

The was a pause. She opened her eyes. Mr. Blunt pulled on his necktie, and swallowed.

"Almost four thousand."

"Four thousand?" Mrs. Jones slumped into the closest chair. "Can we prepare in anyway?"

Mr. Blunt glared at her. "You know what works, and you know what doesn't. Issue the information accordingly."

There was a soft tap on the door.

Mr. Blunt cleared his throat.

"Enter."

Miss Treat entered, clutching a note tightly. Her lips were thin and her hands were white and shaking. A tear rolled down her cheek.

"Jack Starbright just called."

Mrs. Jones felt a knot twist in her gut. She had worked it out…

"She just left you a message," Miss Treat continued. "She said…she said…I know what problems we are facing. Has it gone to Indonesia?"

Mr. Blunt looked at her for a moment. Finally he said. "Yes. Tell her yes."

Miss Treat trembled slightly. "There's more." She whispered. "If it has…if it has gone to Indonesia, no one is safe. I'd suggest cutting all out of country transport, air, Chunnel, the ferries. I've dealt with a number of logistical cleanups. I know how the pencil pushers handle it. I'll help in any way I can. If this is as wide spread as I think this is…if they are really coming…we need as much prepared as we can. Otherwise, we won't stand a change. Remember, Nevada? June of '51? Think of that international. There'd be nothing left. Give me a call when you get this. We have a lot to talk over. Jack."

Mrs. Jones found it hard to breath. Her necklace had come to tight.

Miss Treat swallowed again, chocking on tears. "What is going on?" she wailed. "What happened in Nevada? Why close down a county? What happed in Indonesia? What's coming?"

Mrs. Jones stood up. "I want you to call a meeting. Get everyone in here you can. Undercover, injury leave…" she looked at Mr. Blunt, who nodded. "Pull them out of school if you have to. I need you to do it as fast as you can. And I want a blackout on all interior commutations in this building. Nothing going in or out except that we need everyone in. Code Omega Zeda. "

Miss Treat nodded. When she got to the door, Mr. Blunt's voice stopped her. "And if you could be so kind, bring in Jack Starbright. She will be helping us with the briefing."

Then he did something unexpected. As Miss Treat left the room, he spoke.

"Thank you."