The chorus of coughing never ceased. The X1-Mandera virus was ravaging all of them, some to a greater degree than others. It was only a matter of time before their bodies began surrendering to the pathogen. Elliott feared Rose would be the first casualty.
A series of beeps sounded from the radio—the prelude to an emergency message. One of Elliott’s neighbors tuned the dial. The static cleared, and the beeps came into focus, then stopped. Every eye turned to the radio. Even the teenagers jerked their earbuds out and sat up.
A man’s voice spoke slowly, in the solemn, deliberate tone of someone reading a statement.
“My fellow Americans, wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, please stop and hear this message. It may save your life, or the lives of your loved ones. My name is James Marshall. Many of you know me as the Speaker of the House. Two days ago, I was sworn in as President of the United States. I’m speaking to you now because we face a threat unlike any in the history of our great nation. First, know that I bring you good news: the X1-Mandera pandemic that has ravaged our great nation and others around the world will soon come to an end. The United States, working with scientists in the international community, has developed a viable cure for the virus. The treatment also functions as a vaccine for anyone not infected.”
Inside the RV, cheers went up. Some stared in disbelief. Elliott was instantly suspicious.
“However, the best news I bring you today is that the cure we’ve developed is available right now, in your city. As we speak, the combined BioShield forces have established treatment checkpoints throughout your cordon zone. It’s important that you receive the X1-Mandera cure as soon as possible, but I also urge you to remain calm and proceed in an orderly fashion. Those committing acts of violence and disorder will be sent to the back of the line. There will be a zero tolerance policy for rioters and anyone cutting in line or preventing others from getting the cure.
“This broadcast will now switch to a local announcement that will list the X1-Mandera treatment centers in your area. That announcement will repeat.
“I wish you good luck, wherever you are. May God bless you and your family, and may God bless the United States of America.”
The RV erupted in shouting and questions. One of the neighbors pounded an empty can of beans on the counter, like a gavel in a courtroom, demanding silence. The voice on the radio was already reading the locations in the Atlanta cordon. At the words “Centennial Olympic Park,” everyone began pulling on their overcoats and moving toward the RV’s door.
Ryan was at Elliott’s side within seconds. “What do you think?”
Elliott didn’t say what he thought: that something was very wrong. Treatments for novel pathogens weren’t created overnight, or in a week. They certainly weren’t mass-produced that fast, with doses in the hundreds of millions, and distributed all over the country.
On the other hand, his wife was dying. The love of his life would be gone in hours. What do I have to lose?
“I think we need to hurry,” he said.
He lifted Rose up and staggered out of the RV, into the cold late afternoon. Ryan carried the wheelchair out, unfolded it, and held it while Elliott set Rose down. Sam was at Elliott’s side, holding Adam, whose fever had been running high. Ryan took the boy into his arms and followed closely behind Elliott.
They exited the alley and jogged down Marietta Street. The chill in the wind was merciless on Elliott’s face. An endless flow of people poured out of buildings and adjoining streets. Soon the crowd was as thick as a Christmas Day parade, marching, pushing toward the tents that loomed in Centennial Park. Metal fencing funneled everyone to canopies where soldiers stood watch beside individuals wearing flak jackets with the letters FEMA printed on them.
When Elliott reached a FEMA official, she took one look at Rose, said, “Line One!” and handed him a red card. The soldiers motioned him onward. There were five lines, as it turned out—prioritized based on need. Line One was for the most critical patients. It was also the only line moving. Elliott glanced back at Ryan, who was still holding Adam. Ryan simply nodded, urging his parents to go on ahead.
Another FEMA staffer directed the people in Line One to cubicles where medical staff were holding jet injectors. Vials were spread out beside them, as well as silver oblong objects: CO2 cartridges.
Elliott tried to get a look at any labeling on the vials or injector, but there wasn’t any. He wondered if he would ever know the full truth of how this life-saving cure—the cure that had just been injected into his wife—had arrived in the nick of time. For some reason, he thought of Peyton. He hoped she was safe.
On the other side of the treatment cubicle, another FEMA staffer was directing them out of the park.
Someone asked, “What do we do now?”
“Stay warm and keep hydrated. Now move on, make room for the people behind you.”
Back at the RV, Elliott again curled into the bed with Rose. He had something he didn’t have an hour ago: hope. For the first time in two days, he fell asleep.
Chapter 132
Peyton was still numb from seeing her father’s dead body. Yet she walked across the charred ruins of the building, toward the body the soldiers were pulling from the wreckage.
She stopped when she saw the wig with wavy brown hair—the wig Desmond had worn into the building. It was half burned away and matted with blood.
A hulking Navy SEAL pulled a wooden beam off the body. It didn’t move. It was limp, the left arm severed, the legs burned. Dead—with no hope of coming back.
Peyton’s hands began to shake. She clasped them together and continued to march forward.
The Citium security operatives conducting the search parted when she reached them.
She exhaled. It’s not him.
Peyton studied the face closer. He wasn’t one of the SEALs or Force Recon members who had been part of their team. “It’s not one of ours.”