More still photos appeared, but now of Paris and Athens, of lines of people receiving the cure, celebrating. Photos of the two American families followed.
“Accept our request. Pass the laws that welcome the Looking Glass Commission. If you do not do so within the next two hours, we will take our plea directly to your people. They will overthrow your government. The result will be the same—but there will be more bloodshed. Think carefully. Make the right decision—the responsible decision. Just as France and Greece have.”
The video ended in a black screen.
The auditorium erupted in questions. Synchronized shouts swept through the crowd like a beach ball being tossed around at a ball game. On stage, Phil whistled loudly.
“Enough!”
“Is it true?” a voice in the back yelled.
“Shut up and listen!” Stevens shouted. “Yes. What you saw is true.”
The response was shock and whispers. A part of Millen thought maybe the video was faked.
Stevens continued. “Five hours ago, the French and Greek governments agreed to the Citium’s terms. The Citium, as the terrorists have styled themselves, have taken control of both countries’ military assets, power grids, and internet infrastructure. They have also distributed a cure that appears to be viable.”
Murmurs went through the auditorium.
“The French and Greek governments have provided us with samples of the cure. Military jets flew those samples here two hours ago. As we speak, researchers are studying it in this building.”
Millen wondered if they were comparing it with the antibodies from Halima and the other villager, as well as the samples he’d brought back from Elim and Dhamiria.
“As you know, we’ve been preparing for the prospect of an armed conflict. Right now, survivors and likely survivors are staging here in Atlanta and other cordons. Here in this room, each of you needs to decide which side you’re on. If you’re going to help us secure this city, or if you want to join the Citium and attempt to overthrow the government.”
For the first time, Millen noticed the Marines at the front and rear exits.
“Think hard. Your decision may cost you your life.”
Chapter 95
On board the Red Cross plane, Desmond, William, Peyton, and Avery were debating where to land. At Aralsk-7, they’d had no choice: the airstrip was the only access to the island, and it was far enough away from the town and labs to be reasonably safe. But the single dirt runway in Australia was directly adjacent to the camp.
Their other options weren’t much more appealing, in Peyton’s opinion. Desmond wanted to land in a field, but was concerned that the struts supporting the landing gear might buckle, stranding them. Avery advocated landing on a road. They had consulted the map and identified several candidate sites, but William was wary: what if there were power lines, abandoned cars, mailboxes, and other items not on the satellite imagery?
Still, it seemed like the best option. They consulted the plane’s manual, discovered the width of the wheel track, and did the math: the wheels would fit on the roadway—just barely. They picked a location, did a flyover, and were satisfied the path was clear of obstacles.
Peyton buckled herself in and braced for the worst as her father lined up the plane and began descending. The wheels screeched on the pavement, and the entire plane vibrated as it slowed on the straight stretch of blacktop, the morning sun blazing through the windows. The back wheels veered into the dirt shoulder, but William quickly brought the plane back and slowed to a stop.
Avery and Desmond left to scout the camp and report back. From the plane’s doorway, Peyton watched them hike across the brown terrain, their body armor on, semi-automatic rifles slung across their shoulders. She didn’t like leaving Desmond alone with Avery—she still didn’t trust the woman.
As if sensing Peyton watching him, Desmond stopped and turned. A small smile crossed his lips when he saw her in the doorway.
“Mic check,” he said.
“Copy,” she replied. “Be careful.”
“Roger that.”
Peyton reminded them again to keep their distance from anyone who might not be infected.
When Desmond and Avery disappeared over the next hill, Peyton turned to her father. She had bandaged his leg as best she could and had inspected the other bruises and scrapes on his body, but he needed an X-ray—and a pain medication stronger than the ibuprofen she had given him. Those things would have to wait.
“I don’t trust her,” she said.
He was studying the folder from Aralsk-7, shuffling through the pages like he was counting a deck of playing cards.
“Neither do I.”
Two hundred yards from the camp, Desmond and Avery lay flat on their stomachs, taking turns using the binoculars.
What Desmond saw didn’t make sense. Healthy individuals, moving about. Kids going to school. Breakfast cooking on an open pit grill just outside a building with a concrete floor, metal poles at each corner, and a corrugated metal roof. People sat at rows of tables, eating. About half of them were aboriginals.
There was not a single sick person here. No personnel in PPE.
Was this the Citium’s test site? Were these people the lucky ones—the test group who had gotten the viable cure?
Desmond focused the binoculars on the largest building, which was also metal but was enclosed on all sides and had a small loading dock on the back. A sign above a roll-up door read: SARA. Below it were two lines of text: South Australia Relief Alliance and A Hand Up, Not a Handout.
The door was halfway up, and as Desmond watched, a woman with gray-streaked brown hair ducked under it and walked out onto the concrete loading dock. Spring was turning to summer here, and she was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt that rippled in the early December wind.
Desmond focused the binoculars. His eyes went wide when he saw her face. She had aged some, but there was no mistaking who she was. He wracked his brain, trying to reason why and how she could be here—why the folder at the Citium lab would have led here.