So they had created an operating system for tracking the outbreak. That was smart.

Around him, several suited figures were walking up and down the aisles. Occasionally they paused at booths and spoke into their radios, calling for tech support.

“Got an incompatible cell phone at 1291.”

“Need a tablet reboot on 1305.”

Seconds after Elliott stepped away from his booth, a suited figure wiped off the tablet he had used and directed him to the other side of the parking deck, where white curtains served as dividers between cubicles.

Inside one small cubicle, a woman swabbed the inside of his cheeks and took two vials of blood, then placed the samples in a bag labeled “Phaethon Genetics.” She tore a label with a bar code off the sample bag and placed it on a bracelet, which she affixed to Elliott’s right wrist.

“What’s that for?”

“Sequencing your genome will help us find a cure.”

She placed an identical bracelet on his other wrist.

“Don’t take the ID bands off—you need them to get food rations and medical care.”

He nodded. “My wife was taken—”

“Sorry, sir, they’ll answer your questions at the next station. This is important, okay? Your phone will issue an alert each day. It will ask you questions about your symptoms. Answer the questions honestly. Your life may depend on it. Keep your phone charged.”

He was about to ask a question when she raised her hand and yelled, “Next!”

To Elliott, she said, “Exit to your right, please.”

Ever since he had gotten off the bus, he had hoped to see someone he knew—a CDC official or Commissioned Corps officer. He hadn’t. And his time was up.

It turned out there was no next station. After the blood draw, they herded everyone into a stairwell on the opposite side of the parking deck and back onto the bus they had arrived on. He waited for it to fill back up. It never did. Many of the people who had gone into the parking deck with Elliott didn’t return. The bus was less than half full when it pulled away.

Elliott hoped it would return to the Georgia Dome. It didn’t. It barreled down the road, retracing its route.

Before he left home, he had instructed his son not to get on the next batch of buses—the buses that would pick up anyone without symptoms. Ryan was an anesthesiologist, and Elliott assumed he would be identified as someone with essential skills, and would therefore be conscripted to help in the BioShield effort.

But now everything had changed. He needed to make sure his son was on that bus—and that they kept him. Ryan might be their only chance of getting to Rose.

He wondered how long he’d been gone. Had the buses for the well individuals already arrived? If so, that chance had already slipped away.