Around two p.m., school buses arrived on Elliott’s street. Anyone with symptoms of the X1 virus was instructed to get on. It was a bizarre scene, the convoy of buses loading up coughing adults, teens, and children on a Sunday.
In his address, the president had warned that anyone who didn’t get on the bus would not be registered for essential services. In the coming days, the National Guard and military would be distributing food and transporting sick individuals to care centers. Anyone who refused to register would be denied food and medical care—and more, they would be detained and placed in a low-priority quarantine zone, a prison with only basic services. It could be a death sentence.
Elliott stood at the front door, peering through the glass. The half-empty bus stopped outside their home, and the doors swung open.
At his side, Rose held his arm. She whispered, keeping her voice too quiet for their son and grandson to hear.
“I don’t want to go.”
“We have to, darling.”
Elliott turned to his son, who stood a safe distance away. He tried to sound casual, as if they were just going out for a movie. “We should be back in a few hours.”
Ryan didn’t buy it. “Don’t go.”
“They’re just trying to get a head count. They need to figure out what they’re dealing with. We’ll be right back.”
Standing in line to get on the bus, Elliott could smell the chlorine wafting through its open doors. He made eye contact with several of his neighbors—those he had enlisted in his plan. Their expressions said, You were right.
He was sorry that he was.
The bus driver stood at the top of the stairs yelling for everyone to bring their cell phones with them, that if they didn’t bring their phones, they might not be able to get medical care and food in the future. Several people broke from the line and ran home for their phones.
The seats were still damp from the germ-killing chemical mix applied to them, but Elliott and Rose sat anyway. He put his arm around her, trying to keep her warm in the late November chill.
The roads were empty. The bus joined a convoy of other buses that barreled through Atlanta, past parked cars and empty sidewalks where bits of trash tumbled in the wind. Parked police cars with flashing lights blocked them from taking any other route. Police in riot gear lined the streets, yelling and pointing at anyone on foot. It was a bizarre tour of a city on lockdown, a city that a few hours ago had been free—and was now something very different.
After a few turns, Elliott knew where they were headed.
The FEMA tents outside the Georgia Dome confirmed his suspicion. The facility, home to the Atlanta Falcons football team, had been the largest domed stadium in the world when it first opened in 1992. It still ranked third.
It was also, however, no longer state-of-the-art. For that reason alone, the city was erecting a shiny new high-tech stadium right across the street—aptly dubbed the Mercedes-Benz Stadium. It was due to open in the next year.
Elliott would have expected the towering cranes to be still on a Sunday afternoon, but they were working feverishly, hoisting up parts of the stadium’s retractable roof. It appeared they were trying to finish it, and quickly.
In so many ways, downtown Atlanta was the perfect place to conduct a quarantine. With Phillips Arena across the street, the authorities had three large stadiums in which to separate the population. Elliott imagined FEMA tents covering Centennial Olympic Park nearby, operations stations and administrative quarters set up in the Omni Hotel, and a command center at the CNN Center. The massive covered parking decks in the area were perfect for staging supplies. And if it was needed, the Georgia World Congress Center—the third largest convention center in the US, with nearly four million square feet of floor space—was also near, as were the Georgia Aquarium and the College Football Hall of Fame.
Ahead, a figure wearing a positive pressure personnel suit, or space suit, stood outside a FEMA tent directing traffic. It was unnerving to see someone wearing the suit in downtown Atlanta.
The line moved slowly, the buses ahead releasing their passengers in waves that flowed out until they were empty. When Elliott and Rose’s bus came to a stop, along with six others, seven suited figures emerged from the tent and entered the buses. The man who entered Elliott’s bus wore army fatigues under his suit—Elliott could see the top of his uniform inside the helmet.
In front of the FEMA tent, a man held up a red flag.
The man at the front of the bus spoke via a speaker, giving his voice an unnerving, Darth Vader-like tone. “If you have been infected for seven days or more, please raise your hand.”
A few hands went up slowly. The suited man’s eyes darted across the bus, seeming to mark the people in his mind. He squinted as if something was wrong.
“Please, this is important. We need to know how long you’ve been infected to give you proper care. If you had a cough or were sneezing last Sunday, raise your hand now. This is very important.”
That’s odd, Elliott thought. A few more hands went up.
From his peripheral vision, he saw Rose raise her hand.
He was about to stop her, but the suited figure had already seen her hand go up.
Outside, the man by the tent lowered the red flag, as if calling for the start of a race.
“Okay, if your hand is raised, stand up and exit the bus. They’ll direct you outside.”
Elliott saw fear in Rose’s eyes. The suited figure remained at the front of the bus, watching, making sure everyone who had raised their hand disembarked.
Elliott stood in his seat. “Can you tell us—”
“Sir, please sit down.”
“I just want to know—”
“Sir, your questions will be answered inside. If you don’t sit back down I’ll have you removed and placed in quarantine.”
Elliott sank back down into his seat.
To Rose, the suited figure said, “Ma’am, please come forward.”
She stared at Elliott.
He gave her his bravest face. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Go ahead.”