Panic?
None had broken out in the territory.
Over the past two weeks, the Gray Marsh Weekly had published more than a dozen special issues on epidemic prevention. From "What is a plague?" to "Why is quarantine necessary?" and "How to wash your hands and wear a mask properly," the articles were illustrated and easy to understand. The public had already been told that cases appearing in the quarantine camps were "highly likely," and that strict quarantine was precisely what would allow them to handle such a situation.
Rather than fear the unknown, people trusted the order their lord had already established.
An oddly shaped, enclosed metal carriage entered Zone A No. 3 Quarantine Camp under military escort. Its compartment had been specially sealed airtight, and faintly glowing runes that dispelled contamination were engraved on its walls.
The patient, the unfortunate fur merchant, was carried onto the carriage by two Taxi Soldiers bundled in heavy protective suits. His body was secured to a stretcher, and a wad of cloth had been stuffed into his mouth to keep blood from spraying out. Violent coughing sent his body into constant spasms.
The tent flap lifted.
Two soldiers emerged. White garments covered them from head to toe, and beaked masks concealed their faces.
They carried a wooden stretcher with the merchant lying on it. Straps bound his limbs and torso. He opened his mouth and coughed, his body trembling with each spasm. The soldiers lifted the stretcher into the metal carriage and laid it flat.
The door closed, the bolt slid into place, and the fur merchant's moans could no longer be heard outside.
Instead of returning to Minas Tirith, the carriage headed straight for a solitary building in the open wilderness downwind.
It was a newly completed gray stone building, with no