“Sorry!” Elliott yelled back as the RV coasted to a stop at the top of the ramp.
He got as far as Marietta Street before the roads were completely blocked. He pulled the RV into an alley. About half the people on board rose and moved to the door. Sam and Adam were among those who were going to stay. If things went as planned, Elliott would be back soon and they’d all be leaving together.
He looked at his neighbors and their teenage children, wondering what they were about to confront. Were they ready? He had no idea, but he knew they had no choice.
“You have your sticks?”
The question was met with yeses and nods.
“Good. Let’s try to stay together.” He held up a can of orange spray paint. “Remember the breadcrumbs if we get separated.”
After the others exited, he walked back to Sam and Adam. The boy was lying on the RV’s bed with several other younger kids who were sick, all playing portable video games. To Sam, Elliott said, “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.”
Tears welled in her eyes. He pulled her into a tight hug, reached over and tousled Adam’s hair, then made his way outside.
He and his neighbor Bill covered the monstrous vehicle with several tarps. Elliott’s fever had been low-grade this morning, and to his relief, he was feeling pretty good at the moment. The adrenaline was likely helping.
Elliott gathered everyone around him. It was cold in the alley, and his breath came out in a puff of white steam.
“Remember, the knock is three raps, pause, then two, then one. Three-two-one. We’re going to wait here until all of us report back. There’s food in the RV, blankets too. Use the portable batteries and electric heater if you need them. Try not to crank it unless you have to.”
Elliott looked each one of them in the eye. “Okay. Good luck.”
On the buildings flanking the alley, he spray-painted a large E. As they walked, he put the same mark on every building they passed. It felt strange, painting graffiti all over downtown Atlanta, but he hoped it might get one or more of his people back. He expected some or all of them would be in a very bad mental state when they returned.
The streets were packed with people on foot, just like them, hiking toward downtown and the Georgia Dome, looking for their loved ones, or the cure, or both. Many carried guns and knives, while others simply jammed their hands in their coat pockets, trying to stay warm.
When Marietta Street met Northside Drive, Elliott heard the roar of heavy machinery. To his right, two bulldozers were pushing cars to the side, clearing a path. A front-end loader bounced along behind them. Two pickup trucks brought up the rear. Men in the beds held rifles.
One of the men called to the crowd.
“They surrendered! Come on, follow us!”
People broke from the crowd, began falling in line.
Elliott quickened his pace, jogging down Northside Drive. The heavy bulldozers had left track marks in the pavement, their own version of breadcrumbs leading to the Georgia Dome. People in orange vests were scattered along the road, making sure no cars blocked the cleared thoroughfare.
Elliott and his neighbors were forced back onto the sidewalk along with everyone else when two tractor-trailers powered down the road. The back doors to their empty trailers hung open, and men looked out, several of them smoking. It took Elliott a minute to realize why they needed the giant trucks: to hold all the guns they were rounding up. They were disarming the government troops.
A few minutes later, school buses emerged from downtown, heading away from the Georgia Dome. They were the same buses that had taken him and Rose downtown, but now they were filled with uniformed people—National Guard, Army, and FEMA. The very people who had crowded Elliott and the rest of the population onto the buses days earlier.
Along the street, some people clapped and cheered; others, like Elliott, simply stared at the surreal scene. A few yelled out names and rushed toward the buses, but the orange-vested individuals held them back. That was something Elliott hadn’t considered before—that some of the people making their way downtown were coming to help their friends and family in uniform.
When the buses passed, he waded back into the street and ran even faster. The cold early-December air burned in his lungs. He was very out of shape, even for his age. His younger neighbors were pulling ahead; he was slowing them down.
“Go on,” he said between breaths.
Bill smiled. “A wise man told me we should stay together.”
Elliott just shook his head. But he was glad for the company.
Three blocks from the Georgia Dome, the crowd became too thick to run. Their group slowed to a walk, and Elliott caught his breath.
He drew out his long stick, which he had held to his body with his belt. Carefully, he unfolded the posterboard sign and taped it to the stick. Then he passed around the tape, and one by one, they all raised their signs. Elliott’s read: ROSE SHAPIRO. It was one of thousands of posters waving in the air as the crowd pressed toward the Georgia Dome.
Chapter 105
Desmond was contemplating his escape from the cargo container when he heard a group of people marching across the concrete. The boots pounded in the vast space, drawing closer. It sounded like a stampede at first, then there was a screeching sound, and muffled voices. He recognized only one of them.
A single set of footsteps resumed.
The door to Desmond’s container opened with another screech of metal on metal.
The dark space flooded with light. He squinted, held an arm up to shade his eyes.
Avery.
The blonde was shrouded in shadow, but Desmond could see that she was still clad in tight-fitting body armor. She looked like a superhero. She held a handgun at her side, ready, but not pointed at him. Her expression was remorseful, apologetic even.
“I had to,” she said.
Desmond was stone-faced.
“We were getting nowhere at SARA. It was a dead end, Des.”