The video showed my beautiful conservatory transformed into a scene from a nightmare. Elegant wedding guests writhed on the floor, scratching at their skin like animals. My sister, still in her destroyed wedding dress, sat rocking in a corner, tears streaming down her face as she stared at something only she could see. The groom’s CEO continued his imaginary swimming, occasionally calling out about sea creatures that didn’t exist.
Local police cars surrounded the exterior of my property. Officers stood at a safe distance, clearly recognizing that they were dealing with something beyond their expertise. They had no protective equipment, no understanding of what they were facing. If they rushed inside to help, they would only become additional victims.
The livestream comments section was pure chaos. Viewers demanded explanations, speculated about gas leaks or terrorist attacks, and repeatedly called for emergency services. Someone had pinned my sister’s location, and people were sharing the address with increasingly urgent warnings about a mass poisoning event.
In that moment—watching the disaster unfold through a phone screen—the pain of betrayal gave way to something more important: the responsibility I carried as a scientist.
I understood the danger level better than anyone on Earth. Those spores, in the concentrations my readings suggested, could affect anyone who entered without proper protection. The local police were brave but completely unprepared. Emergency medical teams would be walking into a contamination zone. If this spread beyond the conservatory—if people carried spores home on their clothes or in their respiratory systems—we could be looking at a community-wide health crisis.
More than that, I was legally responsible for every organism in that facility. The USDA grant made me the designated steward of federal property. Every spore, every piece of equipment, every data point was my responsibility under federal law.
I had two choices: let this disaster escalate while I preserved my career and family relationships, or do what my training and conscience demanded.
With hands that felt steady for the first time all day, I dialed the emergency number I’d memorized during my initial USDA training but never expected to use.
“USDA Emergency Response, this is Dr. Martinez.”
“This is Dr. Veronica Coleman, Project ID UMR4471B. I need to report a dangerous-level biorelease at my authorized facility.”
“Hold please, Dr. Coleman. I’m transferring you to the CDC Emergency Response Team.”
The next voice was crisp, professional, and terrifyingly efficient.
“Dr. Coleman, this is Agent Mary Smith with the CDC. We need your location, the nature of the organisms involved, and an immediate assessment of contamination scope.”
I gave them everything: the project identification codes, the specific fungal strains, the estimated spore concentration based on my app readings, the number of people exposed, and the livestream link so they could assess the situation in real time.
“Dr. Coleman, based on what you’re telling us, we’re implementing level three containment protocols. Federal response teams are already en route to your location. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to enter the contaminated area yourself.”
“I understand.”
“We’ll also need you to report to the Field Command Center for immediate debriefing. Your cooperation in this matter will be noted in our investigation.”
As I hung up the phone, I understood that this call was both an act of conscience and a death sentence.
I had saved lives: the lives of the police officers who would have rushed in unprepared, the lives of my family members who were slowly poisoning themselves, and potentially the lives of everyone in my community.
But I had also just triggered the most comprehensive federal investigation my field had ever seen. My career was over. My family’s freedom was in jeopardy. And everything I’d worked for my entire adult life was about to be destroyed.
The mountain air that had seemed so clean and refreshing just hours ago now felt thin and insufficient. As I started my car and began the drive toward the disaster I’d unknowingly left behind, I realized that my old life—the life of Dr. Veronica Coleman, respected scientist and loyal daughter—was already over.
What waited for me at the bottom of this mountain was something else entirely.
The sirens were just the beginning.
I stood behind the police barricade they’d set up at the edge of my property.
My property. The one I’d worked a decade to afford, and watched the unfold.
The wedding guests who’d been dancing and hallucinating an hour ago were now corralled on the front lawn like confused cattle, wrapped in emergency blankets, some still twitching from the aftereffects of the neurospores. Nobody was allowed to leave. The police had made that crystal clear the moment they arrived.
“Ma’am, you’re going to need to come with us,” a detective said, appearing at my elbow.
His badge read MORRISON. He looked tired, like this was already the weirdest case of his career and it was only Sunday afternoon.
“I haven’t been on the property in two days,” I said flatly. “Check the security footage.”
“We will. But you’re still coming with us.”
The sound of helicopters cut through the air before I could argue. I looked up to see not one, not two, but three black choppers descending toward my conservatory like something out of an apocalypse movie.
Behind them, a convoy of black SUVs rolled up my driveway, each one bearing the unmistakable federal seal: CDC, USDA, and unless I was mistaken, that last one was Homeland Security.
My mother’s face, visible through the crowd of blanket-wrapped guests, had gone the color of old oatmeal, but her comp—
“Your family is claiming they didn’t know about the biological hazards,” Morrison said.
I laughed. It came out harsh and bitter.
“Detective, I have twelve years of text messages from my mother complaining about my weird mushroom house. I have emails where I explicitly warned them never to enter without proper equipment. I have a family dinner recording from last Christmas where my father called my research ‘playing with moldy dirt.’ They knew. They just didn’t care.”
He nodded slowly.
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