He stood in Hannah’s room now, gazing down at her. Even before the first mop had gone across the floors, before disinfectant was sprayed on the walls, Elim had made sure she was brought in, placed in a patient room, and hooked to IV antibiotics. She would survive the infection, but the virus was overtaking her body. Organ failure was beginning. She hadn’t even woken up when they had brought her in. She would die within hours. The thought saddened him. It also reminded him of Lucas Turner, the other young American he had tried to save.

He stood for a long moment, then pulled the thin, white blanket up to her chin and walked to the window. A line had formed outside the hospital. That was good: there were still people healthy enough to get here.

He had work to do.

The CDC was in chaos. In the EOC, operators were ending their calls, getting up, and rushing out of the room. Millen stood at his desk. On the wall screen, scenes of the fall of Atlanta played without sound. The mobs were massing on the combined BioShield troops, which included Army, Navy, Marine, Air Force, and National Guard units. Many of those in uniform had lain down their arms and walked across the line to join the gathering crowd. They had taken an oath to defend the Constitution of the United States from all enemies, foreign and domestic—and for many of them, that didn’t extend to shooting their own mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and neighbors when they were simply sick and seeking help. Millen couldn’t blame them. He wondered what he would do if he were on the line in riot gear.

Phil walked up behind him. Millen thought his supervisor was going to reprimand him for not answering the call beeping on his headset, but instead he told Millen to follow him.

At a floor-to-ceiling glass window on the seventh floor, they looked down Clifton Road. A crowd of people filled all five lanes, but a procession of three pickup trucks—each with men on the back holding semi-automatic rifles—weaved through the mob, toward the line of BioShield troops who formed a perimeter around the CDC complex. The trucks were like a fuse on a bomb; would the scene erupt when they reached the troops? Would the shooting start?

“This could get ugly,” Millen said.

Stevens nodded. “Isn’t there something you should be doing?”

Comprehension dawned on Millen. He turned on his heel and ran. At the kitchen off the cafeteria, he stuffed food into garbage bags. He needed non-perishable items, enough for at least four days.

The halls were filled with people, everyone arguing about what to do. They were scared. So was Millen.

He found the BSL-4 lab empty once again. He donned the suit, entered, and placed the food on one of the tables inside. Halima was asleep. He hated to wake her, but he had to.