Kenyatta National Hospital was in even worse shape. Dead bodies lay on gurneys. People filled the waiting room. Blood covered the floor and walls. The staff had bags under their jaundiced eyes. Most were like walking zombies; they had been working so long they could hardly think. Elim insisted they take a break. He sent every one of the doctors and most of the nurses to the on-call rooms and a hotel nearby. They were too tired to argue with the newcomer.
Then he had his people set about cleaning up the hospital. Over the next four hours, Kenya’s oldest and largest hospital went from a bloody, disheveled mess to at least some semblance of a functioning trauma and referral hospital.
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.
After the third gentle nudge, she opened her eyes, rubbed them, and smiled.
She saw the fear on his face instantly.
“What’s wrong?”
“I might be going away for a while. I need you to stay here. It’s important. You understand?”
She nodded.
“If you run out of food before I’m back, you can leave. But be careful. Don’t tell anyone you’re from Kenya. Tell them you’ve lost your parents and they didn’t want you to talk to strangers.”
She looked confused, but agreed.
Outside the BSL-4, he doffed the suit and changed quickly. When he reached the ground floor, he heard gunshots.
Chapter 104
Auditorium A at CDC headquarters was again packed to capacity. Millen stood with the other staff, listening to Phil outline the evacuation plan. It was ingenious. The train tracks that ran behind the CDC were free of the mobs that had massed outside demanding the cure—and within ten minutes, train cars would be whisking the staff to safety.
“The people at the back of the room will guide you to the exit,” Phil said.
Millen fell in line, flowing with the crowd that rushed out of the room. In the distance, past the lobby, he heard more gunshots.
Instead of going outside, he broke from the crowd, made his way to the stairs, and descended to the lab level. He didn’t don a protective suit this time. Pretty soon, he wouldn’t need it—one way or another.
Inside the lab, he found Halima watching a DVD. She pulled one of the headphones out of her ear.
“No suit?”
He shook his head.
“Mind if I join you?”
He had made his decision: he would stay in the lab and try to protect the two children until the end. Leaving would mean saving only himself. And that wasn’t good enough.
The Atlanta streets were clogged with cars—some leaving the city, just as many going downtown to search for their loved ones in BioShield confinement. That’s exactly what Elliott and his neighbors had done: split up. One group had taken an RV and left the city, just in case it became a war zone between BioShield troops and citizens. Elliott sat behind the wheel of the other RV, driving toward downtown Atlanta. The massive vehicle was over thirty feet long. He had driven buses during deployments, some on muddy dirt roads in the third world, and none of them compared to this. He weaved the RV in and out of traffic, dodging stopped cars on I-75. Up ahead, the freeway was completely blocked with abandoned vehicles.
He veered to the side, taking the exit for Howell Mill Road. He wasn’t sure if he was driving the massive RV or if it was driving him. It rocked like a fish being pulled from the water. His twelve passengers gripped the kitchenette table, the walls, and anything they could get their hands on.