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.
“Just letting you know. If you want to come along,” Shane glanced at the RV, “maybe take some people with you. More numbers we got, more chance they’ll just stand down.”
Elliott considered this. “I’ve heard the roads are blocked—military checkpoints.”
Shane glanced back at the truck. “Yeah, we got a plan for that.” He stepped away from the door. “Hope you join us. Either way, good luck.”
Back in his study, Elliott watched several neighbors raise their garage doors, get in their cars and trucks, and join the growing convoy.
When the procession had departed, the neighbors Elliott had convened at his home days earlier once again descended on his house. He gathered them in his study, where they sat and argued.
Finally, Elliott said, “Okay, stop. Raise your hand if someone in your family is being held in the downtown quarantine zone.”
Four hands went up. “Raise a hand if you’ve got someone sick at home.”
Three more hands went up.
He leaned back in his chair. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”
At the CDC headquarters, Millen stood at a seventh-floor window. Below, his colleagues and other BioShield staff were filing out, loading onto the city buses and school buses.
Phil walked up and stood beside him, but said nothing.
“Where will they take them?” Millen asked.
“Outside the cordon. Hopefully outside the battle lines.”
Millen watched figures in FEMA jackets loading food into a box van.
Ten minutes ago, Millen had heard a rumor that the president had died from X1-Mandera. Or had been assassinated.
“Is it true? The president’s dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“One way or another, I’d say the Citium is in charge now.”
Thirty minutes later, Millen was wearing a positive pressure suit. The door to the BSL-4 lab hissed open, and he walked in to find Halima lying on the bed, watching the portable DVD player. Tian was playing with a handheld game console.
Halima smiled at Millen and put the DVD player aside. “I was worried. Everyone left.”
Millen set some food on the steel-topped table. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving. No one came this afternoon. All the researchers stormed out. We couldn’t hear what they were saying.”
Millen forced his voice to remain calm. “It’s nothing. Just urgent meetings. I’ll bring the food from now on. Would you like that?”
She nodded as she took a bite of the sandwich.
“Good. I’ll come back in a few hours.”
And he would. He had made a promise to take care of the two Kenyans, and it was a promise he intended to keep. His parents had taught him to take his commitments very seriously. He wondered where his parents were now, if they were safe. There wasn’t much he could do for them. But he would do everything he could for the people of Atlanta and the two Kenyan villagers in his care.
Upstairs, he walked to the EOC, sat at his desk, and studied the satellite images. He pulled on his headset and typed: MedSupply unit 227, be advised, combat units are assembling at Mitchell and Central Ave to meet hostiles inbound. Estimate two hundred, heavily armed en route with others arriving. Recommend you fall back to rally point Gamma-Bravo.
Elim Kibet rode in the passenger seat of the box truck that rolled through the littered streets of Nairobi. Buildings were burned. Cars lay in charred ruins. Children with blood on their faces watched the truck go by, the flames and smoke behind them a heartbreaking backdrop.
Elim could hardly look. His country’s capital city had fallen.
He hoped that somewhere in the wreckage, he’d find survivors he could save—and IV antibiotics. Hannah was in the truck behind him. She would die soon without them.
The stoplights were dark and lifeless. At an intersection, the lead truck in the convoy paused as the driver checked the cross street. It was blocked off with two burned cars—roadblocks. Elim felt a tinge of nervousness.
Someone raised their head above one of the burned cars, peered at the truck, then ducked back down.
“Go!” Elim said.
The driver of the truck floored it, but it was too late. Ahead, two armored troop carriers pulled into the street, blocking it. Armed men poured out, guns held at the ready. In the side mirror, Elim saw a similar force pull up behind the convoy.
They were trapped.
Chapter 102