I can't tell you. You have to read it.

Human civilization teetered on the brink of failure. It walked a line thin as the blade of a razor. It would only take one slip, the slightest nudge in either direction, to send it crashing down toward that shiny metal blade of oblivion, dooming us for a hundred generations. Every step forward, each passing day, seemed to reveal a new danger, a darker element of our self-destructive nature. Global warming, mutating viruses, millions of people wallowing in depravity and self delusion, were just a few of the more obvious perils. But there were elements that were far worse, things that most people didn’t see. Or maybe they just didn’t want to see.

Donald Clark sighed, leaning back in his plush leather chair. His eyes burned from hours of reading the stacks of papers piled up on his marble desk. His head still spinning from the thoughts that were running through it. He took a sip of his finest scotch from a crystal glass as his frustration began to grow.

Why are we trying to tell the rest of the world how to live, when we cannot even agree with each other?

Donald leaned forward and slapped the empty glass down on the marble. The thought weaved its way further into his mind and he brought his wrinkling hands together, resting his elbows on the tabletop.

Democrat, Republican.

Conservative, Liberal.

Black, White.

What did all of that really matter?

Apparently, it mattered more than helping one another, at least, according to his government.

He grabbed one of the several stacks of papers stacked up alongside his desk and looked at it, his bright blue eyes studying it, his sharp mind stewing over the already obsolete information that those eyes relayed to him.

He tossed the paper to the side viciously.

He should be out trying to find a cure for cancer, not digging through outdated information trying to track down a "suspected" terrorist. It was a waste of his time, and time was something that was not on the side of a sixty-nine-year-old director of the C.I.A.

Donald leaped in his chair as the door to his office flew open and in charged Raymond Wright, a thirty-four year old man with a strong, clean face, and an attitude to match.

"Jesus Christ, Raymond, Give an old man a heart-attack!"

"Sorry, Sir," Raymond panted.

Donald’s eyes narrowed even further than their normal position, giving him the appearance of a wild-west-cowboy suffering from a hangover, as he looked at the young prodigy who had just burst into his office without so much as a warning shout. His hair was damp, his breath was short. Tiny beads of sweat had formed over his forehead. Something was wrong.

"What is it, Ray?"

"This just came in from NASA," Raymond huffed as he pressed closer to Donald’s desk, a thin piece of paper clenched in his hand.

"What is it," Donald asked, extending his hand and snatching the paper away from the normally composed field agent, whose hands now seemed to be trembling.

"It’s the comet," Raymond began, "There was something on it!"

Donald quickly read the printed e-mail. In it contained his worst fears...

An alien, airborne virus. And it would be here in ten minutes.

"Jesus Christ!" Donald shouted as he leapt up from his chair. "Ten minutes! When did this arrive?"

"Five minutes ago!" Raymond shouted back.

His mind raced, his heart pounded, but as quickly as it began, it subsided, replaced by the forty-years that he had spent in training.

His instincts took over.

"Quickly," he ordered Raymond. "Get the gas-masks, and tell everyone in the building to put one on!"

"But sir," Raymond spat out worriedly. "What about the President?"

Donald thought.

By the time they could relay the message to the President, the Joint Chiefs of staff, it would be too late. Right now, his only concern could be with the people in this building, the people he might be able to save. Lowering his voice, he said simply. "Fuck the President."

Raymond’s eyes widened.

"What? What about everyone else?"

"Raymond! Everyone else will have to make do on their own! Now, go get the goddamned masks!"

Swallowing hard, not knowing what else to do, Raymond turned and ran from the room. Donald looked down at his watch. Four minutes left. All he could do now was pray . . . Pray that whatever this alien virus was, it wasn’t meant for humans. But something deep within his soul told him that he was wrong.