Sirens blare as more cop cars screech up to the hospital. "Something bad's happened," Haleh decides. Weaver tries calling inside, but her phone's dead. Suddenly, the cop pushes everyone across the street, claiming that this relocation is a simple safety precaution. Weaver struggles with him, but he won't budge. "Doctor, if I were you, I'd go home and be glad I didn't come in to work today," he says.

Grunting. Banging. Shoving. The gurney hits the doors again, and still they stop short of flying open. But the police tape snaps, and that's a plus. Stuff comes off the ceiling. A man is thrown behind the front desk, and Jerry wrestles him away from the scene of the banal inanity. Carter has had enough. It's time to seize the most phallic thing he can find and raise it aloft in the name of Mark, the Phallic Void That Dares Not Go Unfilled. He grabs the intercom microphone, stands on the desk, and holds it up to the speaker in the ceiling. The whiny, piercing feedback stops everyone, and they all turn to watch this lunatic who just...might...be the only sane one here. Chandler looks like he's wet himself. Possibly, he realizes that Carter -- after being so anal about quarantining people and wearing masks -- just strolled out here after exposing himself to the virus and is now possibly infecting all of them.

"This morning, a little five-year-old girl came in here with a rash that looked like smallpox," Carter begins, correctly differentiating Bree from all the very large five-year-olds with elephantitis who come in and tower over everyone. "She died quickly," he adds. "Her older brother is still critical. We don't know what it is, and we don't know how they got it, but it's here and it needs to be contained." Everyone listens. Luka looks around as if to confirm that, yes, Carter's words are magic balm soothing the souls of the oppressed. "This is not about denying your civil rights," Carter stresses. "This is about protecting you. If we let you go, you could carry the disease home to your families. So please, stay here, help us, and we'll all get through this." He gets down and hands off the microphone. Music swells, the mob cheers and hoists Carter onto its shoulders, and they win the World Series in a four-game sweep. It's luau time.

Lutz chats with the CDC while Luka, Susan, Gallant, and Torres wait expectantly. Lutz hangs up and announces that the cultures show this is a brick-shaped virus. "An orthopox?" Luka asks. "So it is smallpox," Susan infers. Lutz says it still might be something else, and that further tests must be performed before any conclusions are drawn. "Make yourselves comfortable," she says dryly. Gallant sighs. "What now?" he asks. "Well, we can watch ourselves on TV," Susan metas. They turn to watch the newscaster report a smallpox sighting at County General "in Chicago." They must be watching CNN, except it looks an awful lot like a local newscast that wouldn't, therefore, need to identify the city. Whatever.