“Yes,” William said. “It was indeed bittersweet to watch. I think for all of us. Thank you for showing us the video, Charlotte. It means a great deal.”

“Of course.”

They walked back to Charlotte’s office in silence. Ahead, Peyton heard papers rustling. Someone was waiting for them.

Charlotte pushed the door open. Standing inside her office were three men in woodland camo. Two pointed rifles at Charlotte and the others; another was looking through the folder from Aralsk-7.

Peyton turned—and saw two more soldiers blocking the end of the hall.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” said the soldier looking through the file. “No one needs to die here.”

Chapter 101

Chapter 101

Elliott hadn’t seen or heard anything from the authorities all day. The BioShield convoys that distributed food hadn’t come. And just like yesterday, the Rook Quantum Sciences app hadn’t prompted him to take the daily survey.

Rumors were going around. The most pervasive was that the government had developed a cure but was hoarding it. Another theory went that the government was preparing for a world war, conscripting survivors, and leaving the sick to die. With each passing hour, the absence of food and medicine made the rumors more believable.

Elliott sat in his study, thinking about what was happening. In his mind’s eye, he saw Rose, sick and alone, lying on a blanket in the Georgia Dome, coughing, burning up with fever. The people who had cared for her were now gone; they were preparing to protect the downtown cordon headquarters from the mobs descending upon it. The city was tearing itself apart. He imagined Ryan, a physician, charged with caring for the wounded in the battle, trapped, his own life in danger. He thought about his grandson, Adam, whose cough was getting worse each day. Ibuprofen no longer controlled the fever. Sam was dedicating herself completely to caring for the boy now. She had given up on trying not to get infected.

From his window, Elliott could see a convoy of trucks moving slowly down his street. Men and a few women sat on the backs of the trucks, rifles in their hands. They hopped out and walked to each door, talking with the neighbors.

When the knock at his door came, Elliott answered it, careful not to swing the door too wide.

A man in his thirties, with a weather-beaten face, long brown hair, and a beard, stood on his doorstep. He had left the rifle on the truck; his hands were held in front of him, slightly raised, showing that he meant no harm. He said his name was Shane, and that he and his wife had a daughter being held downtown.

“We’re going after her. Lot of other folks are heading that way too. We ain’t lookin’ for a fight, just want to get our people and leave in peace. We’re going out to the country to try to make it.