“Just calm down, Tae. He’s fine—”

“He’s bleeding! And why the mask?” But she knew the answer. She looked at Colt, shook her head. “You got exposed to the virus.”

He stayed away from the group, away from her. “There was an accident.”

She stared at him, feeling punched. Then she wrenched Ham’s arm off her. “How long were you exposed?”

“I don’t know. Three minutes? It might be nothing but—”

“How?”

“I was in a van that crashed. The container was punctured. I’m probably fine, Tae. I just . . . we need to—”

“Stop. Okay, listen. Keep the mask on. Somebody get a hose, and let’s wash him down. Then, strip out of everything, go inside, and take a shower. As hot as you can stand. And, with bleach. Do we have bleach?”

“I saw some in the laundry room,” Noemi said.

“Every inch of you, bleached. And then rinse well. Ten minutes under the hot water. Someone get him clean clothes. As for what you’re wearing, that can be washed—hot cycle, also bleached—and that goes for everyone. I want everyone hosed down and bleached.”

She didn’t care that she’d gotten bossy. She rounded, looked at Ham. “Everyone. Even me. The last thing we need is to somehow carry the S-poxR out into the world.”

Then she turned back to Colt. “You stay in your room. Alone. No visitors until I come back.”

“Where are you going?” Colt said.

She turned and her gaze caught on Zoey, who’d come out of the house.

“We’re going to the lab to create a vaccine that will hopefully save your life.”

TWELVE

Colt was going to be just fine.

Really.

Please.

Tae looped the stethoscope around her neck and stepped back. Colt sat on the bed of his now-sterile, very secure, somewhat prison-like room at the Cape Canaveral Hospital, where Logan had pulled a netful of strings to create the quarantine pod three days ago.

Poor man was watched day and night by Logan, as well as a friend he’d flown in—Lucas Maguire, who’d been a trauma doc in the Navy. Apparently he was some ad hoc member of Jones, Inc. also.

Lucas seemed more like a soldier for Jones, Inc. than a doctor, but Tae didn’t want to ask too many questions. He was a handsome man—early forties, brown hair, thick beard, built. She didn’t know why, but having him around made her feel a little like she might be under scrutiny.

Still, Colt was her patient, her subject, and she’d made him promises when she’d visited shortly after his arrival at the hospital, just to check on his vitals. And to confirm that he was still alive and not spiking a 104 fever.