“Before I outline the steps we’re taking, I want to first assure you that these measures are temporary. They are also born out of an abundance of caution, and a desire to ensure that every American receives adequate care.”

Elliott listened as the president detailed the BioShield program. As he’d expected, a state of emergency was declared, including martial law and a nationwide curfew beginning daily at six p.m. Every American was instructed to go home and stay there immediately following the announcement. Homeless individuals were required to report to the nearest shelter or subway, where transportation would be arranged for them.

A combination of National Guard, military, and FEMA personnel cordoned off every major city. Checkpoints were established on every interstate and major road. Air, rail, and bus traffic ceased. Anyone outside a cordon zone would be directed to a series of shelters set up in rural areas at schools, sports arenas, and courthouses.

The federal government also temporarily nationalized every company in key industries: telecommunications, internet hosting, shipping and logistics, power and energy, and health care.

Around two p.m., school buses arrived on Elliott’s street. Anyone with symptoms of the X1 virus was instructed to get on. It was a bizarre scene, the convoy of buses loading up coughing adults, teens, and children on a Sunday.

In his address, the president had warned that anyone who didn’t get on the bus would not be registered for essential services. In the coming days, the National Guard and military would be distributing food and transporting sick individuals to care centers. Anyone who refused to register would be denied food and medical care—and more, they would be detained and placed in a low-priority quarantine zone, a prison with only basic services. It could be a death sentence.

Elliott stood at the front door, peering through the glass. The half-empty bus stopped outside their home, and the doors swung open.

At his side, Rose held his arm. She whispered, keeping her voice too quiet for their son and grandson to hear.

“I don’t want to go.”

“We have to, darling.”

Elliott turned to his son, who stood a safe distance away. He tried to sound casual, as if they were just going out for a movie. “We should be back in a few hours.”

Ryan didn’t buy it. “Don’t go.”

“They’re just trying to get a head count. They need to figure out what they’re dealing with. We’ll be right back.”

Standing in line to get on the bus, Elliott could smell the chlorine wafting through its open doors. He made eye contact with several of his neighbors—those he had enlisted in his plan. Their expressions said, You were right.

He was sorry that he was.