Outside the bus, the entire cohort was ushered into the Georgia Dome.
When the last person cleared the FEMA tent, the figure outside raised a yellow flag.
The suited soldier spoke again.
“If you are over sixty years of age, or if you are unable to walk without assistance, please raise your hand.”
Elliott was sixty-three, and he didn’t look especially young; his time at the CDC had been rough on his body. But he kept his hand down. For her sake.
The soldier eyed him with blatant suspicion.
Elliott shrugged.
“I’ve got a stressful job. It ages you.”
The man shook his head but let Elliott keep his seat.
When the over-sixty cohort had exited, the soldier left without another word. The suited figure outside held up a green flag, and to Elliott’s surprise, the bus pulled away.
His head turned, and he stared past the white FEMA tents and the suited individuals milling around. His eyes were fixed on the entrance to the Georgia Dome, where Rose had gone in. Where he feared she might never come out.
The bus stopped at a giant parking deck. The doors opened, and the driver yelled for everyone to get off.
The passengers filed out, bewildered looks on their faces.
A woman in a space suit directed everyone to take the stairwell to level five. The people walked past her in silence, but inside the stairwell, whispers erupted, frightened voices asking questions.
Why one week? Are those people going to die?
They’re not going to let us go home. I knew it!
We should run now.
A booming voice from the landing above silenced the chorus.
“Keep moving.”
A suited man leaned over the rail, his muscular, unsmiling face ominous behind the helmet.
“Keep moving. All your questions will be answered. Keep moving, people. Fall behind, you go to quarantine.”
The horde surged forward after that, some pushing.
On level five, rows of booths were spread out. They reminded Elliott of voting booths on Election Day: each was just big enough for one person and stood on flimsy legs.
“Take a station. Any station. Spread out. You have five minutes to complete the questionnaire.”
Inside a booth, Elliott found a tablet propped up, a large green start button glowing. He tapped it, and the screen showed a graphic with a cell phone and a prompt that said:
Place your cell phone in the box to your right.
The black box slid closed the moment Elliott dropped his phone inside. He heard the faint noise of electric motors.
On the screen, a questionnaire appeared. Many of the questions he had anticipated. It asked for his social security number, name, date of birth, home address, occupation, education, his current symptoms, when they began, his health history, especially any immuno-compromising drugs or conditions, and his travel outside the country, especially to Kenya, Somalia, Ethiopia, Uganda, and Tanzania. Elliott lied about his date of birth.
Some questions struck him as odd: Was he comfortable using a firearm? Had he ever been to prison? Had he ever been in the military or had military training?
What does it mean?
At the end of the questionnaire, a large thank-you box appeared. The company logo below it was one he had never seen before: Rook Quantum Sciences. They must have developed the survey and database software the government was using.
The black box opened, and he took out his cell phone. The screen was now black except for the Rook Quantum Sciences logo.
He tapped the home button.
Two dialogs appeared:
You have completed your questionnaire for the day.
You have no new messages.
So they had created an operating system for tracking the outbreak. That was smart.
Around him, several suited figures were walking up and down the aisles. Occasionally they paused at booths and spoke into their radios, calling for tech support.
“Got an incompatible cell phone at 1291.”
“Need a tablet reboot on 1305.”
Seconds after Elliott stepped away from his booth, a suited figure wiped off the tablet he had used and directed him to the other side of the parking deck, where white curtains served as dividers between cubicles.
Inside one small cubicle, a woman swabbed the inside of his cheeks and took two vials of blood, then placed the samples in a bag labeled “Phaethon Genetics.” She tore a label with a bar code off the sample bag and placed it on a bracelet, which she affixed to Elliott’s right wrist.
“What’s that for?”
“Sequencing your genome will help us find a cure.”
She placed an identical bracelet on his other wrist.
“Don’t take the ID bands off—you need them to get food rations and medical care.”
He nodded. “My wife was taken—”
“Sorry, sir, they’ll answer your questions at the next station. This is important, okay? Your phone will issue an alert each day. It will ask you questions about your symptoms. Answer the questions honestly. Your life may depend on it. Keep your phone charged.”
He was about to ask a question when she raised her hand and yelled, “Next!”
To Elliott, she said, “Exit to your right, please.”
Ever since he had gotten off the bus, he had hoped to see someone he knew—a CDC official or Commissioned Corps officer. He hadn’t. And his time was up.
It turned out there was no next station. After the blood draw, they herded everyone into a stairwell on the opposite side of the parking deck and back onto the bus they had arrived on. He waited for it to fill back up. It never did. Many of the people who had gone into the parking deck with Elliott didn’t return. The bus was less than half full when it pulled away.
Elliott hoped it would return to the Georgia Dome. It didn’t. It barreled down the road, retracing its route.