‘Rosenwein was in London for a veteran’s tennis tournament. His private jet pilots were the first to come down with Killer-T in San Fran. Turns out his seventeen-year-old son, Greg, was at military school in Pasadena, back when Axl got his ass busted for meth and his ma sent him there to straighten out. So Greg Rosenwein was partying with us on Friday night.’

Harry felt like he’d been smacked. ‘Well, that’s put me off my fried chicken.’

‘Greg’s dead,’ Matt said dramatically.

‘No way!’ Harry gawped.

‘Same as in London,’ Matt said. ‘Killer-T’s more potent in kids and younger adults. There’s hardly any cases in people over seventy.’

‘Was Greg near us?’ Harry asked. ‘Did you see him?’

‘No idea what he looks like,’ Matt said, greasy fingers and cheeks crammed with poultry. ‘But everyone was around that pool, and given how infectious this is supposed to be …’

‘How can you sit there eating?’ Harry said as he walked to the fridge. ‘This sucks.’

‘Schools are closed until further notice,’ Matt said. ‘The governor’s making a statement to the media at nine, which must be the full curfew announcement. And President West’s supposedly gonna announce that no domestic flights can take off after midnight.’

‘Look on the bright side,’ Harry said, as he stuffed his face with fries. ‘Neither of us is gonna live long enough for this junk food to make us fat.’

49 CLYDE’S DONGFENG

It was 6 a.m. when the lab rats finished work. Four Radical Cake muffin boxes stood on the RV’s fold-out dining table, each containing thirty sterile syringe packs and thirty glass vials of Killer-T vaccine.

‘Here’s to a good night’s work,’ Mango said as she wheeled an office chair up to the table, ripped open a syringe pack and pricked the needle through the thin metal lid of a glass vial. ‘I guess I’ll go first.’

Before Mango could stab herself, Juno, Charlie and Veryan rushed up to the table, rolling sleeves and filling syringes. After a count of three, the four sweaty and exhausted women jabbed their arms with the fine needles.

The sun was creeping up as Charlie walked back to her VW, the little glass bottles chinking with every step. Charlie dry-heaved as she caught the smell of two zombies sleeping on the sidewalk. She upped her pace in case there were more in the deserted street and only felt safe when she’d shut her car door and pressed the lock button.

She switched on her phone. Her arm itched as she placed the vaccine in the passenger-side footwell, then grabbed a hoodie from the back seat and used it to cover the box.

‘You have two new messages from Harry Smirnov,’ the speaker in the centre console announced.