He lifted Rose up and staggered out of the RV, into the cold late afternoon. Ryan carried the wheelchair out, unfolded it, and held it while Elliott set Rose down. Sam was at Elliott’s side, holding Adam, whose fever had been running high. Ryan took the boy into his arms and followed closely behind Elliott.

They exited the alley and jogged down Marietta Street. The chill in the wind was merciless on Elliott’s face. An endless flow of people poured out of buildings and adjoining streets. Soon the crowd was as thick as a Christmas Day parade, marching, pushing toward the tents that loomed in Centennial Park. Metal fencing funneled everyone to canopies where soldiers stood watch beside individuals wearing flak jackets with the letters FEMA printed on them.

When Elliott reached a FEMA official, she took one look at Rose, said, “Line One!” and handed him a red card. The soldiers motioned him onward. There were five lines, as it turned out—prioritized based on need. Line One was for the most critical patients. It was also the only line moving. Elliott glanced back at Ryan, who was still holding Adam. Ryan simply nodded, urging his parents to go on ahead.

Another FEMA staffer directed the people in Line One to cubicles where medical staff were holding jet injectors. Vials were spread out beside them, as well as silver oblong objects: CO2 cartridges.

Elliott tried to get a look at any labeling on the vials or injector, but there wasn’t any. He wondered if he would ever know the full truth of how this life-saving cure—the cure that had just been injected into his wife—had arrived in the nick of time. For some reason, he thought of Peyton. He hoped she was safe.

On the other side of the treatment cubicle, another FEMA staffer was directing them out of the park.

Someone asked, “What do we do now?”

“Stay warm and keep hydrated. Now move on, make room for the people behind you.”

Back at the RV, Elliott again curled into the bed with Rose. He had something he didn’t have an hour ago: hope. For the first time in two days, he fell asleep.

Chapter 132

Chapter 132

Peyton was still numb from seeing her father’s dead body. Yet she walked across the charred ruins of the building, toward the body the soldiers were pulling from the wreckage.

She stopped when she saw the wig with wavy brown hair—the wig Desmond had worn into the building. It was half burned away and matted with blood.

A hulking Navy SEAL pulled a wooden beam off the body. It didn’t move. It was limp, the left arm severed, the legs burned. Dead—with no hope of coming back.

Peyton’s hands began to shake. She clasped them together and continued to march forward.

The Citium security operatives conducting the search parted when she reached them.

She exhaled. It’s not him.